Chapter Text
To Stiles’ surprise, it doesn't take long for a routine to be established. He gets somewhat used to waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to be ready to leave with Hotch and get to the office a few minutes before seven, makes himself some variation of a caffeinated beverage in the break room when they get there — the Salem study packet helps pay for an electric kettle, and Hotch foots the bill on a few of the other things on his to-buy list, so he has even more options now — and settles down on his desk to either churn out something for his side gig — some people really don't feel like studying during summer break, but hey that's more profit for him — or read a book Reid let him borrow, since he's pretty much out of books at Hotch's unless he wants to head into law or steal some of Jack's bedtime stories.
The guy barely reads any fiction, at least from the glimpses he's had of the doctor's taste in books so far, but Stiles isn't intimidated by technical books unless they're biology ones. Squishy sciences with too many technical terms give him hives — it's a genuine allergy, really! — and the only exceptions are whenever they're applied in investigation. Because being able to tell how long a body has been dead for or how long someone has after one organ or the other has been stabbed is useful, but knowing the name of every bone in the body or the effect of certain fungus in the lungs just feels like something he'd rather ask google instead, if it ever happens to come up.
He tidies up the map room, tries to be clear and concise in the headline exercise JJ gives him, does enough PII to figure someone somewhere might be lacking an intern dedicated to it, and by the time he does his first end-of-week debrief with JJ — through Skype, because the team had a case and left him under Garcia's supervision while they flew out — he feels a little less like he's playing pretend and more like this internship is actually something he can do without messing things up halfway through.
Hopefully.
Since he's still technically grounded when Friday rolls around — which is really only for his dad's benefit, given that he doesn't usually make a habit to go gallivanting through D.C. at every opportunity anyway — Stiles takes the chance to sleep in, absolutely fails at it when his body wakes him up at five-thirty anyway, and tiptoes downstairs instead.
Needing something to do with his mind and his hands, he starts coffee, then opens his laptop on the counter. Netflix’s streaming shelf is thin, so he wanders over to Amazon Video to browse. A blue-and-white tile catches his eye and he skims the synopsis: ex-con art thief helps an FBI agent catch other thieves. Buddy-cop with suits, he thinks, and decides to watch it since most of his usual shows are currently on a summer hiatus and he needs something to watch while counting the days until Psych comes back on the fourteenth.
Multitasking like a pro, he keeps some of his attention on the screen while gathering ingredients for a blueberry loaf. The pilot moves fast from prison break, to quick chase, a neat little deal, and Stiles is instantly on Neal’s side. It's the hat, the grin, and the ‘I planned this three moves ago’ energy.
“Respect the hustle,” he says, half under his breath. Peter reads as competent, sure, but also dad-with-a-badge.
Stiles pauses on a document close-up and squints when the border pattern looks a bit too uniform, the embossed seal sits a hair off center. He googles in another tab, skims just enough about watermarks and moiré to scratch the itch of wanting to know, then shuts it because his summer policy is no rabbit holes before sunrise. Then Neal talks past a guard with nothing but confidence and timing, and Stiles kind of wants to be him when he grows up.
Y'know, minus the prison time.
When Peter tries to tug the leash, Stiles smiles at the screen, pointing at it with a batter-dirty spatula. “C’mon, Badge Dad, give the con some rope.”
A scene hand-waves paperwork and he snorts, knowing better. Mid-episode, he rewinds to a signature where the slant drifts between letters just enough to feel wrong. It's not expertise, just pattern sense and too many hours at the station, and he makes a mental note to fact-check Neal's words about it.
The last act lands as he puts the loaf in the oven. Neal bluffs beautifully, Peter pretends not to enjoy it, and Stiles definitely does. He moves to the living room after setting a timer on his phone to check the oven, intent on letting the blue-eyed con-man take over his morning, and storing every social-engineering trick he can translate to real life without getting grounded until college.
By the time Haley comes downstairs with a sleepy Jack — who immediately toddles over to the couch and sprawls on top of Stiles’ lap like a lazy little starfish — he's already halfway into the third episode and may or may not have started a little White Collar section in one of his TV show notebooks, right after Psych and The Mentalist, because he may not want Neal's rap sheet but his patter is still impressive.
“More muffins?” She asks after inhaling a little deeper.
“Blueberry loaf,” Stiles corrects, “I gotta add the lemon glaze,” he pokes Jack on the side and gets a wiggle and a giggle but no movement, “C'mon Jackrabbit, don't you want cake? It's in the kitchen, so we gotta get up.”
“Up, Liles!” The little miscreant refutes, which is a good argument when paired with those adorable puppy eyes, “Cake!”
“Alright,” He drawls and slides his arms under the kid's back and knees, “Up we go, then,” Stiles stands with a groan while Jack whoops and Haley shakes her head. “Whoa!” he feigns a drop and gets a squeal and more giggles, “Oops.”
“Liles!” Jack whines, “I want cake!”
“Boys,” Haley calls from the kitchen, “Breakfast first, you can play later.”
“Yes ma'am,” Stiles calls, heading to the kitchen with Jack in his arms and depositing the toddler on the high chair Haley had pulled close to the kitchen island.
They have breakfast, with Jack alternating between stuffing his face with cake and babbling about wanting to stay and play, and everywhere they could play at — apparently he really likes the park — if he didn't go to daycare. Haley was not convinced, which means she left the house with a pouting toddler, but Stiles was a little relieved not to spend his first work-free day as a babysitter, no matter how much he loves Jack.
With no bigger plans for the whole day — the whole weekend, even — than keeping an eye on his study packet requests and binge-watching White Collar, Stiles decides to check in with his dad and read any texts before enacting said plans.
He tries not to be offended at how surprised his dad sounds when he relays his first week as an unpaid FBI summer intern, especially when said surprise is directed at a distinct lack of official reprimands — he can go a week without getting in trouble, damn it! — and retaliates by lecturing him on his nutritional choices, especially since he got a text from Kelly at the diner about his dad eating burgers, and with bacon on them, too.
Stiles trades a few back-and-forth texts with Scott about how his summer is going, which judging by the number of asthma attacks so far is actually really well — he's had a whole wellness scale for it since he first witnessed one — and tries to be as delusional as his best bud about his chances regarding the lacrosse team once school starts, since hope springs eternal and all that.
Who knows? There's always a chance that a miracle might happen.
With a passing thought to the fact that he is currently — unfairly and unnecessarily — grounded, Stiles shoots a text to someone who just might come all the way to Fairfax just to strangle him for not letting them know he's spending the summer here.
Stiles: guess who landed an FBI summer internship?
Kana: ( ￣へ￣ )
Kana: Definitely not anyone I know, since I'd have been told already.
Stiles: well
Stiles: guess who's also grounded during an FBI internship?
Kana: Now I can believe it's you.
Stiles: rude
Stiles: but also the reason I didn't say anything
Stiles: Hotch won't let me go alone anywhere
Stiles: sucks to be this close and not get to visit
Kana: You do realize I could come over instead?
Stiles: …
Kana: Dumbass.
Stiles: hey
Stiles: careful with your baked goods rights
Stiles: u don't wanna lose them
Kana: I only speak the truth.
Kana: Seriously though ＼(^o^)／ congrats!
Kana: How is it?
Stiles: that's classified
Kana: How long have you been wanting to say that?
Stiles: all week thank u
Stiles: it's fun tho, even the boring bits
Stiles: fingers crossed I hold out all summer without ending up on a federal prison
Kana: Please do, you wouldn't last a day in prison.
Stiles: I'd annoy them so much they'd send me back
Kana: No doubt.
Kana: Will Hotch let me come over?
Stiles: I'll ask but prolly yea he likes u
Stiles: thinks ur a good influence
Stiles: u got him fooled
Kana: I am an angel, Stilinski.
Kana: I'll ask my parents, we can make a weekend of it.
Stiles: I have fridays off too so make it a long one
Stiles: I'll make sernik
Kana: I'm already there.
With a chuckle, he puts his phone aside and presses play on his laptop before settling down on the couch to watch some more only-slightly-mindless television.
He eats late — grilled cheese, tomato slices with salt — then kills twenty minutes reorganizing the spice shelf because it’s been bothering him all week. He shuffles jars into a simple left-to-right, from baking, to savory, then heat, so cinnamon stops pretending to be cumin whenever he reaches for it.
At four-ish, his phone buzzes.
Haley: Leaving early. Jack had a day. Can you meet us at the park?
Stiles: am I allowed to walk two blocks unsupervised?
Haley: If you can find trouble in that radius in ten minutes, the grounding is justified.
Stiles: …fair
He slaps together two PBJs for Jack — one with the crusts cut off because the kid has opinions — tosses them in a bag with wipes and a water bottle, locks up, and heads out. It’s warm but not punishing, the kind of late afternoon that makes the brick houses look extra tidy. He spots Haley’s sedan first as he approaches, then Jack on the playground’s little ship, face pink and damp, on the edge of tears.
“Liles!” Jack launches off the platform like a potato with legs and Stiles rushes to crouch, catch, and absorb the impact.
“Hey, Jumping Jack.” He hoists him onto a hip. “You mutinied?”
“Nap said no,” Haley reports dryly as she comes over, hair clipped back. “Snack was the wrong color, and socks were too… socky, apparently.”
“Ah, the classic trifecta.” Stiles bumps Jack’s forehead with his own. “You want swing time or food first?”
“Swing,” Jack declares, then, “Food,” immediately contradicting himself, which tracks.
“Compromise.” Stiles carries him to the toddler swings, settles him in, and pulls the bag onto the bench. “Three pushes, then PBJ.”
“Fwive,” Jack bargains, holding up three fingers like that proves his point.
“Math’s a work in progress,” Haley says under her breath, amused.
Stiles starts the gentle rhythm — pull, release, step — counting in a tone that won't ring too loud. “One… two… three.” He lets the fourth slide, because he’s a sucker, then brakes the swing with a hand to Jack’s belly and swaps in the sandwich halves.
Jack demolishes them with the focus of a tiny athlete carb-loading. Peanut butter creeps across one cheek. Stiles wipes, misses a streak, tries again. Haley watches, posture easing out of teacher mode.
“Thanks for coming,” she says. “He was spiraling, and you know how he is when you're here.”
“Anytime,” Stiles says, and means it. He nudges the swing with his knee while Jack chews and hums something that might be the Dinosaur Train theme.
They trade off — he pushes, she pushes — then Jack spots the slide and bolts, powered by peanut butter. Stiles shadows him without crowding, spotting the ladder, clapping once at the bottom.
Jack lands, slightly crooked, declares, “Again!” and sprints back.
“Kira texted,” he says, casually. “Might come out next weekend if her parents sign off.”
“Good.” Haley’s mouth tucks up. “We like Kira.”
Stiles tries not to celebrate too soon and mostly succeeds, “I told her I’d make sernik. Y'know, the black sesame one she likes.”
“Then I like Kira even more.” She checks her watch, stands, dusts off her skirt. “Two more slides, and off we go. Deal?”
“Deal!” Jack rockets toward the ladder.
Two slides later, Stiles swings the bag over a shoulder and offers Jack an arm. The kid takes it, gripping tight. On the sidewalk, Jack’s steps slow, the energy finally leaking out of him. Barely ten steps in, he’s half-limp in Stiles’ hold, head tipped toward his shoulder.
"Trade?" He asks Haley, shrugging the shoulder with the bag.
She nods and takes the bag from him. He picks Jack up, the toddler moulding under his chin like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Early dinner, easy bath, then bed,” Haley lists as if outlining a mission.
“Got it,” Stiles nods. “I’ll start the water.”
They cross the street towards the car, Jack heavy and warm, the evening soft. It was a few minutes of nothing special, and exactly what he needed.