"Christ." Stiles stares at the mess in front of him, stomach turning. It figures that his first day back at work, or first day ever, really, would be something like this. The girl in front of him lies prone on the ground, hair falling over her face. The urge to look away finally gets the better of him, and he blinks, looking up at the coroner. Her lined face is sympathetic, and he hates it. He'll need to get better at hiding his disgust if he doesn't want to blow his cover.

Beside him, a uniformed officer coughs.

"Waste of a pretty face."

Stiles turns slowly to stare at him, unimpressed.

"I'd say the loss is a lot more than a pretty face," Stiles says slowly, anger burning low in his stomach. He's not sure what exactly it is about this man's attitude that bothers him so much, aside from the obvious lack of respect, but there's something. The officer, at least ten years his senior, just shrugs, unconcerned.

"Yeah."

He'd gotten the call only twenty minutes after showing up to the precinct. He'd almost been relieved, no more paranoid small talk with the other detectives, trying to figure out who he knew and who he didn't, what to say to draw the least attention to his five years of missing memory. But now he's here, standing over a dead teenager, and it occurs to him that their pack has always tried not to be around for this part. The victim can't be more than fourteen, deep purple bruises ringing her neck like a tattoo. He doesn't need to ask for the cause of death, but he does.

"Asphyxiation due to strangulation," the coroner confirms. He nods, squatting to peer at the very slight striping of the mark.

"Is this…from rope? Or some kind of braided cord?" He gestures to the pattern. The coroner nods.

"Could be."

"And who called this in?" Stiles asks, turning back to the cop milling behind him. His nametag reads Barton, which Stiles will remember, if only so he can more easily avoid him.

Barton flips open his notebook.

"Uh, the woman who lives there," he points to a house just up the street from where their crime scene is, in the middle of the road. "She brought her dog out to do his business and saw the body. Says she doesn't recognize the vic, but also didn't get too close."

Well, that's understandable.

"And that was at eight, so…" Stiles trails off, thoughtful. "She must have been dumped here just before, or someone would have seen her. This is a busy street."

"And yet no one saw anything," Barton mutters, and for the first time, Stiles agrees with the disdain in his voice. San Francisco is no Beacon Hills. People don't want to talk to the cops, and even if they did, they're not likely to remember much.

"Someone did." Stiles says, shaking his head. "Someone always does."

"How's work?" Stiles asks, eyeing his sandwich warily before pushing it away. He doesn't feel much like eating. Through the phone, Lydia sighs.

"Boring. I spent one day reading up on the work we do here and I think I'm already overqualified. I can't believe this is what I do."

There's real irritation in her voice, and it takes him by surprise.

"Well…" He makes a noise of understanding. "We moved out here as a pack, maybe the timing was just off for you. Maybe this is the job that made the most sense while we settled in, and you were going to look for something else."

"Yeah," she hums. "Maybe. What about you? Closed any cases?"

She's joking, he knows, but he's raw at the edges and her words dig right in. He wishes he had a clue where to start with his case from the morning, that girl laid out in the road like a piece of garbage, but he's got nothing. It doesn't feel right.

"Not exactly," he answers eventually. Lydia instantly picks up on the tension in his voice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, though she can't see it. "It's just-" The words sound stupid, even in his head. He's in a café, away from the precinct, needed to clear his head. Still, he jerks his head to the side, glancing around before pressing his phone a little tighter to his face. "I guess I hadn't really thought about the fact that being a homicide detective would mean working with, like, homicides."

Feeling like an idiot, he sits back in his chair, closing his eyes.

But instead of mocking him, Lydia just makes a sympathetic noise.

"I-" but she gets cut off, a deep voice mumbling something in the background. "I'm sorry, Stiles, I've got to go. We'll talk when I get home."

The word in her voice, so casually spoken, catches him off guard. He doesn't know what else she'd call it, the apartment maybe, but it doesn't sound wrong. It doesn't even sound unfamiliar.

And suddenly, ridiculously, there's a light at the end of this dark day again.

"Yeah," he mutters, knowing she's already hung up. "See you at home."

His afternoon isn't much better than his morning. He does a bit of research on the neighborhood, past crimes there, but there's nothing that seems connected to his homicide. The other officers don't seem to expect a lot of him, and it occurs to him that it's not really common for someone to bounce fresh from the academy straight into a detective's desk. He probably upset the pecking order just by showing up.

The detective who sits across from him, a young guy by the name of Andy Wu, throws something into the trash next to Stiles' desk. Sighing when Andy misses, Stiles bends over to pick up the piece of paper, dropping it in the basket before returning to Barton's notes on the neighbor who called in that morning.

"Sorry," Andy calls over his monitor, and Stiles just shrugs. They're both junior detectives, and from the cues Stiles has been getting all day, they're friendly enough.

"S'fine." He mumbles, checking his e-mail again. They're still waiting for the results of the autopsy to come in, and without the ID that will most likely come with that, he doesn't have a lot to go on.

"It's gonna be a while before they're done with the autopsy," Andy tells him, and Stiles looks up to see the other man watching him intently from a few feet away. There's something on his face that makes Stiles nervous. Like maybe the other detective is actually good at his job and has picked up on the fact that something's off. "You know that."

"Yeah." Stiles bobs his head, because he actually did know that. But he can't help feeling impatient, frustrated. It's kind of like this is his first case, considering he doesn't remember any of the ones that came before it, and with the victim being so young…he drags a hand haggardly across his face. "Yeah it's just the young ones, you know."

Andy nods, mouth slanting in that expression people make when they're trying to be apologetic but don't really have anything to say.

Stiles glances at the clock in the bottom corner of his computer screen. It's already four-thirty. He pushes his chair out from his desk, cracking his neck as he stands.

"Shifts done," he mutters, swiping his keys from the desk, wanting bitterly to never come back here, but also not wanting to leave. Andy checks his phone, blinking at the time, then looks back up at Stiles.

"Me and Renner were going to grab some beers at Doolin's, you wanna come?"

It's nice, Stiles thinks, to be invited. Good to know that he's actually made some friends since being at this job. But he just smiles tiredly, shaking his head.

"Can't. I've got plans with my girlfriend." That's not technically true, nothing specific anyways, but he hasn't forgotten that they have bigger problems, depressingly, than one dead teenager. This day has been long, but his night will be more of the same, research, frustration, questions without answers.

Andy shrugs, getting to his feet.

"See you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah," Stiles gives him a weary nod as he pushes past the detective, toward the parking lot. "See you tomorrow."

Stiles assumed he'd beat Lydia home, so when he pushes the apartment door open and is greeted by the smell of…something vaguely tomato-esque, he's surprised.

"Lyds?" he calls out, freezing in the foyer when the nickname rolls automatically off his tongue. Lyds? Since when does he call her that?

She responds to it, apparently unfazed, her voice calling out from the kitchen. He follows it in, eyebrows going up at the scene that meets him.

"Um," he says, scanning the various cans and empty packages laying like disaster wreckage across their granite countertop. "What's going on here?"

She makes a face, brushing a stray curl of copper out of her face. The rest is tied back loosely, a few escaped wisps tickling her neck.

"I got home early, because seriously Stiles, my job is boring, and I thought I'd cook because it sounded like you had a bad day, but then I realized I don't know how to cook, so I figured how hard could spaghetti be, but-"

"Lydia!" He interrupts her, pointing to the stove. "That's-somethings on fire-" he leaps for it, grabbing the lid to the pot and slamming it on over the flame, smothering it. The metal sears against his knuckles where they press into it, and he grits his teeth, but waits until the flickering light leaking through the seal where the rim meets the lid has faded before dropping the whole thing into the sink. Swearing, he shakes his hand out, already resigned to the fact that it's going to be a decent burn.

The redhead stares at him for a moment, looking between his pained expression and the sink, eyes wide. After a few seconds she jerks suddenly back toward the stove, remembering, and turns the element off. Then she turns back to Stiles, approaching him tentatively.

"Are you okay?"

He forces a smile, tucking the hand behind his back.

"Yeah, I'm fine. This is uh-" He frowns at the chaotic mess of the kitchen, searching for an expression of gratitude that won't come out sarcastic. "That was really nice of you."

Her cheeks flame, and he knows how much she hates to be vulnerable, how much she hates to fail.

"None of it's edible." She says bluntly, eyes sweeping back up to meet his. There's a familiar steel in her gaze, and she sets her chin. "I'm going to order Chinese."

He stifles a laugh, but just nods.

"Yeah, okay." But as she brushes past him, something broken and grieving inside him reaches out, his hand catching the back of her shirt. When she turns back to give him a questioning look, he pulls her into a hug, his fingers cupping the back of her head, other arm winding around her shoulders. She only hesitates for a second before wrapping her own arms around his waist, cheek pressing into his chest.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Her words are muffled into the material of his oxford, the feeling of her lips moving there distracting him a little.

"It was just-" He sighs. "A bad day. I missed you." He expects her to stiffen at the declaration, to pull away like she usually does when he wears his heart on his sleeve like that, but instead she just squeezes a little tighter before letting him go.

"It was only a few hours." But there's no real bite behind her words, and Stiles wonders for a moment it maybe she felt it as well, that anchorless, floating feeling of being out in this alien world all by herself.

"I'm needy." He shrugs, earning an amused smile. Then her face scrunches, eyebrows drawing together.

"Stiles…" Lydia takes a step back. "You reek."

Stiles gapes at her for a second, then cranes his head to the side, sniffing. He can't smell anything other than the lingering smoke from their earlier kitchen fire. He turns back to Lydia, confused, and she bites her lip.

"No, I just…I can smell the death on you. It smells like…" she wrinkles her nose. "I don't know. Something sweet."

"Oh." He thinks of the girl earlier, the rope marks on her neck. Something sweet, was that a clue? "Yeah I-" He almost tells Lydia about it, but stops himself. They have enough going on already. "I'll go shower."

Her expression changes, softens. It doesn't take a homicide detective to figure out why death would be lingering around him after his first day back at the precinct.

"Do you-"

But he turns on his heel before she gets the question out, heading for the bedroom.

"Order some orange chicken for me."

Lydia waits until they're halfway through dinner to bring it up again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Stiles frowns at her over the cartons scattered across the living room floor. Her legs are crossed, heels tucked under her thighs, and the haphazard bun she'd thrown her hair into earlier is starting to fall apart. She's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, the soft light of the lamp on the table almost making her glow.

And yet he's supposed to be the angel.

"Not really."

She shrugs easily at his response, conditioned to the dismissal by years of dating Jackson.

"I can't believe I'm an actuary," she grumbles after a minute has passed. "I'm supposed to be in research, doing something important. And instead I work for an insurance company."

"Your takehome is twice my actual salary." Stiles reminds her wryly. But she's right. He'd always envisioned her as an award nominee, some kind of theoretical physics genius. Lydia Martin is many things, but he never would have imagined her to be a sellout.

She rolls her eyes at him, reaching out to snag the carton of vegetarian chow fun.

"Oh is that why you're with me? For the money?" Her tone is light, easy, but he can't help but take the bait.

"Please." He snorts. "You could be broke and homeless and I'd still be more than lucky to end up with you."

A pretty flush creeps up her neck, something Stiles can't say he's seen on her very often. Since Jackson she's worn her beauty, her intelligence like a badge of armor, all that false modesty falling away.

"I read through the stuff Chris gave us again." She's changing the subject, but he lets her.

"And?"

"And…" She lets out a heavy sigh. "Not much, honestly. But there was this one part, hold on-" She scrambles to her feet, disappearing into the bedroom and returning with a handful of loose papers. She points to a specific passage, handing the page to him. "There."

His eyes scan the text, taking in the usual unhelpful religious babbling, right up to the line she'd pointed at.

The Traveler may find clarity, absolute control, upon release.

He looks back up at her, thoughtful.

"Release…release from what?" He rolls the word around his head. "And what's a Traveler?"

"They use the term Traveler instead of Voyageur but it seems like they're referring to the same thing. And I don't know…" Her forehead wrinkles in concentration. "I thought maybe you'd have an idea about the release part."

He doesn't, not really.

"I'm kind of stumped," he admits, though he hates to. She frowns in thought.

"Release…like prison? Or a curse, or…." She slumps, chin dropping to rest on her fist. "I don't know. An orgasm?"

Stiles chokes on his bite of chicken gai ding. Coughing, he blinks up at her.

"Well, you come up with something then," she says irritably when he catches her eye.

"No, no-" he clears his throat, grinning up at her. "Let's explore your idea."

"Prison?" She asks innocently. He throws a fortune cookie at her.

"I'm not sure about the clarity bit," he mumbles after a few seconds of silence. "But having absolute control would probably help with the whole getting-us-home thing." Her agreement comes in a muffled hum, her mouth full of noodles. She swallows, then points her chopsticks at him.

"Does that mean you're actually buying into the Voyageur idea? Because from what Chris said that's a step in the right direction."

His eyes fall to the floor, fingers curling in the soft fibers of the rug.

"I don't know. It kind of feels like I have to." Does he believe it though, really? Can he make himself believe enough to get them home?

As though the questions are mirrored in her mind, Lydia frowns at him.

"Stiles, if you don't really believe…"

"I'm trying," he groans. "I am trying, Lydia, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to get you home but it's just…it's-impossible."

Her expression softens.

"I tried," she says softly. "Today, at work, I tried putting myself in your shoes. When I was trying to figure out what I was it felt impossible. And you were there and you kept insisting I was something and it didn't always sound like a compliment," she adds. He opens his mouth, surprised. "Maybe…try not to think of it like the angels we grew up hearing about. That version of Angels and Heaven and God…it's been sterilized. They weren't perfect, they weren't saints. They were just warriors, and honestly, it sounds like some of them were dicks."

He makes a noise of indignance.

"Are you calling me-"

"I'm saying that if you would stop being so fixated on feeling like you're not good enough to be this thing you're putting on a pedestal, maybe you'd actually be able to start looking at it like it's possible."

He blinks.

"Lydia, we're not talking about a werewolf or a kanima or…like, if I were a monster, maybe I'd be able to believe it. That would make more sense. The-" His voice catches. "The nogitsune made sense."

Her lips thin, something dark shifting behind her hazel eyes.

"Monster. Like a banshee?"

His mouth drops open.

"You know I don't mean-"

"That's the point, Stiles! Before me, what would you have thought a banshee was?"

He sighs.

"I don't know. Black hair, pale skin, terrifying." He eyes her warily. "So, you know. Two out of three."

She reaches out, smacking his bicep.

"Do you think I'm a monster?" She asks earnestly, and his chest constricts. He's so unused to seeing her like this, pride aside, concern for him etched across her delicate features. It's almost uncomfortably sincere.

"No," he manages. "Of course not."

"But I'm a banshee." She presses. "And are they not monsters?"

"I-" he scrubs a hand across his face wearily. "I don't know. I guess not."

"And Scott, and Liam and Malia-"

"Alright, I get your point," he cuts her off. "Would it be childish to say it just feels different with the whole angel thing?"

"Yes," she says immediately, though the corners of her lips tug upward. He sighs, gaze dropping to the plate in his hand. "And you should do this for you Stiles. Don't you want to know what you are?"

Appetite gone, he pushes his food away.

"I thought I knew what I was," he mutters, making the mistake of meeting her eyes then. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, considering him. The meaning behind his words is obvious, and he's sure the guilt and shame he's been carrying around since Allison's death is written all over his face.

He expects grief from her, too, as she remembers. And she does look sad, eyes big and dimples softening, but he has the strangest sense that she's sad for him.

"So did I." Her voice nearly breaks on the last word, and he finds himself reaching for her. She curls into him easily, shifting on the floor to sink into his chest. It feels like they've done this a million times before. It almost hurts, the mocking way their bodies seem to fit together easily, remembering a life they haven't had. It's everything he ever wanted, and it's not really there.

"I know what you are." He says gently, and she sighs, cheek pressing against his neck, their knees knocking together as she moves closer to him. Without thinking, he pulls her into his lap, and then almost startles at his own boldness. Somehow Lydia doesn't seem to notice, fingers curling softly in the fabric of his shirt.

"What am I, Stiles?"

He doesn't know why, but the way she says his name, her warm weight resting on his thighs, it sends a shiver of lust through him. Trying to push it away, reminding himself that she needs comfort, not his hormones, he clears his throat.

"You're Lydia. You're a genius, and you're way kinder than you'd like people to realize. You're fiercely loyal, and braver than me, and you're stubborn. You have no patience for ignorance, and you might be a banshee but it's just a small part of who you are. You're beautiful," he adds, because he can't help himself. "You're going to change the world one day."

Her nose is cold against his adam's apple, and his breath catches in his throat.

"I want to go home, Stiles."

He isn't prepared for the way it sounds like a secret, like maybe she's been keeping from him exactly how much she's been missing their real lives.

To spare his feelings.

"Okay." He rubs a hand across her back, guilt threatening to choke him, but motivating him anew. "Okay, Lydia, I'm going to get you home. I promise."

He doesn't say us. He's not sure why. Later, he'll wonder if part of him knew how it would end all along.