laniew1: (SHIELD - Avengers)
[personal profile] laniew1
Summary: Stiles is back home, everything and nothing is the same.

TITLE: SS:AOS: The Rise of A’kresh
SERIES: Stiles Stilinski: Agent of SHIELD
RATING: PG-13 (for now)
PAIRING: Stiles/Clint
AUTHOR: Melanie
Summary: Stiles is back home, everything and nothing is the same.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing Marvel, MTV, etc own everything but the idea to mesh them..

SS:AOS: The Rise of A’kresh 3/?

After Agent Barton’s fairly inappropriate request he waits. It’s not that he doesn’t want to make contact with the young man in question.

If the symbols etched into the restraints found on him are to be believed the young man is a witch. If nothing else he comes from a town where the supernatural elements seem to have free reign.

It’s just…

He’s been through hell and Crawford doesn’t want to add to that.

Doesn’t want to add to his own notebook full of questions to the pile already stacking up on the young man.

He rubs at his wrist, fingers scratching idly and if he doesn’t look, if he just glances down out of the corner of his eye very quickly, he swears sometimes he can see the faint markings of black ink. Can feel the phantom brush of it being marked onto his skin.

If he looks, if he presses his fingers there and really looks he can’t see anything. And the mark that he doesn’t have isn’t the only thing; he has dreams of an office where he doesn’t have a panic attacks just thinking about Agent Markoff’s desks and tables.

Instead he has dreams of the young man sitting at the desk, of filing cabinets stuffed full of papers just waiting to crush them when they’re unaware.

“Crawford,” he hears barked from the door and he fumbles his coffee mug and slams his knee into the open drawer on his desk as he comes to his feet.

“Sir,” he says and Director Fury sweeps into the room, it’s always so warm on the Helicarrier, he’s never sure why he wears the coat everywhere except for the fact that it makes a statement.

Director Fury’s eye sweeps the room.

“Agent Markoff is dead,” Director Fury says, short and to the point. Crawford opens his mouth to say something, ask a question, offer his condolences.

“They found him in at his desk about 0130,” Director Fury says and Crawford’s mouth snaps shut.

Because Agent Markoff was many things, but a workaholic was definitely not one of them. He popped into the office at about 0700 or a few minutes thereafter and was always gone no later than 1600. He was never, not in the entire time (1 year, 2 months, 14 days) that Crawford had worked with him found at any other time in the office.

Crawford doesn’t say any of that because Director Fury had hired the man and what if they’d been friends?

He likes his job, he doesn’t want to leave his job, even though this means that he’s going to have to figure out how to keep the office open and running until such a time as Stiles is in a position to come back.

He doesn’t say that either, because it makes him sound crazy.


Stiles shows up at the Hale house with a laptop, a bandaged wrapped around his hand and a notebook written in symbols and numbers that are incomprehensible at first look.

Peter only gets one brief look at it before Stiles shuffles it under some other stuff, Derek is hovering and Cora is studying him with narrowed eyes.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, because Derek’s hovering got old about ten minutes after Stiles appeared and Cora’s suspicion is amusing but boring because she’s not doing anything about it.

“I was walking the lines,” Stiles says, he’s blinking up at Peter with wide innocent eyes, his shoulders aren’t hunched so Peter knows after a second that he’s just messing with him.

“Ley or Pack?” Peter asks, Derek narrows his eyes at him and Cora is looking between all of them like she doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about.

“Ward lines,” Stiles says after a moment, his mouth twitches into an expression that screams that he doesn’t want to actually be saying the words to Peter.

“There aren’t any ward lines,” he says, he has vague recollections of Talia asking Deaton to find a witch that could cast ward lines. She’d died days later, well before Deaton even had the opportunity to begin the search.

Stiles just stares at him, unblinking. It’s unnerving, it’s like Stiles is seeing him but not seeing him. He doesn’t like it at all.

“There are now,” Stiles says finally, softly.

“Hmm, which symbol are you using?” Peter asks, there’d been one particular one that Talia had been interested in using, it had been part of the problem. The witch casting it had to have ties to the community guarded within it and there were no witches of any significant power to be had within the limits of Beacon Hills.

Stiles looks at Derek and Derek studies Peter with narrowed eyes, judging him, probably finding him unworthy even though Peter hasn’t tried to kill him or any of the other numerous Alpha’s within their pack in seven months or so.

He’s… content… for the moment, as he is. It probably won’t last, but for now…

“It’s a two prong symbol,” Stiles says, he pulls his notebook full of the strange symbols out and flips a few pages, the symbols on each page are mirror images of each other. One is the symbol the other…

“Is the other one a mark?” he asks.

Stiles bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth for a minute or so. “Once the wards are activated the only way to pass through them will be if you have the mark.”

“They’re not activated yet?” even though he knows they’re not, if they were he, like all the other wolves would feel the hum of them.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “We don’t need them yet.”

He sounds so decisive, so sure that there is going to be a time in the near future that they’ll need those active wards to protect themselves.

“I guess I’ll start stocking up on toilet paper and water,” he decides. “We might need more shelving in the basement.”


Agent Barton had given him a list of chatrooms and sites that Stiles had visited; he gives them a cursory glance while he’s trying to keep himself from using an entire can of Lysol on their, his office.

The problem with the rooms and sites, is if you aren’t recommended by someone then you have to go through an interview process and a vetting process and it looks like it takes months for anyone to get through it that way.

He jots down a 10 digit number absently. Then draws a line through it. If he calls the number and Stiles answers he’s crazy, if he doesn’t answer he’s crazy.

He’s going crazy either way, he rubs at his wrist, the mark isn’t visibly there, but he can feel it burning.

He picks up the phone and stares at the numbers and then sets it back down.

It’s not time yet.


He has a list of names, they’re not written in any order. Not alphabetically or by age or by importance to him.

He’s crossed some of the names off; his dad, Lydia and Danny, Scott, Derek, Isaac who had looked at him with wide hurt eyes and rubbed at his wrist and thankfully didn’t ask questions even though Stiles could see them burning in his eyes.

There’s Clint; there’s Crawford and Darla if their marks had stayed.

There’s people that will happen eventually as they get closer to having to lock the town down; Allison, her dad, Melissa, Deaton, Peter, Cora.

Jackson if he comes back to town before it becomes an issue.

The twins he’s not sure of; he’s just… he’s not sure. And he wants to believe that Lydia and Danny are good judges of character. Wants to believe that Derek and Scott would have kicked them to the curb if they weren’t to be trusted.

They haven’t, and they’re still there. It looks like they’ve stood with Derek and Scott and protected Beacon Hills, carving out a little piece of it for themselves and not asking for anything more.


“If you want to talk,” his dad says, Stiles is sitting at the kitchen table working on a history report that is so boring that he’s baking his grandma’s double chocolate-chocolate chip cookies as a reward for himself when he finishes.

His dad stops and sniffs, eyes darting to the oven.

“You can have one,” Stiles says, his dad’s mouth twists, “and maybe I’ll put some in a baggie for your lunch tomorrow.”

“Do I smell your grandma’s double chocolaty goodness?” Scott comes barreling through the back door, his eyes are wide, nostrils flaring and he’s got his hands out in front of him like he expects Stiles to just drop cookies in them.

“They’re baking,” Stiles says, he taps his pen against his paper.

“I get first dibs,” his dad says, Scott opens his mouth. “He’s my son; I’m half responsible for the fact that he even exists so that he can make them.”

Stiles snorts a laugh and goes back to his homework.

Only his dad would use genetics to procure cookies.


They symbols are etched into every seventh tree. John doesn’t like it.

He also doesn’t like the way Rayden is sniffing, fingers brushing over them and making a face.

“You said he doesn’t remember anything,” Rayden says finally.

“I said that he said he doesn’t remember anything,” John corrects. “That’s not the same thing.” He never said that Stiles didn’t remember anything except to SHIELD and that was mostly because Stiles had told them he didn’t remember.

Rayden looks at him with that look that makes him feel ten and lacking in everything but a knack for martial arts.

“They’re just symbols,” Liu says, trying to break the tension.

“Symbols are important, these symbols have been infused with blood and run the boundary of Beacon Hills,” Rayden drags his fingers across the mark and then sniffs them again. It’s disturbing.

“You’re telling me that my son walked the entirety of Beacon Hills carving symbols into trees and then bled on them, by himself.”

“He had the wolf, one of the Alpha’s with him,” Rayden says, that actually doesn’t make John feel any better. He lays a lot of what happened at Derek’s feet. Scott’s as well.

“I think our more pressing concern,” he continues. “Is what your son feels he needs to be warding Beacon Hills from.”


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September 2016


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