Stiles crouches low, pulling his night goggles down and blinking a few times to adjust to the thermal images appearing before his eyes. Up ahead Jones, the commanding officer, is glancing around at the twenty men crouched single file behind him. Dressed in black tactical gear, they blend in perfectly with the night, almost imperceptible against the dark wall of the warehouse. Unbeknownst to the fugitive inside, another SWAT team is lying in wait at the other entrance of the warehouse, armed to the teeth and prepped for the worst. But, Stiles thinks, unbeknownst to the FBI, the man inside is no ordinary man, and has been through a lot worse.

There’s a faint crackle from Jones’ radio, a single phrase uttered; ‘Operation Resistance, Go.” Jones raises his hand, two fingers pointing forward, and the men all silently rise and stealthily move forward. The only sound is the minute release of safety triggers on the assault rifles they all cradle so naturally. Stiles takes a steadying breath as he too releases the latch, and files into the warehouse, the dim light from the moon disappearing.

Inside it’s pitch black, and the only heat signals registering on Stiles’ goggles are those of the other SWAT members, splitting off in a well-practiced criss-cross pattern, spreading out to cover the warehouse. Stiles and a few others head towards the far side of the warehouse, where towers of crates and boxes reach up to the ceiling and form narrow twisting paths, obscuring anyone who may be hiding within. They split off once more as they each take different entrances through the maze of pellets, guns poised and at the ready. As Stiles moves deeper into the maze, the quiet footsteps of the team members fade away, though he knows they cannot be far.

Still, he feels alone as he carefully treads around corners, eyes darting for any signs of movement. In, out, in, out. He tries to steady his breathing, his grip on the gun tightening uselessly. All of those years running around with the pack may have given him some invaluable skills, but it was nothing compared to being on an FBI SWAT team. He was surprised he’d managed to make it this far; there was only so long one could fake it until they made it, but apparently he had yet to reach that point.

He lets out another slow, even breath, and turns yet another corner. The path seems to narrow, the walls made by the crates seemingly pushing inwards, closing in on him. Another breath, another corner, another breath, another corner.

And suddenly he freezes.

There.

His eyes snap to his right, where he’d head the slightest intake of breath and he rapidly steps forward, a flash of red registering on his thermal goggles.

He makes out a large solid shape, about chest high, and seemingly on four legs.

His breath stills. He needs to see it clearly, with his own eyes. He pulls of his goggles rapidly.

There, standing proudly in front of him is a majestic blue wolf, piercing blue eyes staring back at him in shock.

“Derek.” The name falls from his lips in a silent whisper. “Derek,” he repeats, lowering his gun and stepping forward, hand outstretched. Derek startles, looking at something over his shoulder and Stiles whips around. Someone else has rounded the corner, something falling from their hand. Next thing he knows, purple smoke is filling the air and tears are clouding his vision; he struggles to hold his goggles back over his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he strains to see Derek again, still obscured by the thick smoke. As it begins to clear though, the wolf is gone.

Instead, a man is collapsed on his side, coughing violently.

Wolfsbane, Stiles’ realises with a sudden dread in his heart. The smoke had been laced with wolfsbane. And if the FBI knew to use wolfsbane in the smoke, then not only did they know a lot more than Stiles had been anticipating, but it was a very likely possibility that they had known to use wolfsbane in the bullets as well. Just as this realisation is forming in his mind, he sees the woman who had dropped the smoke grenade gripping her gun again with both hands, her finger moving towards the trigger without hesitation.

Stiles doesn’t think. He just moves.

She squeezes the trigger.

A loud bang echoes around the crates, the sound bouncing through the makeshift maze.

Stiles feels a sudden pressure in his chest and he looks down at himself, almost in slow motion. He’s lying on his side on the floor, shielding Derek. Derek, whose warm hand is pulling urgently at him, pushing him to stand up, to get behind him. Looking down at his chest, he sees the bullet embedded firmly in his Kevlar bulletproof vest, and relief pours from him in a sudden exhale.

He’s shaken out of his brief stupor, loud voices registering as coded commands are called out. SWAT members are quickly descending on them, alerted by the gunshot. Stiles can see the woman’s finger on the trigger again, but this time hesitating, unsure whether to shoot when Stiles is still obscuring a clean shot at Derek. He feels Derek tugging on his wrist again and he lets himself be pulled back, turning and running down another intricate path created by the maze of crates. They run, feet hitting the ground, breaths harsh and sudden in the air.

As they turn another corner, they barrel into another man, who fires a warning shot at a nearby crate. Derek knocks the gun away, flipping the man onto his back on the ground. Behind him, another woman appears, already pulling the pin on a smoke grenade. Stiles rushes forward, disarming her with a swift uppercut to the chin before darting back and slapping a hand over Derek’s nose and mouth, yanking him back from the growing cloud of smoke.

They dart in and out of the crates and the next FBI member they encounter, Stiles takes a swing at his legs whilst Derek punches him square in the jaw, together knocking him out cold. Derek then pauses, pulling the man’s FBI jacket off and slipping it on quickly, before joining Stiles where he is crouched by the edge of the crates, staring out in the wide expanse of the warehouse.

Stiles motions at the large warehouse door twenty metres ahead. Derek looks around, evaluating, and finally nods. Stiles nods back, and they both rise.

Bang.

Stiles startles as he hears another gunshot.

Pain erupts in his foot.

He looks down, sees the tip of his shoe becoming soaked in red. His gaze rises back up to meet the eyes of the man who fired the shot. Jones.

He can’t fully see Jones’ expression, masked by the visor, but he recognises the shot for what it was; his only warning shot. The FBI had cottoned onto his involvement, and were prepared to shoot in order to get Derek Hale into custody.

Jones’ gun is now pointed at Stiles’ unprotected shoulder.

Behind him, Derek growls and leaps forward with lightning speed, knocking Jones to the floor, kicking the gun away. He spins back, looping one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and the other under his knees, and heaves him up, taking off in a break for the door. Stiles fumbles at his belt for his own smoke grenade (a plain one without wolfsbane- he was beginning to wonder just how much else he’d been kept in the dark about), and pulls the pin, casting it behind them and praying it would give them enough cover to make it out through the door.

It works.

The gunshots cease, the FBI afraid of hitting their own in the crossfire.

In his stolen FBI jacket, Derek runs outside, Stiles breathing deeply to fill his lungs with the crisp air. Overhead, the moon shines, illuminating the scene ahead. A few FBI agents are stationed by the door. “Suspect’s in there,” calls Derek, motioning with his head. “Gotta get this one to the medics, but they need all the help they can get in there; it’s chaos.” They nod, moving into the warehouse. Stiles looks back as Derek runs onwards and notices as one of them pauses and moves to look back at Stiles and Derek, a frown on his face.

“Go, go, go,” Stiles urges.

Derek runs into the woods bordering the warehouse, breaking past the tree line.

“Left,” hisses Stiles. “Follow that creek.” Derek doesn’t question him, immediately turning sharply, breath coming in short spurts as he runs, still carrying Stiles. He runs until they hit a clearing with a black Jeep waiting. Stiles had had a contact in the area stash the car in the predetermined location, in the hopes he would be able to get Derek out of the warehouse. Derek yanks open the passenger door and places Stiles inside, before clambering into the driver’s seat.

“Follow the tracks to the edge of the woods, and then head right onto the highway,” Stiles pants out. The engine rumbles to life as Derek starts the car, the keys already left in the ignition. He hits the accelerator and guns it, flying past trees.

There’s a few moments of silence as they catch their breath.

“What were you doing there Stiles?” Derek’s harsh voice rises above the engine.

There was a time when Stiles would have snarked back, indignant and cross that Derek would question Stiles’ willingness to put himself in harms way to save him.

As it is, all he does is look over.

“Derek.” His voice is soft, breaking as his eyes wash over Derek and he properly takes him in for the first time in months.

Derek looks bath, eyes softening as he too takes in Stiles.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Derek.”

Something flits across Derek’s face, too fast to really identify, but if Stiles had to wager a guess, he’d say hope, or maybe even surprise.

“You’re not though. We need to look at your foot.”

“I’ll be fine, I think the bullet only nicked my foot. Yeah it hurts like a bitch, but I can still feel and move all my toes, so I don’t think there’s any serious damage.”

“At least wrap it for now.”

Stiles carefully undoes his shoe, throwing it to the back seat. He rips the bottom of his shirt to create a makeshift bandage, and wraps his foot tightly, pausing when they hit potholes.

There’s another few moments of quiet, Derek focusing on the road as Stiles stares out the window. His dad was going to kill him when he found out he’d taken another cross-country trip and had not only helped a fugitive, but was now one himself. At least there had been no ‘time travel’ this time.

Derek’s voice breaks his thoughts.

“You got shot for me.” His voice is reverent, in awe.

There’s a beat of silence.

Stiles glances at him.

“Yeah.” A pause. “And I’d do it again without a second thought.”

Derek’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles interrupts him.

“Don’t you dare say I shouldn’t have.” Stiles voice is firm, leaving no room for questions. “You would have done the same for me.”

“But I heal.”

“Well luckily for both of us, I happened to have a bulletproof vest on.”

“When you jumped in front of me, it was instinctual. You didn’t think, you didn’t hesitate. Most people would hesitate, even with a vest.”

“Yeah well I’m not most people. Look, you’re not the only one who gets to be a martyr, okay big guy?”

He looks over at Derek, gaze serious. Derek matches it.

A beat. He nods once. “Thank you, Stiles. Thank you.”

Stiles smiles.

“Anytime big guy.”

~~~~~~

It’s past 2am as they pull up into a 24/7 motel off the side of the highway. It was a small place, only two peeling blocks of rooms, with a crooked sign announcing that they had Vacancies, with half the letters missing. The place certainly wasn’t going to be winning any awards soon; it looked half a breath away from collapsing into ruins, but as fugitives they didn’t exactly have much choice. Besides, Stiles reasoned, it couldn’t possibly be any worse than the motel with a history of suicides the lacrosse team had stayed in during senior year.

They enter the reception, a small bell above the door ringing sharply to announce their presence. The guy barely glances up from his computer, greasy hair hanging over his eyes.

“Room for two,” says Stiles.

“Ground floor,” adds Derek. Stiles has never appreciated Derek’s awareness of escape routes as much as he is now.

“One bed or two?” the man drawls, bored. His fingers tap restlessly against the counter.

“Whichever is cheaper,” interjects Stiles, not looking at Derek. He can feel his eyes on the back of his neck. Derek knows money isn’t a real issue, but he stays quiet nonetheless.

“$50 for the night.”

Stiles pulls out a couple of bills from his jacket and leaves them on the counter.

“Room 117, on your left.” The guy drops a key in Stiles’ hand, attention already back on his computer game. Their footsteps are muffled by the carpet as they exit. Stiles notices a first aid kit on the wall and grabs it on their way out.

The night is still as they make their way to their room, the creak of the door like nails on a chalkboard to Stiles’ ears as Derek pushes his way inside, eyes instantly searching all the corners for danger. One he’s ascertained their safety Stiles follows, limping over to the bathroom.

He lets out a quiet hiss as he sits on the toilet seat, propping his foot on the bathtub to inspect it. The dark crimson of his foot shocks him and he swallows as he pulls off the makeshift bandages, leaving them in a bloodied pile on the floor. Derek follows, first aid kid in hand as he pulls out a cloth, dampening it.

The tap shuts off as he crouches in front of him, gently gripping Stiles’ foot. He carefully but surely wipes away the matted blood.

“You’re right, the bullet only grazed you. There’s a couple of fragments here from when the bullet hit the ground that I’ll have to pull out, but apart from that you’ll be fine.”

He replaces the cloth with a pair of tweezers. Expertly, he navigates the tweezers to grip the first shard, gently easing it out. The veins on his other arm turn black as he drains some of Stiles’ pain. He makes quick work of the other shards, and then he’s wrapping Stiles’ toe in clean bandages.

He rises, wiping his hands.

Stiles gives him a smile in thanks and heads back out to the room. As he waits for Derek to finish in the bathroom, he takes in the room. The double bed lies in the middle, the covers a nondescript grey, flanked by two yellowing bedside tables. A tiny kitchenette is opposite the door, the microwave incessantly blinking the time in small red numbers at him. Thick brown curtains hang listlessly over the windows.

Walking over to the bed, he kicks off his remaining boot onto the floor and pulls his shirt over his head. He’d removed most of his heavy outer tactical gear in the car, not wanting to draw extra attention to himself, but he’s still glad to be free from the confines of the rest of his SWAT clothing, to rid himself of the memory of what the SWAT team had been there to do. His fingers undo his belt buckle and he lets his trousers fall to the floor, leaving him in only his black briefs.

Turning, he sees Derek watching him through the open bathroom door. He meets Stiles’ eyes, unashamed, before his gaze drops to Stiles’ chest where a myriad of scars tarnishes his pale skin. Suddenly self-conscious, Stiles pulls back the covers and slides in, relishing in the feel of the soft sheets against his bare skin.

Derek’s footsteps are light as he pads back into the room. He pauses to step out of his own clothes, before sliding in next to Stiles, pose mirroring Stiles’; lying on his back, gaze straight ahead at the cracked ceiling.

They lie quietly, even breaths filling the silence. Outside an owl hoots and the occasional car rumbles past. Stiles lets his eyes adjust to the darkness, watching as more cracks seem to appear overhead.

“I missed you.” Derek’s quiet confession has Stiles’ breath catching in his throat. He slowly turns his head and finds Derek’s gaze locked on his own.

“I missed you too.”

Derek smiles.

Stiles smiles back.

“Where’d you go? After Mexico?”

“South America at first. I went and saw Cora, stayed with her and her new pack for a few months in Argentina.” Stiles feels the bed dip as Derek shuffles slightly, relaxing into a more comfortable position. “Then I just started making my way back up. Stayed a few nights in each city, sightseeing, trying the foods, trekked Machu Picchu, soaked up the sun; the lot. I met a lot of people, other werewolves too. It was good to hear the stories, to see their lives.” His voice trails off.

Stiles can fill in the blank; to see what could have been.

“I’d always wanted to see South America. Machu Picchu had actually been on my bucket list, back when I had one.”

“Yeah? What else was on the list?”

Derek laughs softly, a quiet but wholesome laugh that sends pulse of joy through Stiles.

“I wanted to play a game with the Golden State Warriors. I was obsessed with basketball when I was younger.”

And yeah, Stiles could imagine that, as he remembers Peter’s description of a younger Derek, basketball always in hand. He wonders just how much else Derek had lost since then, what other passions had bene left forgotten in the ashes.

“I can’t believe you had a bucket list dude.”

“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.” Derek’s tone sours for a moment, slightly sorrowful, but it’s gone by the next sentence, returning to a lighter tone. “Most of my other items were travel related. I was going to take a gap year before college you know, but ….” He pauses and swallows, seemingly considering his next sentence. “Laura took one, and so of course if she did one, then naturally I wanted to as well. So once I’d finished exploring South America, I figured why not travel a bit more, tick off a few more sights. I made my way to Europe, started in Italy and travelled my way over to England. Visited Isaac, even Jackson.”

“How are they doing?”

“Good. Much better now they’re away from Beacon Hills and all the craziness that comes with that town.”

Stiles looks over, taking in the hard lines of Derek’s jaw, contrasted with the new softness around his eyes, the crinkle lines from laughter starting to form around his mouth. “You look like you’re doing better.”

Derek replies without hesitation. “I am.” A pause. “I wasn’t in the… best place when I was in Beacon Hills. I guess I just really needed to get away, get some distance from everything that happened there. Take some time to finally breathe, to stop looking over my shoulder constantly. It helped put some things back in perspective, let me revaluate a few things.”

He turns suddenly and his gaze meets Stiles, who almost flinches from the intensity of it.

“I’m sorry though, for just leaving without explanation. After everything in Mexico with Kate, I just knew that I needed to get out for myself.”

But you’re back now, Stiles thinks. “It’s okay, I understand,” he replies, hoping Derek understands just how much he gets it. “It’s what any sane person would have done. Yeah, at the time I was pissed, pissed that you abandoned us… that you abandoned me. But I understand. And I really am glad it helped.”

The sheets rustle as he wriggles slightly. A car drives by, headlights briefly illuminating the curtains.

“It was hard though, senior year. I… A lot of shit happened, and I didn’t really have anyone by my side.” He can see Derek frowning from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, I know. There was a time when I thought Scott would have had my back through anything.” He laughs bitterly. He was still on the path to forgiveness, and it hurt like hell thinking about that time. “I was wrong.”

He breathes in and out slowly, anxiety pushing down on his throat as his next admission tries to rise. He stares straight up at the ceiling, not ready to meet Derek’s gaze yet. Not when he’s so close, not when there’d be nowhere to hide.

Derek seems to sense this, reaching out and tangling their fingers together under the covers, giving Stiles a reassuring squeeze. I’ve got you, it says.

Stiles takes one last deep breath and lets his words tumble out. “I killed a person. I killed a person Derek and there was no-one I could turn to. I knew Scott wouldn’t understand. And he didn’t. Didn’t even believe me. I don’t know if he fully understands even now why I did what I did, or how I felt afterwards.” The hand holding Derek’s tightens, whilst his other grips the bedsheets beside him, twisting them, as though he can twist his own shame away. “I felt so much guilt, Derek, and I couldn’t tell anyone. Because I knew they wouldn’t get it. I had to bottle it up and keep it a secret, and just sit there and let the guilt eat away at me. And oh god the nightmares. I didn’t think it could get any worse than the Nogitsune, but knowing that this time I had had full control over my body, that my actions were solely mine, oh god Derek.” His voice catches on Derek’s name, plaintiff and broken.

It’s all pouring out. Now that he’s started, now he’s finally been given the chance to let it out, he can’t stop. There’s something about the void of the night, the cover of darkness, that lets you admit things you’d otherwise be too scared to say.

 But, a small voice in Stiles’ head whispers, it’s more likely it’s because of who you’re with. Of Derek.

But Stiles isn’t quite ready to admit that to himself yet.

He feels a firm squeeze on his hand, squeezing the tremors away, and he grips back just as tight.

Derek looks at Stiles, the weight of his gaze growing until Stiles finally turns and meets his eyes. Derek’s expression is open, sincere.

“You could have called me. I would have come.” Then, softer, “I would have dropped it all for you.”

Stiles lets out a shuddering breath.

“I know you would have. And that’s why I couldn’t call. I almost did, numerous times. Had your number ready, thumb hovering over the call button. But I couldn’t do that you, couldn’t take away your chance to heal. You needed to be away from Beacon Hills, and as much as I wanted you there, you deserved to get better.” His heart pounds against his chest as he stares into Derek’s eyes.

Derek rolls onto his side, head raising off the pillow to look down at Stiles.

“Next time, call me.” He reaches out slowly, fingers crossing the space between them and tentatively brushing Stiles’ hair back. The air is heavy around them. “Call me, and I’ll be there for you. I... I want to be there for you.”

Stiles nods as Derek lets his hand fall back onto the small sliver of bed between them. He stays on his side though, just looking at Stiles, his other hand still entwined with Stiles, fingers lightly tracing soothing circles. They stay like that for a few moments, simply taking the other in.

“Can I see it?”

Derek frowns, confused by the sudden question. “See what?”

“Your full wolf form. I haven’t gotten to see you properly yet.” His eyes search Derek’s.

Derek is still for a beat longer, and then he’s sitting up, letting the covers falls back. Stiles rises too as Derek slips out of bed. Standing, Derek rolls his neck and his skin appears to ripple.

Stiles watches in awe as glossy black fur takes over his features and he falls to four legs, a bushy tail sweeping the floor behind him. He turns to face Stiles, and those piercing blue eyes which had first struck Stiles earlier in the night stare intently at Stiles.

Derek hops lightly onto the bed. He’s taller than Stiles is sitting until he plops down his haunches, pressed up against Stiles’ thigh. Stiles reaches out and gently scratches behind Derek’s ear, stroking the fur.

“Look at you,” he breathes out, eyes roving over Derek in wonder. “You’re beautiful.”

He runs his broad hands down Derek’s back, along his sides, thumbs caressing the sensitive skin on his front. Derek whines softly.

After a few moments, Derek lays down, legs on the bed but upper body curled across Stiles’ thighs, his snout pressed comfortably against Stiles’ bare stomach. Stiles rests one hand on Derek’s head, fingers idly scratching whilst the other continues to stroke Derek’s back, relishing in the anchoring weight of Derek, of the comforting heat against his own body. He can feel Derek relaxing slowly, dropping more of his weight onto Stiles, giving in to the instinct to be nurtured and protected. He nuzzles happily against Stiles, content whimpers slipping from his mouth.

Stiles watches Derek. Watches his chest rise and fall, watches his ears perk up every now and then. How lucky I am to have the privilege of seeing Derek Hale so relaxed, he thinks. He realises then with a pang of sadness, Derek probably hasn’t let himself be this relaxed in years. Hasn’t felt safe enough to let his guard down. And his heart just breaks for Derek, for the boy who lost his whole family, and continued to be tormented by hunters, who was used time and time again without his consent, manipulated by power hungry women, the boy who was forced to kill his own pack, and his own family. Stiles’ heart breaks and breaks as he holds Derek tight and whispers, “It’s okay, I’ve got you now. I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re with me, you’re okay.” He repeats it and repeats it and repeats it, repeats it enough times until Derek gets it, until he starts to believe it.

They stay like that, the boy wrapped in his wolf, and the wolf curled around his boy.

~~~ 

After some time, Stiles feels wetness on his stomach and he looks down to see slow tears forming in Derek’s large eyes. “Hey, hey,” he whispers. His hands come to cup Derek’s head, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “It’s okay, you can let them out. It’s just me.”

Derek sits up, a few more tears rolling off. Then, Stiles feels Derek’s skin shifting under his fingers, feels the fur disappear and be replaced with stubbled skin, and Derek is back, facing Stiles, legs outstretched to the headboard, thigh against Stiles’ own.

Derek’s face is still between Stiles’ hands and he brushes the tears from under Derek’s wet eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me,” he repeats. His eyes search Derek’s.

And then Derek is leaning forward slowly, gaze locked with Stiles’. His eyes flutter closed as he feels Stiles’ soft lips on his and his hands slide into Stiles’ hair as their mouths move together in tandem. Stiles’ hands move to the back of Derek’s neck, holding him close, holding him steady. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, trying to pull Derek impossibly closer.

Derek is overtaken with emotion as he finally gets to taste Stiles, feel his face under his fingers, gets to trace those cheekbones, tug his silky hair.

Eventually they pull back, foreheads still pressed together, neither ready to let the other any further away from them, and Stiles murmurs “Derek,” against his lips. He pulls back slightly and looks at Derek.

He smiles.

Derek smiles back.

Stiles slides back down the bed, pulling Derek with him. With a last smile, Stiles moves to roll onto his side, facing away from Derek. But Derek doesn’t let him, doesn’t hesitate in grabbing Stiles’ hand and pulling him to face Derek. He then slots his back against Stiles’ front, clasps Stiles’ hand with his own against his stomach and lets Stiles tangle their feet together. He can feel Stiles smile against the back of his neck as he curls tightly around Derek.

“G’night Sourwolf,” whispers Stiles.

“Goodnight Stiles.”

~~~

Stiles wakes up as a few beams of sunlight trickle through gaps in the curtains. There’s a warmth against his back – during the night they must have rolled over as Derek is now draped against his back, breath light against his neck. He feels Derek stirring, feels his breathing deepen as he awakens.

“Mornin’,” he greets as Derek rolls onto his back. Stiles turns so he can see him. “How’d you sleep?”

Derek smiles, soft around the edges, hair all mussed up. “Well.” He clears his throat. “Much better than I have in a long time.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one.”

They lie there for a few minutes more, not speaking, simply soaking up the presence of the other.

“Where are we gonna go?”

Derek sighs. “About that.” He looks at Stiles. “Beacon Hills needs us.”

A groan escapes from Stiles. “Again?”

“Scott and the others, they’re in trouble. Gerard’s back with an even bigger army of hunters.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?” says Stiles indignantly as he sits up.

“They wanted to keep you out of it. To let you have your chance at a normal life. Surely you can understand,” adds Derek dryly. Stiles throws him a look, remembering their conversation from the previous night.

Then, he shakes his head as he throws back the covers and searches for his clothes. “Useless without us. I’m gone a couple of months and Gerard turns up again? Wasn’t he meant to be dead like three monsters ago?” He turns halfway through pulling on his pants, sees Derek sitting on the bed, smiling dopily at Stiles. “What are you still doing there?” He grabs Derek’s shirt and chucks it at his head. “Get up, they need us to survive! Clearly! Let’s go! I’ve got someone in the FBI who can divert them in the other direction for a while, make them think we’ve gone to Sao Paulo or somewhere.”

Of course Stiles already had contacts in the FBI. Derek laughs fondly as he watches Stiles run around, occasionally falling over his own feet, half listening to him yell out plans on how to get back the quickest.

He had a feeling everything was going to turn out just fine.

~~~

Once everything is over in Beacon Hills, once they’ve said their goodbyes again, Stiles sorts everything out with the FBI, convinces them it was all one big misunderstanding and Derek follows Stiles back to Virginia. Turns out the FBI not only knows about the existence of the supernatural, but has a whole undercover department dedicated to solving supernatural crimes. Though, evidently not very well, considering everything they’d managed to miss in Beacon Hills.

Derek and Stiles make it onto the team easily, with their impressive combined resume and a goal to fix the taskforce, and sure enough within a few years, the number of mysterious deaths attributed to ‘wild animals’ begins to fall. They help newly turned werewolves and other werecreatures, help them gain control, help them continue to lead normal lives, making sure no-one else ever has to go through what they did. They stand side by side with Scott and Lydia and Malia and Liam and the rest of the pack as they fight to take down Monroe and her hunters, and in their free time, they travel the world, ticking items off their newly created joint bucket list.

And when that is all done, when they’ve given the FBI everything they can offer, when Monroe is defeated and the Pack can finally retire from fighting, Stiles asks once more “Where are we gonna go?”

And Derek replies, “Anywhere, as long as we’re together.”