Chapter Text
“And always remember,” Stiles says with a wink to the camera, “Dude, just, like, don't be an asshole.”
Stiles taps his bottom lip thoughtfully as he watches the last piece of his latest video, then saves the edited file with a quick flick of his fingers. It'll go up tomorrow, one of his weekly Q and As about supernatural stuff.
The final line comes from the way he'd signed off his very first video, when he may have been slightly less than sober and he'd gotten into YouTube to rant about some naturalist assholes that had been using the Free Speech Zone on campus that day. Rather, because he’d spent long months in high school obsessed with learning everything he could about supernaturals - thanks, ADHD - he had gone on a detailed yet succinct, informative yet entertaining...rant.
He hadn't meant to become one of the voices of the supernatural equal rights movement, he'd just been wanting to rant, and defend his best friend Scott, a Were. Really, it had all stemmed from his inability to let someone in the world be wrong when he’s there, willing to correct them. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done it and Scott’s told him it’s unlikely to be the last.
The final shot of that first video ends with him tapping his lip, almost like he is now, a nervous habit, as he says tiredly, his rant having sputtered out, “Dude, just, like, don't be an asshole.”
He didn't even edit it before he posted it and passed the fuck out.
Honestly, the video is terrible, and he wouldn't be the first one to say so.
But, two days later, someone shared it on Twitter, and then someone else mentioned it on a podcast, and then all of a sudden it had gone viral.
A fact which Stiles finally figured out come Monday morning in his bio lecture when these two girls in front of him kept looking at their phones, then looking back at him and giggling.
He’d pulled his own phone out of his pocket and clicked through the YouTube app until he found his video. Trending. With at least a million views.
He'd met Scott for a quick lunch - they had shared one of those triangle sandwiches from the corner store while sitting under a tree on campus - and shown him the video, and then the emails asking for TV interviews.
“I'm not, I mean. I'm not...I don't know why people are so interested. I'm not even a soop.”
“You're nonthreatening, and endearing. Even when you're telling me some crazy story about all this complicated research you've done, you keep it relatable.” Scott had pointed out. “Like...a bro’s guide to supernaturals or something.”
The name had stuck, Stiles thinks with a smile, affixing his “Bro’s Guide” logo over a screen cap for the title thumbnail.
He doesn’t only talk supernaturals, but the bulk of his videos tackle the same subject as his first one: educating people so that supernaturals seem less scary and mysterious. After all, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering - or you standing on a college campus holding a sign, spouting slurs at someone’s Were best friend.
Listen, there are things you can criticize Yoda for, but that whole line of reasoning isn’t one of them, as far as Stiles is concerned. He’s certainly suffered through his own fair share of hate - and that’s with the privilege of not being a supernatural. He remembers, very specifically, the first time one of his viewers told him to go kill himself. He still wishes he’d been stronger that day, but he’d ended up spending the night with Scott, Alli, and Isaac, though only Scott had known the reason for the impromptu sleepover.
Now, that type of thing - “dog fucker,” death threats, messages wishing him harm, they all sort of wash over him with a click of the block button. The good far outweighs the bad, anyway. The teenagers - soops and norms - that have come up to him and told him their stories, the people he’s met at VidCon, the wonderful fan letters and messages he gets, the invitations to speak at conferences concerning supernatural rights legislation, that one time he’d actually had a conference call with the president about it - it makes all the ugly worth it.
He pulls off his headphones, then stands and stretches, groaning as his long and lanky body creaks and pops. “C’mon, old man,” he tells his body, rubbing a hand over the strip of skin his stretching had exposed at his stomach and yawning.
Listen, he’s been pretty responsible with the money he’s gotten the last couple of years, okay? He still drives Roscoe. As per his agreement with his dad, he finished college - and paid for it. And then, just to piss his dad off a little, in the best way possible, he paid off the mortgage on his childhood home.
But by far the most indulgent thing he’s done is rent an apartment with two bedrooms but without a roommate - living alone for the first time in his life. The first night had been weird as fuck, but it’s way nicer to not have to use his actual bedroom to film videos. It makes him feel rather adult to have a home office space.
So it’s this space that he’s walking out of, and he misses it at first because he has his phone in his hand, thumbing through notifications he missed while editing. Scott, Isaac, and Alli did one of those cute “hands making heart shapes over the pregnant belly” photo shoots and it’s honestly adorable when his friends do it, even if he finds it painful in pretty much all other situations. He can’t help being proud of the triad, and double-taps the picture set to love it.
He notices the smell first. He’d gotten in enough supernatural scrapes - and regular scrapes, to be honest - with Scott as kids and teens to recognize that coppery tang of fresh blood. His brows draw together as he frowns, lifting his nose in an imitation of a Were from habit of seeing the move over and over. Since he doesn’t actually have supernatural smell, he starts searching, first around the living/kitchen area - nothing there - and then pushing open his bedroom door, his heart pounding. The smell of blood - death - is much stronger here.
His fingers grip his phone tight as he finds the source of the smell on his bed, a dead- a dead animal of some kind, he can’t even really tell, oh god what happened here- Bile rises in his throat, he can feel it burning, even as his mind starts racing a mile a minute trying to justify just what the hell is going on.
Maybe I left my window open and it crawled in there to die, animals like to hide when they die, right? But then why is there so much blood- because maybe it got attacked and then crawled in here. Right. Probably just got attacked and then crawled into his bedroom to die a sad, lonely death. Not that it’s a metaphor, Stiles…
Grabbing a dirty towel from his hamper, he moves over to the bed, intending to inspect the animal, to see if his theory is right. It’s a squirrel, he can tell, now, one of the grays that likes to hang out on his fire escape. Automatically, Stiles looks over to the window, but it’s shut and locked like always - he’d been raised by a sheriff, of course he’d take precautions. Gulping, he looks back down at the dead, bloody body, spilled over his bedspread, finally realizing there’s something...a paper? Under the squirrel’s body.
Using the towel, he pulls the paper out, already thinking about how he’s definitely going to just throw the entire bedding away. And maybe call Lydia to see if she wouldn’t mind a house guest tonight. Automatically, even while he’s thinking of that, he opens the folded, bloody paper.
For Stiles
And then one of those hearts with the arrow drawn through it.
Shaking, Stiles drops the paper back on the bed, and slowly backs out of his room. His body is warring with his mind - he’s barely keeping the bile down now, and all he’d love to do is take the wastebasket and throw up, but his mind - the part of his mind that is the sheriff’s son - his mind is telling him this is now all a crime scene.
Because he’s been alone in the apartment since he got back from the store earlier today. And he’d been in his bedroom right after that, dropping some books by his bed, where he liked to do most of his research for future videos.
All of a sudden, Stiles wishes he’d grabbed the baseball bat he keeps beside his bed.
He does a 360 spin to check for the home invader - he’s seen this horror movie way too many times - and walks swiftly into the kitchen area, grabbing a knife instead, putting his back to the wall, and holding it up in a ready position even as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
He starts a deep breathing exercise, trying to will the panic attack into ebbing - his anxiety meds are in the bathroom, and for all he knows, the fucker who did this is hiding in there right now. His grip on the knife tightens, his knuckles going white, as he dials 911.
By the time the police arrive, he’s fairly sure he’s alone in the apartment, though he’s wishing for the thousandth time that he had the ability to pinpoint heartbeats. He grabs a plastic sandwich bag from a kitchen drawer and uses it to let the police in, trying to maintain the integrity of any fingerprints they might be able to collect off of the doorknob.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” the officer asks after taking his statement. Her partner’s in the bedroom, taking pictures. Stiles still feels like he might throw up, but he does feel marginally safer, out here in the hallway, despite looky-loo neighbors.
It’s past two am, he doesn’t want to bother Lydia. She’s defending her masters thesis in a matter of weeks. Scott, Isaac, and Allison live a day’s drive away in Beacon Hills. Danny- Danny’s a possibility, but he’d tell Jackson, who’d wake up Lydia anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.
“Listen, kid, you don’t want to be alone,” the officer pushes, even though she can’t be much older than his 23.
“Yeah, I can- yeah. Just a second.”
Stiles feels so, so tired in the aftermath of the panic attack that honestly still hasn’t ebbed completely away. He closes his eyes, feeling the tiredness manifest in tears prickling at them.
“Stiles?” comes Lydia’s confused voice.
“Hey, everything’s all right,” he reassures, a habit he’d picked up as the sheriff’s kid. No one wanted to get a call at two am, but at least he could start off with that. “There was- um, my apartment was broken into, and I need a place to stay for tonight. Can I come over?”
Lydia, bless her, doesn’t pepper him with questions, just gives her assent with a, “I’ll make up the couch for you.”
“Thanks, Lyds.”
He turns back to the officer. “Can I take anything from inside the apartment?” He doesn’t especially want to touch anything in his bedroom, but his backpack, with his laptop and other necessities, was in the home office with him the whole time. It can’t have been part of ...that.
She nods, heading back inside with him and watching him carefully. His hoodie’s in here too, and he grabs that. No underwear, but he can get some tomorrow. Maybe Lydia has a pair of Jackson’s lying around. The thought makes him smile, partially, at the absurdity. He has extra pills in his backpack, and that'll have to do. There's no way he's taking the ones from the bathroom. Who knows what the invader could have done with them.
Lydia looks amazing as always, even all sleep mussed and wrapped in a robe. She gestures him in, then pulls him in for a hug that he has to duck down for. He takes a second, breathing in her comforting scent, letting her comfort him. His heart finally feels like it isn’t galloping in his chest.
“No, uh, sense of my imminent demise, right?” Stiles offers as a joke, laughing weakly even as she releases him. Sometimes banshee powers could be extremely helpful.
Her lips quirk up. “Not this time.”
Something inside him releases and relaxes, and he nods, thanking her silently for the reassurance.
“You reek of it, though. A home invasion?”
After making sure she’s locked the door, he sets his stuff down by the couch that’s been made up with sheets and pillows. He sinks into it, letting his eyes close, and tells her the whole story.
At her silence, he peeks one eye open. She’s frowning at him, hard. “You need to call Scott.”
“It’s two- well, three am in the morning. They’re expecting a kid. I’m not going to wake him. Or my dad, before you get any ideas.”
“Mhmm,” she says on a hum. She stands, ruffling her fingers through his hair. “Get some sleep.”
He shuts his eyes again, and somehow manages to do exactly that.
He wakes to the morning sun spilling into the living room, and his phone ringing, a selfie of he and Scott at their college graduation popping up. He manages to hit the button to answer the call, then mumbles tiredly into the phone, “I was going to call.”
“That’s weird, because Lydia didn’t think so. She said something about your stubborn ass not wanting to bother anyone.”
“Sounds like Lyds all right,” Stiles grumbles, sticking his head - phone still glued to his ear - under the pillow to block out the light.
“Stiles.” Scott’s voice is soft, but urgent. It’s just this side of an Alpha voice. “You can’t treat this like it’s no big deal.”
“I’m not treating this like it’s no big deal. It happened less than-” he pulls the phone off to check the time, “-fuck, less than 5 hours ago, okay? Give a dude a chance to process. I called the police. They’re taking care of everything.”
“Stalkers aren’t-”
“We don’t know that it’s a stalker,” Stiles points out.
“We don’t know it’s not. It’s not like every comment on your social media is all sunshine and rainbows, either, Stiles.”
“Okay, you can’t just turn my argument around on me-”
“I called my dad.” Scott’s voice is unreadable. The silence that drops between them means all Stiles can make out is the buzzing of the phone line.
“You hate your dad,” he says eventually, slowly. Painfully.
“Yeah, well…” Scott blows out a breath. “I love you, so-”
“Being a pre-father has made you soft.” After a beat, Stiles whispers, “I love you too, dude.”
He hears Scott’s little half-chuckle, half-breath over the line, and something in him settles. Damned if he doesn’t miss his Alpha, even though he doesn’t feel the compulsion a Were would to be near him. “So I called my dad,” Scott says, more easily this time, “and he’s sending someone. A group of someones, maybe, I didn’t quite understand, from the LA office.”
“I- just for a stupid threat against a YouTuber?” Resigning himself to the fact that he isn’t going to be getting any more sleep, he pushes himself up to a seated position, spies Jackson eating cereal at the kitchen counter, and gives him a bro nod.
“I can be persuasive when I want to be,” Scott replies, the smile evident in his voice. “They’re from the Were division. I told McCall I wouldn’t settle for anything less than Were protection on you until this psycho is caught.”
“Aww, come on, man, I don’t need a babysitter.”
“And I don’t need a dead brother.”
“Lydia says I’m clear-”
“Don’t make me use the voice.”
“Oh my god-”
“His name’s Agent Hale. Derek Hale. Make sure to check his ID. I gave him Lydia’s address.”
“Scotty-” Stiles protests.
“Okay, that’s it, I’m pulling that card. Please, Stiles, for the sake of your unborn godchild, please keep yourself safe.”
“Low blow,” Stiles mumbles.
“Yeah, well. You can kick my ass for it when you come visit us, all safe and sound and stalker-free.”
“You know I can’t get away until after VidCon.”
“I know, that’s why I’m not on a flight down to LA right now to personally haul you back up here, though I did have to stop Allison from grabbing her bow and driving down herself.”
Stiles’ heart swells unexpectedly, so of course he deflects. “Hey, don’t you have to be at the clinic?”
“Already there, dude, but yeah, there’s a cat with a UTI that I need to help.”
“Sounds energizing. Please, don’t let me keep you.”
“Okay, well, keep me informed, okay? I’m going to be watching your iPhone on the Find My Friend app like a hawk.”
“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles replies, all tease in his voice as he hangs up.
He’s exchanging more bro-nods with Jackson, who hates mornings, while rummaging himself up some breakfast, when there’s a strong knock on the door.
Surprisingly, Jackson - still shirtless, just wearing sleep pants from bed - moves around Stiles faster than Stiles can react, and heads to the door, peering through the peephole. “Who is it?”
When Stiles approaches, Jackson just holds him back, hand on his chest like he’s a child.
“Agent Hale,” replies a deep voice from the other side.
“Let me see your ID.”
Stiles has no idea where this over-protective Jackson came from, but he’s fairly sure Lydia has something to do with it.
“Looks legit,” he whispers back to Stiles after a moment. “Are you expecting the FBI?”
Mouth a little slack, Stiles nods.
Jackson opens the door, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry.
It’s not one, but three agents standing on Lydia’s stoop, all dressed in the stereotypical suits like he’s seen on TV. The first agent, Hale, he presumes, cuts an imposing figure without being a huge man, with a jaw so chiseled it could probably cut someone, and bright, passionate green eyes. He’s flanked by a man and a woman, each intimidating in their own right, but Stiles can’t seem to take his eyes off of Hale.
Hale, who walks right into Lydia’s front room like he owns the place. “That was good, but it could be better. You didn’t ask for all of our IDs. These two could have been using me to force their way into the house. We’ll drill it.” He pulls a small notebook from his pocket and makes a note, then continues walking through the house, leaving the other two with Stiles.
The woman comes forward. “This is Agent Boyd,” and the other man nods silently at him, “and I'm Agent Reyes. You can call me Erica," she says with a smile, holding out her hand for Stiles and Jackson to shake. “I’ve watched your videos. They’re actually not totally awful, despite being made by a normie.”
Considering it’s far from the worst thing anyone’s ever said to him, Stiles finds himself smiling back, even as Agents Hale and Boyd walk around the small house, Hale making notes in his notebook the whole time. “Thanks. I’m glad I do an okay job. That’s all I want. Um- listen, I don’t...I mean, the FBI? Look, I get that my friend is worried about me, but is this all really necessary?”
“Did you know Autumn Brown?” Erica asks, though Stiles can feel Hale's intense eyes pointed in his direction.
“I mean yeah, everyone in the community knew Autumn. Her passing was awful.” She’d been another YouTuber, and it had hit close to home, the news that she’d died in a car accident, of all things.
“And her work for the supernatural community cut tragically short,” Erica adds succinctly.
“Well, yeah, but I mean, her death was a terrible accident-” Stiles pauses. “It was an accident, right?”
“Have you ever heard the name Kate Argent?”
“Like, the Argents?” At Erica's nod, Stiles shakes his head. “Not a Kate, no.”
“Before her death, Autumn found a mutilated animal on her doorstep. She called in the police for a standard stalking case.”
Stiles’ heart is thudding heavily against his rib cage. “That’s- that’s what this is, right? Just some internet crazy who-”
“That’s what Kate Argent wants her targets to believe.”
“Targets?” Stiles asks faintly. “The Argents - they’re some of the strongest anti-supernatural activists in the country, but they’ve never been tied to- to-”
“Murder? They’re basically domestic terrorists, targeting and assassinating people who are important to the supernatural rights community.” Erica meets his eyes. “We have strong reason to believe you’re their next target. You definitely fit the profile.”
“I- assassinate?” Stiles knees give out; thankfully, he’s next to the couch. He pulls up the pillow he’d been hiding under earlier and hugs it to his chest.
Erica sits beside him. Their thighs don’t touch, but Stiles still feels comfort from the proximity. “I’m not going to let that happen, Stiles.” She nods at Boyd. “We're here to catch Kate. Boyd and I will be heading that part of the operation.”
Stiles gives a surprised look to Hale, whose brows are drawn together, his whole face making him almost look constipated. He'd seemed like the leader of this little trio, so he's surprised Agent Hale isn't going to be part of the investigation. "Good, that sounds like a good plan. Catch Kate. Got it. Well, anything I can do to help, I mean, why would you need my help, I'm just a dumb barely-out-of-college kid and you're like, FBI agents, and it's not like I could do anything helpful, so I guess I'll just hang out here until VidCon-"
"Shut up, Stiles." It's the first thing Agent Hale has said since he entered and reprimanded Jackson for his lack of constant vigilance.
It actually shocks Stiles into silence which, any of his friends could tell you, is a rare thing indeed. It also lasts less than ten seconds. "Cool. Cool. Cool cool cool. Oh my god." Numbly, Stiles fumbles for his backpack and finds his meds for his morning doses - ADHD and anxiety, and he could really use the anti-anxiety meds right now. He swallows them dry, the task giving him something to focus on besides freaking out. Still, all he manages is another, “Oh my god.”
"We're going to put you under agent protection, Stiles. It'll be okay. We need - we need Kate to think nothing has gone wrong. We need her to keep pursuing you," Erica murmurs. "That's our best chance to catch her."
"Like...like bait?"
"Absolutely not. Just...we need you to keep living your life like normal, except for one thing."
"What's that?"
"I'll be shadowing your every move." Agent Hale's voice sounds final. He obviously has the same Alpha skill that Scott does being domineering without using his Alpha voice.
"Oh, okay." Stiles pushes back up to his feet. “I’m going to go, um, try not to throw up in the bathroom, okay?”
True to his word, Agent Hale follows him.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says under his breath again as he leads the agent back Lydia's guest bathroom.