AN- So, Teen Wolf has eaten my brain the last few weeks and this idea dug its claws in and refused to go away till I wrote it. This is unbeta'd, jsyk, and I've got an issue with tenses so don't be shy telling me if something jars. This fic's also on AO3.

Chapter One

Stiles really wanted to bang his head against the depressing little metal table he's honestly surprised he's not handcuffed to, but that probably wouldn't help his chances of getting out of this interrogation anytime soon. Probably wouldn't hurt…Seriously, the number of times he's been caught in the vicinity of a dead body by cops you'd think he'd be good at lying his way out of trouble.

The thing is? He has gotten better. Well, it helped that 90% of the lie had been truth. Yes, officer I just stumbled upon this highly mangled dead body, look at me freaking out. He just didn't mention how he knew said highly mangled dead body or that he and his band of merry wolves plus attachments were looking for said highly mangled dead body. Only not so much dead or mangled. That wasn't part of the plan.

And just because he wasn't a sneaky wolf like Isaac who could just melt into the freaking shadows like a cliché, he gets a flashlight to the face and handcuffed.

Sometimes his life just sucks.

"Explain it to me again what you were doing in an abandoned warehouse at three in the morning."

Stiles just blinks at the man in exasperation. "I've told you, it was a dare…go into the creepy warehouse and snap a picture as proof. Trust me, if I'd known just what I was getting myself into, I would have gladly told them to fuck off."

"And yet, you won't give me the names of these so-called friends of yours."

Stiles glares at that, because they've talked this circle at least three times now, but the guy won't even twitch. Just his luck he couldn't just get nabbed by some soft bellied local cop, instead he's sitting across from a freaking Navy cop. Dude's got Agent in his title and belongs to an alphabet agency and Stiles really has no clue what he's done to deserve this or just who he pissed off for his luck to be just this shitty.

"Tell me about Alexandra Johnson."

Stiles' whole train of thought derailed, because who the hell is Alexandra Johnson? "Who the hell is Alexandra Johnson?" They'd been at this for two hours and this is the first he's hearing the name. Although, now that he's thinking about it, it sounds like it should be familiar. Like if his brain would just reach a little bit further in the right direction the lights would go off and the bells would ring.

Which is why he's frustrated when the agent gets pissed. He's not obvious about it, but Stiles has been around the werewolves long enough to spot the subtle body language shift and really he shouldn't be worried because they have nothing on him but trespassing, but he feels the anxiety winding through his chest because this is something he doesn't know, some part of the puzzle he didn't know he was supposed to be looking for, and he has no clue who the hell Alexandra Johnson is, even though he's doubting his own conviction of that now, and he really doesn't like being blindsided.

Which is why he's equal parts annoyed and elated when the agent leans back in his chair with an annoyed look and says, "You're really just some stupid kid who wandered where you shouldn't have, aren't you?"

"Hey, I'm twenty!" Stiles tries to swallow the indignation when the glare comes back in full force, but the agent just gestures at whoever's watching behind the big two way mirror. And seriously, does that fool anybody anymore?

He's distracted from that train of thought when the door opens and the really attractive agent sticks her head in.

"Agent David, please escort Mr. Stilinski to the gate and makes sure he gets a ride home."

"That means I'm free to go?"

He gets another glare, good thing he's practically immune to them, and gets shooed away like an annoying insect. He lets the insult go though, because, freedom. And he didn't even have to make a really uncomfortable call to his Dad about getting picked up by the cops. Again.

His life, man. His life.

He's almost out the door, thinking a few impure thoughts about his escort, when the agent adds, "I suggest you don't skip town, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles shrugged. "I have no immediate plans to." Which is true, he has no clue when things going to be over, especially now that there are more complications to deal with. He was hoping to spend a little of summer vacation actually vacationing.

But noooo. Four years ago he just had to drag Scott out to look for a dead body and it all snowballed from there to Stiles spending his summer break mixed in the middle of a freaking werewolf Hatfield's and McCoy scenario and Stiles really, really wished Peter Freaking Hale had just stayed dead like he was supposed to.

Was that really too much to ask?

XXX

Tony DiNozzo has been around his boss long enough to know when a case was frustrating him and this is so past frustrating that he's getting a sympathetic tension headache just looking at him. And really, three bodies, two of which were sailors, and all mangled and slashed with freaking organs missing? Yeah, he's feeling the frustration as well.

"Boss?"

"Follow him. The kid's not telling us something."

"You really think he's involved?" Tony swallows at the glare leveled his way. "Got it Boss. Follow the kid. Got it."

Which is how he finds himself sitting in a nondescript car watching as Stilinski climbs into the passenger seat of an older model Jeep that's seen better days. He doesn't get a good look at the driver, just that he looks about the same age as Stilinski with brown, curly hair. There seems to be a bit of an argument when Stilinski gets in the Jeep, Tony guesses this is one of the friends that dared Stilinski into that warehouse last night and is now getting an earful, but then they pull out onto the road and Tony follows.

They meander a bit before finally pulling into the parking lot of a Denny's. Tony turned in behind them, purposefully going left when the Jeep turns right, and finding a parking spot with an unobstructed view into the restaurant.

Tony watches as the two boys climb out of the Jeep, and walk into the restaurant. It was still early in the day, but the restaurant was already pretty full with the breakfast rush of a Saturday morning and so Tony lucks out when the two boys are sat at a table just a few windows down from where he's parked.

They're just normal kids, is what he concludes twenty minutes later as they bicker over a plate of fries, Stilinski's pancakes and the other's burger long gone (and really, a burger for breakfast? But that doesn't exactly scream serial killer so…). He wants to be doing something useful, but he knows if he heads back now he'd just get glared at, possibly head slapped and just sent back so he wills them to just leave so he can follow them to whatever hole in the wall motel they're staying at (Stilinski had a California Driver's License, claimed to be in town on vacation) so Tony can be done with this.

They're done with the fries and now seem to be in some kind of bizarre tug of war with a cell phone, though it seems hot potato might be more accurate because the friend looks relieved when Stilinski gives up and put the thing to his ear.

Still not odd. Well not odd enough to think they're mutilating corpses in their spare time.

Tony is so bored he's got Candy Crush pulled up on his phone. A flash of shiny black catches his eye and he looks up from his game to see a Camaro pull in to the parking lot and park next to the Jeep. It's a nice car and the guy that steps out of it is not too bad himself.

He's about to go back to his game when he realizes Stilinski and Friend have left the restaurant and are making their way across the parking lot. Turns out Stilinski knows Camaro Guy and isn't exactly the most pleased to see him.

The whole thing is a bit amusing, really. Stilinski's failing arms and full body gestures against Camaro Guy's raised eyebrow and crossed arms. The friend seems happy enough to stay out of it, looking back and forth between the two, working a toothpick between his teeth.

But it's obviously not a hill Stilinski's ready to die on and thirty seconds later he's throwing his arms up in defeat and climbing into the passenger seat of the Camaro. Tony takes the plate number down on autopilot as Camaro Guy and Friend exchange a few words and then part ways.

He gives the Camaro a minute head start, confident that he can follow such a striking car, before pulling out of the parking lot himself.

He catches sight of it turning right a few blocks down and settles in for another boring slow speed chase.

He loses the Camaro in less than fifteen minutes. He has a feeling he's going to be hearing about this one for a while.

XXX

Stiles burrows into the Camaro's seat, a feeling of safety settling over him. Which is just weird, because he's pretty sure he's almost bled out at least three times in this very seat and there was that whole poisoning thing that turned his insides to hot coals and then that slight case of hypothermia.

Yeah, this car should really be a hotbed of bad memories but for some reason it's just not. He tries not to think too hard about what that means about him.

"This was a stupid plan." He's still irritated at Derek though. "Because really? Now the scary military cops are still following us and now they have your plate number, which means they know who you are and can connect you to me and probably do some freaky NSA level spying and get the whole freaking pack and God, how is this our life that not only do I have to worry about the fact that Creepy Uncle Peter is trying to start Werewolf War Three, I also have to worry that the US government is going to end up shipping me off to Gitmo."

"I know someone in Cuba, I'd get you out."

"Not helpful." Stiles bangs his head against the headrest a few times to try and wake his brain back up, and he remembers, "Hey, who's Alexandra Johnson?"

He's getting that look, the look that says Derek is trying remember why he thinks Stiles actually has a brain in his head because he obviously doesn't use it. Stiles resents that look, especially since the brain in his head has saved Derek's ass on more occasions than he can count. "What?"

"Alexandra Lillian Johnson nee McKenzie."

And it hits Stiles like a brick to the face. "Oh yeah. See this is why I require more than three hours of sleep at time, because I should not have forgotten Jacob McKenzie's little sister's full name, although I'm pretty sure it's the reason I'm not still stuck in that little room, because he totally bought I didn't have a fucking clue who he was talking about or that there were other mangled bodies out there. And she changed her name when she got married? Bet big brother was just thrilled at that…" Derek makes a sort of huffing noise Stiles takes as agreement. "I don't like him, man, he makes my skin crawl."

Derek's face does this weird thing like he's trying not to agree with Stiles but does anyways. "He's been incredible patient letting us deal with Peter without declaring full on war."

"Yeah, and how long is that going to last now that the representative we were going to meet last night is now cooling on a coroner's slab?"