#but putting it on paper is much more difficult to comit to

[ganondoodle]

been feeling under the weather for a long time now, for some reason i keep having ideas and stuff i rly wanna make a sketch of when im at work but when im free im just getting tired and demotivated to hell ...

i know the whole totk rewritten thing isnt the most interesting but its the thing i need the most concepts for still so .... if anyone wants to see something in particular as a concept sketch, pls do tell me qwq

[nivalvixen]

Framed, pt 4

Also on AO3

"Mr. Stilinski, a word before you start your day," Rafe said, practically standing in front of Stiles so he couldn't go inside the room. "Won't be a minute, Sean," he added to Stiles' instructor over his shoulder.

Sean nodded, though Stiles wondered if he looked a little too pleased that he was going to be delayed. He held the strap of his messenger bag a little tighter as he followed Agent McBastard down the corridor to the empty lunch room.

"I passed on your message; Scott says hi. Can I go?"

"Look, we both know that Derek didn't murder all of those people."

Rafe's words stopped Stiles short and he looked at him, suspicious, but not stupid enough to answer and incriminate himself.

"I looked for Miguel Juarez Cinqua Tiago when I got back to San Francisco, Stiles. As you probably know, I didn't find a thing about him. What I did find were pictures of Derek Hale. Don't look surprised; the FBI have access to more databases than you will ever know about. I found pictures of Hale soon after the fire that killed his family, and guess who he bore a striking resemblance to?"

Stiles gulped. "Uh... My cousin?"

Rafe's expression turned stern. "Don't play games with me, Stilinski. I will win."

"What's the prize? Hell, what's the damn game?" Stiles snapped.

Stiles was so angry that he didn't even notice that his messenger bag strap was melting in his his hand. The thought of Derek being used as a pawn in Agent Dickbag's shitty little game was enough to make him feel sick and so very angry.

Derek was more than a pawn, more than a king, more than anything to be used like this, and Agent Wanker had no idea what he was doing by putting Derek's life in harm's way.

"You've put a man's life in jeopardy again because you can't grow a pair and talk to your own son, is that it?! Either talk to Scott or don't, but stop fucking around like this! And stop hurting Derek!" Stiles said, his voice loud.

"Stiles, calm down. I'm not - " Rafe started to say, but Stiles put a hand up to stop him from coming any closer, and the agent was thrown clear across the lunchroom, crashing into a table and several chairs.

Stiles' eyes went wide. "Holy shit." He looked from Rafe to his hand, then to his ruined messenger bag. He regretted the bag more than hurting Rafe, honestly.

Rafe groaned a little and stood up slowly. Stiles couldn't bring himself to move, but stayed at the other side of the room; he was still pretty pissed off, and even if knocking Rafe unconscious would make him feel better, it would probably mean an abrupt end to Stiles' time at the Academy.

Stiles wondered what Rafe was going to do; there was no way he could explain this rationally or lie or bluff his way out of it. He hadn't even touched Rafe, yet he'd gone flying.

Shit, shit, shit. He might as well go home now.

Rafe stood and straightened out his clothes, brushing himself off. He wiped at a spot of blood that had appeared at the side of his mouth, accidentally having bitten his lip when he landed. "Get to class, Stiles."

"W-what?" Stiles asked, surprised.

"Go to class. I want to talk to you at the end of the day, about that, and... Beacon Hills."

Stiles stood taller at his words and glared.

Agent McJerkface had spent one month in Beacon Hills and suddenly, two years later, he's decided that he wants more information?! Stiles was beginning to doubt he'd ever got into the FBI on his own merit, only because Agent McShit was too scared to do a damn thing for himself. It was a thought he didn't want to dwell on for too long, and he had to remind himself that he was in the FBI, he belonged here now.

"Why don't you look for that in those databases you mentioned?" Stiles sneered, leaving to go to his class.

Along the way, he held the two broken straps of his bag and believed that they would mend. It ended up being crooked as his emotions were still a little over the place, but it was better than nothing.

Rafe sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Nice one, Rafe," he muttered to himself. He looked up to the camera in the corner of the lunch room and headed to security. At least he could deal with that in a professional manner.

...

"What are you focusing on, Stilinski? You've barely said a word in an hour; didn't think you could be so quiet."

Stiles looked up at the other recruit, blinking at the sudden adjustment from black text and white paper to bright fluorescent lights and white washed walls. "Uh. Sorry?" he said, realising that it was the woman he'd accidentally spat on on his first day.

She didn't seem offended that he obviously didn't remember her name. "Tomika Jones. If you shorten my name to Tom, I will kick your ass during every sparring session we've got."

Stiles grinned and tried not to laugh too obviously. "Not a problem, Jones. Do I dare ask if you have a cat?"

Tomika rolled her eyes at him. "Shut up. And hurry up, dammit, it's time for lunch. Think Agent McCall will be there again?"

Stiles shrugged. "Probably, he's gotta eat too."

Tomika adjusted her bag and frowned at him slightly. "You don't like him, do you?"

"You can tell?"

"You've got a tell on the side of your mouth. It's small, but obvious if you look hard enough."

"You've been looking at me?"

Tomika rolled her eyes. "You're my competition, of course I am. But don't flatter yourself, you're not my type."

"Who is your type?" Stiles asked, hoping to keep distracting Tomika from the fact that he hadn't answered her initial question.

"Well, do you have a sister?"

"No... Oh, got it. I have friends who have sisters. And some girl friends too, though... I think you with either of them might just be terrifying."

She grinned at him in response. "Now that's my type."

Stiles resolved to never let Tomika meet Cora or Lydia.

Agent McShitstain wasn't at lunch, much to the disappointment of the rest of Stiles' peers. Tomika didn't seem to mind as much as the others, drawing people into conversations instead. As Stiles listened and watched, he noticed that it wasn't just polite small talk; Tomika was gathering information from each person.

The questions were small things like how they liked the weather, what their favourite food was, how long their commute to Quantico took, but it gave surprisingly clear pictures of each of their peers and where they came from. More importantly, Stiles noted that Tomika never seemed to answer the questions herself.

Stiles wondered how much information she'd gathered from him so far, and just what she planned on doing with it.

...

It had been three days and Derek had only had small texts from Stiles with updates on what he was doing at the FBI and how his research was going, but very little about Derek's case with the supposed mass murders he'd comitted. Eventually, after unsuccessfully attempting to distract himself with a hot cup of tea and a book, Derek gave in and rang Stiles' number.

"'Lo?"

Derek looked at the time and winced. He'd forgotten about the time difference and while it was a Saturday, Derek still felt bad for waking Stiles up. "Sorry, Stiles. I'll call back later."

"Der'k? No, wait. 'S'good. Just... shit, one sec," Stiles groaned, sitting up with his body sore and aching and probably bruised from top to toe.

Tomika hadn't been kidding about kicking his ass during sparring (he'd called her Tom once by accident, honest!), and Stiles regretted not taking Coach up on extra training sessions for lacrosse over the summer. He was fast and while Stiles could dodge a fist (or a kanima's tail, or a Nogitsune's long fingers reaching out to him), Tomika was just as fast, and she had no qualms about using her full strength to hit him.

"Are you all right?" Derek asked, worried.

"Got my ass handed to me yesterday during sparring. I'm fine otherwise. Well, my pride and ego are hurt as well," Stiles admitted, standing up slowly and testing his limbs gingerly.

The spell and poultice he'd used to help reduce the pain and bruising had worked better than he expected, but they hadn't removed everything, just sped the process up somewhat. He was glad he wasn't blemish-free because that would be difficult to explain to every single person that had seen him get his ass beaten. (There were a lot; it seemed that watching the new recruits beat each other was something of a hobby for the other FBI agents.)

"You're only human."

"Yeah, well, so are they. I think. Tomika and Patrick might not be," he mused, frowning. "I meant to call you about the case yesterday, sorry, Der."

"That's all right," Derek said, more genuine than he expected. He sat down and sighed before asking, "Have you found anything of use, or should I start heading for the border?"

Stiles snorted. "Great, you wait until I leave to get a sense of humour."

Derek looked down at his feet and smiled.

"I haven't found out who's framing you, but I've excluded a few people. Argent's still pretty high on the list," Stiles said, looking to the string and notes he had tacked to one wall.

"Which one?"

"Both Gerard and Kate; they're tied for first in the world's shittiest competition, but, hey, what're you gonna do?" he said, trying for light-hearted and probably not coming across that way in the slightest. Stiles flexed his limbs, hoping to ease his muscles. "I'd frame an innocent person for your hands right now."

"What?"

"Y'know, your magic hands, with the healing thing you do."

"Oh. Right."

It took Stiles a second to realise exactly what he'd said and he wanted to smack himself on the head. "Uh. So... how's things in BH? That hellhound plan working out?"

"Scott and Lydia are dealing with it and the last I heard, Parrish was willing to use himself as bait or mediator, possibly both."

"Ah, good idea. So what've you been up to?"

Derek looked around the loft to the stack of books he'd read, the spotless kitchen he'd cleaned three times in the last two days, the duffel bag still unpacked by the front door. "Not a lot, honestly. I thought I'd be missed, I guess?" he said, scrunching his eyes shut at the admission.

"You were," Stiles replied, his voice soft but certain.

Derek opened his eyes and blinked a few times, trying to determine if Stiles had meant for him to hear that. "I missed you too, Stiles."

Stiles smiled. "Glad to hear it, sourwolf."

...

End of the fourth chapter.

Next parts: five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty