Chapter Text
"Maybe Malia could do solo missions."
Both Hales looked at Stiles like he'd just suggested setting up an open floor plan office inside the jet hanger.
The tiled-over cement walls of the S.U.P.E.S. secret underground facility were closing in around him. Stiles hadn't felt this claustrophobic underground in years, but today he wanted to claw his own skin off. Was he just supposed to sulk in silence? Smiling away while a pair of Hales coolly discussed the exact mechanics of carving up Stiles' career - his whole fucking life - like their personal Christmas ham?
He wanted to throw up. But vomiting in the middle of a meeting was probably unprofessional.
"Oh, sure, Stilinski." Laura Hale, ex-super-spy, flashed him a deadly megawatt smile, and then winked at her little brother. "Who even cares about the decades of work and millions of dollars that S.U.P.E.S. dedicated to research on the unparalleled efficiency and safety of the three-spy team? They should have just consulted you before wasting all that time and money."
All right. All right. Don't let them see you sweat, Stilinski. Cool as a cucumber, he leaned over and whispered, "That was sarcasm," into Derek's ear.
Derek pushed him, flat-palmed, away.
"So a one-spy team is statistically unacceptable, but a four-spy team is just fine?"
"Spies work in teams for their own safety, Agent Stilinski. You know this." Laura rubbed at a spot just above one eyebrow. "This situation is temporary. We're asking both of you to bear with us. I'd like to think that all our handlers know how to behave like reasonable adults."
Easy for her to say.
This 'temporary situation' was all Laura Hale's fault. Laura had been the one who'd accepted a promotion out of the field and into S.U.P.E.S. upper management. And then Cora Hale, taking advantage of the momentary absence of big sisterly authority, had rebelled in the only way a Hale knew how. She'd quit the organization entirely and joined up with a surfing colony somewhere along the coast of South America. Stiles had heard that she'd never been so happy or so well-tanned.
That left Derek Hale, the handler for Team Nepo Baby, limping along with just one Hale left to handle - his cousin Malia. Stiles had heard all the rumors about Malia Hale and her tendency to bite. She'd gnawed on Stiles himself at last year's Christmas Party, after they'd both overdone it on the eggnog.
That was one of many reasons that Stiles was somewhat less than thrilled now that word came down from the top that all the various Hales had somehow failed to find two spare agents willing to bulk out the agency's flagship team. Probably too much pressure. So instead, they'd been grafted like an unwanted arm onto the team with the agency's second highest success rate.
Stiles' team.
Which was just great.
Stiles threw an arm around the broad shoulders of the man he'd had casually hated ever since his early days at S.U.P.E.S., back when Derek Hale would come down to the lab and just . . . hover around wherever Stiles happened to be working. Just waiting for him to fuck up on a big enough scale to be worth reporting back to Mommy.
Hale tried to throw him off, but Stiles just pulled him in closer and grinned like a shark at their new boss. "You know what? Four spy teams? Great idea. Forget everything I just said. "
"It's already been forgotten."
"I'm honored by the trust you've shown in me and my team, Agent Hale. I just know that Malia and Derek here," Stiles gave Hale's statuesque shoulder a squeeze, "will be a great addition for as long as we have them."
"Great!" Laura slapped a dossier onto what had so recently been Stiles' personal desk. "Here's your next mission. I'm expecting great results." And with that she turned on her well-shod heels and walked out of Stiles' office and out of his life. A dame like that couldn't be kept. She had legs that-
Approximately four seconds after the door closed behind his sister and her legs, Hale shook Stiles off and pressed him up against a wall instead. Stiles' train of thought combusted. " 'We're honored by the trust you've shown us '? What the hell, Stilinski?"
Eyebrows raised, Stiles pulled himself together and gave Derek his very best 'unimpressed' look. "I'm pretty sure pinning a coworker kabedon-style counts as sexual harassment. How about you back off and give me some personal space before I have to make the complaint official?"
That got him a look, but Hale backed off (by about two inches) and growled, "I never took you for a bootlicker, Stilinski. Flirting with my sister won’t-"
"Yeah, well," Stiles could feel a flush building. Flirting? With Laura Hale? He'd only just managed to be politic. It took work to keep his voice even. "Maybe some of us have to kiss a little ass occasionally. But I guess I'd be insubordinate, too, if the only thing I had to worry about was a noogieing from big sis."
Now it was Hale's turn to flush. "If you think Laura gives me special treatment-"
"Think? I don't just think anything, bud; I've got the receipts. If this was any other team, you and your spy would be benched until further notice. And instead they're trying to hand you my team on a silver platter. I know a hostile takeover when I see one, Mama's boy."
"You-" Hale actually took a step back. "You think-"
"I know . Do you have," Stiles poked Hale right in the middle of one his cartoonishly overdeveloped pectorals, "any idea at all how long it took me to claw my way out of quartermaster hell to get responsibility for an actual team? There is no," poke, "way, "poke, "on earth that I'll roll over for you just because you're a Hale." Po-
Hale caught Stiles by the wrist. "You still spend half your time down in the tech division. Your loyalties are divided, Stilinski. That's what makes the higher ups worry you're unfit to handle a team."
"Oh, fuck you!" Stiles hissed. " No one is more loyal than me. Loyalty's my middle name! The only reason I'm still doing shifts in the pits is because I want my spies to have the best. Which they do." He wrenched free from Derek's viselike grasp and flung himself into the one actual desk chair. This was still technically his desk, and his office. Let Hale take the shitty little fold-out number.
He took the shitty fold-out number.
Glowing with satisfaction, and with his feet up comfortably on the desk, Stiles grabbed the dossier and flipped it open. He glared at Derek over the top. "That's where your whole evil scheme falls apart, by the way."
"There's no scheme-"
"Because," Stiles went on loudly, ignoring Hale's interruption, "Lydia and Erica are also loyal, and they know what side their bread is buttered on, and those two won't ever agree to work with some rando instead of me. It took me years to build up our rapport. Maybe you can win over Kira, because she's an angel and she likes everyone-"
"Some rando?"
"You heard me. Everyone," Stiles gestured broadly enough to include the entire S.U.P.E.S. directory, "knows Laura was carrying your team. A trained monkey could handle a talent like her. My ladies require a more nuanced touch. They'd wilt under the management of some by-the-book goon."
All the Hales rubbed at a growing headache the exact same way. "You're impossible. Let me see the file."
"Whatever." Stiles took a final look, memorized the digital code, and slapped the file on the table. They poured over it together for over an hour, awkwardly close, shoulders nearly touching. Stiles would have liked to pick Hale up and fling him out of the room. He thought about loading up his most annoying playlist on the big screen, or loudly chewing sour cream and onion Lays with his mouth open. Anything to assert that this was his territory, and that Derek was an unwanted and unneeded intruder.
How was he supposed to get any work done with this slab of beef next to him, breathing all the time?
Stiles was out of chips. The psy-op campaign to get Derek Hale away from his team and his office and out of his life entirely would have to wait. They were stuck together. Reading side by side. Collating information. Updating the slides. Arguing about the gadget outlay. (Spoilers: Stiles was right about everything forever.)
"-and three jetpack backpacks."
Hale smothered the intercom with a meat palm and corrected him. "Four.”
"Ugh, right. Four jetpack backpacks."
"warblewarble"
"What do you mean you can only issue them in sets of three? Yes, Simon , I do know there's a system, but-" Stiles held the speaker another inch away from his ear and mouthed 'you and your cousin are ruining my life ' at Hale, who was either unrepentant or just bad at lip-reading. "I know. I know . Complain to whoever assigned my team a fourth spy. Just halt a return, and send me a second set. You can log them as under maintenance."
". . ."
"Thank you." Stiles ended the call and wilted like a flower. "That man is sexually aroused by spreadsheets. I don't want to think about it, but I know it in my heart."
He and Hale sat in silence for a moment, unwillingly contemplating the logistics of Simon's carnal affair with the S.U.P.E.S. database (at least that's what Stiles was doing), and a minute or two later there was the 'whoosh' of the door opening. A kid Stiles didn't recognize came in to deliver everything they had ordered, including the illicit extra jetpacks. Stiles helped him put everything away while Derek just sat there and glowered at them both like he was some kind of scared intern.
Once he and his little cart were gone, Stiles turned to Derek and announced, "That poor guy must have been horrified when he rolled up and saw your ugly mug sitting behind my desk."
"What? Why?"
"Because making deliveries to you is fucking terrible? Remember our first time? I'd been working here for all of three months. You stared hard enough to light me on fire, and then you had, like, twenty full minutes of technical questions about the Maximum Macramé Belt, which is not a complex gadget. I thought it was a hazing ritual." Stiles huffed. "Middle management always hates the I. T. crowd. But joke's on both of us, Hale. I got my promotion despite your whole gauntlet and in turn I became the very thing I hated most."
It had felt like a major triumph at the time. Hale clearly wasn't over it. Something incomprehensible was happening with his whole facial area. His eyebrows indicated . . . confusion? Maybe even concern? Which was obviously ridic-
"Stilinski," Hale said, carefully, "I could have stopped your promotion in a dozen different ways."
And, thank god, before he had to respond to whatever that was supposed to mean, the Wallet on Stiles' desk beeped out a warning note. He snatched the file out of Hale's grip. "For fuck's sake, don't you know how to speed-read? The spies will be at the pick-up zone in under a minute."
"I have the same training as you, Stilinski. In fact-"
Stiles switched on the monitor. "Oh, good, Malia's already with them." He wrinkled his nose. "Why is Malia already with them?"
"She and Kira are in the same biology lab." Hale preened obnoxiously. "I guess you don't know every-"
"Okay, shut up, shut up, shutup! Timing this is way harder with four spies than three." Stiles hand hovered over the big red button, sweating with anticipation.
"The handbook," Hale objected, in a voice just like a pair of glasses being pushed up a nose, "says that we should call the spies to warn them before a retrieval-"
"Aaalllmost . . . there!" Stiles slammed down gleefully on the big red button. The hallway opened up right beneath four pairs of designer shoes (correction: three pairs of designer shoes and one pair of ratty Doc Martens) and swallowed up California's three (all right, four) finest super spies. Nice .
"They like it," Stiles had to raise his voice to be heard over all the shrieking. "Keeps 'em sharp."
The paneled ceiling opened up. A very large tube emerged and spat three spies into three egg-shaped chairs that had just popped up the other side of the desk. It flailed around afterwards, clearly befuddled, and then expectorated the fourth spy into empty space.
Erica showed off her training by flipping Stiles off while she was still upside down. Lydia muttered, "One of these days-" and Malia, the odd spy out, had managed to turn what should have been a crash landing onto a chair-free patch of floor into a dignity-and-ankle saving roll.
Stiles applauded as he stood. "Well done, spies. A ten-point landing, as always."
"You're so lucky I didn't break a nail. This is an eighty-dollar manicure."
Malia Hale stood, brushing carpet fiber from her jeans. She sidled over to Kira's egg. "Can we share? I can take the arm."
"Sure!" Kira beamed up at her. "So you're a spy, too?"
"Yeah."
"That's so cool! How long-"
"I'll handle the introductions, if that’s all right," said Stiles. "Ladies, I can see you already know Malia Hale. She and her handler, Derek Hale, have joined our team as a very, very-"
"Spies-"
"- very temporary measure until the powers-that-be find replacements for the two late members of their team."
Kira gasped in horror. "Oh my gosh, did they die?"
"Maybe late was the wrong word. Laura and Cora Hale have both retired in their own special ways from active work in the field, which means Agents Hale will be joining-"
"A fourth spy?" Lydia's strawberry blond curls bounced in agitation. "But all the research shows that three is the mathematically perfect-"
"-number of spies. Trust me, I know." Stiles sighed. "And I would never go against the data when it might put your safety at risk, ladies. That's why this is temporary! Just treat Agent Hale - that's the Hale with the non-regulation stubble, not the one sitting in Kira's lap - like he isn't even here."
Hale's broad hand landed with a meaty thump on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles winced. "As always, Agent Stilinski, your sense of humor is a delight to us all. Agents Martin, Reyes, and Yukimura? It's my pleasure. I've heard nothing but good things about your work in the field."
"Who's the kiss-ass now?" Stiles muttered under his breath.
"Malia and I are certainly looking forward to the experience of working with all three of you. And with Agent Stilinski, whom I'm sure is a . . . perfectly competent handler. Despite his short time on the job." Hale's condescending smile was like the sun. His teeth were like the tombstones on the grave of Stiles' terminally ill career. "If any of you ever want the advice of someone more seasoned-"
"Haha, okay! That's plenty of introduction, right? Right." Stiles switched on the monitor and extended the Extendable Mascara he'd smuggled out of R&D just the other day. He tapped the first image, leaving a black smudge of mascara on the screen.
Oops.
. . . Stiles would clean that up later.
"This is the big one, ladies." Several dozen photos popped up on the screen, two-thirds with a big 'X' drawn over their impossibly perfect faces.
Erica whispered, "Oh my god, is that Gazelle? I'm such a huge fan."
Stiles tapped again for attention. "Models have been vanishing for weeks, from all over the world. All independents, all the biggest names in the business. If these women can't be found, it might mean the very worst. That's right. They might have to . . . cancel Fashion Week."
All three of Stiles' spies gasped in appropriate horror. Malia Hale yawned. Hale forcibly removed the pointer from Stiles' grip and directed the computer onto the next slide.
"To the casual eye, these women appear to have left behind their jobs and homes of their own free will. Paying off contract cancellation fees, subletting apartments, breaking up with significant others - "
" - they've taken all the actions a responsible adult should take before abandoning society and running off to live in the woods." Stiles paused to contemplate the lifestyle of the average model. "Or secretly checking into rehab."
"Each individual disappearance is unremarkable, but the sheer volume-" Hale went back to the previous slide, "-has raised several red flags." He tapped, smudging eyeliner directly over Gazelle's flawless face.
"Hasn't she suffered enough?" Erica stage-whispered. Kira giggled.
"These missing models," Hale went on, unfazed by all the whispering, "and all the other models pictured here, have one thing in common. Over the last six months, they've all done work for the up-and-coming fashion line 'Every Body's Type'."
"E.B. T. lives and dies by their core values. No in-house models. They use fresh faces and figures for every single shoot, so they have a huge roster of past and present employees. This overlap with our missing models could all be a big, fat coincidence," Stiles admitted. "However! Several of the missing ladies have been seen in the company of one particular man days or weeks after the end of their particular job." Stiles rode the forward button all the way to a brand new slide. "Jackson Whittemore, E.B.T.'s CEO. Now, Whittemore could simply be a serial dater-"
Someone let out a surprised hiss. Stiles wheeled on Lydia. "Not again ."
The accused looked away, with a hand pressed against her throat. "We may have gone out for a minute in high school-"
"More like all of sophomore year-" Erica coughed.
"Eight months at the most -"
"Stop dating supervillains!"
Lydia sniffed. "I had dinner one time with the man who wanted to melt down the gold reserve-"
"What about that guy who wanted the two of you to repopulate a frozen earth with your chess-playing superbabies? Three times is a pattern, Lyds. Please get better taste in men."
From way over in the corner, and obviously discontent with the way no one was paying attention to him and his three thousand dollar suit and impeccable jawline, Hale cleared his throat. "Handlers should interfere with the dating lives of their charges. It's unprofessional."
Stiles jerked back around. "Excuse me? Did you somehow miss the part about 'supervillains'? As in 'supervillain', but multiple. Lydia's romantic interest alone is almost enough to convince me that he's our guy."
Hale clicked to the next slide, which featured Whittemore in the company of several stunningly beautiful women, including Gazelle.
Erica gave Lydia a reassuring pat on the arm. "You're prettier than nearly all of them."
"Most of them aren't even his type -"
"It's a connection." Hale glanced sideways at Stiles. "More than enough incidents to form a pattern." He pointed at two models and added, "Whittemore was the last person seen with these two. S.U.P.E.S. wants eyes on him. He's the best lead we have, and these women may need our help."
"So," Stiles paused for effect. "That means you'll all be going undercover. As models."
"Yes!" Erica vigorously fisted the air. "This is the mission I've been waiting for my whole life . I was literally born for this" She shut her eyes and schooled her expression into a sultry cherry-lipsticked moue for the imaginary camera.
"Very nice," applauded Stiles. "Very ' Blue Steel'."
"Wait. Did you mean 'all of us' all of us?" demanded Malia.
"Stilinski meant the three of them." Hale made a 'settle down' gesture with one hand. "Lydia, Erica, and Kira will be models. Malia, you'll be posing as their bodyguard and personal assistant."
"Oh, thank god ." Malia was so relieved that she nearly fell off Kira's chair.
"We've already got a fake agency and fake i.d.s set up, but Lydia's history with Whittemore throws a spanner in the works. And there's no way I'm sending you three into the field without her. I don't care what the research says. So you'll need a disguise." Stiles pulled out a drawer. "What do you think? Holographic Projection Necklace? Or can we get by with the two-in-one spray and dye?"
"Okay, first of all," Lydia frowned at him, "no amount of hair dye would be enough to keep one of my ex-boyfriends from recognizing me. I'm unforgettable."
"Damn straight."
"But I do agree that I should be included in the field team. Let's approach this from a different angle." Lydia tapped thoughtfully on the arm of her chair. "I think we can all agree that literally no one would have a hard time believing that I'd taken up modeling as a career."
"No one but your very disappointed math professors." Stiles shut the drawer and dropped back into his own chair, propping his chin on both fists. "Go on."
"This could be a distinct advantage. Our 'in' has been handed to us on a silver platter." She narrowed her eyes at the on-screen image of Whittemore. "I know at least a dozen ways to worm a secret out of Jackson.
Next to her, Erica coughed loudly and expertly mimed a blowjob.
Unruffled as ever, Lydia merely shrugged. "That was one way, yes."
Hale crossed his arms over his ample chest and furrowed his brows in genuine concern. "Agent Martin. Are you sure you can handle this? It's not exactly S.U.P.E.S. policy to send out spies who are personally involved-"
"It's not officially against S.U.P.E.S. policy either." Lydia waved his concern away as meaningless trifle. "If Jackson has nothing to do with these disappearances - if it's all hot air, or just some new industry trend, then I want that proven." She bit her lip. "And if he is up to something nefarious - if he's hurting these women in any way-" Lydia's eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and her voice dropped an octave, "-then I want to be the one who strings that little worm up for the hook."
"Woo!" Stiles kicked off in his chair for a triumphant spin. He shot finger-guns at Lydia as soon as he came back around. "That's my girl."
"Well, I hope he's innocent," Kira declared, virtuous as ever. Erica said, "When you say 'little worm', are you possibly referring to his-”
"Okay!" Stiles braked his spin with the toe of one Converse and pulled himself up by a hand on Derek Hale's conveniently placed shoulder. He was giving Stiles some very unimpressed side-eye. Maybe there was less talk about dicks in the good old days back on Team Oops-All-Hales.
Maybe he'd even decide Erica was too much spy for him to handle. Stiles wished he had the authority to give her a raise.
He clapped his hands instead. "Exposition time!"
It didn't take long to give the spies a brisk rundown of the intel they'd gathered on Every Body's Type: the backstory on the company's founding and rapid growth, some advertising material and stills from runway shows, a list of executives, Jackson's post-Lydia romantic history, and a few basic exterior drone shots of a large warehouse and the surrounding buildings. Stiles and Hale bickered back and forth over the baton as they went, getting mascara everywhere.
"That's the gist of it," Stiles finished, wrestling the baton back from Hale (and leaving a satisfying streak of black gunk all across his boring silk tie). "Most of this info's already been streamed to your Compowders, but you know how I love a good Q&A."
Kira raised her hand. "What about the gadgets?"
"The gadgets!" Stiles gleefully elbowed Hale out of the way and pushed another of the many, many buttons on his desk. "I'm so glad you asked."
A panel of wall slid up behind him, revealing several rows of shelves, all glittering with the crown jewels S.U.P.E.S. technological expertise. "For this mission, I've leaned towards the kind of thing you can wear on your sleeve. We've got the jetpack backpacks, of course, in four fun fall colors. The 24-Exposure Mini Barrette Camera. The Ejectabean Bracelet-"
"Is it actually out of beta testing this time?" Lydia demanded.
"Yes," Stiles huffed, "it's fully tested and field ready." He tossed the bracelet at Erica, who caught it easily.
"Because I heard-"
"Fully. Field. Tested," Stiles ground out through closed teeth. He tapped against the next shelf. "One set of Hairpick Lockpicks. A set of Chameleon Eye Shadow - oh, goddammit, they sent over the winter palette."
"It basically turns you invisible, Stiles. I think we'll manage."
"Lip Balm Smoke Bomb, a manicure kit with a Laser Nail File, the Press-on Fingernail Sleeping Darts, and the Press-on Sticky Fingers-"
"Do those come in licorice?"
Stiles winked at Kira. "And electric blue." He picked up a packet of well-disguised gum and tossed it towards Malia. "Chewable Glueable Tracking Gum-"
"Thanks." She scanned the label. "Oh, score. The liver flavor's my favorite."
Stiles made an internal face. He'd always known there was something deeply wrong with the Hales.
"And our newest masterpiece-" Stiles tapped out a drumroll on the desktop, "-the S.S.H.H."
"I didn't say anything!" protested Kira.
"Not 'shush', S.S.H.H." The screen behind Stiles lit up, displaying a set of schematics. "The Super Suggestive Hypnotic Headband. S.S.H.H. for short." He lifted up the headband. It looked like extremely clear, almost totally transparent plastic, except for the cute Jigglypuff jellies on the side. Those were hiding the electronics. Stiles had planned to demonstrate by pushing back his own hair, but at the last second he changed his mind and put it on Hale instead.
Surprisingly, Hale took this latest affront like a lamb. He stood completely still with his arms still crossed, only lightly glaring, as Stiles pushed back his hair and tucked the headband behind his ears. "It expands and retracts to fit different head sizes!" he announced, and then tilted the S.S.H.H. forward to show how neatly it fit over the mouth.
"When you speak through the S.S.H.H. it layers your voice with mild hypnotic cue that makes everything you say extra persuasive. Like the Jedi mind trick. But don't try to push it too far," Stiles warned. "Since this is a strictly aural form of hypnosis, it's most effective at giving the mark a shove in a direction they were already likely to go."
He removed the headband from Hale's uncharacteristically obliging skull and handed it to the closest spy.
"So it's not actually like the Jedi mind trick at all."
"Please let me have this one thing, Erica."
Malia loudly popped a piece of chewing gum. Next to Stiles, Hale rubbed at his face, a broken man. "Malia, every piece of that gum costs twenty thousand dollars."
"Mmm? Uh, whoops?" She made a face. "Fuck; I just swallowed it."
"At least we'll know where Malia is for the next . . . Stiles, how long does it take for something to pass through the human digestive system?"
"Usually about a day and a half," Stiles answered promptly. "Could be as few as ten hours if she's been keeping up with her fiber intake."
"I try not to shit at all during missions," Malia volunteered. "It's too hard to get those stupid suits off."
"And they never label the bathrooms in lairs," added Erica. "Don't even get me started on the sexist practices in henchman hiring. Even if you can find a bathroom, it's, like, nothing but urinals."
"I know most of you have never seen the bathrooms in this building," Stiles said, "but they're pretty nice. In case anyone needs to use the potty before you go."
After a few seconds' pause, Kira admitted that she could, in fact, use a minute in the little spy's room, and Stiles directed her out the magically appearing door (so many buttons on his desk; he loved his desk) and two doors down to the right. She came back in, eyes wide, "The halls here have magenta carpeting? I did not expect that."
"What was the bathroom like?"
"Also pink. And it had those little soaps? Like, guest soaps? The kind shaped like seashells? Except these were shaped like flowers. Like the decals on our jetpacks!"
Hale had the grace to look embarrassed. "My mo-the Director thinks that convincing themselves to use the guest soaps removes an important psychological hurdle in an agent’s mind."
". . . I knew it. You have to be willing to flaunt propriety in this gig. Okay! Anyone else need to take a field trip out to gaze upon Talia's Training Soaps? No? Good."
Hale, already back to his usual level of unexamined privilege, bumped Stiles lightly aside to push one of the many desk buttons (rude) and the wall to the left shot up to reveal three shiny rolling suitcases in signature S.U.P.E.S. pink, with heart shaped luggage tags in green, red, and yellow. Also, one lightly used gym bag.
"For verisimilitude, we've packed small designer wardrobes for Lydia, Kira, and Erica, including several items from E.B.T.'s last spring line."
"Do we get to keep the clothes?"
"Yes, Erica. You get to keep the clothes."
"You're the best, Der."
All four spies stood and claimed their respective luggage. Malia offered to carry Kira's bag for her, flexing an impressive bicep; Kira giggled.
"So how are we getting to our new job? Private jet? Limousine? Three identical Italian convertibles?"
". . . sure," said Stiles. And he pushed the big red button again.
". . ."
". . ."
". . . those screams really carry, huh?"
"There is something deeply wrong with you, Stilinski."