During his move to Washington, DC, Stiles made a number of realizations about life, the most prominent of which was that it was amazing what kind of hobbies a guy could pick up when his days weren’t packed full of running for his life from various supernatural horrors. Like trivia nights, for example. Stiles had a regular team and the entire bar groaned when they walked in because they knew they were about to get creamed.
Or the tabletop gaming club he joined, where everyone was just as competitive as he was, and punches had been thrown on more than one occasion.
Or like, Stiles jogged now.
Through the National Mall.
Like Captain America or some shit.
And with these hobbies came a sort of routine, and though most were on hold during the summer when his trivia team and gaming rivals were back home, the running stuck. It was calming and got his mind off things, gave him a chance to think about any papers he had to write, or de-stress about his FBI internship when it got a little hectic.
It was a good routine.
So every Saturday morning, Stiles got up a little earlier so he could get in his longer route, and left his dorm for his jog through the National Mall. On Saturdays, he took the path that went through the war memorials, down into West Potomac Park, and over to the Jefferson Memorial. It was his favorite place to take a breather because that early in the morning, there were rarely any tourists, and other joggers left him alone. It was nice and private, with a great view of the city across the water.
Stiles leaned back against the front steps and glanced around him casually, making sure there was no one too close before pulling out his little burner flip phone.
He had an old school drug dealer flip phone. His dad would be so proud.
There was only one number the phone ever called, so there was no need to save it under a name.
He waited for a few minutes, biding his time until the clock hit 7:15am, and then he called that number.
On the third ring, Derek picked up.
“Morning, sunshine!” Stiles greeted, already wide awake from his jog. Derek grunted back. He must’ve had a late night at the bar. “Any leads?”
Derek yawned loudly. “Still no werewolves with triskele tattoos, still wanted for murder.”