(i watch a lot of tv shows and am super trash for a lot of ships, but stydia is always lingering in the back of my mind like an infection so this is going to be all little ficlets of au universes in which stydia are other iconic ships. some will be a little longer as others, and some will be featured here more often.

requests are super welcome (there's a 9/10 chance i watch the same show), you can comment or message me on newwaystofallapart13 on tumblr, but i am rarely on there.

song in the title is from ed sheeran's tenerife sea because i am dead inside and have no feelings about anything whatsoever)

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chapter one: fitzsimmons (aos). and in case you don't watch the show (which you should), they're basically two cute smart scientists who're attached to the hip and figure everything out together. so, lydia and stiles.

.&.

Scott does not under any circumstances think of himself as special.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—watch it! That's the Bat-Bat gun."

"That's a stupid name for a stupid gun that doesn't even work. Besides, it's on my stuff! How am I supposed to work if it's on my stuff?"

"'I am vengeance, I am night, I am Batman'." There's a pause. "It's a quote? From the comics? Because the gun is used for like, vengeance and it's as invisible and silent as the night? You get it? Tell me you get it."

Two scientist appear into view, the man dawdling with cables and wires and the woman's eyes are narrowed as she browses through a file like the paper's personally offending every cell in her body. "You do realize you'd be Robin in every Batman and Robin scenario, right?"

He looks like she just kicked a newborn kitten before a second later, his eyes light up like a christmas tree. "However completely wrong, that shallow comment gave me an idea—"

She crosses her arms, obviously offended as she cuts in. "Shallow? You created bullets with a dose of 0.1 microliters of Dendrotoxin—"

He's rolling his eyes, and Scott feels more and more like he's watching a really intense game of tennis. "—the bullets should be hollow so they can't break apart in the chamber and ruin the element of surprise that is practically trademarked by the Bat Bat gun—"

She's still talking though, too, managing to look the right amount of annoyed and challenged. "—how am I supposed to create instant paralysis on anything even remotely supernatural with 0.1 microliters? Maybe next time you, I don't know, run the specs by me before making the molds or—"

This seems to break him out of his train of thought, arm no longer spastically moving beside his body like it's single-handedly winding up his brain, eyebrows raised at his co-worker. "Well, you're the one with two PhDs, genius, you should be able to figure it out without my help and—"

She scoffs, pursing her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest. "I don't see why you keep bringing up the fact I have more PhDs than you. What, like it's hard?"

He groans loudly, even looking a little defeated. "You have one more PhD, one—"

"Martinski," Finstock's voice booms through the lab just as the scientist lady opens her mouth to respond to her scientist man friend, and the other two people in the room finally seem to notice they've got company. Scott was getting tired just looking at them talking.

"Martinski?" Scott questions, desperate for any clarification at this point, because for some reason he doesn't think he can handle some freaky twin voodoo mind thing in which they're actually one person or, or holograms, or whatever, on top of everything else that has happened today.

The redhead pulls on the end of her lab coat to straighten it as she stares him down, and if he hadn't been eye to eye with theAllison Argent earlier that same hour, he would've been scared. Like, pee your pants even though you're an adult man scared. She nods towards the guy. "Stilinski."

He points his thumb at her, and at least he's grinning, a little goofy as he adds, "Martin." The tall boy uses his hands a lot as he talks, distracting Scott just a little from whatever he's spewing about 'portmanteaus', which he will just assume is a fancy, expensive French wine from now on.

"I'm engineering, she's biochem," Stilinski concludes, like it's a real thing, a combination that can't survive without one another. Dependant. Like Scott should just know.

Martin huffs, hands perched in her sides as she presses, "And biophysics."

Stilinski exhales very loudly, before giving her an incredulous look. "Was I done talking? Everyone knows you're like, a certified genius, Martin, no need to rub it in the poor guy's face. I just needed to breathe in between words. Let me live."

Finstock just narrows his eyes at him, slapping him on the back of the head. "Stilinski, are you autistic or something? How many more times do I have to tell you to shut up?"

Stilinski responds with another rant—about how, on a moral level, throwing around the word autism is kind of offensive and on a social level, it's just super rude—that just makes Finstock roll his eyes even further into the back of his head (which can't be healthy and for three seconds makes Scott question whether he's having a seizure or not). Martin backs her partner up by adding references to like, biology and psychology, quoting some fancy people he's sure—he's honestly not even listening anymore by now and instead admiring all the gadgets laid out in front of him.

(He tries touching one, and the lady scientist slaps his hand away without even pausing her sentence or breaking eye-contact midst heated discussion. He'd be impressed, if the device hadn't looked so cool.)

They finally stop talking for the first time since he came in here (it's been fifteen minutes, who are these people even?) when Agent Argent is back, so they can 'encode her comm' (at first he thinks it's some kind of secret spy code, but it turns out they're actually talking about comms). She's equally pretty as she is scary, so he avoids eye-contact to avoid any further embarrassment besides the blabbering mess he was in her presence forty-three minutes ago.

Stilinski takes one look at the apparatus before slamming it on his desk, breaking it in a million tiny pieces. Allison's grip on her holster tightens, but she doesn't say anything, jaw tightly clenched.

"A comm with an external receiver? Seriously? What's this? The FBI?" He actually chuckles as he takes out a part with a pair of tweezers, like it's some sort of clever joke, but no one seems to get it besides Martin. Who's not exactly laughing, but there's a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth, and that's more of an expression than she's had in the thirty minutes he's known her.

She explains, somewhat polite tone to her voice, "We don't need those for in-ear comms anymore. He'll match your DNA to an embedded sensorineural silicone."

"It's very high-tech. Even for S.H.I.E.L.D., I mean, we did develop it ourselves," he adds, a little bit smug as he continues working on the comm, trading the spastic movements for careful and skilled.

Allison doesn't really seem to care about the details as she turns to Finstock, who's been uncharacteristically quiet for all of the five hours he's known him. "Are we ready for take-off anytime soon?"

He looks up from his phone unimpressed—Scott manages to catch him close a game of candy crush—as he half-yawns, "We're just waiting for Agent Braeden. Always likes to make an entrance that one."

"Who's this Br-Braeden? Person again?" Scott asks, finally finding his voice again. He flushes a little red as they turn to him, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He's not dumb or anything (he could hack the pentagon in under three minutes if he wanted to be a dick), but these people make him feel kind of… inferior. "How many people are in this team, exactly?"

Finstock looks like he's already one hundred and one percent convinced he made a mistake bringing Scott in with the rest of them. "Braeden is the pilot, dumbass. I've told you this?"

"Just the pilot?" Allison cocks an eyebrow skeptically, arms crossed over her chest and her posture stiff but in that 'I could crack your skull in under three seconds if you gave me any reason to' way. "Agent Braeden is just the pilot?"

A scarred woman with dark eye make-up, black combat boots and half-leather outfit, rucksack casually slung over her shoulder steps in as if it's on cue. Like they rehearsed it, which would be pretty bad ass because it looks like a scene from a action movie. As an afterthought as she's walking up the stairs without any introduction whatsoever, she informs them, "Wheels up in five."

"Like I was saying," Stilinski narrows his eyes dangerously, and Martin's already sighing with a certain kind of fondness he can't quite place before he even continues his train of thought. "The Bat Bat gun is as vital to the survival of human kind as, as the existence of monkeys is to our earth's ecosystem!"

Monkeys.

Scott does not, under any circumstances, think of himself as special. But. These people seem to think he is, and it's been awhile since he's liked people, so he thinks he'll stick around. Just for a little bit.

.&.

(a/n: a review would be very much appreciated:)
i'll probably like, rave about you in my diary and tell my mom i've made friends , !)