Work Text:
-------Precinct 99
“This is seriously the best thing that's happened to this precinct since Martin gave me that amazing life hack about dropping sandwiches.”
Lydia walked in and tossed her hair, shooting Stiles a glare. “What are you talking about now? And gross.”
Stiles grinned at her and held up the piece of paper in his hands. “A virus got on the server and sent us all emails with everyone's search histories.”
Lydia snatched the email from Stiles and skimmed through it.
“Boyd searched... ballerina ice-skaters? Really, Boyd?” Lydia raised an eyebrow at the hulk of a man sitting at his desk.
Boyd shrugged. “It was for my girlfriend,” he strangled out, clearing his throat and looking back at the computer.
“You don't have a girlfriend,” Allison pointed out uninterestedly.
Boyd hunched his shoulders defensively and continued clicking the mouse, avoiding everyone's eyes.
“Aiden looked up how to domin-”
Stiles clapped his hands over his ears. “Gross, I do not need to picture Aiden in bed, hell no, ”he said loudly, while Lydia glanced at Aiden thoughtfully.
Aiden frowned at him. “You had sex with my brother. We're twins.”
Stiles scrunched his nose up at Aiden. “Why are you so comfortable discussing your brother's sex life, that's weird, stop talking.”
Aiden shrugged and went back to stacking papers, sticking out his tongue in concentration.
Stiles took the email from Lydia and scanned down the page until he found her name. “Looks like Martin has a bejewelled gun fetish. Wow. Good – uh – good for you,” Stiles told her, totally, completely sincere. Totally.
Lydia glared at him and put a hand on her hip. “Oh yeah?” She ripped the page from him. “Looks like you searched... How to tell if you're awake ?” She pursed her lips at him in dissatisfaction. “Why?”
Stiles shrugged. “Once, I had a dream that involved a threesome with you and Argent. I totally thought it was real so I came up behind Argent and-”
“-got elbowed in the balls,” Allison finished proudly, beaming at them all.
Lydia frowned. “Is that why you gave me that card with the beaver saying Thanks for last night ?”
Stiles waved a hand dismissively. “Point is, I'm owning that search history. I have pretty wicked dreams.” He flopped down into the chair at his desk and let out a breath, searching through his work emails.
“Scott looked up romantic, low fat meals to lower violent tendencies ,” Lydia read, narrowing her eyes at Scott.
Scott's gaze flickered to Allison before landing on Stiles, his wide eyes asking for help.
Stiles was about to jump to his rescue when his phone rang.
“Stilinski.”
“Stiles? It's me. It's Sal.”
Stiles blinked and grinned. “Sal! How are you doing, buddy? Kicking ass and taking names?”
“Stiles... there's been a fire,” Sal said, practically sobbing. “My business, it's all gone! Up in flames. I need you... You need to come down here. I.... I think it's arson.”
-------Sal's former pizzeria
“Sal's is the best pizzeria in Brooklyn,” Stiles told Scott, closing the squad car door after him.
Scott shot him a look. “Actually, it's only the eighth best pizzeria on my food blog. Only seven out of ten for mouthfeel.”
Stiles gave him a flat look. “Seriously. No one reads your food blog, Scott.” He looked across the narrow street at the burned down building. It still had structure, but it was barely identifiable as a pizzeria, apart from the giant pizza sign that had fallen on to the sidewalk from the roof.
“Uh... Stiles? We've got company,” Scott told him nervously, jerking his head back to where a sleek black Camaro had just pulled up.
Stiles hung his head. “Oh, great. I did not need this today. Or tomorrow. Or in my whole life. He's a menace, Scott. A plague upon detective-kind. Make him go away.”
Derek Hale slid out of the car smoothly, his back-up dancer duo, Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey, getting out of the backseat.
Derek spotted him and raised an eyebrow. “I don't know what they teach you at the academy – if the teach you anything at all – but I doubt you know how to fight fires.”
Stiles glared at him. “The fire's already fought, moron, so why are you here, huh?” he challenged.
Derek sighed. “I'm a Fire Marshal, Stilinski. I investigate fires.”
Stiles pulled a face. “Well I'm a detective. I investigate... like, everything.”
Derek shook his head. “Not this, you're not. This isn't your jurisdiction.”
“Well,” Stiles started, stepping into Derek's space and jabbing a finger into his rock-hard chest. “I heard that the owner suspects arson.”
Derek stepped forward, almost chest-to-chest with Stiles. Stiles stood his ground, and jerked his eyes from Derek's lips when he saw them smirk.
“Stay out of it. Or I'll talk to your captain, make a few suggestions on how he keeps his dogs in line.” And then he strode of, leaving Stiles with the fading heat of his body and the two smirks that Erica and Isaac gave him.
“That ass hole.” He looked to Scott for solidarity.
“Pigtail-pulling,” Scott told him solemnly.
Stiles scowled at him. “If you don't have anything useful to contribute, don't contribute.”
Scott grinned. “You're so defensive.”
------- Precinct 99
“We need to get the Hale and Co. away from Sal's to investigate the crime scene.”
“How the hell do we do that? They're like hyenas. Scavengers,” Scott answered.
“In this case, you guys are the scavengers,” Lydia called from across the room.
Stiles tapped a pen against his chin. “Well... we can light a series of fires all around town at the same time and draw them out,” he suggested.
“Illegal,” Lydia shouted.
“Private conversation, none of your business!” Stiles yelled back.
“The law is my business!”
“What's so cool about Sal's pizzas anyway? They aren't that great,” Scott commented, twirling a pencil between his fingers.
Stiles shrugged. “The sauce. He always told me he had a secret sauce recipe. And the atmosphere, dude. True American pizza. And I've known Sal for, like, ever. I would ace this case. Derek would only screw it up. He isn't even a proper detective!”
-------two years ago, Kilpo's Bar
“Hey, I'm Stiles,” Stiles said, holding out a hand to the flesh-and-blood Greek statue in front of him.
The guy looked at his hand and back at Stiles' face. “What the hell is a 'Stiles'?” He scowled, and Stiles could smell the vodka on his breath. Instant boner-killer. He hated drunk Brooklyn dudes.
“I'm a Stiles, man, keep up,” Stiles answered. “I think you've had a little too much to drink.”
The guy continued to glare at Stiles. “I think you should mind your own damn business,” he growled.
Stiles held his hands up in defence. “Okay, cool it, dude. I'm just in an asshole-ish mood today because I'm amazing at my job.” That was a really crappy apology for annoying this dude, Stiles knew that.
The bartender, a chatty young guy who frequents the same gay clubs as Stiles but never actually talks to him, looked up with an easy smile. “What's your job, then?”
Stiles beamed back, high on euphoria. “Detective. Just cracked my first arson case. I was on fire , man, you should've seen it. Went in, guns blazing, pew pew pew, ahhhhhhh, kabloom. Sir, you are under arrest for arson, you have the right to remain silent, ” Stiles finished in a deep voice. Yeah, he was going to stay away from the drink tonight. Celebrate sober.
The Greek statue groaned and mumbled something that sounded like, “I hate detectives.”
Naturally, Stiles was offended, so he elbowed the guy in the shoulder. “What detective ever did anything to you, huh? Seriously, you're generalising here, it's hurtful.”
The guy looked up at him with a glare that rivalled Lydia's when someone stole an arrest for her. The guy was looking at Stiles as if he were the Vulture .
“Well, a detective stole my damn arson case and continued to brag about it, to my face, when I'm just minding my own business,” he snapped.
Stiles frowned at him, squinting as if he were a particularly confusing piece of evidence or maybe the barely-visible list of Lydia's achievements ( damn , she wasn't here, or he could've said that to her face). “Holy shit, you're the Fire Marshal. Derek Hale.”
Derek Hale grunted and turned away from Stiles.
Stiles switched to the other side of Derek, a smug grin on his face. “So, you must be hating me a lot right now, huh?”
Another grunt.
“Do you know what would be hot? Hate-sex. Hate-sex is always hot.”
Derek's eyes widened, and he put his drink down. “Did you just proposition me? How do you even know I'm gay?”
Stiles shrugged. “When an openly-gay Fire Marshal rolls into town, the grapevine talks. I know all about you, Mr. Hale.”
Derek gave him a flat look. “I'm leaving.” He took out his wallet and threw down a few notes for the bartender, and then turned to walk out the door.
“You didn't answer my question!” Stiles called after him. “Is that a “no” on the hate-sex?”
-------- now, Precinct 99
“Captain?” Boyd appeared at the door to Deaton's office, dragging in a teenager with a sour face. “This is Daniel Mahealani, the little punk who hacked out system. His mother turned him in.”
“I was bored,” Daniel mumbled. “And my name is Savant.”
“Your computer name is Savant,” Boyd corrected. “Your people name is Daniel Mahealani.”
Deaton set down the pen he had raised to sign some form that he hadn't bothered to read through. “I see.”
Boyd turned to him. “Do you? This kid could've taken apart each digitised case, piece-by-piece.”
“Thanks for the idea,” Daniel muttered, looking completely bored with the world and his situation. “I'll get right on that.”
Deaton raised an eyebrow at Boyd. “Looks like we'll need a new IT Director.”
Boyd shifted on his feet. “Do you want me to interview people?” he asked, hopeful for any scrap of desk work that would stop him from going out into the field.
After a brief, thoughtful moment, Deaton nodded. “Take Malia with you.”
“Malia?” Boyd repeated doubtfully. “She isn't exactly a people person.” He looked out of the windows to the office to see Malia, sitting at her desk, picking at her nails with one of Allison's knives, and giving Ethan a creepy smile from across the room.
Deaton gave Boyd a stern look. Which, to be fair, was ninety-nine per cent of his personality, but Boyd felt that this one was sterner, and focused solely on him. “She has a way of figuring people out based on pure instinct. You'll be lucky to have her help.”
------- Precinct 99
Stiles spotted them before Scott, and groaned. “Two inbound missiles, explosion in T minus thirty seconds, brace yourself, Scotty.”
Scott peered around Stiles' desk and saw them, then sighed. “Why couldn't you offer hate-sex to those two?” he complained.
Stiles scrunched his nose up at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Scott scratched the back of his neck. “Those two always prank us – terribly, might I add – when the station and the precinct get tangled in an arson. Derek never does.”
Stils shook his head. “That's because he sucks the fun out of everything and believes in Jesus, Scott. It's just who he is, not what I did two years ago.”
Erica jumped up on Stiles' desk, scattering the papers. “Hey, Stilinski. Looking good,” she drawled, giving him a once-over.
Stiles sighed and looked up to see Isaac, his face seemingly frozen in the same look of perpetual smugness and asshole-ness. “What do you two want? I'm warning you that, as I'm in the middle of a case, I have very laser-like focus. Precision laser focus. You cannot dissuade me from my true mission.”
Isaac snorted. “No, loser. We came to tell you that you're a dick, and also, we hate you.”
Stiles started to clap slowly, and then gave everyone who was watching a look, so they started clapping, too. “Wow. Seriously, guys, I respect that insult. You must've worked all night to perfect it and your delivery was impeccable.”
Erica giggled, while Isaac scowled. “And Derek wants you to back off, before he contacts your Captain and gets you suspended.”
Stiles grinned. “Joke's on you – I'm the Captain's favourite. I'm also the best detective, and we have an undercover mission coming up, so who here, really, is good-looking enough to be a fake disney prince at a birthday party for a drug bust? So, yeah, but no. I have job security, and you have a pimple, right on your nose.”
Isaac spun around haughtily and left, his scarf flapping after him and making the scene only more dramatic and ridiculous.
Erica flips her blonde curls over her shoulder and turns to go, when she stops dead, her mouth hanging open.
Stiles twisted his head to see what she was looking at and found it immediately. Boyd walking in, all sweaty from a workout, drinking a bottle of water and then crushing it in his hand and throwing it, with perfect aim, in the bin across the room.
Stiles shot Erica a look of amusement. “You're drooling.”
She closed her mouth. “Who is that?”
“I know, he's hot, right? Sadly, he's also straight. Sergeant Vernon Boyd.”
Erica blinked and raised her eyebrows. “I want to rub my face on his abs.”
Stiles sighed wistfully. “Don't we all.”
------- Sal's (former) Pizzeria
“So you'll find this guy, huh, Stiles?” Sal asked desperately, sitting forlornly in the living room of his mother's flat.
Stiles flashed him a cheerful grin. “Fire Marshal too incompetent for you?”
Sal shook his head. “By the questions he was asking, I thought he was implying that I done it! Me, burn down my restaurant? So I asked him, outright, if he thought I done it. He nodded and walked away. I tell ya, that guy needs to get laid.”
Stiles shrugged. “I offered, but no dice. He lives off stoic man-pain and glaring at people. I'm not sure if he actually knows how to interact with humans. He spent five minutes just glaring at me from across the room once. I took a photo, look at this.” Stiles dug out his phone and scrolled through his photos until he came to one of Derek, during the Police/Fire Department Christmas party that did absolutely nothing to improve relations between them. Stiles was smiling hugely, one arm around the tense shoulders of Derek, who was scowling at Stiles. He even had a santa hat on. It was gold. Stiles had printed it out and stuck it to the dashboard of every fire engine in their station. And then every christmas card to the fire department. And to the hood of Derek's Camaro.
Sal chuckled and passed the phone back to Stiles. “I'd feel a lot better if you had jurisdiction, Stiles. I don't want you breaking any rules over little old me.”
Stiles patted his arm. “I'll get this sorted. For old time's sake. Besides, I'm Deaton's favourite, he would never suspend me.”
Scott raised his eyebrows. “He assigned you to desk work for not wearing a tie. And for turning up three minutes late. And he took away your locker priviledges.”
Stiles waved a hand. “But he would never fire me.”
Scott shrugged. “Well-”
“So you can trust me,” Stiles told Sal, drawing a finger across his neck at Scott. “And not that douchebag Hale. I just need you to tell me: who do you know who might've wanted your business burned down?”
Sal frowned in thought for a second, before clicking his fingers. “Deucalion. That bastard has been a pain in my ass for a decade. He's had it in for me since he started out.”
Scott nodded seriously. “He is only seventh place. He may have wanted to usurp your position as eighth place.”
Stiles glanced at him. “Eighth. On your food blog that no one reads. Sure.”
Scott glared at him. “I actually have forty-nine followers, Stiles. And you're one of them.”
“Damn it. How did you find out?”
Scott gave him a flat look. “Your url is literally “im-a-stiles” and you reblog pictures of dogs in aviators and photos of yourself in your underwear.”
Stiles poked his tongue out at him. “Well, we can't all be as perfectly-sculpted as you, Scott.”
“Boys!” Sal interrupted, giving them both stern looks. “Can we focus on my problems at the moment?”
Stiles nodded at him, and then looked at Scott. “How about we go check this Deucalion dude out, rough him up a little?”
Scott grinned. “It'll give me a chance to update my blog. Can we swing by my apartment? I need to pick up my pizza bib.”
Stiles gave him a flat look. “No.”
Scott pouted. “What about my yogurt one? It's at the precinct.”
Stiles was already halfway through the door. “No bibs!” he called over his shoulder.
-------Deucalion's pizzeria
“Deucalion, this pizza's good, sure, but the cheese-to-sauce rat-”
“Scott.”
“What?” Scott looked up at Stiles, still chewing on his mouthful.
Stiles sighed and turned back to Deucalion. “Let me tell you what I think happened. Your credit card transactions have been down a third in the last six months. Meanwhile Sal's have been raking in the dosh. One night you snapped. A little gasoline and maybe a lot of impulsive decisions and poof! No more Sal's. Am I right, or am I right?” Stiles smirked at the man in sunglasses in front of him, who had crossed his arms and given Stiles an unimpressed look.
“The night of the fire I was having my eyes checked out,” Deucalion snapped, his voice cracking at the last word as he took his glasses off to reveal sightless, milky eyes that stared at nothing.
Stiles raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “Oh. My condolences.”
-------Ennis's Pizza
“Ennis, this pizza... You've come a long way. Much better than the last time I was here,” Scott mumbled. “You've always ranked lowest in structural integrity and sauce.”
“Getting back to actual police work – which we're paid for, Scott – it turns out Ennis here spent six months in prison for a B and E,” Stiles announced smugly.
“I did,” Ennis replied honestly. “The night of the fire, I was at the prison giving a motivational speech on how parolees can turn their lives around.”
Stiles blinked. “Well, it's good to hear that the system works and you are welcome.”
Ennis gave Stiles a dirty look and walked back into the kitchen.
“Stay out of trouble,” Stiles called after him, before turning back to Scott. “Fuck this, man. We've got to check out that crime scene.”
Scott wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We can't. Firemen have it on lock down.”
Stiles shook his head and tilted up his chin determinedly. He pointed at Scott. “Grab your spit-bucket, Scotty. Those hose-monkeys can't stop us.”
-------Precinct 99
Boyd frowned at Malia, who had just opened the door to the interrogation room to lead in their first IT Director candidate. She was wearing a face of extreme boredom, and giving the man who just walked in a disgusted look.
To be honest, the guy looked like he owned five cats and ate dinner at a diner by himself, but Boyd wasn't one to judge on appearances.
“You must be Matt Daehler. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the other side of the table.
Malia sat next to Boyd, silent, which as suspicious. Boyd opened Matt's filed and peered at it.
“It says here that you were the IT specialist for Brooklyn State High School.”
The man gave Boyd a weak smile. “Well, I know my way around a computer, that's for sure.”
Boyd could pinpoint the exact second he heard Malia take a breath and opened her mouth, but she started talking before he could stop her. “I have a question for you, Matt – if that is your real name.” She narrowed his eyes at Matt, who gave her a confused look. “Who do you work for?”
Matt opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and then opened it again. “Uh, it should say on my file? I'm unemployed?”
Malia shook her head. “No, I didn't ask you your cover story. I asked you who you work for? Who ordered you to get a foothold in the Brooklyn Police Force?” she demanded. “We're on to you.”
Matt glared at her. “Was that a threat? I came here to be interviewed by professionals for a respectable job, and you're threatening me?”
Malia shook her head in disappointment while Boyd struggled to find something to fix the situation.
The next interview didn't go much better.
The moment the guy walked in, thick glasses and shaking hands, Boyd could see Malia's eye glint like a predator, like a hunter.
“-a-and that's, um, you know, how I got in... involved in system analysis.” His paper cup shook as he raised it to his lips, taking a sip and not meeting Boyd or Malia's eyes. “Sorry, I'm super nervous.”
Boyd gave him a reassuring smile. “There's no need to be nervous.” He didn't look at Malia.
“Yeah,” she agreed. Boyd closed his eyes, fearing what was coming next. “We're all just a couple of calm, cool, collected individuals. I've been told my mood resembles the beach, you know? Serene, rhythmic waves gliding along – TSUNAMI!” she shouted, throwing her hands towards Jared with a wild look in her eyes.
Jared shrieked and his cup tipped towards his shirt. He was panting and giving Boyd a wounded look, as if it were his fault. Boyd just sighed.
“Oops.” Malia shrugged. “Was that a little too extreme for you? Pity.”
The moment Kali walked in, Boyd prayed to God that she was as tough as no-nonsense as she looked.
“What would you say is your biggest weakness as an employee?” Boyd asked her, shuffling the papers on the desk.
“Um...” Kali glanced at Malia for a second before leaning forward. “Sorry, what was the question?”
“He said what would you say your biggest weakness is,” Malia mumbled around a mouthful of her own wrist.
Kali's lip curled. “That's unsanitary.”
Malia shrugged. “My wrist is itchy and my nails are too sharp, sue me.” She winced and drew her tongue around the inside of her wrist, maintaining unnerving eye-contact with Kali as she did.
Boyd gave up.
-------Outside Sal's Pizzeria
“I feel like a dirty cop, Stiles,” Scott moaned. “We shouldn't be here. There are guards, look!” He gestured to the two men standing at the front entrance to Sal's.
Stiles shook his head. “Scott, buddy, we can't just let them walk all over us. He turned in his seat of the Scott's car to face him. “I need you to distract them.”
Scott frowned. “How?”
Stiles shrugged. “Tell them your son's cat is stuck up a tree or something.”
Scott grinned. “I love undercover work! Okay, um... can I have twins?”
Stiles sighed. “If you get called out on it, I get a free punch to the face. To you, not from you.”
“Fine. What about the cat? I'm thinking a more exotic pet, so I can work a little background into it, to make it more convincing? When I worked at the animal clinic in high school, there was this cute as pet squirrel.”
“I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but go ahead.” Stiles peered at the firefighters. “Looks like you've got some young blonde dude and an Asian girl. Good, they won't know you.”
Scott narrowed his eyes. “Just give me a second to get into character.”
“Scott-”
“Stiles, please. I'm getting into character.”
Stiles sighed and got out of the car. A few moments later, after he had completed his breathing exercises, Scott got out as well, and headed to the two firefighters with a nervous set to his shoulders that Stiles really hoped was part of his character.
He snuck past the firefighters to get around to the side door just as Scott was waxing poetic about his fiance's brown curls and perfect dimples (Stiles needed to talk to him about projecting his love for Allison when undercover), and how upset she would be to have to buy their children another raccoon, and it was a testament to drama class that Scott made the story sound as believable as he did.
Stiles took out his pocket knife and flicked it open, then slid it between the door and the door frame until it slid under the lock and pushed it away. The door clicked, and he opened it as quietly as he could.
And was met with a blinding white light shoved in his face.
Stiles squawked and fell back against the door, shielding his eyes in blinking as the spotlights of the crime scene lit up to reveal Hale, in all his leathery glory, wielding a flashlight with a bored look on his face.
“You're so predictable.”
Stiles straightened and poked out his tongue childishly. “You're a douche who parades around, acting the detective.”
Derek sighed. “I'm a Fire Marshal, Stiles. Investigating fires is my job. Stop being an idiot, this is clearly not your jurisdiction.”
“It's not your jurisdiction to pin this all on Sal!” Stiles exclaimed, glaring at Derek.
There was a squeal from outside, a little scuffle, and then Scott was being dragged in by the two firefighters, flailing and grunting, before being dropped on the floor.
Scott looked up and saw Stiles, and then turned back to the firefighters. “Stiles,” he called out, still looking at them, “run.” An then he tackled the girl and they both went down, and Stiles, while silently berating his friend, moved to slip past Derek.
But Derek wrapped his warm, strong arms around Stiles' waist in a way that disappointed his late-night fantasies, and held him back.
Stiles struggled, wriggling in his grip and trying to twist around. He was pretty sure one of his flying fists flew into Derek's stomach, but the fucking statue of a man didn't even grunt.
Stiles could hear Scott struggling and made a considerable effort to pull himself – with Derek – to Scott's aid.
“You're... like... you're like a... a boa constrictor,” Stiles gasped. He dragged up from the recesses of his mind the combat training from the academy and flipped Derek over his shoulder with ease.
Or, okay, he just fell to the ground and pulled Derek down with him (again, sadly, in a way that disappointed his late-night fantasies).
“Get off me,” Derek growled as Stiles sat on his stomach. He tried to get up but Stiles pushed him down with a hand at his face. “Scott, run! Save yourself!”
“I'm not leaving without you, bro!” Scott spluttered from under the blond guy's armpit.
And that's when the patrolling officers burst in.
-------Brooklyn Fire Department
“I apologise, Marshal Hale, for Detective Stilinski's actions. Again.”
“In my defense,” Stiles butted in, giving Deaton his best puppy-dog eyes, “I was the only one who said we should stop hitting.”
Derek gave him an unamused look. “You told your officers to 'kick them, because it would hurt more',” he said, mimicking Stiles' voice.
Stiles glared at him. “First of all: I do not sound like that. That is just unflattering. And second: you guys punch like wimps.”
“We didn't even punch you guys!” Kira exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at Stiles.
Derek crossed his arms and looked at Deaton. “Suspend him, fire him, whatever. Just get him off this case.”
Stiles opened his mouth in protest, but all that came out was a stunned grunt. Scott pulled a face at Derek.
“I'm not sure that's-”
“He started a fight, he broke into a crime scene of which he has no jurisdiction over, and he's obsessed with this pizza place!”
Stiles rolled his eyes and crossed his significantly less bulkier arms to mimic Derek's stance.
“I'm obsessed with how you're screwing up this investigation!” he protested. “You're ignoring all the other clues because you're convinced that Sal did it! Sal's Pizza is a Brooklyn institution, stop slamming it.”
“Why do you care so much about it?” Deaton asked, his hands folded behind his back as he observed Stiles with an uncanny blankness to his face, as usual.
Stiles shrugged defensively. “Because it's the best, why else?”
“I don't know, why else would you care about it so much?”
Stiles narrowed his eyes for a second. “I'm not following.”
“As usual,” Derek muttered, but Deaton continued as if Derek had never spoken, and Stiles was forced to listen to him rather than retaliate.
“According to Scott's blog, it's only number eight in the neighborhood.”
Scott beamed and bounced on his feet. “Cap follows my blog,” he said proudly.
“This isn't really about pizza, Stilinski. What's it really about?”
Stiles cursed the fact that he worked with people that detected things for a living. He sighed heavily. “When I was a kid, my parents fought a lot.”
“Here we go,” Liam murmured, only to get shushed by Kira.
Stiles glared a him before resuming his story at the insistent eyes of Deaton. “And every time they fought, they made up, and they'd take me to Sal's. Sal would always let my mom and I make our own pizzas in the pizza oven while he talked football with my dad. And then my mom died, and we stopped going there. I... uh, I haven't made a pizza since, but I still, um, still go there, you know?”
Deaton nodded. “That's... unexpectedly heartbreaking.”
Stiles heard a sniff and turned his head to see Derek, his back to the rest if them, his shoulder's hunched.
“Are you crying?” Stiles asked him, disbelief evident in his voice.
“No,” came the hoarse reply. There was another sniff, and a subtle wiping of eyes, and then Derek turned back to them. “I... I'm, uh, sorry, I guess. I didn't realise it meant so much to you.”
Stiles shrugged. “It's cool, dude. You didn't know.” And now he could hear Scott sniffing from behind him. Jesus.
Derek shook his head, still looking really emotional, and wow, way to take all the fight out of Stiles. Hale has a heart!
“No, it's not. We...” He cleared his throat, tensing, looking generally uncomfortable. “I mean we can, uh...”
“What Marshal Hale here is trying to say,” Kira cut in smoothly, “is that he would like to work the case with you. Together. You two. Together, working a case, just you two.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek. “Really?”
Derek gave Kira a glare, but nodded. “Yeah, I mean, only if you want to.”
Stiles flashed him a grin. “Dude! Hell yeah, man, that's be, uh, cool.” He had no idea why Derek looked so freaked out and giving Kira half dirty, half relieved looks. Or why he suddenly felt so jumpy
And then Stiles was tackled from behind by a giant, muscled Scott, who clung onto him like a monkey. “You've come so far, Stiles. So far. Your mother would be proud of you,” he whispered emotionally.
-------Precinct 99
“So, of all of the candidates you've interviewed today, who do you think I should hire?” Deaton asked Boyd, leaning back in his chair.
Boyd gave Malia a disapproving look. “Well, the interviews veered severely off track, but I believe Matt Daehler is a good-”
“Nope,” Malia butted in with a bored voice.
Boyd turned to her. “Why the hell not?” he asked angrily.
Malia shrugged. “Look, Mr Short-Temper wouldn't have lasted five seconds with Ethan coming up to him all the time, asking him how to reset passwords.”
Boyd frowned at her, but he had to agree, now that he thought about it. There was a method to Malia's madness, at least with Matt.
Deaton raised his eyebrows. “Who else did you interview?”
Boyd opened his file and peered at the name. Pretty forgettable name, to be honest. “Uh, Jared-”
“Ha! No.”
Boyd sighed and waited for the explanation.
“Why not?” Deaton asked curiously.
Malia shook her head. “Do you remember Allison's reaction the last time someone called her foxy mama?”
Boyd winced in memory.
“So,” she continued, “this Jared dude would shit his pants – pardon my informal speech Captain – every time she walked in the room.”
“Fair enough,” Boyd said hesitantly. “But... What about chewing your own wrist?”
“This precinct is a pretty gross place. You've got people with bleeding noses, you've got teeth everywhere, and you've got Aiden bragging about his weird-as kinky sex. That lady wouldn't handle it. And also, she was kinda hot.”
“You were flirting with her?!”
Malia flashed Boyd a grin. “I even got her number,” she bragged, bringing out a slip of paper from her pocket and shaking it in Boyd's face.
Deaton shook his head. “Is that everyone you interviewed?”
Boyd dragged a hand down his face. “Well, yes, but I suppose we could just find more people.”
“Or,” Malia started, “we could use what we already have. Savant.”
Boyd raised his eyebrows. “That punk that hacked us in the first place? What the hell, Malia?”
Malia turned back to Deaton. “Look, that kid is good. He's resourceful, he goes to school so of course he can handle his temper, he's a teenager so he's not afraid of anything, and also he probably plays video games so he can handle a little gore and a few flesh wounds. Also, he gets paid.”
Boyd opened his mouth to protest, because call him old-fashioned, but he was completely against hiring future hackers to protect the precinct, but Deaton levelled him with a serious look.
“Hire the kid. It'll be on your head if he does anything unorthodox. Dismissed.”
-------Brooklyn Fire Department
Derek sat down at his desk and rummaged through all of the paper work. He pulled out a blue file and handed it to Stiles. “Here's everything I have on the case,” he said, giving Scott a confused look and not meeting Stiles' eyes.
Stiles grinned. “Thanks. I feel like this is a huge milestone in our friendship. Bros before hoses.”
Liam smirked. “His therapist would be real proud of him. I'll ring him right now, actually,” he said, digging out his phone.
“You have my therapist's number?” Derek asked him.
Liam shrugged and ducked out of the room, the phone already to his ear.
Stiles flicked through the file, through the reports and the pictures. “Huh.”
Scott leaned over his shoulder anxiously. “What is it?”
Stiles leaned across Derek's desk and handed him the photo that had caught his eye. “Any reason one of your men uh...” He trailed off when he looked up at Derek's face and saw those green eyes closer than he had anticipated. His gaze was drawn downwards when Derek licked his lips, and the air in the room suddenly got hotter, didn't it?
Scott cleared his throat. “The case? Guys?”
Stiles jerked back and coughed awkwardly, not looking at Derek. “Right. Um. So... any reason your people would've forced that, uh, cabinet open?”
When Stiles looked, Derek was studying the picture in front of him, but the tips of his ears were red and he seemed to have a tight grip on the photo. “No,” he replied gruffly. “Why? Do you think-”
“Wait,” Stiles ordered, holding up a hand. “Shush.”
The wheels in his brain were replaying everything he had done in the past day, everything to do with the case, with Sal's pizza.
Scott grinned. “That's the look he gets on his face when he figures something out,” he told Derek, who continued to look baffled and slightly impressed.
“What have you figured out?” he asked.
Stiles shook his head and grabbed his jacket from where Scott was holding it, and then snatched the picture from the desk and shoved it back in the file, tucking the file under his arm. “I'll tell you on the way.”
-------Ennis' Pizza
“We know you burned down Sal's, Ennis,” Stiles said, his hands on his hips.
Ennis gave them a smug look. “Why would I do that?”
“Competition,” Derek replied.
Ennis scoffed. “Competition? My pizza's always been better than Sal's, you're kidding, right? That cop said so himself, my pizza is amazing.”
“I said your pizza has improved,” Scott told him. “And it's improved since Sal's burned down. Mainly the sauce.”
“And everyone knows about Sal's secret sauce recipe,” Stiles said, grabbing a nearby slice of pizza from a customer, who let out an indignant hey! And shoved it in his mouth, chewing it quickly. “Yup,” he mumbled around the pizza, while Derek and Scott gave him disgusted looks. “Tastes like Sal's.” He swallowed his mouthful and dropped the slice back onto the customer's plate. “Also your alibi is shit because that prison talk thingy ended at five, giving you plenty of time to break into Sal's, steal the recipe, and burn it down to cover your tracks.” He high-fived Scott.
Ennis gave them all a dirty look, which satisfied Stiles every time he saw it.
“Also I bags arresting him,” Stiles told Derek.
“What? I did all the work!” he replied.
“Nah-uh, I figured it ou-”
“You're under arrest for arson,” Scott butted in, giving Stiles one of his looks while he cuffed Ennis and led him out of the pizzeria.
-------Precinct 99
Boyd frowned over at where Daniel and Ethan were giggling over something on the computer screen. He stood up from his desk and made his way over to them.
Ethan noticed him and stopped laughing immediately, but Daniel just gave him an amused look.
“What's going on here?” Boyd demanded. “Ethan, you should be writing out reports.”
Aiden leaned over the desk divider. “Danny's showing Ethan how to hide his gay porn history on his phone from the work server.”
Boyd narrowed his eyes at “Danny”, who just shrugged sheepishly. “You want some tips, Sarge?”
Boyd huffed and crossed his arms. “No.”
Danny raised his eyebrows.
Boyd uncrossed his arms and looked away. “Maybe.”
Ethan's eyes widened. “You watch gay porn?”
Boyd rolled his eyes. “No, you moron. For straight porn.”
“Why are we talking about porn?” Deaton's voice said from behind him.
Boyd jumped and Danny cackled. “Just, uh, sir, just warning Danny here of what would, um, happen if he... you know, tried to cross us.”
Deaton gave Boyd a flat look. “You threatened Danny with straight porn?”
Boyd hung his head. “I'll be at my desk.”
Stiles was typing through his arson report when Deaton stopped by his desk. “Stilinski. Marshal Hale just called me, he told me to tell you to check your drawer?”
Stiles sighed and wheeled his chair back to his filing cabinets, and opened it.
He had expected shaving cream, or donuts, or something. All that was in his filing cabinet were his files and a little envelope with Stilinski written on it in messy handwriting.
Stiles frowned and opened it up. “I was wondering if you wanted to go for drinks sometime, to celebrate the arson case? Maybe leave McCall behind. -Derek,” he read aloud.
Deaton gave him a small smile – hallelujah, the man smiles! - as he turned to walk away.
Stiles was buzzing inside. After two years of hopeless, antagonistic flirting and bantering, he had begun to think that maybe Derek was taken, or took purity vows at church or something, since literally nothing he said did anything other than embarrass Derek.
He was actually kind of saddened that Derek didn't ask him out in person, nervous and awkward and cute.
Stiles frowned and flipped the envelope over. On the back it read, in spastic, barely-readable writing : Derek's a major coward, so he wrote this lame-ass letter because he's a wimp. Give that hunky Sergeant my number, Stilinski. Under it was a phone number and three winky-faces.
Stiles jumped up in his chair and punched the air. “I've got a date!” he called out, the rest of the precinct stopping what they were doing and looking at him.
Scott peered around the edge of his desk divider. “With who?”
Stiles frowned at him. “I don't like that tone of voice, Scott. That tone of voice suggests surprise, and shock.”
Scott gave him a flat look. “Who's the date, Stiles?”
Stiles handed him the letter. “Hale.”
“Derek? Shit, Stiles.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“The... uh, the pizza sauce and the pole?”
Stiles blinked. “Shit.”