Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Noah sits in the dark kitchen, fridge humming, stove clock green at 10:58 p.m. His badge is half off a placemat, the St. Michael medal catches the streetlight now and then. He tells himself he’s just sitting.

What he's really doing is not pacing.

He presses ‘call’ before he gives himself time to decide whether that’s fair. Two rings. Three. He’s nearly ready to hang up when the line opens, a soft rush of background somewhere else, and then Aaron’s voice, low enough to avoid waking any sleeping babies.

“Noah?” A beat. “Everything all right?”

“Everyone’s fine,” he says, and hears the lie. “No shots. I just-”

A door hushes shut on Aaron’s end. “One second.” A click, maybe a lamp, “Okay. Tell me.”

Noah stares at the medal until the light blurs it. “Murphy’s Mini-Mart,” He explains. “Teen with a gun. By the time we got the call, my kid had… made himself the solution.”

“Is Stiles hurt?”

“No.” The word is too quick, and he forces himself to slow down in the next ones. “No, he’s not hurt. He talked the boy down, kept his hands up, he- Jesus, Aaron.” He laughs once and hates how it sounds like he's out of breath. “He had chocolate milk and a packet of highlighters on the counter like a punchline.”

There's silence from Virginia, but it's not empty. He knows when silence means processing, he's definitely needed enough of it tonight.

“Walk me through it,” Aaron prompts after a moment.

Noah blurts it like it's been waiting to come out for too long. “Stiles saw the gun and put himself where the kid had to look at him. Not between him and the clerk, smart about that,” he reluctantly praises the bare minimum caution, because he wants it to continue existing. “He talked the boy down, Aaron.” Noah isn't sure whether to sound proud or run to wrap his son in a blanket burrito for the foreseeable future. “He said he noticed the safety was on but treated it like a loaded gun anyway. That it's the only reason he tried it in the first place”

“That was the right read,” Aaron says, steady in a way he doesn't feel ready to mirror.

“Yeah. He called me with that code we made up so units wouldn’t light the place up. ‘Bring the blue form,’ like we’re ordering office supplies at midnight.” Noah finds the edge of the medal and flips it, needing something to occupy his free hand so it won't clench the whole time. “We got there quietly, the kid put the gun down and nobody died, and now I’m supposed to be grateful.”

“You are,” Aaron says gently. “And you’re angry anyway.”

“I’m furious,” He corrects. “My son stood in front of a gun and thought, ‘I can fix this.’ He was right, which is the part that terrifies me.”

“You’d rather he’d been wrong?” There's no judgment in it, just understanding, so it doesn't make his hackles rise.

“No.” Noah admits, dragging a hand down his face. “I’d rather he kept his head down like a normal fifteen-year-old.”

“He’s yours, and Claudia's,” Aaron says, and Noah can hear the small warmth in his tone that means he’s smiling. “And he’s mine on breaks and holidays. The normal ship has sailed.”

Noah exhales.

He remembers Stiles at Aaron and Haley’s table, babbling to a baby Jack in a bouncy seat and not looking at anything other than his littlest cousin and his homework. Noah had signed the guardianship papers with fingers that didn’t feel like they were attached to the rest of him, and put his recovery coins in a drawer he still doesn’t open.

He closes the door on that year and comes back to now. “I need him where the rules are real,” he confesses. “Not made up on the fly because his dad is the sheriff and talks fast.”

There’s another one of those pauses that means Aaron is choosing words carefully. “You called me for a reason,” he says. “Not just to vent.”

“Both things can be true.”

“They can,” Aaron agrees. “And also- there’s something starting here this summer.” he sounds tentative at first, but his tone grows surer. “It’s a small pilot. Training only, unclassified, the kind of thing that gives a kid like Stiles a rulebook to push against without getting himself killed.”

Noah sits straighter without realizing he does it. “What kind of ‘thing’?”

“Administrative custody sits with CIRG,” His cousin expands. “Assistant Director John Faulkner’s office. It’s called the Quantico Academy Partnership Track, or QAPT for short. They’re opening one cohort to not just Academy dependents, but a few field-office nominations. Six to ten teenagers, sandboxed machines, escorted movement, no live case boards, no SCIF, no interviews, no jet.”

The list of ‘no's already sounds like something Stiles wouldn't like, and something he dearly needs to learn to listen to. “Who'd be in charge of him?”

“Day-to-day, that would be JJ,” Aaron says. “I would be listed as the host-unit sponsor, but I’d recuse from tasking and evaluation because of the family tie. Everything routes through her.”

It doesn't sound like the worst idea. From what Noah has heard of Jennifer Jareau, she's organized and calm under pressure, someone like that could probably stand against Stiles’ avalanche of curiosity.

Noah’s mouth pulls to one side. “You've thought this through.”

“I read the memo yesterday, and Stiles may have crossed my mind.” He hears the small shrug in the words. “Faulkner wants a clean pilot. Strauss has been notified but not handed a veto. If we do this, we do it by the book. Parent consent, an escort roster, hours on paper.”

“Hours?”

“Mondays to Thursdays, ten hundred to fifteen-thirty. Extendable to nineteen hundred if he’s waiting to ride home, but as a visitor after hours, not working.” A breath. “Scope drift ends the placement. That’s in writing.”

Can't get any clearer than that, he thinks. “He’d be where?”

“Common area desk in the BAU bullpen,” Aaron replies. “Copy room, map room for training scenarios, academy library, training classrooms, break room… that’s it. No victims, no live families. If a live board rolls in, JJ sends him on a supply run.” Noah wants to wish them good luck with that, but would hate to jinx it before it's even a possibility. “He’d build training packets, tag historic case summaries, run redaction drills with pre-scrubbed material. Public-source news digests tied to training, nothing operational.”

Noah tips his head back and looks at the ceiling, finding the faint stain in one corner from a roof leak he fixed last winter. The kid’s voice from the store floats up uninvited — ‘I just need the truck in the morning’ — and he closes his eyes until the picture burns away.

“He’ll be insufferable about the label maker,” he says, because it’s easier to say it that way than to say my breath can come back into my body if he’s in rooms with locks and rules and someone else’s eyes on him. “He loves labels. Color-codes his socks.”

“Garcia will weaponize that,” Aaron says, and Noah hears the smile again. It quiets something in his chest that’s been rattling since the call from Murphy’s. “JJ will give him a ten-minute briefing every Monday and a sign-off on Thursdays. It’s not a babysitting service, Noah. It’s work. But the kind where curiosity comes after you prove you can follow instructions.”

Noah drags his hand over his jaw. The late-night rasp there scratches back. “You’re sure Strauss won’t make a federal case out of this?”

“She’ll attach guardrails,” Aaron admits. “As she should, but Faulkner owns the liability. And it’s a cohort, not a special for ‘Hotchner’s cousin’. There’ll be Teen Academy alumni, a couple of dependents, a local civics nominee. Stiles would be one name on a list.”

The fairness lands right, and Noah nods to no one. “You’ll push the paperwork?”

“I’ll put it in the right pile,” His cousin says. “Might help if Rossi can place a phone call to Faulkner, just to open the door.” Noah thinks of his old teammate asking if there's anything he can do to help and figures this might give the man a rest for a while. David might even enjoy the thought of siccing Stiles’ motormouth on the unsuspecting BAU. “But you and I have to be aligned, this only works if Stiles treats it like work, not a backstage pass.”

“He’s getting a range-safety refresher,” Noah says, dry. “And a written list titled ‘What I Won’t Do Again.’ Item one: stand in front of a gun. Item two: think I’m the adult in the room because I know a trick.” He blows out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped all night. “Aaron… thank you.”

“You can thank me when JJ tells me he’s on time and following directions.” He says, like it's already a sure thing that Stiles will be accepted. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“I’ll talk to him first. I need to-” He searches for the right word for a moment. “I need to be his dad about it. Not the sheriff.”

“Be both,” Aaron advises softly. “He’s lucky you can.”

Noah’s throat tightens, but he swallows through it to ask, “How's Jack?”

“Asleep,” his guess is confirmed. “He discovered pears today.”

“Dangerous fruit,” Noah notes, thinking back to when Stiles had decided he'd only eat melon and got tired of it in three days. “Slippery.”

“He’s tactical about it,” Aaron replies, and there’s a ghost of a laugh. “You’ll see him soon.”

“Yeah.” He doesn't stop to think of when that might be, given his current caseload. “Hey, one more thing.”

“Mm?”

Noah touches the rim of the medal with his nail, then sets it aside. “Thanks for picking up.”

“Always,” His cousin says like the promise it is.

They talk logistics for another minute — the consent form, the hours, the Monday briefing — Noah asks for the memo reference and writes ‘QAPT - Faulkner’ on one of the post-its on the counter. Aaron promises to email JJ in the morning, to frame the family tie and his recusal in the first paragraph so there’s nothing to misinterpret later.

They hang up.

The kitchen is still humming, the clock still ticks green, but there’s a path now. Posted signs, escorts, a woman who will say curiosity after the rules and mean it.

Noah rises from his seat a little lighter than when he'd sat down, and goes towards his son's room to send him to bed, and maybe a little to reassure himself that he's still breathing.

The confirmation comes nearly a month later, but he waits until after dinner to bring it up. Stiles is sprawled on the couch with a notebook, knees up, highlighter jammed behind his ear and chewing at the end of his pen like he might eventually get a taste of the answer.

“Hey,” He starts, steady.

Stiles looks up fast, “What's wrong?” And Noah wonders when he'd started to think every serious conversation might be a bearer of bad news.

“Nothing's wrong,” he assures, dropping onto the other end of the couch. “I got a call this afternoon from Aaron.” There's an immediate spark of attention at that. “It was about something we'd talked about a month ago, a long shot, but it paid off,” before Stiles can explode from the visibly contained curiosity, he lays it plainly. “They've accepted you into a summer program at Quantico.” Barrelling through any possible interruptions, he continues. “Quantico Academy Partnership Track.”

“That's a mouthful,” Stiles interrupts anyway.

“Six to ten kids, training only,” Noah ignores it with the practice of having raised his son. “Agent Jareau supervises, so you can't talk your way around Aaron.”

Stiles stares, then grins, then stares again. “Wait, accepted? Like, actually- me? At Quantico?”

“Yes,” Noah says, careful not to sound like he’s clapping him on the back. “Once school’s out. Monday through Thursday, ten to three-thirty. Visitor badge, escorted, every task goes through JJ,” he stresses once again. “Aaron won't be your boss.”

Stiles is bouncing a little where he sits, practically vibrating.

Noah lifts a hand. “This isn’t a prize for Murphy’s, and it’s not a punishment either. It’s structure. You’ll be tagging training packets, redacting old files, cataloging.”

“That’s still-” Stiles breaks into another grin. “Wow.”

Noah cuts in before the grin can run away with him. “Listen to me. If you snoop, if you wander into anything you’re not cleared for, it’s not like the station.” His tone is firmer than he knows his son has heard in a while. “I can’t just look the other way. That’s federal, with real charges, court, lawyers and records that don’t go away. You step out of line there, it ends your placement, and it doesn’t stop with me.”

That brings Stiles up short. He blinks, swallows. “So if I screw around…”

“It won’t be a grounding. It’ll be permanent. So don’t.” He lets that hang, then leans forward. “And you need to remember something else: you will not be the smartest person in those rooms. Not even close.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it, tilting his head. “Yeah… fair.”

Noah can’t help the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. His kid’s fast, sure, but compared to people who live and breathe this work? He’ll be lapped. He might even learn something for a change. “Exactly. So watch, learn, listen.”

Stiles hugs his notebook to his chest like he’s absorbing it. “I’ll follow the rules,” he says, quieter now. “I promise.”

Noah studies him long enough to see it’s not just a reflex answer, then nods. “Good. Because this summer isn’t about proving you’re clever, it’s about proving you can listen. Do that, and you’ll get something out of it worth keeping.”

Stiles lets the words sink in, then murmurs, almost to himself, “Quantico.”

“Quantico,” Noah agrees, pushing himself up from the couch. On his way out, he ruffles Stiles’s hair. “And your ‘What I Won’t Do Again’ list is still due tomorrow. Don’t think you dodged that.”

Stiles groans, flopping back like the world is ending, but Noah catches the grin tucked under it.

Chapter Text

Stiles spots them before they see him. Haley's standing in the middle of the arrivals lounge, work skirt a little wrinkled from the day, and Jack's climbing all over the bench like it’s a jungle gym. The sight immediately brings a smile to his lips, and he rushes his steps in their direction.

Jack is the first to notice him, squealing something that sounds like “Liles!” and nearly pitching himself headfirst off the bench. Haley catches him under the arms without even looking, like she’s done this a hundred times, and sets him down. The kid bolts straight at Stiles on little glowing-sneakered feet.

Knowing what's coming already, Stiles slips his backpack down from his one arm to the ground as he crouches, just in time to catch an armful of three-year-old. “Whoa- hi, little dude!” He greets Jack, who wraps his arms around his neck like a human barnacle, and stands up with the kid in his arms. “Look at ya, did you grow, like, a whole foot since last time?”

Jack leans back enough to beam up at him, “I big now. I three an- an’ half!”

“Three and a whole half?” Stiles fakes a gasp, managing to sound impressed. “Man, you're practically in college already. What are you feeding him, Haley? baking powder?”

That gets him a giggle from the human backpack attached to him, and an amused smile from the blonde standing only a step away.

Haley looks wiped, but Stiles doesn't blame her, she's probably just come off her last class of the week and can't wait to enjoy a whole weekend with only one toddler in the room instead of over a dozen of them.

“C'mon,” She prompts, leaving Jack to him and grabbing his backpack instead, as well as the handle of his suitcase. “Let's get home, you must be hungry.”

“Starving,” He admits, following by her side.

“Chick nuggies!” Jack bounces in his arms with the confidence of a toddler who hasn't quite grasped gravity yet, and Stiles nervously holds him a little tighter. “Can we have dinos?”

Haley looks a little exasperated, but Stiles just grins, “I could eat a dinosaur. What's your favorite one?”

As if he'd only been waiting for that question, Jack is immediately off, butchering dinosaur names as he tells Stiles about all of them and which ones he likes the most with descriptions that are probably less than accurate.

Stiles’ shoulders relax as he lets the kiddie babble fill the air, commenting in all the right places, and realizing that as much as he loves Beacon Hills, it feels good to be back.

By the time they make it to the Hotchner home, it's nearly seven and Jack is already sagging a little, the energy having slowly drained out of him during the car ride. Haley lifts him from the car seat, Stiles grabs his suitcase and backpack, and they quietly make their way towards the house.

Standing in the in-between of the sill, he takes a moment to breathe, rest a hand on the doorway, and whisper a customary blessing — Pokój temu domowi, niech próg nas chroni — under his breath before crossing the treshold and closing the door behind himself.

The entry is clean enough to have been taken care of that same day, probably Haley wanting the house spotless for his visit as usual. Stiles glances up from the dark wooden floors, stepping past a narrow hall table with a dish for keys and glancing at the photos lining the wall — Haley at a school event, Aaron in a suit with a rare half-smile, Jack with cake on his face, a picnic with all four of them on Jack's first birthday. The house smells like laundry and lemon cleaner, which is another hint that it's been recently scrubbed to an inch of its life.

“Shoes off,” Haley reminds him softly, already halfway up the stairs with a sleepy Jack in her arms. “I’ll get him in the bath. Need help getting those to your room?”

“I've got it,” Stiles toes off his sneakers and shoulders the luggage upstairs.

His room is the small attic bedroom under the eaves. Navy walls, white trim, a single window letting in some of the streetlight. The bed’s made with a teal comforter and two bright orange pillows. A simple desk faces the window, mostly empty except for a lamp and a notepad, waiting for him to set up his laptop. A bookcase in the corner holds old paperbacks, a couple of textbooks, and a row of children’s books he remembers reading to Jack. On the nightstand, a plain mug for pens — because he chews on them so much they've decided to give him a stock — and a digital clock he knows is probably already programmed with an alarm for the ungodly time of the morning Hotch gets up for work.

He sets the suitcase by the bed, opens it, and starts a quick unpack: shirts to the top drawer, jeans to the next, hoodie on the hook. He runs a hand over the desk and notices that someone clipped a cable guide to the back edge for his charger.

On the windowsill, a small pothos sits in a terracotta pot. Definitely Haley's work.

Stiles checks the desk drawer and finds, among the pencils, sticky notes and a ruler, a blue folder with one of the blue sticky notes glued to it, ‘orientation email’ written on it in Haley's neat script. He pulls it out and leaves it on top of the desk to check out later, glad that she'd bothered to print it out for him.

Nothing against e-mails, but he prefers the feeling of paper in his hands.

Before he can open it, his phone makes a sound in his pocket, and he pulls it out to check.

Hotch: Landing late, we’ll talk in the morning.

Stiles doesn't realize how anxious he's been about this talk until something inside him relaxes slightly at the thought of it being delayed to the next morning. His dad said it's not a punishment, but he doubts his cousin will let the whole talked-down-an-armed-robber situation pass without a comment. Or several. A whole lecture's worth of them.

He's definitely had enough time to plan one, since it hasn't ever been brought up for the past two months since it happened.

Stiles: sure

Stiles: gnight

Since his phone is already on hand, he sits down on the bed and checks the messages he got during the flight.

Scott: Bro u in the FBI yet?

Stiles: dude I barely got here

Stiles: internship is monday

Stiles: u know I can't tell u about it right?

Stiles: I'll be buried under so many NDAs it'll be hard to breathe

Scott: I know but it's still cool

Scott: Think you'll see my dad?

Stiles: if I do I'll punch him for u

Scott: Please don't get arrested by the FBI

Stiles: who said I'd get caught?

“Stiles? Can you set the table?” Haley calls up the stairs. “Nuggets’ll be ten.”

“Coming,” he answers, tucking his phone away.

Downstairs, the kitchen is bright and tidy and Haley’s got the oven on and a sheet pan already lined. Jack sits in his booster, damp-haired, wearing dinosaur pajamas, feet swinging, and supervising with the solemn authority of a hungry toddler.

“Plates, forks, glasses,” Haley says, pointing with a wooden spoon. “And grab ketchup from the door.”

Stiles sets three plates, two forks and a toddler fork, three glasses, then adds a bowl of carrot sticks and apple slices because nuggets aren't all that nutritive on their own.

Haley shakes the bag of nuggets onto the tray and Jack gasps, “Dinos!”

“Which ones do we have here?” Stiles asks, leaning over the kitchen island.

Jack points at each misshapen nugget like he’s naming stars. “T-rex. T-rex. ’Nother T-rex. Stegosawus. Long neck. Baby long neck. ’Nother T-rex.”

“That’s a lot of T-rexes,” Stiles nods indulgently, “Any triceratops?”

Jack considers, then taps one. “Twice… twicer-"

“Triceratops,” Haley supplies, smiling. “Good eye.”

She slides the tray into the oven, sets the timer, and they fall into an easy rhythm. Haley mixes a quick pan of ‘the good rice’ on the stove with leftover rice, peas, and egg, Stiles slices the apples thinner for small hands. Jack reaches for a carrot, so Stiles angles the bowl closer and wonders if he was as easy about vegetables when he was a kid.

Then again, Jack did declare war on cauliflower last time he was here, so easy is a little subjective.

“How’s school?” Haley asks over the sizzle.

“Good,” Stiles says, and means it enough. “Math’s fine, English is great, coach keeps pretending we have defense.”

“And chemistry?” The slightly worried tone almost makes him feel bad for complaining about Harris so much. Almost.

“Apparently, I'm a disruptive force in class and need to be kept out of sight,” He drawls in a tone mimicking his teacher's bored one. “Joke's on him, he won't see me coming.”

Haley chuckles lightly, “Don't do anything your dad would have to arrest you for.”

“What's with everyone thinking I'd get caught?” He mutters half to himself, munching on a piece of apple.

“Friends?” Haley continues the customary interrogation like she doesn’t already know most names.

“Scott’s good” He assures. “Wants to make first line in lacrosse, thinks willpower will triumph over severe asthma.” His voice takes on a slightly dreamy quality, “Lydia's still perfect, as usual.”

“Mm.” Haley glances at him with a mix of humor and disbelief, “Has she realized you exist yet?”

He huffs. “I plead the fifth.”

“That’s not how the fifth works,” She reminds him teasingly.

“It's a work in progress!” Stiles splutters, crossing his arms. 

The timer mercifully dings, and Haley has to let it go as she pulls the tray.

Stiles plates while Jack does another round of naming, now with assignments. “This T-rex is mine. This T-rex is Liles. Mommy gets long neck. Baby long neck for Jack.”

“Very generous,” Haley says, setting the rice on the table.

Jack dunks with focus and Stiles cuts the baby long neck in half, because he's not sadistic enough to bite it limb by limb like his baby cousin. Haley eats a bite, then looks at Stiles again, the words she’s been saving finally out.

“Aaron told me about Murphy’s,” Her tone is not hard, just steady. “I’m glad it ended okay.”

Stiles keeps his eyes on his plate. “Me too.” For some reason, this wasn't a conversation he'd prepared for.

“You did a lot right,” she says. “You also scared people who love you.”

He nods once. Jack hums to his triceratops.

Haley takes a sip of water. “I’m not here to give the lecture he will give tomorrow. I just need you to hear this from me: you don’t have to be a hero before you finish high school. You’re allowed to wait for backup.”

“I know.” He means it, then adds, because honesty is a habit here, “I’m trying.”

He doesn't offer any of the reasons why he did it, because as much as he loves Haley, he doesn't think she'd understand the logic as it went through his mind at the time. Being a hero was not the point.

Hotch might get it, if Stiles manages to get a word in edgewise during that future lecture.

“That’s all I’m asking.” She bumps his knee under the table, a small, anchoring touch. “This summer is for learning the rules so your instincts have somewhere safe to go.”

Jack holds up a nugget. “Liles, bite the T-rex head.”

“What'd it do to deserve it?,” Stiles says, but does it.

Jack cackles. Haley smiles into her glass.

They finish dinner with Jack’s running commentary and a few nudges from Haley about sunscreen, the park tomorrow, and putting his orientation folder back in the blue tray when he’s read it.

After dishes, Haley wipes Jack’s hands and face while Stiles loads the dishwasher.

“Ten minutes of cartoons, then bed,” Haley tells Jack, then looks at Stiles. “Tea after lights out?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Tea sounds good.”

Jack slides off his booster and toddles to the couch, still narrating his herd. Stiles catches Haley’s eye, and she gives him that small, proud look that always knocks him a step off balance.

“Welcome back,” She says.

“Glad to be back,” He replies, and means it.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes up to enough brightness to make it very obvious that he's slept past the five a.m. alarm, which he'd seen coming from a mile away but had still dared to hope. With any luck, he'll manage to wake up with the alarm on Monday, or risk facing whatever Hotch decides to use as a wake-up call instead.

Dragging on a hoodie, he heads downstairs, following the sound of cutlery and the smell of toast.

Haley's at the table with Jack in his booster, a kingdom of pear sprawled around them. It's actually a little impressive, there are pear pieces on the tray, on the ground, on the front of Haley's blouse and even more on Jack's shirt, like he'd fought off a pear invasion and won. Hopefully some of it made it into the kid's mouth.

His observations get him spotted first, since Haley's a little busy cleaning up the warfield with a dishcloth.

“Liles!” Jack exclaims, bringing the attention of the room to him.

“Mornin’,” Stiles greets hoarsely before clearing his throat. “I was absolutely awake at five. In spirit.”

That gets him a chuckle from Haley, who immediately suffers another pear attack, and an amused look from Hotch, who turns around with two mugs in hand and places the fuller one close to him on the kitchen island.

“Your spirit better bring your body along on Monday,” Hotch says as Stiles takes the mug and practically inhales the fresh coffee, “The office isn't equipped for incorporeal workers.”

“And here I was hoping to intern for the paranormal division,” Stiles teases, “Y'know, somewhere around area fifty-one?”

The comment earns him the same look he gets every time he decides to spout a conspiracy theory or another just to rile up his straight-laced government-working cousin, which is to say a frustratingly blank look with a hint of amusement that tells him he won't get a response either way.

Hotch's poker face is eighty percent of the reason he still sort of thinks the government is hiding aliens.

“Get something to eat, Haley wants to take you shopping,” Hotch motions at the fruit on the table, “Toast and eggs?”

“As long as you don't burn them,” Stiles pokes, earning an annoyed frown as his cousin whispers that it was just one time under his breath. “How ‘bout you, Jackalope? Gonna eat some of that? You need it to grow up big like your daddy.”

Jack looks at the cut-up pear left on the bowl like it's an entirely new fruit and shoves a piece into his mouth, chewing noisily.

“Shopping?” He asks Haley, grabbing a pear of his own while the kid is entertained by pieces of fruit.

“Do you even own a tie that isn't three years old?” She asks in return, which- fair enough.

He'd grown up wearing loose clothes, nothing even pressing against skin anywhere, but then his mom got sick and didn't do the clothes shopping anymore. When his dad let him pick, he just got big shirts and hoodies, but then he'd moved in with the Hotchners for a year at twelve and learned the joy — note the sarcasm — of ties. And tightly-laced shoes. And unbuzzed hair, because Haley swore vengeance on his dad for giving him a buzzcut and hasn't let Stiles be responsible for his own hair ever since.

“Do I need to own a tie?” He chooses to ask instead, because somehow it hadn't occurred to him that the FBI internship might require a dress code.

In his defense, he's heard his cousin's comments about Garcia's outfits often enough to give him that belief, and Hotch is the type to have other options and still choose to slip into a suit and tie.

“You need at least two,” Hotch replies, placing a pair of toasts onto a plate and then pivoting to sprinkle some cheese over the scrambled eggs in the frying pan. “Even if you only wear it on the first day and during formal meetings. Just keep one in your bag. Didn't you read the orientation email?”

“Skimmed it,” He shrugs, as if he hadn't spent half the night memorizing his schedule and overthinking — as well as planning around — every way he could possibly find to mess up this opportunity. “I don't have to wear a suit, right?”

He doesn't even remember the last time he wore a suit.

Hotch shakes his head with an amused huff, “I think we can spare ourselves the fidgeting. A button-down or polo works fine, and something that's not jeans or sweatpants. We should get you some dress shoes,” the last part is mostly directed at Haley, and Stiles can tell when he's beat.

“Shopping it is,” he caves with a sigh, but gets over it when Hotch slides over a plate of toasts with cheesy eggs on top. After finishing the pear with a final bite, he digs into breakfast with gusto.

They eat. Haley asks if the attic room is warm enough — it is — and Hotch asks if he's unpacked — also yes, even his laptop got set up when he needed to look up the DOJ ethics handbook, as well as some supplementals, just to lock in some don't get fired on day one guidelines — and if he needs anything else, which ends with him adding a few items to the grocery list on the fridge.

Then Jack tips his bowl, and the last bits of pear slide everywhere.

“Bath time,” Haley announces, calm in the face of fructose chaos, and scoops Jack under the arms. “You two finish, I'll be back in ten.”

Stiles finishes chewing as he watches her leave, “That's optimistic.”

“She's efficient,” His cousin notes, but at Stiles’ pointed look at the mess on the booster and floor, he adds, “Maybe fifteen.”

He takes another bite of his breakfast, offering it the kind of single-minded focus he usually gives binge-searches, but apparently it's not enough to delay the conversation any further.

“Tell me about Murphy's,” Hotch says, but it's only disguised as a request.

He takes the time to swallow, and then sip on his coffee, but eventually Stiles looks up.

Aaron is just looking at him, patient, visibly not judging, and the lack of a frown or disapproving look helps him get the words past his throat.

“I wasn't trying to be a hero,” he blurts out, Haley's comment from the night before still fresh in his mind, as well as his dad's words of warning. When Hotch doesn't show his thoughts one way or the other, the words come pouring out like a broken dam. “I just- there was this woman, some tourist type blonde with a son, and her husband- I mean, I figure that's the husband, they had rings, and he was-” A hand on his arm makes him pause to breathe, and he offers a sheepish shrug before getting back on track, “Sorry. Right- facts. Uh- blonde woman, adorable blond toddler, blond-ish guy with a wedding band matching hers.”

“So a married couple with their son,” Hotch summarizes patiently. “What about them?”

“I was next to them,” Stiles explains. “I mean, there were more people there, but I saw them duck behind the shelves. I was the closest to the counter, and this couple was next to the fridge when Trent walked in.”

“Trent?” The name gets him a twitch of an eyebrow.

“The guy with the gun,” Stiles explains.

“So you recognized him?” He shakes his head in denial.

“Not at first. He did have one of those-” Stiles motions with a hand over his face as he tries to remember the word, “thief mask things. The hoodie was too big, though. I could see a lawn-service polo from the company the station used to call, and he had dried grass on his boots, but that's not the point,” he stresses. “The guy was stuttering, the safety was on, he didn't even point the gun somewhere lethal, just the counter.”

“Alright,” Hotch tilts his head minutely, in that way Stiles knows he's taking in every word instead of already coming up with a rebuttal. “What else?”

“I wasn't gonna say anything,” He prefaces, in his own defense. “I know none of that means he wouldn't shoot for sure, okay?” The slight nod reassures him in a way his dad's constant lectures didn't quite hit the mark. Stiles isn't stupid, suicidal or an adrenaline junkie — well, no more than any other teenager, at least — and wouldn't go looking for excuses to be at the wrong end of a gun. “But the woman's husband, I think he saw it too, and he didn't look like he wanted to talk things out,” Stiles huffs in annoyance to hide how scared he'd been that the man could have made everything worse. “And I get it, his kid looked about Jack's age, but- he was even further away than me, and looked ready to pick a fight with a gun in the hands of a desperate guy in a store full of people. If he moved… things could actually get ugly.”

“So you moved first,” His cousin concludes.

Stiles nods, “I didn't even mean to talk him down, just buy some time, but it worked out, somehow.” he tilts his head down, absently poking at a last bit of toast on his plate. “I'm not saying it couldn't have gone different and maybe been just as fine,” he adds, because that's true for every situation even if he still can't see how that particular one could have gone any better.

There's a brief moment of silence, and then a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing slightly and making him look up.

“Okay,” Aaron says, still taking it in. “That matches what your dad told me, and it helps to hear what you saw.”

“I’m also not saying I’d do it again,” His tone is halfhearted at best and Hotch definitely hears it, but doesn't comment. “I’m saying that’s why.”

Aaron holds his eyes a second, then lets out a slow breath. “You bought time. I’m glad it ended where it did.” Another light squeeze, then the hand is gone. “I'm going to say it, because I know Noah is too close to do it,” Stiles can't help but frown, though it smooths out once his cousin continues, “I'm proud of you.”

He just blinks in surprise, eyes a little wide, before looking back down when his cheeks start to feel warm.

“I mean it,” The hand is back, this time on his arm. “You clearly thought things through, and I know what it can look like from the outside when you think fast enough to look like you didn't,” the acknowledgement settles something inside him that's been tight-wound for two months. “But that doesn't mean I like the thought of you in front of a gun, or that your dad will stop worrying.”

“I know,” Stiles admits, looking at Hotch from the corner of his eye. “Thanks.”

“You're still going through disarming drills sometime next week,” Aaron warns, but there's warmth bleeding through the severe tone.

Stiles snorts, “You say it like that's a punishment.”

His cousin smirks slightly and adds as he moves away, “I never said I'd be the one running the drills.”

He stares. Thinks over all of the possibilities. “Hotch-”

“C'mon, help me clean this up,” Hotch motions at the mess his son had made.

“Hotch, you're not making me run drills with Morgan, right?” Stiles asks, a little more desperate when his cousin doesn't deny it. “Hotch? He's huge.”

“You met when you were twelve,” Hotch sounds way too amused by his genuine distress. “You've grown up.”

“Well, his muscles probably did, too!” He insists dramatically, and only gets a chuckle for his troubles. “If he snaps me like a twig, I'm coming back to haunt you.”

“Still won't get you into my crime scenes.”

Chapter Text

Stiles tried to sleep.

Really, he did, but it just doesn't agree with the anxiety churning in his chest, worse than on the first day before high school — because at least he knew Scott would be there — and making him sneak out of bed around four in the morning to head down to the kitchen instead of fighting a losing battle with the bedcovers.

The bright light feels like it might burn his retinas out, so he flicks it off as quickly as it came on and settles for the under-cabinet lighting instead. He finds the gluten-free flour mix without looking — another leftover habit from baking with his mom, who had hypersensitivity to gluten and converted every house she decided to bake in —, his hands knowing where Haley keeps it by heart. He sets out bowls, eggs, oil, lemon, the little bottle of poppy seeds and then remembers to preheat the oven so he isn't left standing around for twenty minutes with a tray of unbaked goods.

It's quiet enough to hear the click of the oven dial, the whisk against the metal, the slow thump of his pulse settling as he counts cups, taps the lemon against the counter, grates the zest. He swaps milk for oat milk without thinking, then realizes he's been planning to share these with more than the current occupants of the house all along.

Baked bribes might help him not get his head bitten off by annoyed FBI agents on his first day.

By five-thirty, two dozen muffins are cooling on racks and he’s on his second mug of coffee. He puts a half dozen aside for the house, then splits the rest into two clean bakery boxes — this is hardly the first time he goes on a baking spree in the Hotchner house and they know to be equipped for it —, scribbling ‘eat me’ at the top like he's planning to ship them off to wonderland, as well as a list of ingredients on the inner part of the box lid just in case anyone has an allergy to eggs or some of the corn that goes into the flour mix.

The first box will go to the BAU and he’ll take the second box to the orientation room later, because bribes can be two-pronged.

Hotch finds him just before six, already in a white shirt, a tie draped loose around his neck and looking for all the world like waking up with the sun is an easy choice instead of a challenge Stiles constantly manages to fail.

“Did you even sleep?” His cousin questions, his tone more resigned than surprised, like he'd been expecting it already but had dared to be optimistic.

“Uh- maybe like, three hours,” Stiles sheepishly admits, then pokes the plate with muffins forward like a tasty peace offering. “Lemon and poppy seed,” he presents. “Think I can take some to the office?”

Aaron surveys the baked goods for a moment before picking one up and taking a bite, and Stiles can tell the sweet treat has been accepted as a tribute when his cousin's mouth twitches up slightly in the shadow of a smile.

“Garcia might canonize you,” Hotch warns once his mouth is free, “but yes, you can take your bribe to the office.”

Stiles breaks into a grin that's only half mischief, “Bribe is such an illegal word, let's just call it… a goodwill incentive.”

His cousin's flat look is betrayed by the obvious amusement in his eyes, so Stiles writes it off as a job well done, especially when Hotch grabs a second muffin on his way to the coffee pot.

“Go get dressed, we leave in fifteen,” the warning gets him moving again and he rushes up the stairs, intent on taking the world's quickest shower and suddenly feeling very thankful that Haley took him shopping and helped him set out his first-day clothes a day earlier.

By six-thirty, he has already slipped into his cosplay of an intern that knows what they're doing — because what else should he call the combo of chinos, derby shoes, and a tucked-in button-down paired with a tie he'll be getting rid of as soon as his badge picture is taken — and they're finally on the road.

Stiles watches the trees give way to concrete and then to the signs for Marine Corps Base Quantico, the low buildings that are more practical than impressive, the gate where IDs get checked, the brief nod from a guard who recognizes Aaron. Past the guardhouse, there’s a straight shot to the Academy parking, visitor spots empty at this hour, a clean line of concrete walkways, the NCAVC end of the complex in brick and glass that looks like every federal building he’s ever seen on TV, just less dramatic.

Inside is even more beige. Security desk, magnetometers, a visitor clipboard he doesn’t touch because Hotch handles the talking. They get temporary stickers at the desk and then Aaron steers him to the badging office: a window, a camera, a printer that thumps more than it hums. Stiles signs where he’s told, hands over the parent consent and AUP that Noah already returned by email, and faces the camera. A guard says don’t smile too much, then takes the picture that will live on his lanyard for the next few weeks.

The badge is grey with ‘QAPT / VOLUNTEER’ in a stripe, ‘STILINSKI’ printed under a photo where he looks like he hasn’t slept. Fair enough. Aaron clips the lanyard on him, straightens it like the mother-hen he pretends he's not, and they head upstairs.

On the in-between at the entrance to the unit's wing, Stiles delays a step, mutters a blessing under his breath, and moves on like nothing ever happened.

The BAU bullpen looks exactly like he remembers: clusters of desks in open view and a few whiteboards with faded writing that he tries not to stare at long enough for his cousin to notice. He knows, more or less, where every visible door leads to, and the ones he's not sure about probably have a helpful plaque attached to them, so he chooses not to worry about it too much.

“You can drop those off in the break room,” Hotch says, motioning at the two boxes of baked goods. “Then come up to my office, it'll be a while before anyone else comes in.”

Stiles nods and goes to do just that, hoping to get his metro privileges back by the end of the week so he won't have to ride with his cousin every day.

Nothing against a free ride, but his internship starts at ten and it's barely seven. That's enough time to die of boredom — or take a nap.

A nap might be good, actually.

The break room is a small square with a basic drip coffee maker, a fridge with masking-tape names on containers, a box of bargain-brand tea, and not much else.

Stiles leaves the muffin box on the counter and nearly starts a pot of coffee out of reflex before the government-budgeted, pre-ground stuff gives him pause and he wrinkles his nose at it, putting everything back in its place while adding items to a mental list of things he'll try to bring tomorrow.

This place needs real coffee beans, filters, a kettle and decent tea. The basics for survival, really. Some cream might be nice, too. On his way up the mezzanine stairs, he's already considering the addition of some hazelnut syrup.

Stiles goes through the open door and takes in the sunlight coming through the glass, dropping into the visitor chair and absently spinning around on it. He knows this room from a hundred calls and a handful of visits: desk at right angles to the window, a file stack that never quite goes away, a pen cup that someone refills with the exact same pens whenever he isn’t looking.

“So,” He starts, still a little too wired to act on the plan to take a nap. “Jason's still on medical leave, right?”

Jason Gideon is another agent Stiles had met at twelve. The man was cool in a smart-professor sort of way and hadn't minded teaching him to play chess while Hotch finished up his work in the office. He still plays him sometimes, whenever he's free and notices the agent showing up online on the website. Jason has no mercy on him, but he prefers being trounced than getting an undeserved win.

“Until we need him back badly enough,” Hotch replies in a slightly grimmer tone that Stiles already knows to associate with the nature of his cousin's work.

If they need to call Jason back, it won't be for something good.

“And Nora transferred like, two years ago, so… it's just you, Morgan, JJ, Garcia and Reid?” That's three people he's only ever vaguely heard about from his cousin's non-case-related anecdotes, since they've only joined up recently.

Hopefully they like lemon muffins.

“Yes, so you can imagine the amount of paperwork I'm handling,” Aaron pointedly motions at the pile-up on his desk. “Why don't you get comfortable on the couch? I'll call you for the meeting.”

“Meeting?” Stiles stops rotating the chair, ends up half turned away from Hotch, and spins back to face him. “Right- orientation.”

“No, the introduction meeting to the team, so the fact that we're related doesn't catch anyone off-guard.” Hotch corrects, finally looking up only to pin him with a pointed look, “And so they know to keep an eye on you.”

The dramatic gasp he releases is not unexpected, given the way his cousin gets right back to the paperwork entirely unfazed. “I'm hurt,” he half-slides off the chair before getting up and throws himself on the couch instead, which is much comfier. “I don't need federal babysitters,” he points out.

From the look his cousin gives him at that, he clearly disagrees.

Rude.

Stiles only means to scroll his phone, but the couch is warm and his eyes have been at half-mast since four. He stretches out, pulls his tie loose, and drops an arm over his face just for five minutes.

And then he’s out.

Hotch lets him sleep for about an hour. It’s the good kind of sleep, heavy and useless, and Stiles comes out of it with his cheek creased from the couch seam and his tie crooked over one shoulder. When he wakes, it’s to knuckles tapping on wood.

“Up,” Hotch says from the doorway, voice low. “Team’s in.”

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “I wasn’t sleeping, I was-”

“Auditing the couch,” Hotch finishes, deadpan. He sets a paper cup of water on the edge of the desk and tips his chin at Stiles’s tie. “Fix that or take it off.”

Stiles chooses off, stuffs it in his pocket, and drinks half the water because the look says he should. Hotch smooths a palm down the front of his shirt, seems to realize he's fussing, immediately stops, and motions for Stiles to follow as he leaves the office.

Down in the bullpen, the morning is fully awake. Desks now have owners, mugs have migrated to them, and the printers are at full power because the government doesn't care about trees. Instead of veering toward a conference room, he realizes they're heading right into the break room instead. The choice loosens something in Stiles’s shoulders — informal is better than round-table spotlight — but he still fidgets under the curious looks that follow them through the doorway.

“I told Garcia to get the team here,” Hotch says, leaning a hip against the counter and looking at the coffee maker like he might try to out-stare caffeine.

“Can I bring some stuff for this room tomorrow?” With a placating hand gesture at his cousin's disbelieving look, he explains himself. “I can't survive on subpar coffee, and I figure no one will mind a better one, right?”

Hotch visibly holds back a sigh, “Just don't go overboard.”

Stiles refrains from asking if a small selection of syrups might happen to be categorized as ‘going overboard’.

The first person to walk in is like a color swatch come to life, and he immediately identifies the blonde as Garcia from everything he's heard about her. She's got a teal dress with big daisy print, a butter-yellow cardigan covered in tiny pins, magenta tights and clicky black Mary Janes. Not to be outdone by her outfit, her hair is side-pinned with a fabric flower, the bangles on her arms are chiming, and her lanyard is half badge, half charm bracelet.

Stiles adores her on sight — here's someone with a personality and not afraid to show it, even in the face of government dress code.

“Why is there a tween?” Is the first thing that leaves her mouth, laced with confusion at the sight of Stiles, followed by delight once she notices the bakery box, “Ooh, a tasty treat! Please tell me this isn't evidence.”

“Not a tween,” Stiles quips, sincerely hoping he doesn't still look twelve, “And it's only evidence of my stress-baking, so feel free to dig in.”

Morgan arrives before Garcia can think to either reply or grab a treat, and doesn't so much enter as he aims for the box like it owes him money. He spots Stiles, stops, then laughs in recognition.

“No way, little Stiles?” He sticks out his hand and adds a quick shoulder-clasp that says we’ve done this before and doesn't seem to help Garcia with her confusion. “You got taller. And you still brought better food than our coffee.”

“Not a very high bar,” Stiles informs with a glance at the coffee maker, returning the handshake without fumbling for once and noting with some dismay that the man is still a wall of muscle.

The ones he figures are JJ and Reid come in on Morgan's wake. The woman looks news-anchor calm in a navy blazer and pencil skirt, blond hair so smooth and shiny that it doesn't look like it belongs in a government building, and the guy next to her sort of looks like he took a wrong turn on his way to a college lecture. Reid is all angles, hair smoothed down with some product in a way that makes him think of Sheldon, coupled with a beige cardigan, slightly crooked tie, messenger bag, scuffed shoes and analytical eyes that seem like they're trying to deduce the reason behind Stiles’ presence before it's announced.

“Now that everyone's here,” Hotch cuts off any talk before it can even start. “This is Stiles,” no need to point at him, they can all see he's the odd one out in the room. “He's with the QAPT volunteers this summer. He's also my cousin, which means that JJ is his supervisor and I'm recused from evaluation. He observes, helps with low-risk administrative tasks, and does not access anything sensitive unless an adult approves it and is present.”

There is a quick, polite recalibration at cousin — three people taking in new data from a very private man — before a collective sense of copy that, coupled with a few nods.

JJ offers her hand, steady and kind. “I'm JJ. Welcome. Thanks for… whatever smells like sunshine.”

“Lemon and poppy seed,” Stiles clarifies, shaking her hand.

“Garcia, local tech goddess,” The introduction follows with another short handshake before she's picking out two muffins from the box, one in each hand. “Feel free to keep up the offerings, little intern.”

When he turns to offer a handshake to Reid, the guy's response is to tuck his own behind his back, which makes Stiles look at him questioningly.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” the guy states before seemingly realizing he didn't actually introduce himself and adding, "I'm Doctor Reid," while looking way too earnest for it all to be anything but stated facts.

Stiles snorts before he can help it, and smothers it behind the hand that apparently won't be shaken, “Careful,” he warns with a smile, hoping to get rid of the slight frown on Reid's brow, which is probably due to Stiles laughing at him in the first place, but he couldn't help it. “I have a feeling no one else will warn you, but if you always introduce yourself like that, someone's eventually gonna take it as an invitation.”

There's an exasperated groan of ‘Stiles’ that he would recognize as Hotch anywhere, but it's drowned out by a bark of laughter from Morgan and more subdued chuckles from JJ and Garcia.

Reid blinks, seems to consider the social math, and offers a slight upward twitch of his lips like he's just noticed the humor. “Noted.”

Morgan apparently decides there's been enough politeness and is the next one to grab a muffin, “You bake these, kid?”

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs, feeling shily pleased when Garcia and JJ also hum in appreciation. He's missed getting to bake for more than two.

Reid hesitates, then selects a muffin carefully. He looks at the circle of people holding the same lemon-glazed thing and you can almost see the thought click into place.

“There’s a fairly robust literature on matched consumption,” the doctor says, words picking up speed. “When participants consume identical foods — same flavor profile — there’s a measurable increase in affiliative behavior and dyadic trust. In one experimental series, matched consumption increased contributions in a trust game and shortened time-to-agreement in a negotiation paradigm. Independent of that, reciprocity from small favors predicts later compliance, and there’s a coordination effect with family-style service: synchronous reach patterns seem to entrain turn-taking.”

Stiles stares for a moment before offering up a sheepish grin “So there's lemon as a baseline, and one shared box so everyone orbits the same plate.” he notes with some amusement, lifting both hands in mock surrender. “I promise this wasn’t a premeditated bribe, more a bribe of convenience, really. And I will stop saying the word bribe in a federal building now.”

He gets a couple of grins, and even Reid's mouth twitches again, so he counts that as a success.

Stiles tips his head toward Hotch, drops his voice. “Also, you can’t act above it. You already ate two.”

He knows when the room turns toward a sound — the way four sets of eyes swivel to Hotch like a flock. Hotch doesn’t blink. “Quality control.”

That pops the last little bubble of stiffness. Morgan goes in for a second with less ceremony, JJ steals a napkin to take her second one with her, and Garcia pauses to read the ingredients list again like they'll magically provide her with the full recipe.

“Desk space is tight,” Hotch adds, already aiming his chin toward the bullpen. “But we do have a vacant desk, so you’ll sit next to Dr. Reid. He reads quickly and will flag anything that shouldn’t leave your drafts, and proof what can.”

“I can check for clarity, sequence logic, and typographical errors,” Reid informs, already half-turned like gravity is pulling him back to his desk. “Typos disproportionately reduce perceived credibility.”

“Sold,” Stiles’ relief is embarrassingly tangible. “I babble on paper when I’m nervous.”

“You also babble out loud when you’re nervous,” Hotch adds mildly.

“Which is why I brought muffins,” He justifies. “When you want me to shut up, please remember I brought baked goods and ask nicely.”

He consciously doesn't fidget at the considering looks his comment earns him but mentally reminds himself that he's in a room full of profilers, not a book club with nice old ladies who won't read three meanings into every word he says.

“Good luck, little intern. I'll see you for the TrainingNet intro,” Garcia pats his shoulder with a free hand and sashays out with a muffin held securely in the other.

JJ gives him a small, encouraging nod. “I’ll come get you for orientation,” she says, and heads back toward the bullpen as Morgan leans in to talk to Hotch in a low voice.

Stiles is relieved when Reid lingers a second, then tips his head. “This way.” He waits just long enough to be sure Stiles is following — which he is, right after grabbing the extra bakery box he'll take to orientation, just to keep an eye on it — then leads him to the spare desk beside his, the chair giving a small squeak as Stiles sits.

“Nice,” he mutters, almost spinning the chair before realizing that's probably a childish thing to do in front of an office full of government agents. “Um- I gotta get my stuff from Hotch's office, I'll be back,” Stiles announces and tries not to look like he's running from the potential embarrassment he'd just avoided.

Bag securely in hand after his return, he falls right back into the discretely squeaky chair. His badge taps once against his chest and settles, but he still clips the lanyard to his belt so it stops swinging, then pulls the blue folder from his bag and skims the outline again even though he's pretty sure he could recite it in his sleep by now.

Reid types fast and quiet, the bullpen hums at a low idle, and lemon still hangs in the break room air.

At 9:50, JJ appears in his peripheral vision. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, like a liar.

He sets down the folder, grabs his muffin box like it's a necessary social shield, and stands to follow her out.

Chapter Text

JJ walks him to a Training Division classroom with a paper sign taped crooked on the door: ‘QAPT Cohort — Orientation’. Inside are two rows of plastic chairs, a rolling projector cart, a box of lanyards, and a stack of pens that he assumes is decorative given the lack of accompanying paper. A woman in a blazer with a staff badge — must be the events person — checks a clipboard and says good morning like she actually means it.

“I’ll be right up there,” JJ tells him with a quick squeeze to his shoulder. She joins a short line of adults along the back wall: a man with a silver tie-clip and coffee, a guy in a black cardigan with a coil of cables around his wrist, a sharp-eyed librarian type with a red pendant, a range-office guy with a buzz cut, a tired-looking tech with a radio. Other supervisors, he figures.

Stiles discretely drops off the bakery box next to the likely-decorative pens and takes an end seat, tapping his badge so it stops swinging where he had to pin it back to his shirt, and clocks the other kids. Seven of them, almost all doing the same quiet scan of the room while pretending they aren't. He sets his phone face-down and keeps his fingers laced together so he's not tempted to fidget with something potentially noisy.

“Morning, all.” The lady at the front starts once everyone's seated. “I’m Sylvia Melnick, I run events over at the NCAVC Learning Center. We’re keeping this quick: who you are, where you’re posted, who you go to when you have questions. You’ve all read the guidelines,” she adds, like there's no doubt in her mind that all eight teenagers in the room have indeed done their homework, “and your supervisors will repeat what matters.”

She taps the space bar. The title slide pops up. She taps again. The projector blinks, whines, and freezes on a half-loaded slide.

Stiles feels the old itch to stand up and fix it, before reflex makes him stay put — new room, new people, stay in your lane like it's high school, no one here wants to see or hear you. Across the aisle, a kid in a green button-down leans forward like the machine is making his teeth hurt, then forces himself back.

Melnick is tinkering with the buttons, looking a little put out, and he notices that the supervisors — one of which has got to be from a tech-adjacent department, his money is on cable guy — have yet to offer any help.

Stiles decides that the risk of being called out is worth not sitting around for longer and nudges green button-down with one knuckle. The boy turns, looking curious but thankfully not annoyed.

“You look like you might know how to fix that,” He points out, from the way green button-down had reacted to the issue and how he's wincing slightly at the sound of buttons being mashed like it hurts him personally. “You should go for it,” Stiles suggests, “or we might have to wait like, twenty minutes for tech support.”

Green button-down flashes him a half-smile and shrugs in a ‘what the hell, why not?’ kind of way before getting up and heading to the front. With Melnick's permission, the kid checks the cable, switches inputs, then taps the side like he knows the sweet spot. “Three-two-one…” he narrates softly, and the slide returns as if nothing happened.

“Excellent,” Melnick praises as green-button-down gets back to his seat. “Already solving problems. Okay, roll call. I’ll say your name and where you’re posted, then your supervisor will wave and introduce themselves so you know who to hunt down later. When you hear yourself, tell us what you’d like to be called, where you’re from, and what you like working on. Keep it short so we can stay friends.”

The small joke doesn't quite land but Melnick soldiers on, glancing at her list. “Priya Nayar, Learning Center.” A hand lifts two seats down: neat cardigan, calm face, some sort of indian descent if he had to guess.

Two seats down, a girl in a stripe-under-v-neck raises her hand. “Priya,” The way her voice carries already tells him she's probably used to speaking in public. “Fairfax. I like color-coordinating and making signs people can't ignore.”

Melnick raises her own hand. “You're with me. I'm the Events Coordinator,” she clarifies, then moves on to the next. “Benicio Alvarez, Training Division.”

“Ben,” a tall boy — who kind of reminds him of Scott — nods once. “Richmond. I’m good with rosters and fixing other people’s typos.”

Tie-clip lifts two fingers. “Roy Carlton,” he says, a little dry.

“Maya Ellington, Academy Library,” Melnick continues.

A girl on the seat in front of him in a soft terno blouse smiles. “Maya, DC. I like tidy metadata, so... cataloging, scanning... making tags that actually help.” She twirls a blonde streak, then stills her hand like she didn't mean to.

The red pendant lady tips forward. “Emma Han, MLS. You’ll see me in the digi lab and stacks.”

“Rowan McAllister, Academy Library.”

Rowan lifts a hand, copper hair tucked behind one ear. “Rowan, they/them. Stafford. I like finding old stuff and making it easy to find again.” They tug a cardigan cuff into place, careful.

Same red pendant lady, smaller wave.

“Grace Kline, Academy Range Office.”

A blonde with a tidy clipboard nods, adorably business-like for someone that looks thirteen. “Kline. Quantico. Checklists.”

Buzz-cut raises his chin. “Charles Ruiz, Range Office Admin.”

“Theo Park, CIRG Logistics.”

“Park,” the kid says, sounding just as curt as the blonde. “Base housing,” huh, that tracks. “I don't mind what I work on.”

Radio guy gives a small nod. “Josh Fellows.”

The list goes on, and not for the first time Stiles wonders why it's not in alphabetical order. It's very annoying not to know for sure when your name might be next. “Zayd Haddad, Training Division.”

Green button-down grins. “Zayd. I make screens work and captions not be wrong. Happy to help.”

Cardigan-with-cables thumbs the air. “Kyle Randle, AV Tech.”

Melnick pauses at the next name, which makes Stiles preemptively wince. “M. Stilinski,” he blinks, pleasantly surprised by the lack of butchering of his first name via thankfully not even trying. “Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Stiles raises his hand. “Stiles. Beacon Hills. I like research, but I'm here to do the training stuff and not touch anything I’m not supposed to.”

A few smiles around the room, like he'd hoped, including JJ who raises a hand near the door. “SSA Jennifer Jareau.”

“Good,” Melnick concludes, clicking the slide forward to ‘Guardrails (Short Version)’. “You’re here Monday through Thursday, ten to three-thirty. Training materials only, TrainingNet only. You stick to your spaces and your people. If you leave your area, you’re escorted. No SCIF, no interview rooms. No live caseboards, for those it applies to. If you aren’t sure if something is live, you ask. Curiosity is useful after the rules.”

Heads nod, pens move, and Stiles writes names and placements in block letters on one of his notebooks, adding quick supervisor keys — Han (red pendant), Carlton (tie clip), Melnick (events), Ruiz (buzz cut), Fellows (radio), Randle (cables), JJ (BAU) — so he can map adults to doors fast if he needs to.

“Logistics,” Melnick continues. “Bathrooms are down the hall to your right, the cafeteria is past the sad coffee. Task logs live on paper and in the shared folder — date, task, source, output, supervisor initials. You’ll get the email packet later. Please read it.”

A very short Q&A follows the request, but Stiles manages to keep from opening his mouth since if he did, he wouldn't be able to guarantee what might come out, and he's very invested on not getting kicked out on his first day.

“Alright,” Melnick finalizes, closing her laptop. “That’s the spiel. If you get lost, ask the nearest adult or follow the smell of toner. Group photo tomorrow at eleven, intranet blurb later this week, no quotes, just names and locations. Any further questions can go through your supervisors.”

Chairs scrape, the adults peel off the wall, and Stiles waits for the first wave to stand, then lifts the small bakery box he'd stashed by the pens.

“Hey, before everybody vanishes,” he says, not too loud. “Lemon poppy seed muffins, gluten and lactose-free. Ingredients are on the lid. Take one or don’t, no pressure.”

For a second they just look like regular kids in a regular room.

Priya steps in first. “Thanks,” she says, actually reading the label. She slides the napkins closer, squares the stack with the edge of the box. Her nails match her sweater.

“Homemade?” Maya asks, hands tucked in like she’s stopping herself from taking two.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, refusing to be embarrassed for being able to perform a vital household task such as baking.

Zayd takes one, then pockets a second. “For the projector,” he jokes. “Appreciated.”

Grace thanks him and wraps hers meticulously in a napkin, eyes flicking to a tiny ‘NO FOOD’ sign by the door that Stiles had chosen to selectively ignore. “I’ll eat it at my desk,” she promises, like crumbs are a federal offense.

Theo scans the ingredients card and nods once at the neat handwriting. “Good label,” he says, which sounds like his highest compliment. He aligns the box so it’s exactly parallel to the edge of the table.

Rowan offers a quiet “thanks,” tucks a muffin into their backpack like contraband library candy, then checks their pocket like it's a habit.

Ben glances over, gives a polite half-smile. “Starting early with the brownie points?” It's light enough to pass for a joke, but he doesn’t take one, already angling toward Roy with another question.

JJ meets Stiles by the door once he grabs a muffin for himself and leaves the box behind. “Back to the bullpen, I've got a few extra forms for you.” she announces. “Then lunch, and TrainingNet with Garcia at two.”

They spill into the hall in ones and twos, the building smells like paper and lemon, and Stiles mentally pats himself in the back for surviving his first morning.

Only thirty-one more to go.

Chapter Text

His comment to Scott about drowning in NDAs feels even more real once he's done with JJ's extra forms, and he eats his cafeteria lunch in the BAU break room instead of braving the crowd because it reminds him way too much of school, and he didn't feel like sitting on his own like a loser.

After lunch, JJ takes him to Garcia's corner of the bureau and presents him like an offering at the altar of technology.

Garcia’s office sits off the BAU bullpen behind a glass wall and a door placard ‘Technical Analyst — P. Garcia’, lit by a desk lamp, string lights, and a lava lamp instead of fluorescents. It’s bright and quirky — posters, knickknacks, a candy dish — but organized: a corner desk facing the glass with her multi-monitor rig, ergonomic keyboard, smart-card reader, headset on a hook, and neatly labeled drawers and binders. On a side table in the same room is a TrainingNet-only station — a hard-wired, sandboxed laptop on a dock, ports blocked and Wi-Fi/Bluetooth disabled — with a bold placard: ‘SANDBOX TERMINAL — NO PHONES / NO EXTERNAL MEDIA’ since Interns, logically, must sit where she can see their screen at a glance.

Garcia parks him in the TrainingNet ‘kiddie pool,’ lays down fences  — ISO dates, controlled tags, versioning, no scavenger hunts — and hands him a first chore. He labels his notebook and task log, opens the junky incoming_temp folder, and rips through twelve files fast: clean names, correct tags, tidy move, a brief README.txt. One tag fix — underscore, not run-on — gets corrected on the spot.

With time still on the clock, she slides over some redaction drills. He knocks out three — names/addresses, then emails/phones —, talking through choices, applying redactions only when sure, stripping metadata, exporting sanitized copies, paste-testing until it’s all gibberish and thanking his higher-than-average reading speed for the assist. He logs the work, JJ appears at three-fifteen, and he’s got the quick summary ready: file cleanup done, drills passed, no fences hopped. Garcia offers him a glittery gold star sticker like an elementary school teacher and Stiles is not ashamed to admit it lives in his work-notes notebook now.

And just like that, his first day of internship wraps up and he's got two hours — or more, who really knows what time Hotch will decide to leave the office — to kill as a visitor, with no anxiety to make time go as fast as it went in the morning and no extra chores to keep him busy.

“Kid,” Stiles looks up from the little pocket journal he'd been making a few annotations to at the sound of Morgan's voice coming from the man's table, which faces Reid — who also looked up at the call, he notices. “Shorter kid,” Morgan specifies with a smirk and Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes or arguing his stature.

He's not even done growing yet, so there.

“Sup?” He asks, swaying from side to side on the chair, having given up on the veneer of maturity nearly twenty minutes into being bored to death.

“Wanna tell me why Hotch wants me to run you through disarming drills?” Morgan gives him a puzzled look over the table divider.

Stiles slides down slightly on his chair with a groan. “Not really, I've heard enough lectures for two lifetimes.”

“Why would you need to know how to disarm someone?” Reid asks, apparently catching the subject without ever looking away from his work.

“In case talking them down doesn't work next time,” Stiles quips, then mentally curses himself for his failing filter.

“You did what now?” Morgan half-stands from the desk like he's about to try and stop something that's already happened.

“Don't you have work to do?” He tries to deflect, but the man clearly won't budge.

“I can type and listen,” Morgan informs, sitting back down. “Seriously, what the hell were you doing near a gun?”

Stiles huffs with a hint of indignation at that. “First of all, I can handle a gun just fine,” at the slightly incredulous look, he realizes these people aren't from Beacon Hills, where everyone and their mother knows whose son he is. “Right, you don't know my not-so-tragic backstory. Small town Sheriff's kid. Ride-alongs were babysitting duty and I learned how to handle guns from the moment I could legally shoot pellets.”

“Huh,” the man looks half incredulous and half impressed at that, and then turns to Reid with a teasing tone. “Hear that, doc? The kid might be a better shot than you.”

Dr. Reid momentarily looks up just to narrow his eyes at Morgan, “I passed my evaluation,” the reminder isn't exactly a protest, which surprises him.

“Don't you, like, have to be able to shoot to be an agent?” He blurts out.

“I can shoot,” Reid protests, “Besides, range proficiency and real gunfights aren’t the same domain. NYPD’s own numbers put gunfight hit probability around fifteen to eighteen percent, and that improves to about thirty-seven percent only inside seven yards. When no one’s shooting back, it’s roughly thirty.”

Stiles can't help but chuckle, suddenly reminded of one of Hotch's comments. “I didn't believe Hotch when he said you rambled more than me, but now I feel like I should try harder to earn back my spot.”

“You should try harder to stay on topic," Morgan cuts him off. “Explain the gun situation.”

“It's nothing,” Stiles tries, but even Reid is looking at him now, so he caves with a sigh and recounts the whole thing like he'd explained to his cousin: desperate kid badly holding a gun with the safety on, scared husband who looked about to make the situation worse, plus his technically unsanctioned but incredibly useful knowledge of deescalation, which he may or may not have started looking into in order to win arguments.

“It sounds like it was the best possible resolution to the situation as it presented itself,” Reid points out once he's done, while Morgan still looks somewhere between surprise and frustration.

“A fifteen-year-old's smart mouth against a gun shouldn't be the best result of anything,” he settles on after a moment, “but it can't be changed, so… I'll schedule those disarming drills. Soon.”

“Kill me now,” Stiles mutters, letting his head hit the desk.

Curiosity satisfied, the two agents get back to work and Stiles proceeds to wallow in boredom for ten more minutes before he can't stand it anymore, pocketing his journal and proceeding to spin in his chair.

“Stiles, that ain't a merry-go-’round,” Morgan drawls, making him scowl.

“I need something to do,” he complains in response. “Should've brought my laptop.”

“Why didn't you?” He can tell the agent is just indulging him, but that's one of the benefits of still being considered a kid so he's not about to complain.

“Didn't want Garcia going through it to make sure it's safe for me to use it here,” He admits, earning an amused glance from Morgan, whose tone immediately turns teasing.

“Don't want anyone to see your search history? It's nothing she won't have seen before, kid.” The man assures.

Stiles does his best to ignore the sudden heat rising to his cheeks at the implication, “It's not that,” he protests, but doesn't elaborate.

The last thing he needs is for his cousin to somehow find out he may or may not have copied a few cold case files from the Sheriff's station database to look into every now and then when he gets bored. He can just clean up the computer at night and bring it in tomorrow so he's not forced to die of boredom.

This time, the silence only lasts five minutes, “Can I have a book or something?”

He doesn't actually expect a response, so he's surprised when Reid opens a desk drawer, grabs a spiral book from inside it and places it on the corner of the desk, “This will help when you're writing one-pagers for JJ,” he taps the cover.

“You just got homework," Morgan mocks.

Stiles takes in the AP Stylebook and smiles sheepishly, “Uh- I've read that one, but it's good to know you've got a physical copy around for reference.”

When you engage in the type of extracurriculars Stiles does to make some money on the side, it's best to know how to make his work look like a pro and have the least amount of professors arguing with his date format or use of commas.

Reid looks at him, momentarily analytical, before nodding and reaching for the messenger bag on the side of the desk, tugging the flap open with one finger. A moment of rummaging later, he sets a paperback on top of the spiral book. Cream cover, slightly yellowed, the spine soft from use. “Smullyan,” he says. “Short logic puzzles, no internet needed.”

Morgan gives the book a skeptical look from the other side of the divider, “I don't think that's what the kid-”

“Cool, thanks.” Stiles interrupts, sliding the chair closer to the desk and reaching for the book, flipping it open and missing the look exchange between the agents. The table of contents is a list of tiny traps: Knights, Knaves, Labels, Self-Reference.

He grabs a blank sheet of paper for his answers and thumbs to a page at random, glad for the distraction.

Fingers suddenly snapping in front of his face make Stiles look up from the book, hand pausing halfway through a word he'd been making note of without looking as he glances up at the owner of the hand, finding his cousin with one raised brow.

“We're leaving?” He asks, sitting up a little from where he'd been hunched over the book.

“In a bit,” Hotch informs. “I was just grabbing a file and had to see what's got you so quiet, maybe get some pointers.”

“Ha-ha,” Stiles deadpans, rolling his eyes, but motions at the borrowed book he's only one third through — the reading's quick, the solving takes a bit longer. “Dr. Reid gave me puzzles.”

“That would do it,” his cousin nods, more at Reid — who is apparently paying attention — than him. “Thanks, that'll keep him busy for a day or two.”

“Actually, if you consider the average reading speed and puzzle-solving time, assuming he keeps it for when he's here, it should take at least a week or-” Reid starts, but Hotch interrupts.

“Believe me, it's two days max,” Aaron assures with a hint of exasperation. “He's not you, but he can read fast and has a knack for puzzles.”

“He's also here and doesn't like being referred to as if he isn't,” Stiles quips. “But I'll take the compliment.”

“Don't let it get to your head,” Hotch warns, “I'll be down in fifteen, be ready to leave,” he adds before heading back up to his office.

“How fast is fast?” Morgan asks from where he'd been watching the conversation. “Cause pretty boy here reads like, thousands of words per minute.”

“Twenty thousand,” Reid corrects like that's not insane.

“That's impossible,” He can't help but point out. “Your brain couldn't possibly process and recognize the words-”

“I do have an eidetic memory, and an IQ of 187,” the doctor interrupts, and he can only stare for a moment as that information — Hotch hadn't mentioned it, which, rude — sinks in.

Stiles lets out an indignant noise, “That so doesn't count, it's not reading speed if you're not technically reading.”

“Now you've lost me,” Morgan notes, leaning forward in interest. “I've seen him do it, kid.”

Reid doesn't look offended, which is a relief because Stiles hadn't really thought through his words before blurting them out. “No, he's not wrong, most people just don't get it or bother to point it out, since the end result is the same.”

“So… you don't read twenty thousand words per minute?” The agent asks, now sounding genuinely confused.

“He's basically a scanner,” Stiles blurts out, but continues when Reid doesn't interrupt him. “Being eidetic means his brain doesn't discard preconscious processing. That's all the stuff we notice without realizing, peripheral stuff,” he explains, hands flailing a little, remembering this from a particular research binge related to one of his favorite shows. “Instead of reading each word, the whole page is a visual map, and comprehension doesn't drop because his recall doesn't fade like most people's, so the processing part doesn't happen along with the words, it happens after. Mentally.”

Morgan looks vaguely impressed, “Is that how it works?” He looks to Reid for confirmation.

“In simple terms, yes.” The doctor confirms. “Why do you know that?”

The genuinely curious tone means he doesn't mind replying truthfully, “I- uh, might have gone into a whole research rabbit hole on eidetic memory after watching Psych.”

Morgan doesn't look like he knows what Stiles is talking about, but Reid must recognize it, because there's a slight upward tilt to his lips.

“Coincidentally,” the doctor notes, definitely sounding a little amused, “My first name is Spencer.”

Stile's eyes widen minutely and he can't help but grin, “Holy shit- and you also solve crimes.”

“Not while pretending to be psychic,” Reid points out like that's the important distinction here.

“Details,” Stiles waves it off dismissively. “You're officially the coolest person in this office.”

A look of surprised disbelief crosses Morgan's face. “Well, that's a first,” he teases.

Reid doesn't look like he knows what to do with it and just offers a muted ‘thanks?’ before refocusing on his work.

“You never said how fast you read, kid.” Morgan points out.

“With good comprehension, around six to seven hundred,” Stiles replies, a little proud of that fact. Some of it was natural, from reading a lot from a young age, but part of it had been actual speed-reading training because he just had to get through his research a little faster every time. “Eight to nine if I'm just skimming and don't need to pay too much attention to details.”

“Sounds like a lot,” The guy with the figurative human scanner on his team says.

“Almost three times the average person's reading speed,” Reid points out with no particular inflection, but still makes Stiles sit up a little straighter.

Almost fifteen minutes on the dot, there's footsteps on the mezzanine, and Hotch takes the stairs down with his jacket over one forearm and a folder in his hand. He stops by a different desk — Stiles didn't get an introduction to everyone working there, just the main team, apparently — to drop off said file before coming over, and Stiles is already up and grabbing his bag.

“Leave the book, you need to get some sleep,” his cousin practically reads his mind and Stiles tries not to pout as he holds the book back out to Reid instead of putting it in his bag.

“You can keep it on your desk until you're done,” the doctor tells him, and Stiles replies with a thankful smile and feels an uncharacteristic amount of satisfaction in opening one of the empty drawers on his temporary desk to drop the book into.

It's not something his, but it's an addition to his new ecosystem just the same. Hm, maybe he should bring a plant.

Morgan pushes back from his chair, stretches. “I’ll look at the calendar for the drill blocks,” he tells Hotch, then to Stiles, “Don’t wear dress shoes if we’re on the mat. You’ll hate your life.”

“Noted,” Stiles says, trying not to dread the prospect.

Without fanfare, they say their goodbyes and badge out. The guard notes his ‘QAPT / VOLUNTEER’ stripe with an eyebrow twitch — everyone else probably left at the right time, he figures —, and the evening air hits cooler than the hall. In the car, Stiles buckles, tucks his empty lanyard clip into his pocket, and tries not to think about mats and Morgan’s biceps.

Man, he's gonna get crushed.

“Can I bring my laptop tomorrow?” He asks like it’s a side thought. “Just… for the dead zones. Three hours in the morning, two in the afternoon, the puzzles won't last that long.”

“You decided Garcia can look at it?” Hotch doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“Yeah.” He keeps the rest in his head, already aware that he'll spend half the night deleting legally questionable files and scrubbing the breadcrumbs. “She can go through my hard-drive to her heart's content,” Stiles grimaces, “that sounded less weird in my head.”

Hotch tactfully doesn't comment. “If she clears it, you can use it offline in the bullpen while you’re a visitor. No networks, and no cables into our machines.”

“Copy,” Stiles says, relieved it’s that simple. He can probably open whatever pages he might use the day before and just read through them offline as needed, or even print them, that might be better if he doesn't need the specific website. “It’s mostly writing and… not terrible movies.”

Hotch’s mouth ticks. “Bring headphones.”

Chapter Text

Stiles’ second morning of internship is a definite improvement on the previous one, especially since he managed to get a decent night's sleep now that the first day jitters are out of his system. In more good news, he'd talked Hotch into making a couple of stops on the way home the day before, which means he walks into the currently empty BAU break room with some newly acquired coffee beans — organic, medium roast, because he's a coffee addict but a classy one —, a manual grinder they'd retired at the house for an electrical one — he still likes the manual best but hey, he's only around on breaks and holidays so it doesn't count —, filters, a vegan creamer that someone other than him will probably appreciate from the way JJ seemed happy at yesterday's muffin ingredient list, a mug of his own so he doesn't end up stealing anyone's favorite, and two bottles of syrup he just couldn't resist because you don't just say no to caramel or hazelnut.

Decent tea and an electric kettle so he doesn't have to heat up water in the microwave — and inevitably burn his hand on a too-hot mug — are still pending, but it's still just the second day. There's plenty of time to correct such government-inflicted injustices.

He sets everything out on the counter, takes the time to start on the first decent coffee this makeshift kitchen will have seen in years, then takes his time putting things in place — beans, grinder, syrups and filters on an empty cabinet, creamer on the fridge — and labeling everything so he doesn't end up picking a fight with Facilities.

Instead of hanging around Hotch's office, he gets his cousin's permission to stay on his temporary corner of the bullpen and work on some more puzzles until he can get his laptop cleared for use with Garcia, which is what he does, with a hot cup of his version of a hazelnut latte — because straight-up black coffee is for people with no tastebuds or insecure about their masculinity. Sometimes both.

The clicking of heels makes him look up a few minutes later to see JJ strolling in, a few files under one arm as she scans the mostly empty bullpen — he's pretty sure the only people around before eight are Hotch, JJ and security, at least in the BAU wing — and pauses at the sight of him.

“I got permission!” he blurts out before she can get worried about him being sort of unsupervised “To be here, I mean. Just doing puzzles. Promise.”

JJ offers him a placating smile, “I figured.” She glances down at his nearly empty mug and inhales a little more deeply, “That doesn't smell like our coffee.”

“Your coffee should be illegal,” Stiles declares. “I brought actual beans, a grinder, and… some other stuff.”

She raises one brow, looking somewhere between amused and skeptical. “Are you planning on daily bribes?”

“This one's purely selfish,” he informs, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender. “I need decent caffeine. Government-issued just isn't it.” Realizing that might come off as him hoarding the good coffee, he adds, “You want some? I was gonna make a full pot at eight once everyone's in, but I can do it now.”

“You don't have to,” She points out, but he dismisses it with a wave.

“Don't mind, plus aren't interns supposed to be in charge of coffee? All the movies say so,” Stiles justifies in a joking tone that makes the blonde shake her head.

JJ considers it for a moment before nodding like that makes it official, “Eight is fine. Keep track of the receipts, I can probably get you reimbursed."

Stile's eyes widen slightly, “Really? Awesome. I'll do that.”

Maybe the government's stance on coffee isn't entirely unforgivable, they just don't know any better. Or it could be a rule. The Sheriff's station coffee isn't any better either, despite years of continued effort. New theory, all government workers are secretly trained out of using their taste buds.

“I'll get you at ten for more PII with Garcia, then OCR in the afternoon. We need some articles digitalized for training packets,” JJ's voice brings him out of his musings and he nods.

“I sure love scanners,” Stiles drawls, but it's mostly playful.

He probably shouldn't be so casual to his literal boss, but he's been hearing about these people for years — well, some of them only one year, still — and feels like he knows them. Adults are also much easier to talk to than other teenagers, so between joking with JJ and tracking down another intern to spend his social battery on, he'll take his boss.

“Good, that means you'll have a great afternoon,” She deadpans with a slight smirk before walking past him toward Hotch's office.

Hopefully, the BAU scanner likes him better than the one at school.

It takes a few more minutes for something else to derail his focus, and he raises his head from the book to see Reid placing his leather messenger bag on a corner of his desk, leaning on the divider.

“Morning” Stiles greets with a little wave that the young doctor returns in kind, which reminds him of the fact that this non-psychic — and most importantly non-fictional — Spencer is, in fact, an actual doctor. “Hey, what are you a doctor of, anyway?”

“I have PhDs in Chemistry, Mathematics and Engineering, and BAs in Psychology and Sociology,” Reid replies while straightening a pile of files on his desk that wasn't there before but definitely appeared at some point since JJ's arrival.

Stiles can't help but stare at him for a moment before blurting out, “Dude, aren't you like, twenty-something?” He looks barely out of college, and even taking into account the eidetic memory… Did this guy do anything in life but study?

“I'm twenty-three,” Reid specifies. “I graduated high-school at twelve.”

“That's… impressive,” He settles on, because insane would probably come off as rude. “And scary. Kids are mean, but teenagers are psychopaths," Stiles adds in a half-joking tone, trying to imagine being an eleven-year-old in a class full of sixteen-year-olds, and a genius too… that had to have been rough.

People don't like it when you're smarter than them. He would know.

“Thanks,” Reid replies, but it sounds a little like a question again. Before Stiles can comment, he goes on, “And adolescents usually profile as sociopaths, not psychopaths. That's why they can't be-”

“Diagnosed before eighteen, yeah.” Stiles interrupts, chuckling at the correction. “If you want to be all technical about it, it's Antisocial Personality Disorder, not Sociopathy. At least according to the DSM,” he adds, just to be a little petty.

He is one of those teenagers, after all.

“Correct,” the doctor confirms. “You have an interest in Psychology?”

Stiles suddenly realizes where the subject is going and mentally backtracks, “Uh, used to, a few years ago,” he replies with a slight shrug. “Psychopathology, mostly.”

He tries not to think too hard about the amount of time he'd spent obsessively looking into symptom clusters and differential diagnosis and being summarily dismissed because he was nine years old and adults know best.

Before he can test his luck on whether or not the profiler managed to clock that he doesn't want to talk about it, Morgan walks past them looking fresh out of the shower — there's even a towel still hanging from the gym bag thrown over his shoulder — but pauses at the sight of Stiles.

“Hotch's really making you follow his schedule, huh?” Morgan notes with some surprise, apparently not having expected Stiles around this early again after the first day.

“Technically, I'm grounded,” He explains with a roll of his eyes. “So yeah.”

Morgan chuckles, shaking his head and walking on, probably to stash the gym bag into a locker. Stiles mentally thanks him for the unintentional save.

“I'm gonna make more coffee” Stiles announces, getting up from his chair, empty mug in hand, and heading to the break room before Reid can possibly bring the subject back up.

“Is that today's bribe?” Morgan suddenly materializes into the break room just as the pot is done brewing, with the kind of stealth that should be reserved for secret ops and not for sneaking up on him.

“This is me rebelling against government-issued coffee grounds,” Stiles corrects. “There's syrups too.”

“Unlike Reid, I prefer my coffee without a side of diabetes,” Morgan informs, already grabbing a mug.

“On your poor tastebuds be it,” Stiles declares, “How does JJ take her coffee?”

The agent shrugs, “Hot? I've seen her add sugar, I think.”

Stiles levels him with an unimpressed look, “Aren't you guys supposed to notice stuff?” with a shake of the head, he marches himself over to JJ's office to ask for her coffee preferences.

A quick caffeine check turns into a beverage debrief when Stiles learns that JJ usually does the coffee runs and takes the opportunity to learn everyone's orders for future reference. Sure, he's not the coffee-fetching type of intern, but this is something he's used to doing for his dad and the deputies at the station, so it feels weird not to do it in this new but similar environment. It's also fun to play barista like he's an FBI-approved Starbucks employee, and it will help him stay a little busier during the many work-free hours he's expected to hang around for.

He does end up adding some new items to the to-buy list, such as pumpkin spice, vanilla extract, cocoa and an aeropress — because not even he can talk JJ into the merits of just getting their own espresso machine, at least not yet — so he can work with a wider selection of drinks. Stiles doesn't think this is quite what his dad had in mind when he sent him to an FBI summer internship, but hey, he's the one making more work for himself.

With the efficiency of someone used to making it seem like he belongs in places he probably shouldn't be, Stiles flits around the office delivering goodwill in the form of caffeinated beverages — JJ smiles, Hotch gives him a knowing look, Garcia thanks him for the offering and promises to get the laptop back to him in fifteen minutes or less — and finishes by placing the last one on Reid's desk, since Morgan already got his own earlier.

The doctor notices the addition to his desk, takes a sip, and only then offers a slightly surprised-sounding “Thanks.”

“JJ told me how everyone likes theirs,” Stiles explains, falling back onto his chair. “You do know there's like, twenty grams of sugar in there, right? If you believe the American Heart Association, you're close to blowing past their cap on added sugars before lunch, and big sugar hits crank up triglycerides, raise blood pressure, and mess with insulin, which is basically a fast-track toward heart disease.”

Morgan chuckles from his spot on the opposite desk, “You tell him, kid.”

“Actually, the American Heart Association’s added-sugar cap is a population guideline, not a biochemical tripwire,” Reid refutes. “Cardiovascular risk climbs with chronic excess, especially lots of sugar-sweetened beverages, not from one twenty-gram hit in my coffee. In controlled trials, triglycerides rise mostly when sugar adds extra calories. With calories matched, changes in low-density lipoprotein cholesterol are modest, and the causal signal to watch is apolipoprotein B, which counts the artery-clogging particles. Coffee itself shows cohort-level benefits, and a spoon of sugar doesn’t turn it into a twenty-ounce soda. I’m also twenty-three, which is nowhere near peak atherosclerotic risk, and my labs are normal.”

Stiles stares, because it doesn't look like Reid took a single breath throughout the whole rant, which is sort of impressive.

“You might need to repeat that in English,” Morgan teases, which snaps Stiles out of it.

“Nah, I got it,” He offers a sheepish shrug in response, “Sorry, I'm just way too used to nagging on my dad about his health, but he is pushing fifty and has some blood pressure issues.”

Reid's mouth twitches, “The sentiment is still appreciated.”

A few minutes later, Garcia stops by to drop off his laptop. “Here you go! And remember, no networks.” She reinforces.

“Offline only,” Stiles confirms with a dutiful nod, which earns him a head pat he's not too mad about.

With less than half an hour before his actual second day of internship starts, Stiles decides to leave the laptop for after work and just work on a few more puzzles instead.

Three puzzles later, he can't help but quip, “Aren't you guys supposed to be, y'know, flying around, consulting on cases?”

“Those aren't mutually exclusive,” Reid replies without looking up from a map he's been scribbling on. “Most of our consultation work is remote, such as the geographical profile I'm working on.”

“Huh,” for some reason, he hadn't thought that what his cousin and the team do in the BAU could be similar to the work at the Sheriff's station, at least when it comes to deskwork. Apparently, it's not all jet rides and bloody crime scenes. Who knew?

By the time JJ comes around to fetch him for work, he's more than ready to get right into it, even if it means scanning a bunch of old paper articles into searchable PDFs all afternoon.

Chapter Text

If Stiles ever meets whoever invented scanners, he'll either shake their hand for a prank well done, or lay them out for the inconvenience they've caused him over the years.

Everything was going fine, he had breezed through PII — redacting Personally Identifiable Information isn't all that hard when he can easily spot which less obvious identifiers might have led him to finding out who those people are, never mind someone professional at it — until Garcia got a message from JJ about a case and sent him off to work on Optical Character Recognition — aka OCR, which is basically just scanning papers into PDFs with a searchable text layer — until lunch, but not before strongly advising him to eat said lunch in the cafeteria instead of hiding away in the break room.

Cue his introduction to the BAU scanner, a robust and temperamental box that insists on reading ‘1’ as ‘I’ like it's personally offended by numerals.

Instead of picking a fight with machinery, he breathes in and resets. It takes a few tries, some adjustments, and upping the resolution from 300 — which JJ said was the standard — to 400 for the numbers to show up as numbers instead of letters, and he mentally thanks Garcia — the self-proclaimed tech goddess — because otherwise it would mean going through the whole text and changing the numbers one at a time by hand.

When lunchtime rolls around, he's a bit too distracted by a few of the articles he just digitized — some arson-related stuff the bureau needs for a training packet on the subject, apparently — to worry too much about where to eat. At least, that's until he's actually got some food in hand — turkey-on-wheat, an apple, salt-and-vinegar chips, and a bottled iced tea — and needs to pick a place to sit.

The room is a standard base cafeteria, with wipe-down tables, big windows, a couple of cashiers telling people to have a good one like they mean it. A quick scan for people he recognizes while he pays and moves shows him most of his fellow interns: Priya's with the events lady and a binder, Ben’s talking rosters with tie-clip guy, Theo is already headed out with a to-go box, Grace has a clipboard half under her tray by the window, Rowan is tucked against a wall with a small notebook and a thermos, Zayd’s with the AV guy counting on his fingers, and Maya sits alone, half-up hair, a notebook open, and probably less likely to run him off for approaching than little-miss-clipboard.

“Hey,” he says, hovering a beat, “mind if I sit?”

“Please,” she nudges her water bottle over, “Stiles, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re Maya,” he states, sliding in. He unwraps the sandwich, then gives up pretending to be cool. “So, the scanner kind of hates me today, kept reading ones as capital i’s, I bumped the resolution to four hundred and it chilled out.”

“Try grayscale next time,” she suggests, “and deskew before you run OCR. If the pages were stapled crooked, the shadow tricks it.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” he says, a little relieved, “thanks.”

She twirls a blonde streak, stops herself, then asks what he’s on. He tells her arson articles for a training packet, and she nods like she already knew, says the library has the syllabi and his file names will feed their index. Apparently Rowan’s scanning microfilm after lunch, and she’s on metadata cleanup. He grins, because it means the work doesn’t just vanish into a hole.

By the time Maya's alarm warns them that lunch break is over, Stiles feels a little better about talking to his fellow interns, or at least Maya — and Zayd, who just seems chill — and decides that lunch in the FBI cafeteria definitely trumps lunch at his high school one. No one even tried to trip him, which is a novelty in itself.

They reach the exit, make vague plans to have lunch together again the next day so neither of them sit alone, and go their separate ways.

JJ intercepts him on the way to the scanning room, “Change of plans, I could use a hand in the office.”

“Sure?” Stiles follows, wondering what he could possibly help with.

His anticipation wanes at the pile of boxes tucked into the corner of JJ's office, and a glance shows him three different law enforcement stamps. So much for maybe getting a glimpse of whatever active case got him kicked out of Garcia's office earlier in the morning.

“That's… a lot,” He can't help but mention.

“Yeah,” She nudges the visitor's chair towards him, “Park Police, NPS rangers and MPD all did passes, so I want you to staple each narrative to its intake. Sort by officer code and put a count on the cover sheet. That’s it.”

“Got it,” He nods, already sitting down next to the supplies she left on her desk — stapler, long staples, blank cover sheets, a Sharpie — and reaching for the first box.

“Thanks,” JJ turns to leave, then pauses. “In case it needs to be said, don't touch anything else.”

“Yes ma'am,” Stiles nods, not quite offended at the warning since he is a little tempted to snoop like he's in the Sheriff's station, but doesn't plan to give into it.

JJ leaves the room, and he gets right to work.

He's surprised to notice the dates on the files — they're dated for the past week! Not exactly a live case, but close enough — and doesn't do it on purpose, but doesn't actively try to avoid it either, when bits of the case start to line up into edges, corners and floating clusters of pieces of a bigger puzzle in his mind.

Multiple small flare-ups at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, a lot of people smelled gasoline, some say they saw a blue flame snake under canvas, — not likely, since gasoline fire burns an orange-y yellow unless it's like, in an engine or controlled burner, so one of those sentences has to be wrong — and more than a few mention food tents. That’s not a one-off accident, that’s a pattern in a crowd. He can see why the BAU’s looped in — repeat events, public setting, someone who knows where to spark panic with minimal effort.

In one of the piles, three statements start with the exact same sentence, same wording, same spacing. No one asked for notes, but he adds it with a post-it to the cover anyway — 3 identical openers —, more out of habit from the Sheriff's station than actually thinking he might notice something the profilers might not.

Several intakes marked ‘Row C/Tent 12’ talk about a red-and-white canopy and a tin ping right before the flare. That sounds like Foodways — striped awnings, metal griddles — not Textiles. He digs out the folded festival program from the box, spreads it on the desk, and absently matches the statements to their rows. He notes on the cover: details fit Row E, not C.

If witnesses are off by a row, the “where” nudges east. It's not anywhere close to significant as far as he can tell, but it's something, and it settles the itch to do something that sparks in him every time he reads through a case, be it witness reports or a freaking reddit post.

Two packets from the Park Police carry ‘Respondent 089’ — same officer, one time 12:18, the other 12:81 — with different page counts. He bands the pair, flags them and writes ‘dup 089/time typo’. Four ranger statements mention a generator hum next to Row C. The program shows centralized power there, but generators live by Row E. He marks the discrepancy in the cover.

He keeps the rhythm — adding a few more innocent ‘just noticed this randomly’ notes every now and again — until there are only neat piles of sorted statements. JJ still isn’t back, so Stiles squares the last stack with the heel of his hand, caps the Sharpie, and wipes staple grit off JJ’s desk with his palm. He checks the hall, spots JJ walking over with a phone to her ear, and waits until she hangs up.

“Boxes are sorted,” he announces. “Where do you want them?”

Her brows twitch up slightly in mild surprise but she just motions vaguely, “Credenza’s fine.” She walks back with him, eyes skating over the counts as he sets each bundle down in place.

No comment on the notes. No frown, either, which he'll count as a win.

“There's still a live board on the bullpen, so you can head back to OCR for now,” JJ tells him, plucks the first stack and the map, and is already dialing again. Stiles steps out, glances at the time — faster than he expected — and heads for the scanner room, hands still itching for something to do.

He gets upgraded from arson to digitizing faxed autopsy summaries once he finishes the articles needed for the training packet, and tries not to get too distracted by some of the occasionally strange notes on a page or the other, especially since some medical terms make him want to stop and google them and he definitely shouldn't do that during internship hours.

By the time his alarm reminds him it's sign-out time, JJ still hasn't showed up, and Stiles is informed by one of the security guards that only Garcia is still in the building. Since he knows himself enough to be aware that hanging around the OCR room will just end up with him snooping into the yet-to-be-digitized files, Stiles decides to finish his daily task report, hang on to it so he can get JJ's signature later, and go find Garcia instead.

He knocks once and then peeks in.

“Baby intern,” Garcia greets without turning, fingers moving over keys. “Tell me you’re here to rescue me from a soul-sucking regex.”

“Uh… I can make coffee?” he offers. “Or be moral support? JJ’s still out, I finished my log.”

“Maybe later, little barista,” She chuckles, “but you can vibe here, supervised. No work, JJ's orders.”

“Can I grab my laptop?” Stiles risks asking, with his best puppy eyes attempt, since Garcia refers to him as little often enough.

She meets his eyes over her shoulder for a moment before caving with a sigh. “Fine, but be a good duckling and don't look at anything you shouldn't be looking at on the way to get it.”

“Yes your majesty," He replies with a grin and mock bow, leaving the room to go grab his things.

For someone supposed to be constantly supervised, he definitely gets to roam around on his own more than expected. Oh well, he's not about to complain about it… unless it might get his cousin in trouble.

Damn, he might actually have to complain about it.

Being responsible sucks, so he delays it for whenever his cousin actually gets back and focuses on being in Garcia's line of sight instead, getting his bag — laptop and all — to her technological lair and making himself at home on the TrainingNet table since that's the only free space in the room not facing her screens.

Stiles is halfway through an article on the Salem witch trials when he hears beeping, and then a tap.

“Technical sorceress Garcia speaking,” Her cheery tone chirps, and Stiles realizes that was probably a call coming in.

“We’re circling Foodways.” Hotch's voice comes next, which means the call is on speaker. “Looking for anything unusual being transported. Can you check the receiving logs for suspicious cargo?”

“Do you have any idea how many suppliers deliver to that festival?” Garcia replies, already typing away. “And not everything gets documented, so this is a needle in a stack of needles that might be missing a few needles.”

“Just work your magic, baby girl,” Morgan encourages. “There's too many boxes and coolers out here to check one by one.”

Stiles had managed to stay quiet so far, not wanting to risk Garcia realizing he probably shouldn't be hearing this call, but the realization that the case they're working on is the same as those witness statements he'd sorted earlier coupled with Morgan's comment about suspicious coolers brings up a thought he'd had before. He didn't write it in a note with the files, since it felt too much like grasping at straws at the time, but maybe-

“Check the BBQ booth with the pig logo, they have a runner who was lugging around a clunky igloo cooler with no sweat on the sides, three people mentioned smelling solvent over there.” The words pop out of him before he can stop them, and he freezes once he stops to breathe, as if not moving might somehow make them ignore his unintended participation.

A beat of silence. Then Hotch, dry as a desert, “Garcia, please tell me that’s not Stiles.”

Garcia winces, already spinning to her other monitor. “Sorry, sir. I… momentarily forgot he was in the room.”

“In my defense,” Stiles blurts, face heating up already, “I'm just here to be supervised, and I didn't know those files were from a live case until just now. Uh- it's a gray cooler, by the way. And people said the runner had a red apron and a green hat with a crab on it. Might be nothing, but it was in the statements, I just didn't make a note ‘cause it felt a bit too paranoid, but then I figure a runner might not log deliveries-”

“Stiles,” Hotch cuts him off and he almost thanks his cousin out loud for ending that particular tangent before he manages to embarrass himself even further.

“Multiple convergent descriptors like logo, apparel and odor across independent witnesses is probative.” Reid chimes in, thoughtful. “That’s a better filter than ‘look for coolers’.”

“We'll look into it,” Hotch decides, some resignation bleeding into his tone. “Garcia, confirm the vendor's exact name from the program, and keep looking in case it doesn't pan out.”

“Already sent,” Garcia replies, “With the tent name and number.”

“If this pans out, the kid buys the team coffee.” Morgan teases.

“Already did,” Stiles says, because of course he does.

“Focus, please,” Hotch chides, but there’s the hint of a smile in it. “Good catch. We’ll update.”

The line clicks off.

Garcia swivels, points two fingers at her eyes, and then at him. “You, my caffeinated underling, are a menace to my blood pressure.”

“Sorry?” Stiles can only offer a sheepish smile and a shrug.

“Save the sorry in case you're wrong,” She warns, but doesn't look too worried about it. “Now, back to not work.”

Chapter Text

Stiles is one-third through the annotated bibliography he's been working on in his laptop when some noises from outside the room — footsteps, voices, chairs scraping — makes him straighten up as Garcia looks towards the door.

“Oh, good, they're back,” She announces with a smile, already getting up. “Come on, duckling. Back to your desk with you before I get in trouble.”

Stiles shuts his laptop — no cables to pull, because rules — and gathers his bag too, carrying both with him as Garcia marches him outside towards the bullpen.

Morgan and Reid are already at their desks, while JJ and Hotch stand beside them. JJ's hair looks a little windblown, Hotch seems to have lost his tie at some point, Reid is rubbing something off his cuff with a napkin wrapper and Morgan looks half-set to go again — whatever that entails — in a way Stiles can only attribute to some adrenaline-fueled, post-field energy.

“Here you go. Intern returned, all in one piece,” Garcia announces as they approach and Stiles huffs out a chuckle as he sets his things back down on his temporary desk. “How did it go? You didn't call back!”

“It panned out,” Hotch replies, which Stiles had already surmised from the lack of a return call. “Runner was an accomplice, moving a rig in a gray cooler between Foodways tents.”

“Did it for the money,” Morgan clarifies, “we threatened some serious charges and he sang like a bird.” He angles his chin at Stiles, “you shaved an hour off a needle stack, kid.”

“I-” Stiles feels his face get hot even as he fills with relief and some pride at having been helpful. “A lot of people wrote it down, I just… noticed.”

Hotch nods once. “Good work.”

“Thanks,” He smiles at that, before it falls due to his next thought, “Not to complain, but… am I actually allowed to move around this much? I went upstairs and back. Twice. Nobody stopped me.”

Garcia lifts a hand like she’s stepping into a spotlight. “That one’s on me. I should’ve grabbed a hall escort. It won’t happen-”

“No need to promise,” Hotch says, dry with the hint of a smile, “it probably will.” He lets Stiles clock the glint before adding, “Within reason. You’re still where you’re supposed to be.”

That feels like an answer and a non-answer. Stiles opens his mouth, closes it, and decides the ambiguity is something he can live with. Garcia nods and leaves, like her cue was being absolved of any guilt.

“About your covers,” JJ says, looking at him now. “Duplicate officer packet, time typo, location conflict, those were good catches. Why didn’t you include the note on the cooler?”

He winces. “It felt… conspiracy-board. ‘Guy in hat moves evil lunchbox’ isn’t exactly professional,” a shrug, “and you didn’t ask for notes, just sorting, so I didn’t want to overstep. Much. Honestly, the notes just sort of happened since I'm used to it.”

“I didn’t expect notes,” JJ admits. “I expected piles. But the notes helped, so you can keep doing it. Keep them simple.”

“Observations, not theories,” Hotch adds. “Flag duplicates, location conflicts, time anomalies. Leave the leaps to us.”

“Got it.” He means it. It's nothing he hasn't done before, really.

Morgan taps a rhythm into his desk, “What did you mean by ‘used to it’? Used to what, exactly?”

“Stapling,” Stiles says too quickly, which everyone hears. He leans into innocence on purpose. “And, uh, flagging missing dates. Some deputies get slammed, so I’ve… helped organize. There’s a civilian-consult form I could probably fill out in my sleep.”

Hotch’s look slides from amused to parental. “Who was letting you into paperwork?”

Stiles considers the number of people he does not want in trouble from three time zones away. “I’m not a snitch,” he starts, then gives a truth that isn’t a trap. “A couple of deputies are very familiar with anonymous tips and the civ-consult paperwork, that’s all.”

Hotch shakes his head, JJ’s mouth tucks up at the corner, and Morgan just looks amused. He'll take that.

Reid finally looks up, thoughts catching up to the room. “If you’re going to annotate, use a consistent symbol scheme,” he says. “Circle for duplicate, triangle for conflicting statements, square for time anomaly. It speeds second-pass review and lowers cognitive load for the reader.”

“Translation,” Morgan says, “makes our lives easier.”

Stiles tries not to preen at the permission, “Can do.”

“Now sit down and try not to get in trouble while I finish up some paperwork before we can leave,” Hotch orders and Stiles dutifully plants himself on his chair.

“Sir yes sir,” He mock-salutes and earns a slightly stern, mostly exasperated look before his cousin walks off. Before JJ can do the same, Stiles fishes a folder from inside his backpack and holds it out, “I need today's autograph,” he explains.

“Right,” she nods and takes the folder, “I'll sign and drop this off, don't worry about it.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and she leaves to do just that.

It doesn't take long for him to get immersed in his personal project once more, but half a dozen paragraphs later find him barely holding back from banging his forehead on the desk. He stares at the blinking cursor like it owes him money, backspaces three words, types two, sighs, and mutters at the outline, “No, Brenda, the devil didn’t ride in on sourdough,” then immediately regrets voicing his frustration out loud.

A chair creaks across from him and Morgan leans towards the divide, as if summoned by any excuse not to finish his paperwork. “On what now?”

“Ergot,” Stiles says, then immediately regrets being the kind of person who says ergot out loud. “Rye mold. Witch-panic conspiracy’s favorite party trick.”

Reid, on the desk beside him, tilts his head without fully turning. “Are you writing a paper?”

“Not-” Stiles stops, hears the sirens of that sentence. “No. Not a paper.” He flaps a hand, vague. “It’s… a packet. A, uh… research packet. Totally normal. Completely legal. For school.” The last two words tumble out so fast even he wants to arrest himself.

Morgan raises his eyebrows, amused. “For your school?”

“For… a school,” Stiles says, then grimaces. “Okay, that sounded worse.”

Reid turns slightly, all quiet curiosity. “What does the packet include?”

“Annotated bibliography,” Stiles says, surrendering to the explanation because the hole is already dug. He pivots the laptop toward the gap so they can see. “Seven sources, two-sentence notes, how-to-use bullets, quote packet, outline skeleton, sample paragraph with ‘STUDY-ONLY’ watermarked the size of Nebraska.” He taps the screen. “They still have to write their own thing. I’m not the… plagiarism fairy.”

Morgan huffs a laugh. “So you’re a study-guide dealer.”

Reid’s eyes move, quick and precise, over the page. “Salem Possessed for faction geography, Norton for war-panic spillover, Karlsen for gender/property lines, Counterpoint placement for ergot.” He nods once, like he’s calling out chess moves. “You’re not aggregating, you’re curating. That’s judgment.”

Stiles shrugs. “It’s mostly just… arranging other people’s smarts.”

“That’s the part most first-years can’t do,” Reid says, voice even. It sounds like a weather report: factual, unarguable.

Morgan leans on his elbows. “Who’s ‘Brenda’ in this scenario?”

“A hypothetical freshman who really wants to write ‘mold made them do it’ for five pages,” Stiles says. “If I give mold too much space, it hijacks the thesis. If I ignore it, graders think I missed it. And mold doesn’t pick people, politics do.”

“Cameo, not co-star,” Morgan verbalizes his decision.

“Exactly,” Stiles says, relief loosening his shoulders. He types ‘Physiological hypotheses (e.g., ergotism) appear in popular accounts; this paper treats them as secondary to political, social, and economic drivers.’ and the outline stops fighting him.

Reid gestures lightly at the structure. “Keep the counterargument visible but bounded. One sentence in the intro to acknowledge scope, then a short section near the end.”

“Got it.” He drops the note in the margin ‘ergot = footnote energy’.

Morgan points his pen. “And just to be sure we’re not accidentally deputizing you as a tiny felon-”

“I am not selling essays,” Stiles repeats a little louder than he means to. “I watermark the sample paragraph, I put the citation stubs in two formats, I bold ‘study only’ like a threat. If they turn that in, they deserve the F.”

Reid nods, simple. “Clear.”

“Crystalline,” Morgan echoes, grinning. “So what class is this for?”

“History 201,” he supplies.

Morgan blinks. “Aren't you fourteen?”

“Fifteen," Stiles clears his throat.

There’s a beat where both men just… look at him. Not mean, not mocking. Just interested.

“And you’ve been making these… how long?” Morgan asks.

“Couple years?” Stiles says, like he’s guessing the weather. “Brake pads, books and caffeine aren’t free.”

“Yeah, okay,” Morgan says, impressed in spite of himself. “Then why are you still in high school if you’re building college stuff?”

“Absolutely not skipping,” Stiles says immediately, like he's had to say it before — which he has. “No one can pay me enough to speed-run into debt, unless they feel like paying my college tuition. Plus my dad would combust. Also-” he shrugs, like it’s obvious, “Lydia’s still there.”

Reid blinks. “Lydia?”

“Girl,” Morgan says, delighted. “We have a girl.”

“She’s not just ‘a girl,’” Stiles says, unbothered by the tease. He leans back, hands drawing shapes in the air. “She’s stupid smart, like hide-your-whiteboard smart. She does this Regina George thing-”

“Who?” Reid asks, earnest enough that Stiles can't even mock him for it.

“Queen bee,” Stiles explains. “Pretty, mean, terrifying. It’s a mask. Under it? Math assassin. She’s gonna win a Fields. Youngest, probably.”

“The Fields Medal is awarded to mathematicians under forty,” Reid says, calm as an index card. “Youngest is statistically rare, but not impossible.”

“See?” Stiles says to Morgan, triumphant. “Not impossible.”

Morgan grins. “So we’re staying for love, brakes, and a dad who would combust.”

“And because I like my friends, and I’m not missing four years of… everything,” Stiles adds. Then, softer, “And I don’t want to be the weird kid who jumps grades and eats lunch in a broom closet. I already talk too fast. I don’t need to add ‘tiny college freshman’ to the list.

Reid’s mouth tilts at the corner, barely there. “You talk at the rate your ideas arrive, that’s not a flaw.”

He blinks at that, then covers the feeling by pulling the laptop closer. “Anyway, that's my thing. I charge forty for a basic pack, sixty with quotes, and a rush fee for ‘due at nine’ emails at midnight.”

“Forty is robbery,” Morgan says. “Against you. Raise it.”

Stiles laughs. “Please don’t unionize my clients.”

“Do it for you,” Morgan shoots back. “You’re good at this.”

Reid adds, perfectly neutral, “He’s correct.”

Stiles feels his ears go hot and pretends it’s the room. He types ‘Sarah Good stood in a room where a neighbor’s grievance could pass for proof…’ and exhales when there's no sudden urge to backspace.

Morgan checks the time, then flips his pad closed like he’s decided paperwork can wait one more minute. “Speaking of tiny felons-” he aims the pen at Stiles “-we’re on for disarming drills. Monday. Seven a.m. Gym.”

Stiles makes a face. “That’s a time only birds and serial killers enjoy.”

“Welcome to federal service,” Morgan says, sounding way too pleased. “Wear sneakers, not dress shoes, and bring water. If you show up in a tie, I’m cutting it off.”

Reid doesn’t look up. “He’s not kidding, he once clipped a training tie mid-fall for safety.”

“Allegedly,” Morgan replies, clearly not denying it. “Look-” he leans in, tone easing off the tease, “this isn’t a ‘be a hero’ class, it’s ‘don’t die’ basics. Awareness, distance, when to talk, when to back off. You’ll hate me for the warm-up more than anything else.”

Stiles nods, trying to sell his mouth on calm while his stomach does small flips. “So… you’re not planning to use me as a mop?”

“Only a little.” Morgan grins. “You’ll get a feel for how fast bad decisions get you trapped. We’ll go light, slow reps, lots of ‘freeze, reset’. You’ll leave with bruises, not a hospital bracelet.”

“Do I need, like, a mouthguard?” Stiles asks, only half-joking.

“Not for day one.” Morgan tilts his head. “Bring a clean shirt, and eat something that's not muffins.”

Stiles gasps. “Traitor.”

Hotch appears then, jacket over his arm, and catches exactly enough to frown. “Do I approve of this schedule?”

“You do now,” Morgan says, unapologetic. “Monday at seven. I’ll keep it safe.”

Hotch considers it, then nods once. “If there’s a call-out, it moves. Otherwise,” he angles a look at Stiles “, early night on Sunday.”

“Early-ish,” Stiles bargains, then caves at the eyebrow. “Fine. Early.”

Reid taps his pencil, finally glancing over. “If your anxiety spikes, name what you’re noticing out loud. It helps your working memory keep pace with your motor planning.”

“Translation,” Morgan says, “talk it out instead of locking up.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, relieved. “I can do talking.”

Morgan fully deadpans, “you don’t say.”

Chapter Text

To Stiles’ surprise, it doesn't take long for a routine to be established. He gets somewhat used to waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to be ready to leave with Hotch and get to the office a few minutes before seven, makes himself some variation of a caffeinated beverage in the break room when they get there — the Salem study packet helps pay for an electric kettle, and Hotch foots the bill on a few of the other things on his to-buy list, so he has even more options now — and settles down on his desk to either churn out something for his side gig — some people really don't feel like studying during summer break, but hey that's more profit for him — or read a book Reid let him borrow, since he's pretty much out of books at Hotch's unless he wants to head into law or steal some of Jack's bedtime stories.

The guy barely reads any fiction, at least from the glimpses he's had of the doctor's taste in books so far, but Stiles isn't intimidated by technical books unless they're biology ones. Squishy sciences with too many technical terms give him hives — it's a genuine allergy, really! — and the only exceptions are whenever they're applied in investigation. Because being able to tell how long a body has been dead for or how long someone has after one organ or the other has been stabbed is useful, but knowing the name of every bone in the body or the effect of certain fungus in the lungs just feels like something he'd rather ask google instead, if it ever happens to come up.

He tidies up the map room, tries to be clear and concise in the headline exercise JJ gives him, does enough PII to figure someone somewhere might be lacking an intern dedicated to it, and by the time he does his first end-of-week debrief with JJ — through Skype, because the team had a case and left him under Garcia's supervision while they flew out — he feels a little less like he's playing pretend and more like this internship is actually something he can do without messing things up halfway through.

Hopefully.

Since he's still technically grounded when Friday rolls around — which is really only for his dad's benefit, given that he doesn't usually make a habit to go gallivanting through D.C. at every opportunity anyway — Stiles takes the chance to sleep in, absolutely fails at it when his body wakes him up at five-thirty anyway, and tiptoes downstairs instead.

Needing something to do with his mind and his hands, he starts coffee, then opens his laptop on the counter. Netflix’s streaming shelf is thin, so he wanders over to Amazon Video to browse. A blue-and-white tile catches his eye and he skims the synopsis: ex-con art thief helps an FBI agent catch other thieves. Buddy-cop with suits, he thinks, and decides to watch it since most of his usual shows are currently on a summer hiatus and he needs something to watch while counting the days until Psych comes back on the fourteenth.

Multitasking like a pro, he keeps some of his attention on the screen while gathering ingredients for a blueberry loaf. The pilot moves fast from prison break, to quick chase, a neat little deal, and Stiles is instantly on Neal’s side. It's the hat, the grin, and the ‘I planned this three moves ago’ energy.

“Respect the hustle,” he says, half under his breath. Peter reads as competent, sure, but also dad-with-a-badge.

Stiles pauses on a document close-up and squints when the border pattern looks a bit too uniform, the embossed seal sits a hair off center. He googles in another tab, skims just enough about watermarks and moiré to scratch the itch of wanting to know, then shuts it because his summer policy is no rabbit holes before sunrise. Then Neal talks past a guard with nothing but confidence and timing, and Stiles kind of wants to be him when he grows up.

Y'know, minus the prison time.

When Peter tries to tug the leash, Stiles smiles at the screen, pointing at it with a batter-dirty spatula. “C’mon, Badge Dad, give the con some rope.”

A scene hand-waves paperwork and he snorts, knowing better. Mid-episode, he rewinds to a signature where the slant drifts between letters just enough to feel wrong. It's not expertise, just pattern sense and too many hours at the station, and he makes a mental note to fact-check Neal's words about it.

The last act lands as he puts the loaf in the oven. Neal bluffs beautifully, Peter pretends not to enjoy it, and Stiles definitely does. He moves to the living room after setting a timer on his phone to check the oven, intent on letting the blue-eyed con-man take over his morning, and storing every social-engineering trick he can translate to real life without getting grounded until college.

By the time Haley comes downstairs with a sleepy Jack — who immediately toddles over to the couch and sprawls on top of Stiles’ lap like a lazy little starfish — he's already halfway into the third episode and may or may not have started a little White Collar section in one of his TV show notebooks, right after Psych and The Mentalist, because he may not want Neal's rap sheet but his patter is still impressive.

“More muffins?” She asks after inhaling a little deeper.

“Blueberry loaf,” Stiles corrects, “I gotta add the lemon glaze,” he pokes Jack on the side and gets a wiggle and a giggle but no movement, “C'mon Jackrabbit, don't you want cake? It's in the kitchen, so we gotta get up.”

“Up, Liles!” The little miscreant refutes, which is a good argument when paired with those adorable puppy eyes, “Cake!”

“Alright,” He drawls and slides his arms under the kid's back and knees, “Up we go, then,” Stiles stands with a groan while Jack whoops and Haley shakes her head. “Whoa!” he feigns a drop and gets a squeal and more giggles, “Oops.”

“Liles!” Jack whines, “I want cake!”

“Boys,” Haley calls from the kitchen, “Breakfast first, you can play later.”

“Yes ma'am,” Stiles calls, heading to the kitchen with Jack in his arms and depositing the toddler on the high chair Haley had pulled close to the kitchen island.

They have breakfast, with Jack alternating between stuffing his face with cake and babbling about wanting to stay and play, and everywhere they could play at — apparently he really likes the park — if he didn't go to daycare. Haley was not convinced, which means she left the house with a pouting toddler, but Stiles was a little relieved not to spend his first work-free day as a babysitter, no matter how much he loves Jack.

With no bigger plans for the whole day — the whole weekend, even — than keeping an eye on his study packet requests and binge-watching White Collar, Stiles decides to check in with his dad and read any texts before enacting said plans.

He tries not to be offended at how surprised his dad sounds when he relays his first week as an unpaid FBI summer intern, especially when said surprise is directed at a distinct lack of official reprimands — he can go a week without getting in trouble, damn it! — and retaliates by lecturing him on his nutritional choices, especially since he got a text from Kelly at the diner about his dad eating burgers, and with bacon on them, too.

Stiles trades a few back-and-forth texts with Scott about how his summer is going, which judging by the number of asthma attacks so far is actually really well — he's had a whole wellness scale for it since he first witnessed one — and tries to be as delusional as his best bud about his chances regarding the lacrosse team once school starts, since hope springs eternal and all that.

Who knows? There's always a chance that a miracle might happen.

With a passing thought to the fact that he is currently — unfairly and unnecessarily — grounded, Stiles shoots a text to someone who just might come all the way to Fairfax just to strangle him for not letting them know he's spending the summer here.

Stiles: guess who landed an FBI summer internship?

Kana: ( ￣へ￣ )

Kana: Definitely not anyone I know, since I'd have been told already.

Stiles: well

Stiles: guess who's also grounded during an FBI internship?

Kana: Now I can believe it's you.

Stiles: rude

Stiles: but also the reason I didn't say anything

Stiles: Hotch won't let me go alone anywhere

Stiles: sucks to be this close and not get to visit

Kana: You do realize I could come over instead?

Stiles: …

Kana: Dumbass.

Stiles: hey

Stiles: careful with your baked goods rights

Stiles: u don't wanna lose them

Kana: I only speak the truth.

Kana: Seriously though ＼(^o^)／ congrats!

Kana: How is it?

Stiles: that's classified

Kana: How long have you been wanting to say that?

Stiles: all week thank u

Stiles: it's fun tho, even the boring bits

Stiles: fingers crossed I hold out all summer without ending up on a federal prison

Kana: Please do, you wouldn't last a day in prison.

Stiles: I'd annoy them so much they'd send me back

Kana: No doubt.

Kana: Will Hotch let me come over?

Stiles: I'll ask but prolly yea he likes u

Stiles: thinks ur a good influence

Stiles: u got him fooled

Kana: I am an angel, Stilinski.

Kana: I'll ask my parents, we can make a weekend of it.

Stiles: I have fridays off too so make it a long one

Stiles: I'll make sernik

Kana: I'm already there.

With a chuckle, he puts his phone aside and presses play on his laptop before settling down on the couch to watch some more only-slightly-mindless television.

He eats late — grilled cheese, tomato slices with salt — then kills twenty minutes reorganizing the spice shelf because it’s been bothering him all week. He shuffles jars into a simple left-to-right, from baking, to savory, then heat, so cinnamon stops pretending to be cumin whenever he reaches for it.

At four-ish, his phone buzzes.

Haley: Leaving early. Jack had a day. Can you meet us at the park?

Stiles: am I allowed to walk two blocks unsupervised?

Haley: If you can find trouble in that radius in ten minutes, the grounding is justified.

Stiles: …fair

He slaps together two PBJs for Jack — one with the crusts cut off because the kid has opinions — tosses them in a bag with wipes and a water bottle, locks up, and heads out. It’s warm but not punishing, the kind of late afternoon that makes the brick houses look extra tidy. He spots Haley’s sedan first as he approaches, then Jack on the playground’s little ship, face pink and damp, on the edge of tears.

“Liles!” Jack launches off the platform like a potato with legs and Stiles rushes to crouch, catch, and absorb the impact.

“Hey, Jumping Jack.” He hoists him onto a hip. “You mutinied?”

“Nap said no,” Haley reports dryly as she comes over, hair clipped back. “Snack was the wrong color, and socks were too… socky, apparently.”

“Ah, the classic trifecta.” Stiles bumps Jack’s forehead with his own. “You want swing time or food first?”

“Swing,” Jack declares, then, “Food,” immediately contradicting himself, which tracks.

“Compromise.” Stiles carries him to the toddler swings, settles him in, and pulls the bag onto the bench. “Three pushes, then PBJ.”

“Fwive,” Jack bargains, holding up three fingers like that proves his point.

“Math’s a work in progress,” Haley says under her breath, amused.

Stiles starts the gentle rhythm — pull, release, step — counting in a tone that won't ring too loud. “One… two… three.” He lets the fourth slide, because he’s a sucker, then brakes the swing with a hand to Jack’s belly and swaps in the sandwich halves.

Jack demolishes them with the focus of a tiny athlete carb-loading. Peanut butter creeps across one cheek. Stiles wipes, misses a streak, tries again. Haley watches, posture easing out of teacher mode.

“Thanks for coming,” she says. “He was spiraling, and you know how he is when you're here.”

“Anytime,” Stiles says, and means it. He nudges the swing with his knee while Jack chews and hums something that might be the Dinosaur Train theme.

They trade off — he pushes, she pushes — then Jack spots the slide and bolts, powered by peanut butter. Stiles shadows him without crowding, spotting the ladder, clapping once at the bottom.

Jack lands, slightly crooked, declares, “Again!” and sprints back.

“Kira texted,” he says, casually. “Might come out next weekend if her parents sign off.”

“Good.” Haley’s mouth tucks up. “We like Kira.”

Stiles tries not to celebrate too soon and mostly succeeds, “I told her I’d make sernik. Y'know, the black sesame one she likes.”

“Then I like Kira even more.” She checks her watch, stands, dusts off her skirt. “Two more slides, and off we go. Deal?”

“Deal!” Jack rockets toward the ladder.

Two slides later, Stiles swings the bag over a shoulder and offers Jack an arm. The kid takes it, gripping tight. On the sidewalk, Jack’s steps slow, the energy finally leaking out of him. Barely ten steps in, he’s half-limp in Stiles’ hold, head tipped toward his shoulder.

"Trade?" He asks Haley, shrugging the shoulder with the bag.

She nods and takes the bag from him. He picks Jack up, the toddler moulding under his chin like he’s done it a thousand times. 

“Early dinner, easy bath, then bed,” Haley lists as if outlining a mission.

“Got it,” Stiles nods. “I’ll start the water.”

They cross the street towards the car, Jack heavy and warm, the evening soft. It was a few minutes of nothing special, and exactly what he needed.

Chapter Text

The weekend goes by faster than expected. Hotch gets back on Saturday afternoon, which means they eat an early dinner and Jack — along with Stiles — talks the family into having a movie night. They watch Lilo and Stitch and Stiles doesn't say anything when he spots Haley taking pictures of both Hotch and Jack, who fell asleep halfway through. Sunday goes by just as quietly, with a lot of family time to make up for Hotch being away for most of the week, and Stiles isn't surprised when he slots into place in the dynamic like he was always supposed to be there. It's so incredibly normal — Hotch being peripherally parental, Jack treating him the way he feels a little brother might, Haley casually distributing maternal care like it's always in season — that it hurts, just a little, the way domesticity always has after his mother's death. It also heals, maybe just as much, every time.

Monday morning comes around, so Stiles wakes up regretting his life choices, slips into something he doesn't mind getting tossed around in — old hoodie, athletic shorts, clean sneakers, a whole ‘guy who meant to jog’ getup — and grabs a duffel with a towel and a change of clothes inside, because he's not about to brave the cold office air on shorts alone once he's done hitting the mat.

Hotch drops him off without a second glance, which doesn't exactly fill him with confidence. It’s not even seven yet, and the Quantico gym is half lit and smells like mats and disinfectant.

Morgan’s already there, rolling a blue mat out alongside another, and greets him with a smirk, “You made it! I was ready to drag you by the shoelaces.”

“I considered faking a sprain.” Stiles admits as he toes the line of one mat. “Then I figured you’d just make me work my arms.”

“Correct,” Morgan tosses him a water bottle. “Warm-up. Ten squats, ten lunges, ten pushups. Twice.”

By rep six Stiles regrets every life choice that led to agreeing to this. By rep fifteen his shoulders are burning badly enough to toe the line of arson. Morgan counts steady, only stepping in to fix a knee or nudge an elbow. Stiles makes it through the second set on pride and fumes of whatever energy the bagel he munched on before coming gave him, then collapses onto his heels, breathing hard.

“We're not here to turn you into a fighter,” Morgan says, crouching to his eye level. “We're to get you some physical instincts to match the mental ones. Rule one: if you can run, you run. Rule two: if you can talk, you talk. If neither works and the gun is already on you and within reach, then, and only then, do we try something dumb on purpose. Copy?”

“Copy,” Stiles says, swallowing as he drags himself to his feet and tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

Morgan steps off for a moment, then comes back holding up a bright-blue plastic pistol. “No moving parts,” he shakes the fake gun slightly, “We go slow.” He stands at conversational distance, neutral stance, weapon pointed midline. “First thing: don’t stare at the gun. Notice it, then watch me. You'll want to keep your hands up, palms out, in what we call a fence. It gives you inches and looks like you’re placating.”

Stiles puts his hands up shoulder-high. “Like ‘hey, man, we’re cool’ without the jazz hands?”

“Exactly,” Morgan nudges his right foot. “Stand work one foot slightly back, so you’re not a statue. I’m in your space with a gun in my right hand. You don’t grab the muzzle, you redirect it off your centerline and you get off line.”

“Off… line,” Stiles repeats, moving a little and trying to feel where his balance is. “How?”

Morgan shows it in slow motion. “I point center. You step to your left at forty-five degrees. Your left hand smacks the back of my hand, not the barrel, like you’re swatting a fly, and keeps pushing. Your right hand wraps the gun hand, two hands on one. Head tight to my forearm so I can’t loop a hook. Drive the muzzle past you and into my hip, then freeze.”

They freeze, bodies close. The pistol’s pointed at Morgan’s own holster line. Stiles can feel the pressure in his forearms, the way the moment hangs there, waiting.

“From here you can knee, stomp, scream, run. If and only if you need the gun, you peel. Just rotate it toward my thumb like you’re opening a stubborn jar. But the win is not getting shot, not stealing trophies. Ready to try?”

“No,” Stiles says honestly, then adds, “But okay.”

They do it slow. Slower than slow. Redirect, step, wrap, head tight, drive. Reset. Again. Morgan calls ‘freeze’ whenever Stiles’s feet tangle or his elbow drifts. The first dozen reps are clumsy, the thirteenth makes something click — hands first, feet second — and on the fourteenth he forgets to breathe.

“Talk me through it,” Morgan says, gentle, when he feels the stall. “Out loud. Tell me what's happening.”

Stiles swallows but nods and does as asked. Talking, he can do. “Gun’s at sternum height, right hand. I’m… stepping forty-five, left, redirect hand, not barrel. Right hand wraps. Head to forearm, keep my face out of line. Drive the muzzle… past me, into your-" the movement feels a little too forceful as he narrates and he nearly slips, "sorry. Hip. Peel toward your thumb if I have to.”

“Good.” Morgan’s voice softens further. “Again.”

They build speed in inches. At some point sweat climbs Stiles’s spine and tickles between his shoulder blades, and his palms stop trying to crush the gun and start treating it more like a lever. Every few reps Morgan switches hands to show a mirror version. Stiles trips once, twice, then starts saying 'mirror, mirror' under his breath and rewires on the fly.

Morgan changes the angle. “Okay, now I’m crowding you. You don’t have time, you don’t have space. Same plan, less pretty.”

The first time he's crowded, Stiles flinches, muscles locking in that too-close place. He hears himself breathe too fast, hears the gym widen. Morgan stays where he is, voice even. “Talk through it," the agent reminds him.

“Too close,” Stiles says, the word catching and then coming out clean. “I want to back up. Can’t. Redirect, step, wrap.” He does it, slower, and the panic bleeds off just enough to find the path again.

They switch to a variation — Morgan draws from a low ready, Stiles cuts the angle earlier — and Stiles earns his first silent nod that isn’t about not dying. It feels like a gold star, but he's too sweaty to preen.

“Alright,” Morgan says after a while, voice turning light again, “that’s our bread and butter. Let’s do a messy rep. I’ll give you a little push, you fix your feet, you talk out loud. We’re still slow.”

Morgan jostles him enough to make the balance shift, Stiles mutters ‘back foot, heel down’ like he’s narrating someone else’s moves, not his own, and the rest follows. The peel isn’t clean, but the muzzle never points at him, and Morgan says ‘good,’ which means he's not dead yet.

“Water,” Morgan orders, tapping his bottle with his foot. “Then we try the other bad idea.”

Stiles gulps, wipes his sleeve across his forehead, and pants, “There’s another bad idea?”

“There’s always another bad idea,” Morgan says, friendly. He demonstrates one-handed retention — the gunman cocks his wrist out of your grip — and the counter: if you lose the strip, you stay glued, drive your shoulder under his and take a half step behind his foot. “You’re stapling me to the floor. You don’t wrestle the gun free, you attack the balance.”

It sounds like a physics lecture with bruises. It ends with Stiles halfway to a clumsy little trip that would topple them both on carpet. On mats, it just rocks Morgan enough to remind him he's not an immovable object. “There you go,” Morgan says, approving. “You don’t need to be stronger, you need to be in the right place.”

They loop back to clean reps so they don't build muscle-memory on something messy. Time does a thing, forty minutes, a lifetime, who knows. Stiles’s forearms ache, his lungs have settled, and his brain is momentarily not sprinting ahead of his feet.

“Alright,” Morgan says, stepping back. “One controlled speed rep. Not fast, just… not slow.”

Stiles nods. He sets his stance, palms up, sees the angle, says ‘left forty-five’ under his breath, and moves. Redirect, wrap, head tight, drive, peel. The blue gun pops free into his hands like a magic trick. He takes two quick steps back without thinking and aims it at the floor between them like he’s seen his dad do a hundred times.

Morgan grins. “There we go.”

Stiles sets the blue gun on the mat with care like it might suddenly learn to fire, then blows out a breath and tries not to look as pleased as he feels. “So if someone tries to mug me, I just-”

“You hand them the wallet,” Morgan cuts in, amused. “And you say ‘have a nice day.’ This is last-resort stuff, kid. We're just giving your body a file to pull if your brain is busy.”

“Right,” he exhales.

Morgan checks the wall clock. “We’re done for today. You’re going to be sore in weird places, so remember to Ice if you need it,” he makes a shooing motion. “Shower, stat.”

In the locker room, Stiles peels his shirt off and finds the beginnings of a bruise where Morgan’s forearm pinned him, already looking more dramatic than it needs to be. He takes a picture for exactly no one, shakes his head at himself, and steps under the water. It stings, but helps. He does the fastest rinse known to man, dresses in clean chinos and a soft button-down, stuffs sweaty gear into the duffel and follows a shower-fresh Morgan — who's somehow slipped into a suit — upstairs just before eight.

Stiles peels into the break room and slips into his other and more unofficial uniform — grinder, beans, filters, kettle — as he lines up mugs and works from memory: Hotch's one sugar and a hit of cream; JJ's two sugars, vanilla, vegan cream; Reid's five sugars; Morgan's black, paired with Stiles pretending not to notice the syrup amounts lowering one at a time like the guy's auditing for a favorite flavor.

He builds Hotch’s and JJ’s and leaves them on the counter for now, sets the pot to drip, then leans in the doorway just as Reid comes in, cardigan neat, messenger bag, hair still damp from the morning air.

“Morning,” Stiles greets, offering the mug already right for him. “Five sugars, no commentary,” he jokes.

Reid looks surprised for half a beat, then takes the cup. “Thank you.”

Morgan follows, rolling his shoulders like he didn’t just put Stiles through hell. He clocks the clean shirt, the faint bruise at Stiles’s collarbone, and gives a small, satisfied nod. “You’re still walking. Good sign.”

“Define walking,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling.

They drift out to the bullpen together. The floor is still waking up: printers spooling, chair wheels creaking, the whiteboards mostly blank for once. Stiles leaves JJ’s mug on the corner of her desk, drops Hotch’s by his office earning a silent nod as thanks, and sets a water bottle by Morgan without comment before landing at his own borrowed chair with his knees still buzzing from the mat.

“Hypothetical,” he says after a minute, too casual, like the idea just wandered past. “If a person wanted to see whether Sheriff-range ‘fine’ is Bureau-range ‘fine,’ how hard is it to… peek at the range? Educational interest only.”

Morgan lets it hang for a moment, because he's mean like that. “Range happens when your hands-on gets better,” he says finally. “You don’t skip class to play with the lab toys.”

Stiles blinks. “I… thought today was the class.”

“That was the preview,” Morgan says, way too pleased with himself. “We’re doing this again on Thursday. Reps build habits, and you’re the kid who thinks he can step in front of guns.”

“You sound like my dad,” Stiles mutters, then sighs. “And you’re both right. It’s fine, I don’t mind. I kinda miss lacrosse, this can count as summer practice.”

It is also — loudly and inconveniently in his head — a chance to not only be the mouthy kid who can't shut up, but the kid who can do at least one thing clean. He doesn’t say that part.

“Twice a week,” Morgan adds, like he’s penciling it in. “Short blocks. Footwork, distance, talk, break contact, then maybe range. Earn it.”

“Twice-” Stiles catches himself, still gapes a little, then nods. “Okay. Twice.”

Reid sips his coffee, listening like a scientist who has decided the rat in the maze is interesting. “If the goal is retention, spacing the sessions improves motor learning outcomes,” he offers.

“See?” Morgan says. “Science says I’m right.”

Hotch comes down from the mezzanine then, like he's only just managed to thin down the paperwork enough to risk a conversation without setting it all back by three emails.

“How’d it go?” he asks, eyes on Morgan first.

“Bad, then better,” Morgan answers. “His hands stayed away from the bang end, which is all I care about on day one.”

Hotch’s gaze slides to Stiles. “How do you feel?”

“Sore in places I didn’t know were places,” Stiles admits, then adds, “better than when we started.”

“Good,” Hotch gives a small nod that says enough.

Morgan leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “We’re making it a thing. Short blocks, twice a week. Footwork, distance, talk first, then hands. If he keeps his head, we can talk about letting him touch the fun stuff.”

Stiles perks up at the unexpected possibility of concession. “Fun stuff?”

“Range,” Morgan says, drawing it out because he enjoys suffering. “Maybe.”

Stiles tries for casualness and probably fails. “Hypothetically, if a person were cleared by his very responsible federal cousin, and had spent years being yelled at about muzzles and fingers straight and downrange… hypothetically that person would not be a menace.”

Hotch’s mouth twitches. He does, in fact, know how Stiles shoots, but he’s not about to say it out loud.

Morgan side-eyes Hotch. “We could run him on a .22, single-load, three-yard line. RSO glued to him.”

Stiles’s brain tags the terms on instinct. RSO — range safety officer — the lifeguard of the firing line, the one who can shut the whole thing down if somebody sneezes wrong. .22 is the baby round, low recoil, low noise, training wheels for marksmanship. It's as safe as this gets.

Hotch weighs it, then looks back at Stiles. “No range until at least the next drill block. If Derek signs off on control, you can fire a few rounds. One at a time, RSO on one shoulder and Derek on the other.”

Stiles opens his hands like ‘see, I can be reasonable’. “Got it, no John Wick impressions.”

The conditions don't stop there, “No photos, no souvenirs, no stories. If it’s crowded or a call-out hits, it’s canceled without discussion.”

“Copy,” Stiles nods a little too fast.

“Good,” Hotch says, and the corner of his mouth shifts by a millimeter.

Morgan accepts all the guardrails like they were his idea. Then, because he can’t help himself, he leans on the divider and looks at Reid. “Team-building field trip. You in, genius?”

Reid does that tiny blink that looks like he's running the math in his head. “If Range Control has an opening at seven, and if my paperwork is done,” he says, which is pretty much a yes.

“Look at that,” Morgan says, satisfied. “Peer pressure works.”

Hotch’s phone buzzes, he glances at the screen, then pockets it. “Alright, back to work,” he looks at Stiles, “JJ might be busy at ten, you can go straight to Garcia today.”

He nods, and that's that.

For a breath, it’s quiet enough that Stiles can hear the kettle click off in the break room. He exhales, takes a sip of coffee, his shoulders unwinding. Range isn’t a promise, not yet, but it’s on the map, and that’s enough for now.

A few minutes later, he spots Garcia is standing in the doorway like she’s been summoned by the smell of coffee alone.

“Excuse me,” she says, hand to heart, “why do I see empty little hands where my caramel latte should be? Everyone else has their morning potion, and the goddess is parched.”

Stiles straightens like he’s been caught slacking by a benevolent queen. “Criminal oversight, your worship. One caramel… pseudo-latte coming up.”

He springs from the chair gets to work. Aeropress for a strong cup — another addition after the weekend —, caramel syrup swirled in the bottom of her favorite oversized mug, vegan creamer warmed and frothed in a jar he shakes like a maraca while making a note to acquire a proper frother, pour the coffee through, top with the foam, another ribbon of caramel just because she’ll grin. He gets back to his desk and slides it toward her with two hands like a peace offering.

Garcia takes it, inhales, eyes closing. “That’s the stuff.” She opens one eye, then the other once she spots the bruise at his collarbone. “Who put that there?”

“Physics,” Stiles deadpans.

She narrows her eyes at them, “If anyone breaks my duckling, I break their network access. That’s a policy.”

“Duly noted,” Morgan says with a chuckle. “We just ran some drills, he’s fine.”

Stiles nods in agreement “I didn't die.”

“Gold star,” Garcia says, then points the mug at him. “Also, the latte art needs work. I expect a caramel spiral by August.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” Stiles says, saluting with a grin.

Chapter Text

Stiles slides into what he's already thinking of as his and Maya's table with a sigh and uses the remaining of his willpower not to face-plant into the pasta he's chosen as today's fuel.

“That's a deep sigh,” Maya notes, looking a little amused.

“I've been arguing with budgets for three hours,” Stiles informs her, poking his fork through the spaghetti like it's an expense report. “The BAU's Administrative Specialist caught me with a milk frother, made a break room inspection, then made me justify receipts like it's my job. I didn't even ask them to reimburse me, I'm upgrading their coffee game for my own personal interest,” he rants, almost flicks sauce everywhere with his hand movements, then sets the fork down before it becomes an actual hazard, “JJ saw me in Mrs. Trent's office at ten and walked the other way, the traitor.”

Maya looks like she doesn't know whether to frown or laugh, “Did you get in trouble?”

Stiles scoffs, “No.” He takes a sip of soda and then adds, “but I did get stuck making a spending map of the unit's P-Card transactions and travel pre-checks of the last quarter,” ugh, so much math. “Also, do you know how expensive a jet is? I mean, I get why it's necessary with the whole rush to the scenes, need for privacy and all that, but even with pay-per-trip saving them from overnights, it totals almost two mil a year, no wonder Mrs. Trent couldn't be talked into the benefits of an espresso machine.”

His mostly-for-show indignation at the last part gets a chuckle out of her. “That might put a wrench on your whole caffeine revolution.”

Stiles considers it and settles on, “I can live with aeropress and less scrutiny over my syrup receipts.”

“I wish we had the same break room, I've been having microwave tea for a week,” Maya sighs, swirling some salad around on her plate. “We should go down to the city sometime, get some decent caffeine you didn't have to make yourself.”

“Ooh,” a voice cuts in and Zayd drops onto a chair on Maya's left, “Did I hear field trip? I'm in.”

Stiles catches the slightest frown before Maya nods like she planned for this, “Yeah, but should we go during lunch break or after hours?”

“Might take longer than our lunch break,” Stiles points out.

“We could meet at the door by four,” Zayd suggests, “make it a whole QAPT thing. We're all scattered around, but it's still the same program, we should stick together.”

“I'm down,” Stiles shrugs, figuring why not, then remembering exactly why, “Uh- actually… I might be a little grounded, but I can talk my way around it, probably.”

Maya hides a snort behind her hand and Zayd's brows go up. “Grounded?”

“Unfairly,” he clarifies. “If I rant about the health benefits of teenage socialization for long enough, Hotch will say yes just to make me stop, don't worry about it.”

“Hotch, huh?” Someone else chimes in from right behind him, “That's SSA Aaron Hotchner, right?”

Stiles blinks, turns his head, and meets Ben's inquiring brown eyes, wondering if the guy actually means to sound a little stalker-ish or if it just happens naturally. “Yeah? He's my cousin.”

Ben slides into the last chair like it was saved for him, “So the BAU seat was kinda locked, then?”

Stiles doesn’t flinch. “If it was reserved, I’d have an espresso machine by now,” he says, dry. “Mrs. Trent just made me justify syrup receipts and build a travel spend map. That’s not what pull looks like.”

Ben’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I had to fight through three people to land Scheduling. No cousins.”

“I still had to apply,” Well, technically, his dad applied for him, but he definitely didn't just magically get handed a spot. “The BAU thing is a training chair near a whiteboard, not an instant badge. JJ signs my logs, Hotch can’t grade me. My day is OCR, PII, filing, and trying not to cry at a scanner.”

Maya nods once in confirmation.

Ben rolls his water bottle between his palms. “It just reads… easier.”

“Different door, same hallway,” Stiles says, lighter. The last thing he wants is to pick a fight in a federal building, so diffusion it is. “You’re carrying rosters, Maya’s buried in metadata, Park’s counting Pelican cases, I’m labeling PDFs no one will ever thank me for. We all got the glamorous assignments.”

Ben exhales, some tension going with it. “Fair.”

“Also,” Stiles adds, tipping his head, “if you think I wouldn’t trade my seat for two fewer hours with Mrs. Trent’s highlighter, you vastly overestimate family perks.”

That finally gets him, since Ben huffs a laugh. “Okay.”

Zayd claps his hands once in a not-so-smooth pivot. “Great, settled. Group chat time, so we can schedule a coffee field trip. Gimme your numbers.”

Phones go to hands, and soon enough Stiles is added to a group chat of six — Zayd apparently already had Rowan and Priya's numbers — named ‘INTERNal Affairs’.

He huffs a laugh at the pun, “Nice, now I can ask for survival tips in real time,” Ben types a ‘hey’ into the chat, Priya sends a single question mark, and Rowan responds with a sticker of a raccoon popping its head up from a trash bin.

Priya: What is this.

Zayd: Coffee field trip planning

Zayd: Also mutual aid, drop the intern hacks

Stiles: scanner stops confusing 1 with I at 400 dpi + grayscale + deskew

Maya: Digi lab label printer hates warm stock. Fan the labels.

Ben: Bring a hoodie, the AC is set to Antarctica. Ctrl+Shift+L toggles filters, saves lives.

Rowan: Earplugs. The range thumps through two walls.

Zayd: Don't try to name the projectors

Stiles: do it secretly they can't stop you

Zayd: Good point

Maya: Okay, field trip. Wednesday after four? Someone can get Grace and Park in here by then.

Zayd: On it

Priya: My kingdom for some Chai.

Stiles: pending my parole officer, sure

He then adds out loud, “I’ll ask and report back,” then eats a few quiet bites while the table drifts to normal stuff. Zayd’s little sister tried to feed their cat a grape, Maya’s mom mailed her a box of dried mango, Ben swears the Scheduling bullpen is colder than the walk-in at his family’s diner. It’s easy to sit there and let the noise smooth him out, and he doesn’t even realize the fork’s stopped clinking until Maya nudges her water toward him so he’ll drink something that isn’t soda.

They break off once lunch break ends, each towards their assigned corner of the building, but intermittent silent vibrations from his phone tells him they're planning on staying in touch from now on.

Back upstairs, JJ’s already flagging him over with a pen. “I’ve got ten minutes before a call. Can you pull three public pieces on crowd panic, old training articles are fine, and boil them into a one-pager? Five bullets, short sentences, neutral tone. Drop it in the TrainingNet folder and print me a copy.”

“On it,” Stiles says, taking the time to fetch his laptop before dropping down on the visitor chair. He opens a doc, titles it, and lets his fingers hover for half a beat before getting to work.

He keeps it simple: crowd funnels, line of sight, loud cues, exits. He trims the verbs, trims again, then glances up like he just remembered a thing.

“Hey, uh, totally unrelated… Some of us interns were thinking coffee on Wednesday after four. Off base.” He tips his head. “Okay with you if Hotch’s okay with it?”

“After hours is his call,” JJ says, sounding neutral enough. “Just text me when you leave and when you’re back at the door so I can send an escort.”

“Cool,” he nods to himself, figuring that means they don't need a chaperone for their coffee excursion. “I’ll ask him later.” He goes back to the bullets and adds a tiny header line — sources listed at the bottom — so no one has to chase where he pulled them from. Printer hum, one page out. He sets it on her blotter.

“Thanks,” she says, tucking it under a binder clip. The phone on her desk lights. She doesn’t pick up yet, eyes skimming a list beside it, pencil tapping once, then stopping.

Stiles watches the small, quiet sorting. “How do you decide who gets a yes?” he asks, softer than his usual. “Like… when the calls pile up.”

He's seen piles of files on her desk every day since starting his internship, how can someone decide what to prioritize like that, especially with so many requests, all probably priorities to the people who reach out to the BAU for help.

She leans back, finally meeting his eyes. “Short version? We say yes when a profile changes what happens next. If it’s active harm and time-sensitive, someone escalating, a pattern tightening, we move fast. If locals have evidence that'll close it, like DNA back in twelve hours, a clean plate, a suspect in custody, then we consult and let them run. We look for signals, not noise, so multiple jurisdictions tripping over each other, a signature that means behavior is the key, not forensics. We ask what our forty-eight hours buys the victims.”

She ticks points on quiet fingers. “We also look at resources. Are we already ground down from three travel days? Is there a unit better suited, Crimes Against Children, Cyber, Counterterror? We don’t chase cameras. If the mayor is yelling and the facts are thin, that’s a ‘monitor,’ not a jet.”

Stiles keeps still so he doesn’t miss anything, the words slotting into little labeled boxes in his head.

“Sometimes ‘yes’ is remote,” JJ adds. “Phone consult, geographic pass, media guidance, then we step back. Sometimes it’s a ‘not yet’, where we watch for a second event, then move. And when we say no, we say it kindly and mean it. False hope wastes time.”

He nods, quiet. “So it’s… triage.”

“It’s triage,” she agrees with a hint of a smile. “Half gut, half receipts. If I’m on the fence, I buy an hour and call the smartest person I know.” She tips her chin toward the bullpen. “There are a lot of those around here.”

He huffs, then sobers. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“Good.” She taps the folder again. Her cell buzzes. She glances at the screen and stands. “I’ve got three to return before noon. Be useful for Morgan for an hour.”

“I can alphabetize his muscles,” he says, deadpan.

“Try his evidence request queue,” she shoots back, already moving. “Go.”

He goes.

By the time he and Hotch are on their way back home, he's been useful to more people than Morgan, is way more aware of the Bureau’s yearly budget than he'd ever expected to be, and no closer to getting them an espresso machine. Stiles waits a whole block, which for him is restraint, then clears his throat like he’s about to present at a school board meeting.

“So, purely hypothetical,” he starts, “if a group of very responsible teen interns wanted to acquire some caffeine off-base on Wednesday after four, group outing, daylight, what would a certain guardian say?”

Hotch doesn’t answer right away. Classic. He adjusts a vent, taps the turn signal, lets him dangle.

Stiles fills the air, because of course he does. “Peer time is actually good for adolescent brains, you know. Social connectedness correlates with lower anxiety, better sleep, fewer dumb choices- okay, some dumb choices. There’s this whole thing about protective factors and belonging and I’m pretty sure my cortisol has a vendetta. Also, microwave tea is a human rights violation.”

“Mm.” Hotch’s noncommittal noise could mean anything from absolutely not to draft me your itinerary.

“We’d meet at the door at four,” Stiles barrels on, “all together, no detours, fifty minutes tops, back by five-thirty so I can ride with you. I text JJ when we leave, I text JJ when we’re back at the door, and I text you both if anything shifts. No Metro alone, no wandering, just… coffee. Maybe a pastry. For morale.”

Another beat. The turn signal ticks. Finally, “Who’s going?”

“Maya, Zayd, Ben, probably Priya and Rowan. Grace if her supervisor lets her out by four, she might logic Park into joining,” He lifts his hands. “It’s the QAPT herd. We’ll be loud and harmless.”

“What shop?”

He remembers the exchanged texts and is quick to answer, “Uh, two options within five minutes, one with chai Priya suggested, one with pastries Maya swears by. I can send links. Or we can try the one with the terrible logo but excellent reviews that's ten minutes out, I’m flexible.”

Hotch’s mouth tugs, almost a smile. “Ground rules.”

Stiles sits up. “Hit me.”

“Meet at the front door at four. Stay together. If the unit’s busy or we get a call-out, it’s off. Text JJ when you leave, text both of us when you’re headed back, and if I tell you to go straight home, you go straight home. If anything feels off, you come back. No solo side quests.”

“Absolutely no side quests,” Stiles echoes, solemn. “We’re talking main quest, fetch coffee, return. I can do that.”

“And Stiles-” Hotch glances over. “If Noah asks, you’re still grounded.”

Stiles throws him a wounded look. “I'm the most grounded person who ever grounded, but yes. I'll represent our shared delusion with honor.”

Hotch spares him an unamused look and Stiles responds with his best impression of pure innocence, already pulling his phone out.

Stiles: field trip is officially government approved