laniew1: (SHIELD - Avengers)
[personal profile] laniew1
Summary: Stiles goes to college and accidentally gets hired by SHIELD.

TITLE: Stiles Stilinski: Agent of SHIELD
RATING: PG-13 (for now)
PAIRING: Gen – but Stiles/Clint (eventually)
AUTHOR: Melanie
Summary: Stiles goes to college and accidentally gets hired by SHIELD.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing Marvel, MTV, etc own everything but the idea to mesh them..

Stiles Stilinski, Agent of Shield 21/?

Crawford arrives in a rental car that looks like he went off-roading and two bags filled with books and papers.

“Did you bring any clothes?” Stiles asks as he watches him unload the contents of his luggage onto his dads dining room table.

“Carry-on bag,” Crawford looks up at him, “you do have a washer and dryer, right?”

“No, I’m going to make you go to the nearest stream and beat your clothes against rocks,” Stiles rolls his eyes. He picks up a book on the table, then another.

“This doesn’t look what we were working on when I left,” he says.

Crawford winces and doesn’t make eye contact with him.

“After they found Micheline’s body Agent Coulson shifted our focus from the journals on A’kresh, to journals and papers focusing on witch hunting.”

Stiles sighs, they’re going to wrap him up in bubble wrap and tissue paper and shove him into the nearest locked room when this is all over. He can feel it in his bone.

If even remnants of his vision come true… but no, that’s why he’s brought Crawford here. He didn’t see Crawford, so the fact that Crawford is here, that something didn’t stop Crawford from coming…

Well hopefully that means that whatever is going on right now isn’t going to end up the way his vision ended up.


“So where are we supposed to eat?” his dad asks when he comes in and sees the books and papers strewn out over the dining room table.

“We can set table trays up in the living room,” Stiles murmurs absently, he’s found a passage, all in English documenting a hunter (Anthony, last name not first) in 1847 and his search for witches. There doesn’t seem to be any underlying reason for his hunt, just that it’s his purpose and he doesn’t fail.

He’s only about 75 pages in and he’s already killed seven witches. He actually states in a rambling two page entry about how two of the witches were white but how he killed them anyway because all it takes is one bad decision and all witches go if not gray then dark.

There are also ramblings on god and his service to god and how god will make sure he’s not punished for killing white witches.

“I think I need to talk to Mr. Argent about their screening process for Hunters,” Stiles says.

“Some of them not dealing with a full bucket of screws?” his dad asks, he’s thumbing through a journal that Crawford had left open on the table.

“Some of them have decided to use those screws as torture implements instead of, you know, sanity.”

His father huffs a laugh, “what are you actually looking for?” he asks. He leans against the back of Stiles’ chair.

“Witches, and some mention of covens,” Crawford says. “It seems to be…” he trails off when he looks up and sees Stiles’ wide eyes, mouthing no, over and over again. “It’s just interesting,” he finishes. It sounds kind of lame even to Stiles’ ears.

He knows that his father, who has spent years dedicated to ferreting the truth out of Stiles and his tall tales, isn’t going to buy it.

“What do you want to know about covens?” he asks, he leans over Stiles’ shoulder and picks up a book, glances at the spine, makes a face and puts it back down.

“Um, anything,” Stiles says, he’s kind of surprised that his dads’ not pushing Crawford. Crawford’s got a gooey center; he’d cave if his dad pushed even just a little bit.

“Coven’s don’t really exist anymore,” his dad says, he’s got his lecture voice on.

“I thought covens didn’t exist at all,” Crawford says, “isn’t that what one of the wolves said?”

“There hasn’t been a real, active, stable coven since the last 1700’s,” his dad rubs a hand over his mouth. “And all the stable ones have been white; dark and gray witches don’t tend to get along with each other long enough to form the bonds of a stable one.”

“Because there’s a transfer of power,” Stiles says softly. He remembers being in the circle with the others, the way everyone’s power kind of moved on to the next person, then the next, linking them all together.

“Exactly,” his father looks proud of him for sussing it out, Stiles feels a tiny bit of shame for not actually telling his dad that he was part of a cleansing and thus has some firsthand knowledge.

“And dark witches, even gray witches, they hoard their power. They definitely don’t enter into anything that means that someone else would be able to access it,” his dad says, he stacks a few books and clears a spot to sit down.

“I wish your nana was here, she was a fount of information when it came to covens,” his dad steeples his hand.

“Well unless you know a resurrection spell that doesn’t end with someone going gray…” Stiles shakes his head, his father laughs a little.

“Your books,” he waves a hand at the stacks of them on the table. “They’re not going to tell you anything about covens, or witches, or well anything supernatural.”

Stiles looks at him in askance, they’ve gleaned quite a bit of information from the books.

“They’re all written by Hunters, or by people just generally associated with whatever element of the supernatural they’ve declared their specialty. They don’t know the ins and outs of the actual community, just what the community allows to be shown to outsiders.”

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly, he shuts the book that he’d been going through and stares at his father, his father in turn doesn’t meet his eyes.

“There’s a lot of white witches,” Crawford says, “why isn’t there a coven?”

His father rubs a hand over his mouth, Stiles narrows his eyes, he looks pale.

“Because every time one is formed they get picked off by hunters within days of forming. Hunters don’t like or trust in anything that has more power than they can actively control. A coven of witches, a stable one is a council of power to others. Their theory, from what I remember is that even white witches are able to be tempted and that it is very easy to turn a white witch gray or black under the right circumstances and they were doing the world a favor by not allowing one into existence. The last coven that was stable, stayed white and also managed to stay alive for any considerable length of time was in 1713. And they were all murdered.”


“I don’t like this,” Crawford says, Stiles has put his father to bed with a wet washcloth over his forehead and two Excedrin.

“What’s not to like?” Stiles asks, he shrugs into his jacket. “It’s fine, I just want to ask Mr. Argent a few questions.”

Crawford sighs, then holds out his hand. “Don’t forget to put your comm. in.”

Stiles sighs this time, though he takes the comm. from Crawford’s hand. “We’re not in range, why…?”

“Agent Coulson said comms in. Agent Coulson says comms in, I put my comm. in and I force you to do the same.”

Crawford crosses his arms over his chest and glares, like Stiles is trying to make his life difficult or something.

“Fine, fine,” he puts the comm. in and feels just a little bit like an idiot.


He loves his jeep; he misses her when he’s in the city though he knows he would have killed people several times over if he had to actually drive in the city. Plus he spends 98% of his time on the Helicarrier, he’d have to leave her in a parking garage somewhere and that’s just not fair to her.

But when he’s in Beacon Hills he can drive her and cajole her into continuing to run and ‘don’t you even think about dying out here young lady’.

He’s not looking forward to this conversation with Argent, Allison might be a member of the pack by virtue of her relationship (on and off again as it might be) with Scott. But her dads’ ties to the pack are definitely not as tight; he sides with them mostly because they don’t harm anyone, they defend their territory and they protect as needed.

He rings the doorbell and then taps on the door. He doesn’t see Allison’s car but that’s her dads’ peaking around the corner of the garage.

Chris opens the door and he looks, there’s a weird expression on his face that Stiles would maybe call panic, with a hint of fear. But Chris Argent hadn’t shown panic or fear when they were staring down Peter when he was the crazy, murderous Alpha, or when they were facing down his father and Jackson still in his Kanima form, or even when they faced down the Alpha Pack and sent the ones that survived scurrying away with their tales between their legs.

“You can’t be here,” he says, there’s a tone of urgency in his voice and he doesn’t open the door to grudgingly let Stiles in, instead he steps out on the porch and takes Stiles firmly by the arm and starts propelling him towards his jeep.

“I wanted to ask you about…” he starts to say, Chris squeezes his arm and there’s the distinctive click of a safety being turned off and he stops, Chris stops.

He would like to say his heart stops but it’s beating frantically as he turns slowly, Chris still has a grip on his arm and he’s going to leave a bruise, he’s sure of this.

“Harrison don’t do this,” Chris says, he’s tugging on Stiles’ arm, pulling him behind him and Stiles would pitch his normal bitchfest but there’s another guy with a gun, a girl with a gun and there’s just a lot of people with guns and they’re all pointed at them and…

Having Crawford here was supposed to stop this. It had been the whole reason that he told Crawford to come, Crawford hadn’t been in the vision, if Crawford showed then it wasn’t time for him and his dad to be tied up and bleeding, if Crawford didn’t show then he took his dad and ran.

“Chris, Chris, Chris,” the one that Chris must have noticed first off says. He’s an older gentleman, gray, receding hair. He looks like a grandpa but then Gerard had looked like a grandpa and he’d cut werewolves in half and beat Stiles up in front of Erica and Boyd.

“He’s just a kid,” Chris says, he sounds desperate. “He’s a kid and a friend of my daughters and don’t do this.”

“I notice you didn’t say, and he’s a witch,” Harrison says, he makes a motion with his head and two guys with guns come forward and physically shift Chris out from in front of him.

He stands there and Stiles shifts on his feet, his flight and fight reflex is screaming at him to run. Run like werewolves and vampires and demons from hell are chasing you!

“And you must be our little witch,” he looks him up and down, grips his face in his hands and twists his head back and forth.

“Are you going to check my teeth next? I’m not some breeding stud,” asshole, is not said but firmly implied.

“As if I would breed your impure bloodline,” Harrison sneers. “Take them inside, put the boy in the cellar while Chris and I have a little chat.”

Stiles’ arms get gripped by two goons with guns and he’s all but dragged toward the front door, a glance to the right shows Chris putting up a struggle as two do the same to him.

He would struggle but at the moment is mind is a little too busy trying to come up with a way out.

Any way out that doesn’t turn into a direct replica of his vision. He’s not ready for that. Not yet, he’s not had enough time.

He’s not had enough time with Clint or with his dad now that the air is clean and clear between them.

He’s not had enough time.



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September 2016


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