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An Almost-Wendigo, A Pretty-Much-Empath, A Wolf, and A Spark (It's An Interesting Group, To Say The Least)

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Stiles loves being at the FBI, he loves solving crime and getting paid to do it, and he loves Agent Graham's class most of all. There's something a little strange about Agent Graham -- in a good way, obviously; Stiles loves strange, look at him and then look at who he's mated to -- but also something that he relates to in a weird, off-putting, vaguely-Other, FBI little way.

And then he meets Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter who looks at Agent Graham like Stiles looks at pierogies. Dr. Lecter who is, according to the gossip, Agent Graham's psychiatrist. Dr. Lecter, who is the most spine-chillingly perfect exhibit of a wendigo in a human's body that Stiles has ever met, and he's met more than his fair share of wendigos. (A person's fair share being none, Stiles thinks, because fuck wendigos.)

Stiles, of course, is enraptured.

Derek tries to talk him out of doing it, but not that hard and he didn't even use sex, so he can't be too upset when Stiles books an appointment with Dr. Lecter. He doesn't even bother stalking Stiles outside of Dr. Lecter's house, so Derek must be supremely unconcerned, and if Derek is, then Stiles doesn't feel bad about harbouring this fascination-crush one bit.

 

It actually goes a bit more like this:

The first time Derek comes to pick Stiles up from the academy, he lifts his chin and scents the air. Stiles waits and watches and sees the exact instance that Derek gets the trail of Stiles' fascination-crush.

"Yeah, that's just Dr. Lecter," he says. Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes. "He's here all the time. Psychiatrist. Something to do with Agent Crawford."

"He smells --," Derek starts to say, ends up shaking his head.

"Wendigo-ish, right, that's exactly what I thought," Stiles says. "I think he eats people. But he's human! He's just a human people-eater, rather than a creature people-eater." Stiles pauses, goes, "People-eater," under his breath, then shrugs and accepts it.

Derek has the look on his face that means he wants to drag Stiles away and back to their den and never let him leave again. It's a face that Stiles is very familiar with. Derek gets that look easily ten times a day on a good day.

"I think I'm gonna ask him, just to make sure," Stiles says. "Maybe his mom was a wendigo or something."

"Let me get this straight," Derek says. Stiles mutters something about how neither of them can do or get anything straight, considering they aren't straight. Derek bravely ignores him. "You're going to go up to the maybe-half-wendigo, definite cannibal, and ask him if his mother was a supernatural creature that eats people because you think he eats people. And knowing you, you're going to go onto his territory and ask, to make sure no one else hears you. And, with my intimate knowledge of you, you're going to ask me to wait at home."

Stiles thinks that over, then grins at Derek, bounces on his toes a little. "Yup!"

Derek sighs. "You have your amulet?"

"Yes," Stiles says.

"And your gris-gris bag?"

"Of course."

"And the bones Lydia gave you?"

"Tucked in my socks."

"And your wards are up?"

"Always."

"And you have the mace your dad gave you when we left?"

"Ready to use!"

"And you won't do anything to the bond?"

"Never."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he says. "But it's on your head -- or whatever he wants to eat -- if something goes wrong."

Stiles fucking lights up, leans over and brushes his nose against Derek's, and says, "I have an appointment with him in an hour so I gotta go, but. Thank you!" before running off, nearly careening into three people, two bushes, and an entire row of decorative planters on his way to the Jeep, which he actually does crash into.

Derek looks up at the sky, says, "Why me," and goes home.

(He's worried, but after watching Stiles single-handedly and quickly take down the pack of wyverns that barged into the middle of Derek's mating proposal, he's not too worried.)

 

Anyway:

They sit down, Dr. Lecter asks Stiles why he booked an appointment, and Stiles leans forward and asks, "Are you human?" When Dr. Lecter just raises an eyebrow, Stiles goes, "I knew it," with feeling.

 

His appointment goes over the hour mark. It goes well over the hour mark. It goes so far over the hour mark that Derek comes to the house and knocks on the door at midnight, politely asking Dr. Lecter if he can take Stiles home.

Dr. Lecter is fascinated by and with these two children.

 

A sort-of epilogue, much, much later:

(Okay, maybe more like two weeks later)

"That's not chicken," Stiles says. He frowns, sniffs a little, says, "Or pork. That's -- are you cooking people right in front of me? I didn't think we were on that level yet." His face brightens and he goes, "Oh my god, are we on that level?"

It's an unexpected reaction but, after weeks of exposure to Stiles Stilinski, Hannibal is starting to expect the unexpected when it comes to Will's inevitable protégé.

"Yes," Hannibal says. "I suppose we are. And yes, this was my tailor's former apprentice. He was quite rude when I went in to pick up my suit."

"Huh," Stiles says. "You know, I don't think I asked, but how healthy is people? I mean, compared to red meat."

Hannibal considers the question. "Depends on the person," he says. "This one should be quite lean. I was planning on searing it and then letting it roast with some apples and red wine. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Derek's making cottage pie," Stiles says. "So no, but thank you. Does Will know you eat people?"

Hannibal tilts his head, adjusts the fold on his left sleeve, rolled halfway up his arm. "To some extent, yes," he says, "but I think he's refusing to admit it to himself because that admission would require an even bigger one that he's shying away from."

Stiles gapes, says, "You're telling me: you, Will's psychiatrist, Will's sort-of-maybe-an-eventual-friend, are telling me, Will's student, FBI academy recruit, that Will -- genius, lovable, good-with-dogs Will, who is the closest thing to an empath that a human could ever be -- that Will, can-see-crime-scenes-in-his-head Will, our Will, has no clue that you're the --"

Stiles stops when Hannibal holds up a hand, and the both of them listen as Will comes in, pauses in the doorway to the kitchen. Stiles makes a strangled noise, Hannibal gives him a slight smile, shaking his head, and Stiles throws his hands up, yells, "Oh, come on," and storms out.

He's very careful not to slam the door.