Chapter Text
It's been a while since Stiles has wondered what his life might have been like if his best friend had never turned into a bona-fide creature of the night.
For the past few years, it just hasn't really been an issue. Stanford, after all, is miles and miles away from Beacon Hills, far removed from all of its freaky supernatural problems and politics. He has a life here—a normal, ordinary life. And yeah, sure, Scott is still a werewolf. But this far away from anything it just becomes another entry on a long list of character traits, no more or less important than him being a vet tech or a Dodgers' fan or a nervous father-to-be. He and Allison never visit during the full moon, anyway, so it's not like it makes a difference.
Today, however, for the first time in a long time, Stiles finds himself reflecting on how much less trouble he'd have to deal with if he hadn't convinced Scott to go looking for a body in the woods one night.
“Both of you. Sit down.” Stiles refuses to let his nerves get the better of him, focusing on peaceful, soothing thoughts. It's amazing how quickly it comes back to you. “We need to talk.”
Reyna and Nico Ramirez have been what Professor Boyle refers to as problem students almost since the very start of the semester, and in the past month things have only gotten worse. Attitude problems were bad enough; now they're hardly bothering to come to class at all, not turning in their assignments half the time, and generally acting like they're sliding off the rails. Despite the different vantage point, Stiles can't help but find it all sort of horribly familiar.
“So.” He squeezes around to the other side of the desk in the tiny office he shares with the professor's other three T.A.s, taking a moment to study the pair sitting across from him. They're slouched in their seats, sullen and twitchy at the same time, and Stiles has to stifle a sigh at how young they look. “Professor Boyle thinks you're on drugs,” he says bluntly, watching carefully as Nico's eyes widen even as Reyna's narrow.
“And?” she demands. Her body language is still relaxed and dismissive, but she's forcing it now; tension is written in every line of her body just as surely as it's making her brother tremble. “What's he going to do about it?”
“Tell the dean, for one thing. If you're suspected of breaking the university's code of conduct, there'll be an inquiry. Worst case scenario you're looking at is expulsion and jail time. I don't think that's going to happen.” He's deliberately keeping his hands on top of the desk, in plain sight. Nonthreatening body language is key if he doesn't want to have to rely on the emergency measures he has stashed in a bag at his feet. “Nevertheless,” he continues, “I don't think you want to invite the kind of scrutiny an official inquiry would mean.”
“I don't know what you're—”
“I don't think you're on drugs.” His assurance cuts Reyna off mid-snarl. “But that doesn't mean you have nothing to hide.” There's a thick manilla envelope resting under his hands; he picks it up and hands it across the desk, holding it patiently until Nico leans forward to grab it. “Those are copies of a dozen police reports filed over the past three weeks,” Stiles says as the two of them leaf through the pages, dark heads leaned close together. The sight makes his chest ache oddly, but he pushes the feeling aside and presses on. “You may notice that almost all of them involve a couple matching your description, that—”
“We're not a couple,” Nico snaps, a horrified expression on his face as he looks up, and Stiles has to stifle a snort.
“A couple of people; get your mind out of the gutter, kid.” He shakes his head. “The point is, you're not exactly keeping a low profile. Which is really, incredibly stupid, because your control isn't exactly stellar right now, and how do you think you're gonna handle the full moon if you get thrown in jail?”
They both go suddenly, preternaturally still, two matching pairs of deep brown eyes locked on him. Though they aren't identical, it's moments like that make it almost painfully obvious what they really are. The two of them are more tuned to each other than any siblings Stiles has ever seen—more than anyone he's ever known before, come to that, and he can't help but wonder what that connection must mean when the chips are down. The witness reports he'd dug up had made specific mention of their coordination, of the way they'd moved like they knew what the other would do before it ever happened. It had been enough to confirm the suspicion that had been gnawing at Stiles's mind since the beginning of the term.
And now he's wondering again if it was really such a good idea to lock himself in his office with a pair of adolescent werewolf twins.
“Screw this,” Nico growls—an actual, full-throated growl that has Stiles scrambling to retain his calm. His eyes are flashing gold as he stands, full of all the ferocity that seems to have drained out of his sister. “Reyna, let's go.” She rises to follow him, and as intense as Stiles's instinctive relief is to be rid of dangerous predators in an enclosed space, he knows that he can't just let them leave. Not before they understand.
“I said, sit.”
There's a snap to this voice that never fails to impress the other T.A.s; a natural teacher, they call him, and there's no way for him to explain that it's less about instinct and more about years of observing alpha werewolves in their natural environments. It doesn't seem like he'll have to explain to Reyna and Nico, however. They stop in their tracks, quivering like they're on point before they quickly drop back into their chairs.
“Good,” Stiles says, and the way the tension drops out of their shoulders would be comical if the situation weren't so dire. “You need to get it through your heads that the only reason Professor Boyle hasn't already reported you is because I told him I had a friend in high school who went through the same thing. I convinced him to let me try to get through to you. Do you understand? I'm on your side here, but unless you actually let me help you there's not a damned thing I can do.”
“Why?” Reyna's jaw is clenched, her voice unsteady like she's fighting back tears. “Why does he care if you help us? Why do you?”
Stiles does sigh now. “Because he sees the same thing I do: a couple of bright kids with a lot of potential who are in way over their heads. Believe it or not, not every adult is out to get you.”
“Adult? You're barely older than us,” Nico snorts, back to sullen again.
“Four whole years; though given your maturity levels, it might as well be fifty.” Stiles glares across the desk, pleased and, yes, a little bit relieved when Nico breaks eye contact first. “Now. You're betas, right? Where's your alpha?”
“Gone.” Reyna's voice is still a little shaky, but there's something hard as steel beneath it now. “That big storm we had here about a month ago—he was driving out by the bay. Lost control.” She reaches up to swipe angrily at the tears sneaking their way down her face. “He never could drive worth shit.”
“That was in the paper,” Stiles says slowly. Single-car accident; the wreck was salvaged two days later, with a single body recovered. Death by drowning, the article had said. “I'm sorry. What about the rest of your pack? It wasn't just the three of you, was it?”
“Hardly more than,” Nico says. He's reached over to take his sister's hand, though it seems that neither of them have really noticed that yet. “The rest of them scattered. It's just us now.”
“Shit.” Stiles runs a hand over his face. “Shit. Okay.” He looks at the clock, bites back the urge to curse again. “We're almost out of time; we've got about another five minutes before Teresa gets here for her office hour.” He snags a Post-It from Kyle's jealously hoarded stash and scrawls out his address. “Meet me at my apartment at seven tonight; this conversation's gonna take a hell of a lot longer than we have now.”
“Why?” Reyna asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“Because you clearly need someone looking out for you. And because you'll get dinner out of the deal. In the meantime, keep your eyes open. If anything doesn't feel right, call me.” He jots his phone number below the address and hands the note over. “Bring a couple of green peppers with you, too; I don't have time to go to the store.”
“No, I mean.” She takes the note, flustered. “Why are you so interested in helping? You don't even know us.”
Stiles swallows heavily, searching for the slender line between a lie and a truth that he doesn't want to speak. “Because I have a soft spot for idiot teenaged werewolves,” he says finally. “It's a character flaw. Remember: seven o'clock.”
“I don't like green peppers,” Nico says, looking more than a little dazed now as they both stand and gather their book bags.
“Yeah, well, I do. Price of admittance, man. Now get out of here, and try not to get yourselves killed before dinner.”