Chapter Text
The FBI National Conference on Criminal Psychology was exactly as boring as Stiles had feared it would be.
He'd been sitting in the hotel conference room for three hours, watching various agents drone on about recidivism rates and the psychology of organized versus disorganized offenders, stuff he could've read in a textbook. His ADHD was screaming at him to move, to fidget, to do something other than sit in this uncomfortable chair pretending to take notes.
The only thing keeping him awake was the coffee. Really terrible coffee.
Stiles was contemplating a fourth cup when the panel shifted to "Victimology in Modern Serial Cases," and a new speaker took the podium. Young really young to be speaking at a federal conference. Tall and lanky, wearing a purple button down with a darker purple tie, mismatched socks visible above beat up Converse, and carrying a stack of files that looked like they might topple over at any second.
"Hi, um, hello," the guy started, pushing his shaggy hair back nervously. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. I've been asked to speak about victimology patterns in..."
And then he was off.
Stiles sat up straighter.
Because Dr. Spencer Reid lectured like his brain was moving at three times the speed of his mouth and he was desperately trying to keep up with himself. He cited studies from the 1970s, referenced historical cases, drew connections between modern serial offenders and medieval execution methods, and somehow made it all make sense.
".... which actually connects back to the Thuggee cult in India, documented between the thirteenth and nineteenth centuries, who killed travelers as sacrifices to Kali. The ritualistic elements mirror certain aspects of the Zodiac killer's methodology, particularly the symbolic..."
Stiles' hand shot up.
The speaker paused mid sentence, blinking at him through wire-rimmed glasses. "Yes?"
"Are you talking about the Thuggee as documented by William Sleeman, or the more recent historical revisionism that suggests British colonial propaganda inflated the numbers?"
A smile broke across Dr. Reid's face like sunrise. "The latter, actually. Sleeman's accounts are dubious at best, but the cultural understanding of ritual sacrifice as a form of communication with the divine.... that's the relevant parallel."
"Right, but if we're talking about communication as motive, wouldn't it be more accurate to compare the Zodiac's ciphers to the Voynich manuscript methodology? Coded language as power assertion rather than religious devotion?"
"Yes! Exactly...." Dr. Reid's eyes lit up. "Though the Voynich manuscript is more likely an elaborate hoax or possibly an early form of constructed language, the intention behind creating undecipherable text absolutely parallels the Zodiac's need to demonstrate intellectual superiority over law enforcement..."
Someone in the back coughed loudly.
Dr. Reid blinked, seeming to remember he was giving a presentation. "Right. Sorry. Um, as I was saying..."
But he kept glancing at Stiles throughout the rest of the talk, and Stiles kept grinning back.
The conference broke for lunch, and Stiles was barely out of his seat before someone tapped his shoulder.
"Hi." Dr. Reid stood there, still holding his files, looking simultaneously eager and nervous. "That was.... you clearly know your stuff. Are you with a field office?"
"Stiles Stilinski." He stuck out his hand, then remembered the files. "Oh, sorry, you're...."
"It's fine, I can...." Reid tried to shift the files to one arm, nearly dropped them, and Stiles automatically reached out to steady the stack.
"Here, let me..."
They ended up redistributing the files between them, laughing, and somehow that broke whatever ice had been there.
"I'm still in training, actually," Stiles said as they walked toward the lunch area. "Quantico. Just started a few months ago."
"Really? I'm based in Quantico, BAU. Have been for three years now." Reid ducked his head slightly. "I joined when I was twenty-two, so I know what it's like being the young one."
"Dude, you can't be much older than me now."
"I'm twenty-five."
"Twenty-one." Stiles gestured at himself. "And yeah, everyone keeps calling me 'kid,' which is super fun."
"Try being called 'boy genius' for three years." Reid made a face. "My team means well, but..."
"Oof. Yeah, I'd take 'kid' over that."
They loaded up plates from the mediocre lunch buffet, Reid's was mostly carbs and Jell-O, Stiles noted with amusement and found a table away from the main crowd.
"So the Voynich manuscript," Reid said immediately, setting down his plate. "You really think it's a constructed language rather than a cipher?"
And that was it.
Three hours later, they were still talking.
The conference room had emptied around them. Someone had come by to collect the lunch plates. The afternoon panels had started and finished. And Stiles and Spencer because they were on a first name basis now, obviously, were sprawled in their chairs, files and Reid's stack of books spread across the table, debating everything from the linguistic patterns in the Zodiac letters to whether the Axeman of New Orleans had actually been one person or a copycat situation.
"...but the timeline doesn't work," Stiles was saying, gesturing wildly with his hands. "The gaps between attacks are too inconsistent for a single unsub with a stable pattern. It's more likely you're looking at an initial offender who established the MO, then at least two copycats who..."
"Who used the public fear and the letter to the newspaper as a blueprint," Spencer finished, nodding rapidly. "Yes, exactly. The linguistic analysis of the letter shows educated word choice but grammatically inconsistent structure, which suggests..."
"Manufactured voice. He was trying to sound a certain way."
"Right!" Spencer's whole face was animated. "It's the same thing with the BTK letters, Dennis Rader was actually a relatively well educated compliance officer, but his letters intentionally used more crude language to establish a specific persona...."
"To create distance between his public and private identity," Stiles jumped in. "Oh man, that's actually really similar to what happened with..."
He stopped abruptly.
With the Nogitsune. With possession and identity fragmentation and wearing someone else's face while you destroyed everything they loved.
Spencer tilted his head, observant. "Similar to what?"
"Uh." Stiles cleared his throat. "Just.... someone I knew in high school. Bad situation. Dissociative stuff."
He wasn't ready to talk about it. Might never be ready. It had been two years since the Nogitsune, since the nightmare, since Allison...
"I understand," Spencer said quietly, and something in his tone made Stiles look up. "Sometimes the past is... it's easier to talk about it in metaphors. Safer."
Their eyes met, and Stiles had the sudden, weird feeling that Spencer got it. Not the specifics, maybe, but the shape of trauma. The weight of things you couldn't quite say out loud.
"Yeah," Stiles said softly. "Metaphors work."
Spencer nodded, then seemed to shake himself slightly. "Do you... I mean, if you're interested, the BAU doesn't usually take observers, but we have a consultation program for promising candidates. And you're clearly..." He gestured vaguely at the chaos of notes between them. "You think like a profiler."
"Seriously?"
"I'd have to clear it with my unit chief, but." Spencer pulled out his phone. "Could I get your number? I'll text you if it's possible."
"Yes. Absolutely yes." Stiles rattled off his number, trying not to sound too eager. "That would be amazing."
Spencer smiled, a real smile, soft and genuine. "Fair warning: my team is... a lot. But they're good people. You'd like them."
"Can't be worse than my previous found family situation," Stiles said without thinking.
"Found family?"
"Long story involving a werewolf, a banshee, and a lot of terrible decisions in a small California town."
Spencer laughed, clearly thinking it was a joke. "Sounds like the setup for a horror movie."
"You have no idea," Stiles muttered.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: This is Spencer. "Also, I forgot to ask... are you free for dinner? There's a decent Thai place near here, and I still want to hear your theory about the Zodiac's possible military background."
Stiles grinned. "Absolutely. Fair warning: I talk with my hands and I WILL steal food off your plate."
"That's fine. I don't like vegetables anyway."
"We're going to be great friends."
"I think so too."
Dinner turned into four more hours of conversation. They closed down the Thai restaurant, moved to a coffee shop, and finally ended up sitting on a bench outside the hotel at nearly midnight, still talking.
Spencer was mid rant about the statistical improbability of certain profiling tropes in crime shows when Stiles' phone rang.
"Sorry, I should..." He glanced at the screen. Derek. "Hey, I gotta take this."
"Of course." Spencer started to stand, giving him privacy, but Stiles waved him back down.
"Hey, Der."
"Stiles." Derek's voice was rough, concerned. "It's late. You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good. Just made a friend at the conference. We've been talking."
A pause. "A friend."
"Don't use that tone. His name is Spencer, he's with the BAU, and he's basically my brain twin. It's not weird."
"I didn't say it was weird."
"You were thinking it loudly."
S
pencer was politely pretending not to listen, scrolling through his phone, but Stiles caught the small smile.
"Just be careful," Derek said finally. "You don't know these people."
"I know, I know. Background checks, trust no one, the world is full of monsters." Stiles softened his voice. "I miss you too, you know."
Another pause. Longer. "Yeah. Miss you."
"How's the everyone?"
"Good. Everyone's settling in. The new place is..." Derek sighed. "It's not Beacon Hills."
"Nothing is." Stiles watched a car pass on the street. "But maybe that's not a bad thing."
"Maybe." Derek didn't sound convinced. "When are you back in Quantico?"
"Day after tomorrow. You should come by when you're free. Meet Spencer."
"We'll see." Which meant yes, Derek would absolutely show up to vet every single person in Stiles' life. "Be safe."
"Always am."
"That's a lie."
"Okay, I try to be safe."
"Also a lie, but I'll take it." A hint of fondness crept into Derek's voice. "Night, Stiles."
"Night, sourwolf."
He hung up to find Spencer watching him with curious eyes.
"Sourwolf?" Spencer asked.
"Inside joke. He's..." Stiles pocketed his phone. "Derek's my... it's complicated. We've known each other for years. He's overprotective."
"He cares about you."
"Yeah." Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "He does. His whole family does. They kind of adopted me after... after some stuff happened."
Spencer nodded, not pushing. "That's good. Everyone needs people who care."
"What about you? You got people?"
"My team." Spencer's smile was genuine. "They're... they're my family. My mom, she's.... she's not well. So the team, they've been..."
"Hey." Stiles bumped their shoulders together. "The metaphor thing goes both ways, yeah? You ever need to talk about the hard stuff..."
"Yeah." Spencer bumped back. "Same."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"
So," Spencer said eventually. "Want to hear about the time my teammate Derek Morgan handcuffed himself to a serial killer's hospital bed and nearly got fired?"
"Oh my god, yes."
Spencer launched into the story, complete with hand gestures and voice impressions, and Stiles laughed until his sides hurt.
When they finally said goodbye at nearly two in the morning, Stiles felt lighter than he had in months. Maybe years.
His phone buzzed as he headed up to his room.
Spencer Reid: This was the best conference I've ever attended.
Stiles: Same. Let's do it again sometime. Minus the boring panels.
Spencer Reid: Deal. I'll talk to Hotch tomorrow about the consultation thing.
Stiles: You're awesome, you know that?
Spencer Reid: I've been told I'm a genius. Awesome is new.
Stiles: Get used to it, genius.
He was still smiling when he fell asleep.
Two days later, Stiles was back at Quantico, sitting through a particularly tedious lecture on federal jurisdiction, when his phone buzzed.
Spencer Reid: Hotch said yes. If you're free this weekend, come by the BAU. I'll introduce you to everyone.
Stiles' heart jumped.
Stiles: HELL YES. What do I wear? What do I bring? Do I need to prepare a presentation?
Spencer Reid: Just be yourself. Bring coffee if you want Garcia to love you forever.
Stiles: I can do that. Thank you, Spencer. Seriously.
Spencer Reid: Thank me after you meet them. They're... intense.
Stiles: So am I.
Spencer Reid: I know. That's why I think you'll fit right in.
Saturday morning, Stiles showed up at the BAU with his visitor's badge, a box of fancy pastries from a bakery Spencer had mentioned, and a nervous energy that he channeled into bouncing on his toes.
Spencer met him at security, looking more relaxed than he had at the conference in jeans and a Doctor Who t-shirt under a cardigan.
"You made it," Spencer said, grinning.
"Did you doubt me?"
"No, but you texted me seventeen times last night asking questions."
"I'm thorough."
"You're anxious."
"That too." Stiles held up the pastry box. "Offering for the team?"
"They'll love you." Spencer started toward the elevators. "Fair warning: Garcia is going to interrogate you, Morgan will test you, Prentiss will profile you, and Hotch will be quietly intimidating."
"Cool, cool, cool. No pressure."
The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, and Stiles followed Spencer into the BAU.
It was smaller than he'd expected, more open. Desks clustered together, case files everywhere, photographs and evidence boards visible in the conference room. It felt lived-in. Like a home.
"Reid!" A woman's voice called out. "Is that the friend from the conference?"
A petite blonde woman in a bright dress materialized in front of them, eyes sharp and assessing behind pink-framed glasses.
"Penelope Garcia," she said, extending a hand. "Technical analyst, resident genius—no offense, Reid—and the person who keeps this team from falling apart."
"Stiles Stilinski." He shook her hand, impressed by her grip. "Also, I brought bribes." He held up the pastry box.
Garcia gasped. "Oh, I like you already. Come, come, meet everyone."
She whisked him toward the cluster of desks where three people were gathered. A dark skinned man built like he bench pressed cars for fun, a striking woman with dark hair and sharp eyes, and an older man with salt and pepper hair who radiated calm authority.
"This is Derek Morgan," Garcia gestured to the muscular guy, who nodded at Stiles with a measuring look. "Emily Prentiss..."
"Hi," Emily said, smile friendly but eyes calculating.
"And David Rossi."
"Kid," Rossi said warmly, shaking Stiles' hand. "Spencer's been talking about you all week."
"Has he?" Stiles glanced at Spencer, who'd gone slightly pink.
"You made an impression," Morgan said, his voice a low rumble. He stepped closer, and Stiles felt something prickle at the back of his neck. An instinct. A recognition.
Stiles met Morgan's eyes and held them. Just for a second. Just long enough.
Morgan's nostrils flared slightly. His expression shifted, surprise, then understanding, then a careful neutrality.
Behind him, Emily had gone very still.
"Stilinski!" A sharp voice called from the upper level. "My office."
Everyone looked up at the man standing at the railing, dark suit, dark hair, commanding presence. Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
"Good luck," Spencer whispered.
Stiles climbed the stairs, aware of eyes following him. When he reached Hotch's office, the door was open.
"Come in. Close the door."
Stiles did, his heart hammering. Hotch stood by the window, hands in his pockets, and when he turned to face Stiles, his eyes flashed a brilliant red.
Just for a second.
Stiles froze.
"Sit," Hotch said calmly.
Stiles sat.
"You have an Alpha," Hotch said quietly. Not a question.
"You're and Alpha," Stiles replied, keeping his voice level. "So Morgan and Prentiss is..."
"Beta." Hotch's expression was unreadable. "And you're wondering why I brought you into my office."
"The thought crossed my mind."
"I protect my pack, Mr. Stilinski. That includes Dr. Reid." Hotch leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "He's..."
"Human," Stiles finished. "So's Garcia. And Rossi, I'm guessing."
"And JJ, our communications liaison. She's on maternity leave." Hotch's eyes were sharp. "They don't know."
"I won't tell them."
"I know. Because if you did, you'd be exposing yourself too." Hotch tilted his head slightly. "You're very calm for someone who just discovered his new friend works with a pack of werewolves."
"I'm from Beacon Hills," Stiles said flatly. "Trust me, this isn't my first rodeo."
Something flickered in Hotch's expression. Recognition, maybe. "The Hale pack."
"You know about..."
"I know about most packs on the West Coast. The fire..." Hotch's voice softened slightly. "That was a tragedy."
"Yeah." Stiles' throat tightened. "It was."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Derek Hale," Hotch said eventually. "Is he your Alpha?"
"He's my friend. My family. But I'm not in his pack, not officially." Stiles met Hotch's eyes. "It's complicated."
Hotch nodded slowly. "It often is." He straightened, his posture shifting from interrogator to something more welcoming. "Spencer speaks highly of you. Your insights, your intelligence. If you're interested in consulting with the BAU, I'm willing to approve it. But understand: the pack protects each other. All of us. If you hurt Spencer..."
"I won't," Stiles said firmly. "He's... he's a good person. A good friend. I'm not going to screw that up."
Hotch studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good." He moved toward the door, opened it. "Welcome to the team, Stilinski."
Stiles stood on shaky legs. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me Hotch. And Stilinski?" Hotch's eyes flashed red again, just briefly. "If you ever need pack, for anything, you have one here."
Stiles' chest tightened with unexpected emotion. "I... thank you."
He descended the stairs to find Spencer waiting anxiously by his desk, Garcia hovering nearby.
"So?" Spencer asked. "Did Hotch terrify you?"
"Little bit," Stiles admitted. "But I survived."
"He does that," Morgan said, leaning against his desk. He met Stiles' eyes again, and this time there was a hint of a smile. A knowing one. "You passed."
"Passed what?" Spencer looked between them, confused.
"The vibe check," Emily said smoothly. "Hotch has a sixth sense about people."
"Oh." Spencer relaxed. "Well, good. Because I was hoping.... do you have plans this weekend? There's this documentary about the Unabomber that just came out, and I thought..."
"Yes," Stiles said immediately. "Absolutely yes."
Spencer's smile was blinding.
Garcia squealed. "Oh my god, you two are adorable. Reid, you've found your people person! Your extrovert adopted you!"
"I'm not an extrovert," Stiles protested.
"You're extroverted compared to Reid," Morgan said, amused.
"That's true," Spencer admitted.
Rossi appeared with coffee for everyone. "Stilinski, you ever work a case before?"
"Observed a few during training, but nothing with the BAU."
"Well, stick around. We'll fix that." Rossi winked. "And if you can keep up with Reid's rambling, you're already ahead of the curve."
"Hey," Spencer protested mildly.
The morning dissolved into easy conversation, coffee, and the pastries Stiles had brought. Garcia claimed the corner of Spencer's desk and proceeded to learn Stiles' entire life story through strategic questioning. Morgan and Emily watched from a distance, relaxed now, the pack clearly accepting this new presence.
Hotch observed from his office, and when Stiles glanced up, the unit chief gave him a small nod.
Pack.
Stiles hadn't realized how much he'd missed that feeling.
His phone buzzed. Derek.
Derek Hale: How'd it go?
Stiles smiled and typed back.
Stiles: I have news!
Derek Hale: ???
Stiles: Three of them are wolves. Including the unit chief.
Stiles: Don't worry. They're good people. I'll explain later.
Stiles: Also I made a friend who's basically my brain twin and we're watching a documentary about the Unabomber this weekend.
Derek Hale: ...of course you are.
Derek Hale: Be careful.
Stiles: Always.
Derek Hale: Liar.
Stiles: Your liar. <3
Derek Hale: Yeah. Mine.
Stiles pocketed his phone and looked up to find Spencer watching him with curious, intelligent eyes.
"Everything okay?" Spencer asked.
"Yeah." Stiles smiled. "Everything's really good, actually."
And for the first time since leaving Beacon Hills, he meant it.