Chapter Text
Things are not going well.
"My hands are tied, kiddo," his boss— Agent Stilinski— his dad says. "I can't be seen to be giving preferential treatment."
"Why not?" Stiles protests. He almost whacks his dad in the face with one of his arms mid (very passionate) gesture, but if his dad doesn't know to stay out of Stiles' range of movement by now then frankly it's his own fault.
"Well for one, everyone knows I prefer Cora—"
"Up top, Pops," Cora says, spinning in her wheely chair at the desk across from Stiles, reaching out to the Sheriff for a high five. Stiles glares and slaps her hand away.
"—and two, it wouldn't be doing you any favours in the long run. This is on your permanent record, son. You screwed up, you gotta accept the consequences."
"With grace and dignity, like always." This time it's Erica. She joins Cora, as usual, smirking around an obscenely large gum bubble. They both exist solely to torment him, he’s convinced of it.
"But the Citizen—" he tries desperately.
"Would be safer, at least, without you around," Cora says. "I know Greenberg certainly would be."
"Greenberg's a dick," Stiles mumbles.
"Greenberg is in the hospital because you shot him," his dad says sharply.
"Not on purpose!"
"In the ass." His dad's eyebrow twitches, like it always does when he's trying to hold in laughter. Traitor.
"I didn't even see him there!"
"To be fair to Babycakes, neither did I," Erica admits. "And he was standing right next to me. I think."
Stiles gestures at Erica, opening his mouth to make an extremely convincing and salient point he's sure, but his dad just clears his throat and crosses his arms. Stiles slumps over dejectedly, because there's no way he's going to win this one.
Fucking Greenberg.
—
Stiles is actually a really great FBI agent. Stellar. Exemplary, even. Some minor problems with authority aside (whatever, Harris is even more of a dick than Greenberg), he's an asset to any team. He's diligent, tenacious, reliable and thorough—all attributes that Stiles plans to point out to Derek Hale, because Derek Hale, despite usually seeming more interested in grumping and coasting than actually advancing his career or even stopping bad guys, has just been assigned point in his first op. The Citizen op. The op Stiles has been obsessing over for weeks, and the op Stiles is now banned from.
Derek Hale is not impressed. "Agent Stilinski already spoke to me, Stiles," he calls as Stiles approaches, before Stiles can even get a word out.
"I'm Agent Stilinski," Stiles mutters, and if anyone should understand his pain, it's Derek. There's nothing more confusing than having two Agent Stilinskis and two Agent Hales on the same team.
He drops his duffel bag on a bench and joins Derek on the running track properly, settling into a rhythm next to him. They've done this before, sometimes before work, sometimes on a lunch break, always when one of them really needs to get away for a while. They're not friends, exactly—Derek's his senior and a bit of an asshole, and he doesn't really seem to indulge in mundane trivialities like 'human interaction'—but the running track is so close to their building, and they work with idiots, and sometimes their frustration can only be relieved through exercise. It's just a thing they do.
No biggie.
Derek speeds up a little, but Stiles easily keeps pace and it annoys Derek, just like always. They run a few laps in silence and Stiles uses the time to attempt to come up with some good arguments, because it’s obvious Derek’s going to say—
"I can't do it," Derek says. Stiles grits his teeth. "You're out of the field, Stiles. Maybe after your hearing with the review board—"
"That's in two weeks, the Citizen could've killed again by then!"
"So what, you think you're the only one who could stop him?" They've circled back around to where Derek left his jacket and water bottle by now, and they slow to a stop. Derek's hands drift to his hips as he breathes and raises an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles really hates how he always manages to look so composed.
"I know I'm the best shot we have," he says, and then immediately regrets his wording. "I mean—"
"I know what you mean." Derek tilts his head back, sucking at his water bottle and wiping his mouth before smirking at Stiles. "You mean we should all probably invest in bulletproof underwear."
"I wouldn't aim for your ass, I like it too much," Stiles snaps. "I'd do you the honour of aiming for something much less attractive, like your face."
"I appreciate your professionalism," Derek says dryly. "Look, I know this is frustrating. Just bury yourself in paperwork, ride it out." He slips on his jacket and starts back for the office. "Oh hey," he says, turning back, "here's something, I need a list of anyone that could go undercover at the pageant. Think you're up to it?"
"Listmakers are the real heroes of America," Stiles says, smiling his most obnoxiously fake smile, just for Derek. He adds a double thumbs up for extra effect.
"By the end of tomorrow," Derek calls over his shoulder.
Stiles flips him the bird.
—
The Mister United States Pageant is a relatively new competition. It's only in its fourth year, and it's got a fraction of the funding and popularity that the pageants for the ladies have, but it's the target the Citizen's latest riddle revealed and so that is where Stiles' research takes him.
He spends a few hours that afternoon poring over case notes. Not the Citizen notes, he pretty much knows everything there is to know about the Citizen—compiled a lot of the information himself—but he never knew the swimsuit preliminary at the pageant counted for fifteen percent of the contestants’ final scores. It’s fascinating, in a kind of grotesque, pathetic way, and the next morning he’s actually really into the idea of trawling through the FBI personnel files.
He's even planned a little extra something-something to help speed things along. To be honest, he's worked with most of these people for years, and he finds it impossible to imagine what they look like outside of work clothes, ie. ill-fitting suits. So maybe he delves a little deeper into the personnel files than he was supposed to. And possibly he borrows the files featuring the scans of the 3D profiles that every member of the FBI has at the beginning of the year for security purposes. And probably he messes with some code and uploads some of his own files and manages to find a way to have a little fun, ie. import a bunch of different CGI 'outfits' and play with his colleagues like Barbies.
It's important work.
He starts with Matt Daehler.
As soon as the 360 degree CGI rendering of Matt's body appears, Stiles is reminded of why he hates him. He's only worked with him on a couple of ops, but he spent the entire time feeling very uneasy.
He’s just forced himself to click through to the swimsuit option (oh god why, at any other time he wouldn't complain too hard about the pageant's objectification-heavy judging criteria, but oh god why) when he hears a wolf-whistle from behind him.
"Damn, Stilinski," Erica says, eyes glued to the screen. She perches on his desk, her hand drifting slowly towards his computer. "Porn at work, that’s pretty brazen."
Cora snorts. "Could’ve picked better subject matter, though. How did I know you’d be into twink-on-twink."
"Excuse me," Stiles says, snatching the mouse back from Erica, "I’m working. And why have you even put thought into my sexual preferences, I feel violated."
"You wish," Erica mutters.
"I’ve put thought into everyone’s preferences," Cora tells him, looking at him like he’s the crazy one. "I’m a spy, Stiles."
"Hey, can I see the tux?" Erica reaches out for the mouse again, pouting when Stiles refuses. "I’ll tell on you to Derek."
"I’m working!" Off her dubious look he adds, "I’m looking for male agents under thirty to go undercover at the Mister America Pageant."
"And he's your first choice?" Cora wrinkles her nose, leaning in to scan Matt's file.
"He's one of many. There's the others." Stiles gestures to the printout of the huge list, trying not to glare at it too much. He turns back to Cora. "I know why I don't like him, why don't you like him? I don't think Derek will accept 'creepy vibe' as a legit argument."
She grunts noncommittally.
Helpful.
Erica finally gets hold of the mouse and starts clicking through tabs, cycling between swimwear, evening wear and the superhero costumes Stiles added just for kicks. "He's not bad. A little slimy-looking, I agree, kind of weaselly. He's got great eyes though, and a decent ass."
Stiles pulls a face, leaning in. 'Decent' is being way too kind. Stiles didn't even know Erica was capable of being so kind.
"Uhhhh you got a little problem," Cora says. She points to a section of text in Matt's file, and Stiles grins victoriously when he sees STATUS: ON LEAVE DUE TO DIVING ACCIDENT.
"What a shame!" he says gleefully, grabbing a pen and crossing his name out with a flourish. "We shall never recover from this tragedy!"
"Pity." Erica rotates CGI Matt one last time, lingering on his ass, before turning to Stiles and pulling the portfolio into her lap. "Who else do you have?"
Which prompts over two hours of trawling through the personnel files of potential agents, all of whom are vetoed for some reason. At one point Stiles needs a break and leaves to get a coffee, only to come back to hysterical laughter and a rendering of Agent Harris in a tiny Speedo.
"Oh my God!" Stiles dives for the computer, but he knows that it won't matter how quickly he erases it. That image is going to haunt his dreams for a long time to come.
"Ooh, I've got a good one," Erica says, rubbing her hands together, and before Stiles knows it a picture of his dad, mercifully in boardshorts, appears.
"Ew gross Erica, he's like my dad," Cora complains, wrinkling her nose. Stiles lets out an indignant noise because how does she think he feels, but apparently he's ceased to exist because neither of them pay him any attention, instead cycling through the clothing options and landing on formal wear. Cora raises what looks like an impressed eyebrow. "Okay, yeah, but he does look excellent in a tux, I'm not gonna lie."
Stiles groans. "I'm incredibly uncomfortable right now."
"Aw, jealous your old man looks better than you do?" Erica coos, although she still hasn't taken her eyes off his dad, now in a Batman costume. (Stiles was very thorough with his outfit options. It's something he takes great pride in.)
"Oh now that's an idea," Cora says. She turns to him, eyeing him up and down, and if Stiles thought he was uncomfortable before it's got nothing on now. She looks at Erica, who grins back. Erica's blood-red nail hovers over the 'S' on the keyboard, and that's when Stiles finally realises what's about to happen.
It's just too bad for him that he has never once beaten Cora in hand-to-hand combat. She easily holds him off while Erica does her thing and when Cora finally lets him out of the headlock there's his pale, unique specimen of a body up on the screen. Stiles cringes, waiting for the backlash…
But it never comes.
"Not bad Stilinski," Cora says.
He squints open one eye. "Huh?"
"Great shoulders," Erica agrees. "Cute happy trail, decent thighs, and the decider—" She spins CGI Stiles, mercifully not in a Speedo but still in some short boardshorts, and lets out an impressed-sounding breath. "Yeah I've decided, it's you."
"Wait." Cora leans in closer to the real, human him, getting way too close and wrapping a hand around his bicep, squeezing it. She nods. "You got my blessing."
"Okay guys as flattering as that is—I think?—I cannot do this. I'm suspended, remember? Also, I'm me," he points out, because he's not sure how they could have forgotten. "Stiles. Stiles is not a beauty queen. There has to be someone else, because Stiles does not do graceful and poised and glamorous, Stiles does hyperactive and flailing and unkempt. Which, for the record, Stiles sees absolutely no problem with, thanks very much."
Cora rolls her eyes, but her expression is much softer than before, which is all kinds of scary.
Stiles gulps.
"Stiles," she says sternly, "you know there's no-one else."
"Help us, Stiles Stilinski," Erica adds. "You're our only hope."
Stiles glares at her. She's playing so dirty right now. "Low blow, Reyes."
She grins. "Gotta work with what you got."
—
After managing to successfully avoid Derek all day, Stiles is finally caught by him at their local bar after work. He's halfway through a beer, halfheartedly watching the game of basketball on the screen above the bar when he feels someone drop down onto the stool next to him. He doesn't even have to look up to know that it's Derek. He always knows when Derek's around, it's like a sixth sense.
Also, Derek wears way too much cologne and you can pretty much smell him from a mile away.
In an unsurprising twist, Derek is quiet for a long time, just sipping on his beer and breathing next to him. He seems to be waiting for Stiles to make the first move, but Stiles is employing all of his admittedly limited restraint. If Derek wants a conversation about this, he can be the one to start it.
Eventually, Derek drains his glass and clears his throat. "My sister says you—"
"No freakin' way."
"Stiles—"
"Are you honestly serious about this? Me, in a beauty contest. Me." He waves his arms around, gesturing to the general complete Stiles-package. He's not the ugliest bro in the toolbox, but he's hardly the ideal candidate for a competition where the standard is bronzed, buff babes. He'd thought that was obvious to pretty much everyone.
"I hear they're called scholarship programs now," Derek comments.
"Why don't you just do it then?" Stiles shoots back. "Other the fact that you look, like, forty five, you'd fit right in."
Derek's response is immediate. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"First, imagine me in the interview segment—which I saw in your report makes up thirty percent of the final score." Derek raises both eyebrows and Stiles cringes. Yeah, that… would probably be unwise. "Second, I'm in charge and your dad already approved you for this. You're going undercover whether you like it or not."
Shit. If his dad already agreed, that's it. Stiles is doomed. "Oh my god, he's totally punishing me, isn't he."
"Stiles, believe it or not, I had to talk him into this. He's still beyond pissed about Greenberg."
Stiles remains unconvinced. "Talk, really? You?"
Derek's mouth twitches and he quickly looks down at the bar top. "My eyebrows can be very beseeching."
Stiles snorts. "So, okay. Say I do this. How exactly am I supposed to do it? I have no idea what I'm doing! And neither do you!"
"That's why we're getting help." Derek levers himself up from the stool, offering a hand to Stiles.
Stiles hesitates, but he takes Derek's hand, and lets Derek help him up.
—
Ms Lydia Martin is the pinnacle of ethereal strawberry blonde beauty. She's stunning, ravishing and disdainful and glamorous and just generally exceptional, perched in her seat at the prime table of this ridiculously extravagant restaurant like it's her throne. She also takes one look at Stiles and calls for the cheque.
Stiles is half in love with her immediately.
"Ms Martin," Derek says, hushed and urgent, leaning over the table but careful not to intrude on her personal space, like he always does with people he respects. Stiles would complain that Derek never does that with him, but that would be a lie, because Derek touching him is one of his favourite things, so. "Please reconsider," he pleads. "This is a matter of utmost importance."
Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek also tends to slip into the most melodramatic phrasing when he's under pressure and/or feeling stressed. "Seriously, dude—" he starts, but Ms Martin's glare cuts him off immediately.
"Agent Hale," she says, her voice politely quiet, but at the same time super frosty, like beyond biting, "you are Agent Stilinski's superior, are you not?"
Derek looks caught. "Yes…" He very carefully keeps his gaze on Ms Martin but never looks directly into her eyes, like she's some sort of vicious wild animal.
Stiles tries not to find this as hilarious as he does, but it's a bit impossible considering he's seen Derek face several of the deadliest members of the Russian mafia looking much less worried than this.
But then Lydia turns her icy gaze on Stiles, and suddenly nothing has ever been less funny. He tamps down on the urge to shiver. "Then you, Mr Stilinski," she continues, "should most definitely be referring to Mr Hale as 'sir', should you not?"
Stiles shifts in his seat. "Yeah, but—"
"Yes," she says sharply.
"Yeah," he agrees, not entirely sure what he's agreeing to exactly. He feels like it's a matter of self-preservation at this point.
"No, it's yes."
"Uh…" Stiles chances a glance at Derek, who's looking just as confused as Stiles feels. "Um…"
Ms Martin sighs. "When addressing another person in polite company, particularly someone who is of a higher ranking than you, it is always 'yes', not 'yeah'."
Stiles swallows. He can't even blame Derek for practically running away less than thirty seconds later with a totally bogus excuse, leaving him to face Ms Martin's wrath alone.
—
"There's no way you're going to be ready in two days," Ms Martin says bluntly.
Stiles snorts, before he remembers that that's probably against the rules. He sits up in his seat and tries to remember what his dad used to whisper to him when he was a kid, in the few minutes it would take Grandpa Stilinski to get from the car outside and into the house, where little five-year-old Stiles would be awkwardly waiting—back straight, direct eye contact, firm handshake, voice assured, no elbows on the table.
"Look," he says, and his voice cracks. He's suddenly really nervous about this. Maybe it's finally sunk in that this is probably his last chance with the Bureau. If he screws up again, he'll be doing paperwork for the rest of eternity, Stilinski name or not. He tries again. "Listen, Ms Martin. I'm not trying to belittle what you do, I'm sure you're an awesome… uh…" Shit, what exactly does she do? Derek never got that far, Stiles was too busy whining and Derek was too busy rolling his eyes.
"Pageant consultant," she supplies, after letting him flounder for much longer than necessary. Just as well Stiles is very familiar with, and greatly admires, the superior air she's giving off.
"Yeah— I mean, yes, that. And I understand we're expecting some kinda miracle. But this could literally mean life or death. If we had any other option, I promise you we wouldn't be here right now begging for your help."
Ms Martin taps one perfect, shiny pink fingernail against the thick tablecloth. "Begging," she says eventually.
Stiles somehow manages to hold in his triumphant grin. Fuck yeah, crisis number 7834 averted, point to Stiles Stilinski, no points at all for Derek Hale, who retreated like a coward. "I could you know. I could get on my knees, or swing from that super ugly chandelier, if you prefer. Serenade you. Kiss your feet?"
"That chandelier took a Murano artisan three months to create by hand and is worth fifty thousand dollars," she says. But her expression softens a little bit. "And I'm wearing peep-toes today, so you had better not."
Stiles has no idea what any of that means.
Ms Martin can obviously tell. She sighs.
They talk a little more, mostly about Stiles' ineptitude (how he talks, walks, stands, sits, eats and breathes are all problematic, apparently) and Stiles can't help but think he must have a serious problem, because the more time he spends with Lydia (yeah, he has permission to use her first name now, another point for Stiles), the more he likes her. Why does he always do this himself? How does he attract so many obnoxious evil people? Some people (Derek, his dad, Derek, every teacher or superior he's ever had, Derek) might blame it on his own unique blend of obnoxiousness and masochism, but Stiles doesn't feel comfortable with diagnosing the issue just yet.
"So what's the verdict, doc? Can you fix me?" Stiles asks finally.
Lydia sniffs. She glances down at the neat list she's been keeping of all the work they'd have to do. She flips idly through the four pages, tapping her fountain pen on the table. "I can try," she decides eventually. "Since it's for such a good cause."
Stiles grins. "God bless America."
—
"So how did we manage to clear this with the pageant peeps, anyway?" Stiles asks Derek. They're sitting opposite one another on an FBI-sourced private jet, heading directly for Texas, where the pageant is being held. Cora and Erica are talking quietly few seats down, while Lydia is getting her beauty sleep at the other end of the plane. Stiles won't be getting any sleep for the next few nights, and neither will Derek—while Stiles has been watching coverage of previous Mister United States pageants for hours (which totally hasn't decimated his already waning confidence, no siree, he's completely fine with how obviously he is not ready to spend so many hours with these dudes, let alone compete with them), Derek has been reviewing pile after pile of paperwork, reorganising and highlighting and rereading things over and over. Stiles is admittedly relieved to see that a) Derek definitely has his back and b) he isn't the only one freaking out about this mission, but his eyes are hurting and Derek keeps yawning every ten seconds and it's very obvious that they both need a break.
Derek blinks, rousing himself out of his stupor. Stiles offers him his bag of Reese's Pieces, which he eyes warily before taking a handful and popping one daintily in his mouth. "What do you mean?" he asks tiredly.
"Like, for real, what about the dude whose spot I'm taking, the real New Jersey contestant? What happened to him?"
Derek grimaces. "You sure you wanna know?"
"Oh my God!" Stiles nigh on shrieks. Erica looks over with a raised eyebrow, so he leans in and lowers his voice. "Did the Bureau… take him out?"
"Stiles."
"Like, for real? We…" He draws his finger slowly across his throat, bugging his eyes out and poking out his tongue in what is probably the most attractively-mimed assassination Derek has ever seen.
Or not, because Derek grabs his wrists and pulls them down, hard, intention to hurt and/or maim one hundred fucking percent present, damn.
"Ah-ahh-ow!" Stiles whines, wrenching back, shaking his arms out. "What was that?"
"We didn't kill him Stiles, god." He sifts through one of his files and passes a printout to Stiles. "We didn't have to."
Stiles blinks at the page, turning it upside down before realising—
"Oh my god!" He squints at it, turns it around again. "Is that his—"
"His twin, yes. And that's just part of the free content on the website."
It's almost gross enough to render Stiles speechless, to let his scrunched up grossed out face do the talking for him. Almost. "It definitely gives a whole new meaning to the term 'brofist'," he gets out, shivering in horror.
Derek snorts and gently prises Stiles' hands off the photo. "Now you understand why no-one really objected."
"I do." He sits back in his seat, considering. "Well, I have to be better than twincest guy, surely. I don't have a creepy doppelganger and I've never done porn. And I guess I do have a certain appeal with those who enjoy entertaining nights spent lounging by a hearty fire, sipping on a glass of milk and discussing the biblical themes inherent in Mass Effect 3."
"Sounds just like the pageant's target audience," Derek says.
Stiles dumps the rest of his Reese's Pieces down Derek's shirt and goes directly back to his laptop, turning up the volume and pretending he can't hear Derek cursing, or see Derek's ridiculous chest as he shakes out his shirt.
—
They land. Stiles isn't really paying attention to where they're going, too busy responding to a text from his dad, so he lets himself be corralled by Derek and Lydia.
It's a mistake.
By the time he realises it's a trap it's too late, the door to the aeroplane hangar is being heaved shut with an ominous clunk, and Derek, Erica and Cora have completely surrounded him.
Stiles gulps. "What's—"
And then he spots a group of people hovering nearby, watching him expectantly, brandishing all sorts of like… scissors and tweezers and brushes and oh god he knows what this is now, abort mission, how the fuck did he become the Admiral Ackbar in this scenario?! "Woah woah woah, no one said anything about a makeover montage!"
"Oh Stiles," Lydia says, examining her nails boredly from a few feet away. She's standing next to a recliner that kind of looks like a dentist's chair, padded and high-backed and a lot more scary in this context than it ever was in Doctor Choi's office. "Whatever made you think you wouldn't need one?"
"Derek!" He turns to face him, but Derek doesn't even look the slightest bit sympathetic. He kind of actually mostly looks… smug, that bastard. "Save me! Dark times are upon us!"
Derek shrugs. "This is for your own good."
And then Cora and Erica are dragging him to the chair, strapping him down, and all he can do is endure the longest four hours of his life.
—
It is Stiles' most fervent wish that he can one day forget the horrors he endures in that hangar. Perhaps one day, he'll be able to look at another plane and not experience intense flashbacks, but that day is far off in the future.
He's in the bathroom, whimpering to himself, carefully rubbing ointment over his—now hairless—chest when there's a knock on the door. Stiles yelps and yanks his robe tighter around himself, smearing the ointment everywhere. "Occupied!" he yells hoarsely.
"I know that, idiot, that's why I knocked," comes Derek's voice. "Can I come in? I need to give you your gear."
Stiles glances at himself in the mirror. As well as the robe, his face is grey and stiff because of some kind of clay face mask, and he's got a bright yellow shower cap over his hair as it does… something, he wasn't exactly listening the hair dude. He was too distracted by the distant sound of a thousand screams, released all at once by the hair follicles on his upper thighs and groin as they were wrenched away from his body, the body that has been their only home for the past twenty seven years.
Yeah. They even went there. All the way up there.
He shivers again. There's probably no point in putting Derek off. "Sure," he mutters. Why not add to his humiliation.
He unlocks the door and Derek slips in, looking perfect, of course, in his imperfections—the dark circles under his eyes, crumpled shirt and rumpled hair look good on him. Distinguished and accomplished. Ugh.
Stiles hates him. Especially since, upon seeing Stiles, the first thing he does is let out a bark of laughter which he turns gracelessly into a cough. He clears his throat, leaning against the sink. "Interesting new look."
"And it's probably still more attractive than most of my competition," Stiles says. He does a mock curtsey, and on the way up he can feel the robe gaping at his collar so he hurries to tug it closed and pull the belt tighter.
Derek's gaze dips down only for a second before he seems to remember why he's here, brandishing a small armoured suitcase. "Your gear," he explains, sliding the suitcase onto the bench and thumbing it open. "Earpiece, pin camera, phone, smart watch. They're all synced and networked with our equipment."
Stiles nods. The equipment is familiar, he's used it all before, but he gives it a cursory once-over before reaching for his new ID papers tucked into the lid. He opens them up and— "Miles Bilinski? Really?"
Derek shrugs, his poker face impeccable. "It has a nice ring to it, right?"
Stiles glares at him. "I think all this power has gone to your head."
"That's where it's supposed to be," Derek says calmly.
Stiles rolls his eyes. There's a pause. Stiles taps his fingers against the side of the suitcase. "Soooo… is that it?"
Derek jolts, glancing up from… wherever, nodding and stepping back. "Yeah, yeah. That's… make sure you familiarise yourself with everything, we're due at the pageant at 0800." He tilts his head, stops with his hand on the door handle. "You can do this, right?"
"Dude," Stiles says. He gestures to his person, to his freakishly hairless body and shiny toenails and shower-capped hair. "I mean…"
"Yeah," Derek says, smirking. "Okay."
—
Stiles can admit, his weird patchy beard was probably getting a bit much. The thing is, he's had it for so long now that he's kind of fond of it, and also shaving is the bane of his existence. Derek hates it too, he knows, and that's why he's never said anything about it, but Stiles can tell he only barely tolerates Stiles' beard—maybe because while Derek's stubble looks artful and statuesque, Stiles' just makes him look grubby and homeless.
It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters as Stiles is forced to watch mournfully as his face is slowly removed of hair, the barber on staff shaving him with an actual straight razor (and Stiles wonders why any civilian is allowed to have a razor that close to an FBI agent's jugular). He doesn't have any time to recover from the trauma before he's shoved into another chair, where his hair is cut and styled, his eyebrows trimmed and eyelashes combed.Then he's guided over to a rack of suits. Lydia's standing by them, thoughtfully pulling them out then hanging them back up after some kind of assessment on her part.
Stiles has no idea what she's looking for. They literally all look the same.
"So…" he says awkwardly.
Lydia finally turns to him. And then, astonishingly, somehow, the corners of her mouth tilt up into a pleased little smile. "God, I'm good," she murmurs.
Stiles is stunned. "I am stunned," he says. "Was that a compliment?"
"I was complimenting myself," she says distractedly, then turns to the rack behind her and grabs a pair of black slacks and a crisp white shirt. "Put these on. Tuck in the shirt. Wear these too." She adds a pair of shiny brown shoes to the pile in his arms.
"Uh…" Stiles glances pointedly around the hangar, where there are still at least a dozen people milling around.
Lydia sighs. "Stiles. A team of five just waxed your ass. You can get changed where you are."
Well. She has a point. As quickly as he can, Stiles slips out of the robe and drapes it over the end of the nearest clothes rack, reaching for the shirt first. It covers enough of his body for him to relax, and he carefully does up the buttons. He goes to do up the cuffs too but Lydia shakes her head.
"Roll them up. Neatly," she adds quickly.
Stiles folds each sleeve over three times, ending at his elbow, before pulling on the pants. He's just doing up the fly when Derek appears from behind Lydia, concentrating on a printout.
"Oh, Derek!" she calls, despite Stiles' very obvious hand gestures indicating to her that he would very much like this to not be happening. "We're almost done. What do you think?"
"I think I—" He glances up. He double takes. He stops short. "I just…" He steps closer, falteringly. "Moles!" he blurts.
"What?" Stiles asks, hand self-consciously rising to his face.
"You have them," Derek says inanely. "Lots of them."
Stiles sighs, despite the blotchy ruddiness he can already feel forming on his cheeks. "I know dude, but I can't really—"
"No, I'm not— it's… they're…"
"'Charming', is I think the word Derek's looking for," says Lydia smoothly.
Stiles snorts. "Yeah, sure." He turns back to Derek, who's still kind of staring. "Dude, you okay?"
"Yeah I'm… it's fine," Derek says jerkily, taking rapid steps backwards. "I'm fine, get back to work. We've wasted enough time already."
Stiles rolls his eyes, snapping an obnoxious salute at him, but Derek just frowns and whirls around, stalking to the other side of the hangar. "Loser," Stiles mutters, not at all fondly.
"So," Lydia says, sounding disinterested in a way that makes it clear she's actually very interested. "Is that the first time Derek's seen you looking presentable?"
Stiles shrugs. "I mean, I guess? He transferred to our branch like just over a year ago and I've probably had the beard since before then, so yeah, probably."
"Hmm," Lydia says, staring after Derek. Then she straightens suddenly, eyes snapping back to Stiles, evaluating. "Put on the shoes and meet me outside in five minutes. We have a plane to catch."
"Cool, yeah— yes," Stiles says, watching her stride away.
He takes a deep breath.
No turning back now.
—