Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 46

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Stiles's Pov

I wanted him to feel safe in who he was.

And maybe, just maybe, going back would help us feel the same.

I closed my eyes and let my hand rest over Jackson's again.

"We'll go home," I whispered into the dark, more to myself than anyone else. "We'll go home soon."

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of Beacon Hills didn't fill me with dread.

It filled me with hope.

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Jackson's Pov

September 26, 2024

Stiles had been acting weird for three days.

Not bad weird. Not Nogitsune weird or he's-keeping-an-ancient-evil-in-the-hall-closet weird. Just... twitchy. Smirky. Way too pleased with himself. The kind of pleased that usually meant I was about to be tricked into something — either that or my life was about to shift sideways.

And every time I asked him what was going on, he gave me the same answer.

"It's a surprise."

That's it. No details. No hints. No context.

Just that maddening look like he was dying to say more but holding it in for the sake of the "big reveal."

He was awful at keeping secrets. Truly terrible. But this one? He was keeping it under lock and key, and it was driving me insane.

"Is it something good?" I'd asked him two nights ago while we were brushing our teeth, Boston asleep in the next room.

He'd just grinned at me in the mirror and said, "You'll like it."

"Is it something I need to prepare for?"

That time, he rinsed and said, "Nope. Just show up."

"Show up where?"

Another grin. "Nice try."

I hated him a little for it. Not in any real way. Just in that ugh, you're making me feel out of control kind of way. And maybe it was because things had finally started to feel in control lately—Stiles had settled back into work, Boston was sleeping in four-hour stretches (bless), and the full moon had come and gone without incident. Well, mostly. There had been growling. Some wild-eyed pacing. But no transformations. No claws. No fangs. Just a very loud, very unsettled baby who eventually collapsed against Stiles's chest and slept like nothing had happened.

It had been ten days since then, and we were back to our normal rhythm. Morning bottles, diaper explosions, check-ins from work, tiny developmental milestones that made everything worth it. Boston had started holding his head up with more consistency. He could track toys now and gave us gummy little smiles like he knew he was the center of the universe.

So things were good. Normal.

Except for Stiles.

Right now, he was standing at the kitchen counter, typing furiously on his phone while the coffee maker sputtered behind him. I watched him over the rim of my mug from where I sat at the table with Boston in his bouncer beside me, the baby softly kicking his feet in that chaotic, happy rhythm he saved for mornings.