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good-rwbyaus · 3 years

Note

Au where Whitley has actually been running the bank accounts since he was young and keeping the group financially viable

#Rising Snow AU - mod lilac - [ next ]

1. Beginning

It started when his father, smelling like expensive liquors and overbearing perfume, shoved a packet of folders at him and stated “You deal with it. Your father has a hang- headache” before staggering off back to his bedroom to sleep off yesterday’s social gathering.

He was ecstatic. His father began to trust him to handle things in the company. Before he was a mere fixture in the company, only present to speak pleasantries and let others know that Jacques Schnee had a well-bred son. But now he had responsibilities and power.

Whitley Schnee, soon-to-be-heir of the Schnee Dust Company since Weiss didn’t seem to care about it and Willow just left to join Atlas, will show everyone his worth, starting with.... a whole lot of complaints about their customer service.

_______________________________________

2. Complaints

“This motor is covered under warranty. I still have the original receipt. You have to take it back.”

“Sorry, but the warranty only covers usage in automobiles. You said you tried installing it in a motorcycle, so your warranty is void.”

“...A motorcycle is an automobile, sir.”

“Look smartass, you’re getting on my nerves. You’re not going to get a refund from the Schnee Dust Company, got it?”

“Excuse me!? I want to talk to your manager. Now.”

“I am the manager. Now stop wasting my time.”

“Wh-”

Click.

Whitley’s eyebrows creased sharply as he closed the Scroll. He took slow deep breaths trying to get rid of the anger trembling through his body. A Schnee is like ice. They do not show their rage unless they can leverage it for their purposes. His teeth gritted once more and relaxed.

Those two-faced bastards. He knew the customer service staff were no good when they started fawning over him, telling him that “of course they got complaints when they couldn’t fulfill their requests” or “we got everything under control.”

In reality, they were all just disgusting liars who couldn’t do their job. If he hadn’t been suspicious of them, they might’ve gotten away with it. Those people had to be removed before they truly caused an incident; he cannot let such unsightly things remain.

He picked up the phone.

________________________________________

3. Fired.

“You can’t do this to us! This is going against our contract.”

“Just because you’re your father’s son doesn’t mean you have any power here.”

“You’re going to speak to my lawyer about unfair dismissal, kid!”

It’s funny. The half-dozen or so people who were fawning over him just hours earlier were now cursing and shaming him. Of course they were angry. He just told them they were all fired a couple minutes ago and stopped saying anything when they started yelling like a mob. His lips trembled, trying to stop himself from smiling.

Gods. He was so angry that he’s finding humor in it. Do they really think they have power here?

Bang.

A bald-headed tall man - the manager he spoke to last - slammed his hands onto his desk, looming over him as if to intimidate him with the threat of physical violence. The noise made him flinch slightly, breaking his facade of calm and causing the other guy to smirk mockingly at him.

Bastard.

This farce has gone on long enough.

“Okay. You can keep your jobs...”

Immediately, the six people leered triumphantly with the one at the head of the pack messing his desk up proudly stood up.

“Good kid, see you know when you’re in the wrong.”

“Yeah, smart like your father,” said the man at his desk about to pat him on the head. Immediately, he swatted the man’s hand away.

“...as I gather the audio logs for our lawyers to peruse and determine how much damage you’ve done to the company’s image.”

That silenced the room better than a dead body being found in it.

“If you didn’t do anything wrong, you’ll have my apologies and a bonus for your troubles. But if you’ve damaged our image... well, a company’s face is priceless - but I can definitely try to get back some recompense.”

He lifted a finger which everyone else in the room followed.

“That’s your first option. The other option is to resign quietly, and I will not pursue this in the future. You can take the time to think about it.

“You can-”

“You’re all dismissed. If you linger around a second longer,” he glared at the group, “I’m going to assume you’re taking the first option and want to be escorted out.”

Immediately, upon realizing who had the actual power in the room, the group of six began to scramble out of the room, but just as the bald-headed manager exited out the door, Whitley spoke up. The words caused the man to stiffen up.

“Except you. You don’t get an option, manager. You're fired. Wait to hear from my lawyers.”

He steepled his fingers together, a vicious satisfied smile on his lips.

________________________________________

4. Security Card

...Okay. That was scary. He honestly thought that baldy was going to hit him at the very end. In the future, he was going to have a bodyguard in the room or Klein just in case. He loosened his vest slightly, the cloth sticking to his back from the cold sweat.

It was weird though. Why did something like customer service go all the way up to the level of the President?

Wasn’t that something for managers or department heads to solve?

“Maybe it’s just a test from father,” Whitley spoke out loud. He shook his head.

Yeah, that was probably it.

----

Little did he know that his carelessly stated statement was caught by a hidden camera in his room.

----

The next day he found a folder on his desk and a white card with the label of 00 on it.

________________________________________

5. Assignment

“Hey, Klein,” Whitley asked cautiously as the loyal man handed him a glass of water, “Did father come into my room yesterday?”

He didn’t know what to make of the butler at times or how to treat him. Father said never to treat the help too kindly or they’ll take advantage of it, but Klein was someone he knew since he was born. He’s never seen him be anything but loyal and attentive. He wasn’t like the people he just dealt with.

Maybe he would’ve just dismissed him as just the help, but after having seen a very recent example of two-faced people, he couldn’t quite agree with his father’s assessment of Klein.

“Your father has gone on va-,” the man paused upon seeing the contents on the desk, particularly the white card on his desk. “That card?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a card like this before,” Whitley replied, “What does it actually do?”

Klein stared at the card quietly before saying, “Only the Master of the House could’ve given you that card. It will open every lock and file in the Schnee Dust Company. It means the Master has given you authority second to them.”

“Father must really trust me after I got results, right?” he proudly stated as he started shuffling through the documents. In doing so, he missed Klein’s smile, both proud and pained at the same time.

The cursory review made his self-praising words die in his throat.

“Wait...He wants me to solve all these?!” Whitley yelled. It wasn’t that the entire packet consisted of a single problem. The entire seventy-two page packet was a large list of overdue problems and documents that required his attention.

“Where’s father?”

“He’s currently on vacation. He won’t be here for a month.”

“Didn’t he just go on vacation two weeks ago? There should be someone to substitute while he’s gone?”

“...No, sir. This is how it always has been.”

“Haha. You’re joking. Or is this part of the test, Klein?” He laughed but it soon died on his throat, seeing the man’s grim face.

“I will not lie to you, young master.” Klein remarked before adding with a nudge of his head, “There’s a note.”

He’s right. There was. The script was in cursive; it would’ve been elegant and soft if it weren’t for the shakiness in it.

‘You have the right idea. Sometimes problems need to find the right people.’

________________________________________

6. Delegation

This was stupid. The purchasing of toilet paper or whether it had to be 2-ply or 3-ply or setting the price of bubble-gum at the employee store did not need to pass through the president’s desk.

Hell. It’s like anything that involved the tiniest amount of money or required the slightest authority needed to make its way to his desk.

This was not a functional solution. He’ll die of exhaustion by the end of the week if that continued.

And the answers from the department heads were incredibly unhelpful.

‘It has always been this way.’

But it hasn’t. Looking through the records only he could access, everything changed when his father inherited the company from his grandfather. His father first fired anyone that disagreed with him and then diverted anything that looked like it involved money up to the very top. Maybe it was important back then, but those measures certainly didn’t need to be used now.

His father ruled with an iron fist when it came to the company. No one dared to challenge his authority now.

His father was smart. Intelligent. These actions didn’t match that. Was this just another one of his tests? He wanted to believe that, but...

‘The only person you can trust is yourself. Everyone else can betray you. Even family. Only trust others if you have power over them, that is trust.’

...It did match what his father would do. And if there was nothing else he learned from all those official dinners and parties, he knew how to read people, especially his father and his mercurial temper.

With how many of these documents have been untouched and unread, what exactly is his father doing?

Come to think of it. When was the last time his father sat in front of a computer instead of going on vacation or to one of his many dinners with his business associates?

He shook his head. Impossible. His father definitely worked hard. How else would this company be standing if he was that neglectful? Maybe these files were just like the 5% of untouched work since he had so much wor-

His screen flickered as he clicked on another file. The pillar of red pointing downwards made him pale.

[ next ]

#honorable-asshole #mod lilac #whitley schnee #willow schnee #rwby au #rwby fic #fwby #rising snow au

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celestialvoid-fanfiction · 4 years

Text

You Arrested My Boyfriend?

Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills to help his dad on a case, but when Derek is wrongfully arrested, Stiles gets a little protective of his man.

Commission for @ditheringmind

(You can read it on AO3, here)

There was a quiet knock against the plane of glass that lined the wall of the Sheriff’s office.

“Sheriff?” Parrish said tentatively, leaning in through the doorway slightly.

“Yeah?” Sheriff Stilinski replied, not taking his eyes off the case board in front of him.

“The FBI consultant is here,” Parrish told him.

The Sheriff let out a measured sigh.

“If it’s Special Agent McCall—” Sheriff Stilinski’s voice was tense and bitter – almost mocking – as he said the name. “—tell him to shove off.”

“That’s not very nice,” a familiar voice said, scolding him gently.

John spun around, his eyes falling on the young man who stood in the doorway.

“Stiles,” he said, delighted. He rushed over to his son’s side, scooping the young man up in his arms and holding him close.

Stiles let out a quiet chuckle as he hugged his dad back.

“It’s so good to see you,” John said, slowly pulling back to look at his son. He gently patted his son’s shoulder, looking him up and down. “Look at you.”

He was a little taller than when John had last seen him, his broad shoulders and slender but fit figure accentuated by the fitted white dress shirt he wore. He had a gun holstered on one hip and his ID and badge on the other. He looked like a grown man, mature and confident. But some things never change; his chestnut-brown hair was still a tousled mess, his mole-speckled cheeks still dimpled when he smiled, and his dark eyes still held their glint of mischief.

“How have you been?” his dad asked.

“Good,” Stiles replied. His smile grew more tense and his voice hesitant as he added, “But you and I have a lot to catch up on.”

“We sure do,” John said, a fond smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Catch me up on what you have,” Stiles said, nodding towards the case board.

John walked his son through all of it: the victims, the crime scenes, the evidence they had, the leads they were chasing up, and those that had fallen through.

“Is there any chance this could be… supernatural related?” Stiles asked, keeping his voice low enough that only his dad could hear.

“I don’t know,” John said. “We can’t find any connection between the victims themselves or any connection between them and the few families I know of.”

“I’ll ask around,” Stiles offered. “Between the ‘wolves and the hunters, someone’s bound to know if they’re supernatural or not.”

John nodded, folding his arms across his chest as he leant back against the edge of his desk.

“We’re almost out of options,” he admitted.

“Whoever did this, they seem like an outsider,” Stiles pointed out. “There hasn’t been a crime like this in Beacon Hills in over twenty years – aside from Peter’s outburst and the Darach – which suggests that whoever did this isn’t from here.”

The Sheriff nodded.

“We should check with motels, hostels, and air BNBs to see if they had any new customers in the days leading up to the first incident,” Stiles suggested. “Have patrols check out abandoned houses and buildings, especially the industrial end of town. We’ll talk to real estate agents and get them to take us to any houses up for sale or not yet rented out in order to check for squatters. Check the camp grounds and the reserve as well in case our suspect is hiding out there.”

“That reminds me,” John said quietly. “I need to clear some boxes of old case files out of your room before you come over.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I—um… I’m staying with a friend,” Stiles said.

“Oh, okay,” John said.

“Wait, why do you have old case files at home?”

“Something about this…” John let out a heavy sigh, raking his fingers back through his thinning brown hair. “Never mind.”

“You always told me to follow my gut. Since when do you dismiss intuition?” Stiles asked, folding his arms over his chest as he turned to look at his dad. “Tell me what’s going on.”

John couldn’t help but smile. Stiles had always been able to read him like a book.

“There are things about this case that remind me of another case; one I worked when I was a deputy,” John told him.

“You think it might be a copy cat?”

“Worse,” John said. “There are similarities between the cases that are too close for this to be a copy cat—pieces of evidence that were present in the old cases that were never spoken of or brought to caught; facts that were never disclosed to the public.”

“So, we’re dealing with a returning serial killer or a protégé.”

“It seems that way.”

“Would I be able to look over those old files?” Stiles asked. “Maybe another pair of eyes could help.”

John nodded.

Stiles paused, noticing the solemn look in his father’s weary eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles coaxed.

“That case was twenty-four years ago,” John said quietly. “The guy we arrested died last year.”

“So, either he trained someone,” Stiles started, his voice trailing off slightly as he realised what the alternative was.

“Or I arrested the wrong guy,” John confirmed.

The house stood proud among the trees; the new siding painted a soft brown with dark window frames and wooden shutters. The porch that ran along the front of the house still needed some work—the fresh pine planks still had to be stained and sealed before winter set in.

It was like a glimpse of the past—the newly restored house looked so much like his childhood home.

Inside, the walls were covered in crisp white paint. A few of the support beams that framed the rooms had been replaced—the large beams weathered, scarred and stained in an effort to match the surviving beans that were burnt, black and distorted like the disfigured body of Atlas bowing beneath an unimaginable weight.

The house smelt of sweet dew and crisp pine trees, tainted by the smell of ash that never seemed to fade.

There were scattered signs of history and new life mingling among the ruins. There were pieces of furniture that had been restores or salvaged, wooden tables with charred legs and warped paint like scars. The walls of the hallways were lined with photos of the Hale family, pictures that Stiles and the pack had helped Derek track down—and new photos; photos of the pack.

Two large windows framed the front door, morning light streaming through them and illuminating the angelic swirl of the sparking particles of dust.

Derek heard the blanket of leaves crunch beneath the wheels of an approaching car, the quiet rumble of the engine dying away.

He opened the front door, stepping out onto the porch.

A young deputy – one that he didn’t seem to know – stepped out of the car, levelling his eyes on Derek.

“Good morning, officer,” Derek greeted. “Can I help you?”

“What’s your name?” the deputy asked.

“Derek Hale,” he answered.

The deputy looked at the house and back to Derek. “Do you live here?”

Derek nodded.

“How long?”

“Just moved back in a couple of days ago,” Derek answered honestly. “I’ve been trying to get the place ready for my partner.”

“Do you have some ID on you?” the deputy asked.

“Yeah,” Derek said.

He stepped down the small stairs and onto the damp blanket of autumn leaves, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and pulling out his driver’s licence. He handed it over to the young deputy.

The deputy’s eyes flitted down to the card. His face seemed to harden as he handed it back to Derek.

“Put your hands behind your back, sir,” the deputy said firmly.

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he did as he was told. He held his hands behind himself, turning his back to the deputy.

“Can I ask why?”

“I’m placing you under arrest for suspicion of involvement in the abduction and murder of three people.”

“What?” Derek gawked.

“You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say can - and will - be taken down and used against you in a court of law,” the deputy began, reading Derek his rights as he guided the man into the back of the police cruiser.

Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor of his old bedroom, the old dusty boxes stacked around him. An unlidded box sat beside him, full of evidence bags and pale manila folders.

Stiles rifled through the old folders, flipping through sheets of paper work—witness statements, autopsy reports, photographs, evidence submissions, arrest reports, etc.

Another folder lay open beside him, filled with sheets of paper and photographs from the latest cases.

His dad was right; the similarities between the cases were too close to be a coincidence.

His phone buzzed as the screen lit up with a message.

He set the file he was reading aside and picked up his phone.

It was from Parrish.

‘Hayes has arrested someone. He thinks he might be connected to the case.’

The phone buzzed again as Parrish sent through a copy of the arrest report and a photo of the man who had been arrested.

Stiles opened the photo, feeling his heart drop as he looked at the familiar photo.

His body tenses as burning rage tore through his body.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Stiles shoved open the door to the Sheriff’s office, barging into the room.

“You arrested my boyfriend?” he shouted.

John blinked in surprise.

“Your what?” he stammered.

“Derek,” Stiles reiterated.

The Sheriff held up a finger, pausing the conversation. He stood up from his desk and crossed over to the door, leaning out into the bullpen and calling in a young deputy who Stiles hadn’t met before.

Stiles looked down at the man’s name badge. Hayes.

The Sheriff sat down behind his desk again.

“Hayes,” he started. “Please give us a debriefing of your arrest.”

“The man fit the profile,” Hayes said.

“In what way?” Stiles objected, feeling defensive.

“The profile said the suspect would be an outsider. His driver’s licence says he’s from New York. And he had another card in his wallet with a Virginian address. He was on his own, hiding out on private property in a house that has been abandoned for years.”

“He wasn’t ‘hiding out’; it’s his family’s property—his property,” Stiles said through his teeth, his jaw tense. “The house was destroyed ten years ago in a fire. He’s spent the last year rebuilding it.”

“The profile said it’s possible our suspect could be working with someone – a mentor – and learning from them,” the deputy continued, quoting the profile Stiles had put together back to him. “He said he was waiting for his partner.”

“Yeah, me,” Stiles said. “I’m his partner. He came down from Virginia a few days early to get the house ready for us to move into while I finished off my last days at Quantico before coming here.”

“He has a record,” the deputy added.

“Of false arrests,” Stiles countered.

The Sheriff held his hand over his mouth, trying to hide his amused smile as the two bickered back and forth.

“Okay,” he interrupted, silencing the two of them. “Derek Hale may be antisocial and he may look like a serial killer—no offence,” he quickly added, cutting his son off before Stiles could argue. “But I can say for certain that he is not a killer.”

Stiles let out sigh of relief, feeling the coil of rage unwind in his chest. The tension in his body began to ease, his shoulders dropping as he let out another measured breath.

“Deputy, you’re dismissed,” John said.

Deputy Hayes nodded and left. He paused in the doorway, turning back to Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“It’s alright; you were just doing your job,” Stiles said, his voice calm and level. “I can’t help it that my boyfriend fits the profile.”

He offered Hayes a friendly smile as the Deputy walked out of the office.

It was only after Hayes was out of the room that Stiles realised what he had said. He felt his chest tighten again, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat as he turned to look at his dad.

The Sheriff met his gaze, his hazel eyes lit with curiosity. He arched a brow as he met his son’s gaze.

“You and Derek?” John started slowly. “How long has that been going on?”

“Nearly three years,” Stiles admitted.

“Three years,” John gawked.

“I was going to tell you,” Stiles said. “I just needed time to figure out how.”

A soft smile turned up the corners of the Sheriff’s mouth. He stepped around the side of his desk and over to Stiles’ side, pulling his son into his arms.

Stiles hugged him back, burying his face in the worn cotton of his dad’s shirt.

John pulled back slowly, craning his neck to look his son in the eye.

“You know I love you, no matter what,” he said softly.

Stiles dropped his gaze, unable to look his father in the eye.

“Stiles,” John said softly. “All I want is for you to be happy. And if Derek makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.”

“He does,” Stiles admitted, his voice quiet.

“You love him, don’t you?” the Sheriff asked.

Stiles nodded.

He swallowed hard, hesitantly looking up and meeting his father’s soft gaze.

A smile lit up the man’s weary face and Stiles couldn’t help but smile back.

“Now, let’s go get your boyfriend out of jail,” the Sheriff said, trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

Stiles let out a quiet chuckle, following his dad out of the office, across the bullpen and down the hallway that led to the holding cells.

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