ADDENDUM:
"Do you need, uh—" was the first thing Derek said, a half mile down the road. Stilinski didn’t even look at him, just pulled the keys out of the cupholder and unlocked the thick leather manacles in about ten seconds, long fingers practiced and efficient. "There are some, uh—clothes—" Derek said, gesturing at the plastic bag in the footwell.
"Where’s McCall?" Stilinski said.
"He’s, uh—I don’t know."
"You don’t know," Stilinski said tersely. He yanked his filthy shirt over his head and dropped it in the backseat and then dug an agency t-shirt out of the bag. Derek knew from the file that Stilinski was 25, but in the compound, he’d looked about seventeen, and frightened. His lower lip had been trembling while Derek signed the papers. When they’d put the manacles on, he’d struggled, just a little, and the selling agent had cuffed him on the temple, hard enough that Derek had said,
"Hey—" and Stilinski had choked back a sob and said, "sorry, I’m sorry," looking very young.
In the car, yanking the shirt down over his stomach, he looked tired and pissed off, and there was a thin layer of stubble on his cheek and jaw.
"I’m Derek—Hale," Derek said.
"yeah, I definitely don’t give a fuck who you are," Stilinski said, settling back into the seat.
A week ago, Derek had been sitting in the captain’s office in his academy uniform, the collar stiff and uncomfortable against his neck. Stilinski was one of the best in the agency, the captain said: dedicated. driven. courageous. A good match, he’d said, for Derek’s exemplary academic and training record. Derek had spent the next week reading through Stilinski’s meticulously detailed files, which frequently included lengthy digressions that appeared initially to be on unrelated topics, but always in the end turned out to be relevant, illuminating.
"Look, all I know is that McCall was reassigned and I’m your new partner. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I know you guys were—"
"You don’t know shit," Stilinski said. "You’re just the latest fucking flavor of the month rookie I’m being stuck with until management pulls its head out of its ass."
"Okay, fine," Derek said. "Yeah, I’m new. I got you out of there in one piece. I did the job."
“Yeah, great,” Stilinski said sardonically. “You exhibited a basic level of competence.”
Derek didn’t say anything. Up close, he realized he recognized Stilinski, the shape of his shoulders, from one of the training videos they’d shown in class, grainy, security-cam footage, Stilinski fighting like a caged animal, disarming a guy with a shattered baseball bat.
“Hey,” Stilinski said. He sighed. “Sorry. You did do a good job. Thanks.”
Derek risked a sideways glance. Stilinski’s face was serious, but his mouth was curved into an apologetic half-smile. He looked exhausted.
"Are you hungry or—you need someone to take a look at those?" Derek said. There were bruises all over Stilinski’s arms, a deep red welt across his throat.
"I’m fine," Stilinski said.
"Are you sure, because they look—"
"I said, I’m fine," Stilinski bit out. "Look, man, I know your deal. You’re a nice alpha from a nice family who feels guilty and complicit about all the omegas who were stolen and raped in your family tree, and now you think you can make up for it by saving a few of us."
"That’s not even—"
"I’ve been doing this for a while now," Stilinski said. "And I don’t need anyone to take care of me, least of all some alpha with a savior complex."
"If we’re going to be partners—"
"McCall’s my partner," Stilinski said sharply. "You’re the chauffeur, so shut the fuck up and drive."
Then he reclined the seat, draped the sweatshirt from the bag over his face and went to sleep.
*
Stilinski was in the elevator the next morning, wearing a suit, looking even less like the virgin omega Derek bought the day before with a suitcase full of marked cash. When Derek started to get off at the wrong floor, Stilinski’s hand pushed him gently back.
“We’re on 14,” Stilinski said.
“Thanks, I—“ Derek could feel the back of his neck heating up. “All the floors look the same,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, I know,” Stilinski said.
Their desks were pushed up against each other, next to a window that looked down over the city. Stilinski crashed into his chair and was silent for almost twenty minutes, typing furiously. A couple guys Derek had met during his orientation week came by. One of them clapped Derek on the shoulder, said “nice work yesterday,” invited him to grab lunch later.
“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Derek said, smiling tentatively.
After they left, Stilinski looked up.
“Don’t get used to it, rook,” he said. “That desk doesn’t belong to you.”