Sterek: A Picture of Innocence

As promised in my last blog, more art. And sorry again for my lack of contact/replying to comments/reading notes - I will get back to everyone asap. Meanwhile, enjoy more Sterek with added fic!

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Summary: When Jackson Whittemore's body is found brutally stabbed to death in the alleyway behind his apartment, Detectives Deaton and Hale immediately suspect comic-book seller and published crime writer, G. "Stiles" Stilinski. But Stiles fears worse - that he is next on the killer's list. [based on the Adrien English series]

A Picture of Innocence
Part One


"I'm afraid we have some bad news for you, Mr Stilinski."

Stiles blinked back the sleep crusting his eyelashes, leaned heavily into the door frame and glared at the two plain-clothes detectives filling the shop doorway. It was morning - morning preceding coffee and adderall of all god awful things - and he was not in the mood for this.

"Seriously? Look, if this is about that box of 1st edition Batmans on Ebay-"

"You think this is about comic books?" the taller of the pair cut in, and there was no mistaking the disdain-filled emphasis he placed on the word 'comic'.

The next moment there was a flash of official looking badges followed by grim but patient silence. Stiles stood a little straighter, eyes warily shifting from one officer to the other as the first breath of cold dread began to chase away the last sleep from his mind. Detective Deaton was the older of the two, dressed smart but casual in a maroon coloured shirt and nondescript Gap jacket. His whole appearance was made to blend in, but Stiles hadn't missed those shrewd, watchful eyes. The other one, Detective Hale, the guy with no apparent respect for comic books (even aforementioned first editions and seriously? Did this guy have any idea the kind of market value first edition Batman comics had?) was all sharp angles and broad shoulders, with the kind of permanent 5 o'clock shadow all decent stereotyped workaholic detectives had. The only accessory Hale was missing was a fedora and the stale musk of scotch, but as he pushed past, uninvited, all Stiles could smell was the stiff, rough leather of the detective's jacket.

He wiped a hand over his face and grunted, "Sure, fine, just come in why don't you. Make yourself at home, please." He never was much good at reigning in his sarcasm before noon.

"It concerns an employee of yours," Deaton continued as they made their way into the shop.

Stiles slipped behind his desk, determined to put something big and solid between himself and the detectives to make up for his lack of clothes. He hadn't expected an early morning audience with Sherlock and Watson when the doorbell had rung. As it was, he was bare-footed in a pair of Hulk patterned boxer shorts and an old Captain America t-shirt.

"Well I only have the one employee so-"

"Jackson Whittemore," Detective Hale bit out stiffly, and Stiles would be lying if he said that cool, unblinking gaze wasn't the least bit unnerving. In fact he had the sudden desire to fall to his knees and confess every little crime he'd committed since he could crawl.

Instead, Stiles rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, folded his arms behind his head and rocked the chair onto its heels.

"Ah. Great. What's the little tyke done now?"

"He's dead."

Silence cut the room. The chair's front legs hit the floor with a jarring bang.

"Dead?"

The plain-clothes detectives stood perfectly still and stared, weighing him up with heavy gazes.

His mind was a blank. At length, he muttered, "Shit," and drummed his fingers along the wooden arm of his chair, his whole body ringing with nervous energy. "How? When? Wh-"

There was a short, silent exchange between the two officers, then Deaton provided, "He was murdered."

"Shit." Apparently it was all his brain could muster. "Shit."

"You don't seem surprised," Detective Hale observed.

Stiles frowned. "I am."

"Are you?"

Stiles ignored him. His heart fluttered and skin prickled with the flush that preceded his old familiar weakness. He leaned back in his chair, running the now sweat-slick palms of his hands over his face and tried to stretch out his already tightening chest.

"Hold- Just hold on a sec," he muttered, leaning back towards his desk and fumbling for the handle of the drawer. Wrenching it open, he snatched up his inhaler and breathed.

"Asthmatic?" said Detective Deaton.

Stiles went stiff for a moment, then made a half shrug with his head and replied, "Panic attacks."

"Common?"

"Occasionally."

"Feeling panicked, Mr Stilinski?" Detective Hale said.

Stiles glared. "Two cops turn up at 6am to tell me one of my best friends is dead, I'm not exactly feeling all sunshine and roses, no," he snapped, waving his hands in the air. "Look, how- How did - ? Who did -?" He bit the side of his mouth, frustrated, blood drumming in his ears. He couldn't bring himself to say the word murder. He leaned on the desk for support, cradling his head in his hands. "Shit."

"Mr Whittemore was found stabbed to death in the back of his car parked behind his apartment early this morning," Deaton answered. "I understand this has come as quite a shock to you, Mr Stilinski," and ye-ah, right, no kidding, "but would you mind answering a few questions?"

Stiles noted dryly that Deaton's pen and pad were already out and poised for action. He nodded shortly and raised himself off the desk a little way, foot tapping the floor in a nervous beat. A sick, alien feeling of numb calm was flooding him; shock, a small part of his mind informed him with ruthless formality.

"How long have you known Mr Whittemore?" Deaton began, and Stiles felt the smallest bit of relief that Detective Hale hadn't started the barrage of questions sure to come.

"Since Highschool. We grew up together in Beacon Hills."

"We hear he was living in Beacon Hills up until a year ago. How long has been in your employment?"

"Since last February? Maybe? I dunno, it's been about a year. He was having a tough time, I gave him a job, tried to help him settle..." He trailed off, feeling sick. Jackson was dead. Dead. It didn't seem real. His foot continued tapping out a nervous staccato on the dark floorboards. He tried to listen to Deaton's voice, the steady beat of questions jarring with the sick flood of emotions crawling up and down his veins.

"What kind of employee was he? Have you noticed any changes in his actions or work ethic lately?"

Stiles snorted back a laugh, couldn't help himself, because really? The phrase 'work ethic' and Jackson Whittemore didn't exactly go hand in hand. When he caught the official stony gaze of the two detectives, he cleared his throat and answered in a tone he knew was non-committal, "Yeah. Yeah. He was ...fine." If you considered petty theft, sex addiction, general dumbassery and an all round piss-poor personality fine, then sure - Whittemore was the perfect employee.

"So safe to say you knew him well?" Detective Hale said.

"Sure."

"Sleeping with him?"

Stiles nearly choked. "What?"

Deaton eyed his partner warningly, but apparently Hale was just getting started.

"You're gay," he said caustically, as if it were an accusation. "That right?"

"Bisexual actually," Stiles replied, and swore he saw the man roll his eyes ever so slightly before fixing him with that steady, tawny gaze again.

"And Whittemore?"

"Whittemore was gay, yeah."

"So you were lovers."

"Well sure, because every single gay guy in L.A. wants to bone each other, right?" he retorted sarcastically. Then, because he wasn't fully convinced Detective Hale owned enough braincells to grasp the concept of sarcasm, added with a little flail for emphasis, "Oh my god, no, we aren't- weren't sleeping together. What the hell."

"Do you know if Mr Whittemore was involved with anyone else?" Deaton smoothly interjected.

"I don't know, Jackson was sleeping with a lot of people. He wasn't exactly a saint, you know?" He swallowed thickly, mentally berating himself for the way that had sounded. He watched Deaton jot more notes down on his pad and swallowed again, his foot tripping on its continuous beat.

It was the truth, though. Jackson wasn't exactly the nicest guy in town - nor was he the most reliable employee. Or friend. Working in such close quarters in Stiles' book shop, their friendship over the last few months had been tentative at best. They might have been childhood friends, but even he couldn't condone Jackson's actions all the time. The man actively made more friends than enemies on his frequent nights out, but even so - murdered?

"Do you have any leads?" he asked, and immediately regretted it at the brief glance the two detectives shared. Whether Stiles was meant to notice it, he knew what that look meant - knew exactly which lead they were following...

His question went unanswered and instead Detective Hale picked up where he left off. "Who did Whittemore socialise with? Was he sleeping with anyone?"

Not 'who was he seeing?', but 'who was he shacking up with?', Stiles noted irritably. Apparently according to Mr Prude here, two guys couldn't be dating, only fucking.

"Look I don't know, we didn't exactly hang out all buddy like after work," he said honestly, with an airy wave of his arms.

Two sets of eyebrows raised questioningly at that remark and Deaton said, "But you and Mr Whittemore were close friends?"

"I said we'd known each other since pre-school, that doesn't exactly amount to the same thing."

"It normally does," Hale commented drily and yes, Stiles already hated him.

"We worked together all day every freaking day of the week, I didn't exactly want to spend all of my free time with my face glued to his ass too. We were into different things, different people, that's all. Ok?"

Hale eyed him carefully. "Huh. Right. And the last time you saw him, Stilinski?"

Nice to see his title had dropped along with the pleasantries.

"The last time I saw him?" The tapping beat of his foot against the floorboard sped up. "Uhmmm, would be the time I saw him...last?"

Detective Hale gave him a look that informed him, in no uncertain amount of detail, what would happen to Stiles in this life and the next if he didn't answer in the next three seconds.

Stiles hesitated, knowing full well what this would sound like. "We ah-- we had dinner last night."

Those eyebrows again - and man, did Detective Hale ever have an impressive set. Stiles briefly wondered if he'd grown them out purely for intimidation purposes.

"It was a business dinner," he added. "We were going over some figures."

Hale looked sceptical. "Where?"

"The Full Moon."

"And?"

"And what? It's a restaurant. We ate. You know? It being a restaurant. You usually find food there." He paused. "Or something resembling it."

Detective Hale took a deep breath and said, with carefully measured patience, "What time did you arrive and leave the Full Moon last night?"

"We got there about 6, Jackson left around 7. Said he had someone to meet or something. I stuck around a bit, had a couple of drinks then.. skedaddled off to bed."

"Do you have any idea what Mr Whittemore's movements after he left you might have been that night, Mr Stilinski?" Deaton enquired. "Who he might have gone to meet?"

"No. I told you, we-"

"Didn't socialise." Detective Hale gave him a tight, sardonic smile. "Yeah. We got that."

Stiles paused to wonder if maybe the man did know a thing or two about sarcasm.

More questions filled his morning regarding Jackson, his social activities and his personality: had Stiles noticed a change in Jackson's mood lately? Did he think Jackson had been afraid of someone? Did he think he had been seeing someone - and seriously, how the hell was Stiles supposed to keep up with the number of notches on Jackson Whittemore's bedpost? Then there were an alarming number of personal questions, mostly posed by Detective Hale and by the look of growing impatience on his face, each answer Stiles gave just seemed to convince the man he was lacking in every conceivable way possible.

But Stiles was shrewd and he knew what these questions amounted to.

"Alright, look," he interrupted with an impatient flail of his arms, "you both seem pretty convinced Jackson was murdered by someone he knew. How are you so positive he wasn't just attacked by some nutjob on the street?"

Detective Hale cocked his head with another one of those tight wry smiles and said, "Because fifteen stab wounds to the face, neck and upper body generally suggest a prior acquaintance of the victim and the perpetrator."

Stile sucked in a breath under the man's hard, unblinking gaze. He could feel the blood draining from his face to sink in heavy cold weights in his hands and feet. His foot stopped tapping.

Fifteen stab wounds to the face and...

He couldn't remember much of the rest of the morning's questioning. It was all little details, really. Deaton took charge of those: his address in Beacon Hills and the name of his doctor, followed by, "Your father was the Sheriff of Beacon Hills - retired now, that correct?" and "How do you spell your first name...?"

As they left, Detective Hale paused by a stack of dog-eared comic books that had seen better days, piled up on a three legged stool.

"You sell a lot of comic books?"

Stiles shrugged. "Uhhh, yeah. This being a comic book store."

"You make a living out of that?"

"I write, too."

"You're published."

Stiles was a little alarmed to realise that wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. Just how much background digging had this guy done on him already?

As he moved towards the door, the detective's hand brushed the stacked comic books and the stool overbalanced and tipped its load across the floor. He paused, glanced from the scattered mess back to Stiles and flashed that unnerving shark-like smile, and said, "Sorry. You'll get that right."

Another statement.

"We'll be in touch, Stilinski."

The old-fashioned brass bell above the shop's front door tingled as Detective Hale disappeared onto the street outside, leaving Stiles to an empty shop - an emptiness that seemed to permeate every inch of him until he felt breathless, sick and heavy with it. So he filled it with the only words he could conjure.

"Freaking asshole."