Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

This had to be some horrible curse or a sick joke.

No matter what they did, the same scenario kept happening over and over again. Every time a freaky monster strolled into Beacon Hills, hunters just had to get involved.

Joy. Absolutely fantastic.

Stiles knew he shouldn’t expect anything different, but he wanted to believe things could maybe stay under control for once. It was wishful thinking…as long as he stuck around Beacon Hills.

But leaving wouldn’t exactly make things better either. Yes, the Pack was stronger. They could easily go wherever they wanted, now that they all had high school and college degrees under their belts. They wouldn’t have to deal with the Nemeton attracting supernatural creatures like moths to a flame. And it wasn’t unheard of for pack members to be spread across various cities, cities or countries.

Relocating somewhere else, though, meant Beacon Hills would be left unguarded. Vulnerable. And hello? Stiles definitely wasn’t going to have his dad, Parrish and the rest of the deputies deal with weird, dangerous bullshit alone. They didn’t need another homicidal lizard to wipe out the Station or an ancient, evil fox spirit to wreak havoc again.

So the Pack stayed. They did what they did best—facing and fighting evil in order to save the day. Easy peasy.

Except their latest case brought in some complications.

There was a fiery horse on the loose, which had already forced a few people to get admitted into Eichen House while scaring the shit out of everyone else. Then, a group of hunters barreled into town to go after the damned creature. Rumor had it that they wanted to capture a Mare for their “prized menagerie.”

Just when things started going wayward, Derek and Cora came back.

Stiles hadn’t expected to see Cora ever again after the horrendous shitshow with the Alpha Pack. Plus, she had a solid pack back in South America.

And Derek had every reason to leave after bleeding out on the dirt, dying, and then coming back to life as a wolf with black fur. He wanted to find himself and see the world. At least, that was what he’d told the Pack before taking off.

Five years later, Derek was here again. In the same country, time zone, and zip code as Stiles. Alive, breathing, and looking far better than he did in Mexico, that was for sure.

But Stiles couldn’t dwell on any of that right now. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence that strange things kept happening one after the other. It meant Trouble with a capital T. Obviously. And the Pack was going to have a hell of a time keeping everything under wraps without alerting the FBI.

Of course, the hunters knew this. They did whatever they could to create distractions, like spreading traps all throughout town or leaving a few dead bodies behind. And, of course, they especially loved kidnapping. Typical.

Ironically, the hunters didn’t take Scott the True Alpha. They also left Kira, Lydia and Malia alone (since it turned out they didn’t want kitsunes, banshees or werecoyotes for their creepy trophy case). They didn’t even blink an eye at the werewolves, but that didn’t stop Isaac, Liam and Cora from getting dirty and bloody after striking back.

Nope. The fuckers decided to snatch Derek a week after he’d settled back into his loft.

Then, they came for Stiles.

It made sense why they wanted Derek. A born wolf with electric blue eyes. Also a former Alpha, a Hale and one tied to legendary history and a decent sized vault. Unique and valuable from a hunter’s perspective.

Stiles though? He was just an ordinary, squishy human. Even if he had more muscle now, he was still made of skin and fragile bone. Sarcasm, a baseball bat and mountain ash were still his best (and only) defenses against his enemies. And well, he did maintain a rather massive bestiary and knew way too much about the supernatural for his own good. He was Scott’s BFF, a brother from another mother and…shit.

He was bait.

A convenient access point to a wealth of knowledge.

The heart of a powerful pack.

Fuck. Maybe those assholes did know what they were doing after all.

Still, that didn’t explain why the hunters suddenly wanted to take Stiles and Derek along for a spontaneous road trip. All Stiles knew was that one minute, he and Derek were locked up in a sketchy basement, and the next they were being thrown into a cargo van like sacks of potatoes.

Not quite the ideal situation to be in, but they’d experienced much worse. No one had been electrocuted, stabbed, possessed or shot yet. Stiles considered it a blessing the van wasn’t advertising “Free Candy” on its side. Plus, there was working A/C and a radio that actually played songs from the modern era.

But they weren’t exactly doing too hot to enjoy those luxuries. Derek was drained from all the doses of the odd lichen liquid the hunters had slowly injected into him. Meanwhile, Stiles was sporting a black eye, a split lip, and some nasty bruises from letting a few too many insults slip out. But hey, someone had to tell those dickbags to go fuck themselves, right?

Unfortunately, they were also still bound by their wrists—Derek with wolfsbane plant vines and Stiles with good ol’ heavy duty rope.

At least they could wiggle their fingers and see their hands, so that was something. Sitting with their legs sprawled out was a hundred times better than dangling from chains attached to the ceiling. Their limbs were still intact. They were still functioning. Barely.

The torture had taken quite a toll on them, especially when it was slow. Painful. And cruel enough to leave Stiles and Derek battered. Weak. Helpless.

Now that they were being transported somewhere else along with some mysterious wooden crates, a gazillion thoughts popped into Stiles’ already fuzzy brain all at once.

What were these assholes planning to do next? Barter or sell them? Hold Stiles and Derek captive for all of eternity? Stiles hoped this wasn’t for some weirdo circus or zoo. Because it wasn’t like Stiles and Derek would fit in with that kind of freak show anyway. They were dudes with actual feelings and decent morals, not animals to be locked up in cells. From what little he knew about their kidnappers, Stiles was pretty sure they’d already broken a handful of laws that could get them arrested in a heartbeat.

Even so, that wasn’t going to change anything.

With the hunters already on the move, Stiles couldn’t see things ending well. There was too much shit going on, and the Station didn’t have enough deputies to cover the ground. If the Pack wanted any chance of finding Stiles and Derek, they’d have to split up. Which would only get more people hurt. Possibly killed.

Goddammit.

All this thinking made Stiles’ head hurt. He was so tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Achy. Worried. His Adderall had long worn off, his wrists stung, and he just really wanted to go home.

Home, which was a shitty 450 square feet studio apartment with awkward lighting and creaky floors. It was where his comfy bed resided. Where he had a pack of Corona and leftover Indian takeout waiting for him in the fridge. A place he hadn’t occupied for the last God knows how many days and didn’t know he’d miss until he was taken.

No wonder why his mind was scattered all over the place. Stiles needed some relief.

But so did Derek.

Derek, who had come back to Beacon Hills, only to get kidnapped. Interrogated. Beaten to the pulp, then poisoned. All things he clearly didn’t sign up for. Fuck, if Derek didn’t get treated soon, he was going to—

Something solid nudged Stiles, forcing him to release the breath he’d been holding in. Oh God, Derek probably knew Stiles was freaking the fuck out. Knew how unsettled he was because of how clammy his hands had become and the way he kept jiggling his legs. Stiles was currently being the opposite of calm, which wasn’t helping at all.

And that sucked since he didn’t know how to mask the anxiety and fear that kept leaking out of him. How to turn his thoughts off. Rationalize or figure a way out of a moving van. That was what he was supposed to do, right? Stiles was a smart cookie. He was the guy who usually came up with all the mastermind plans or improvisations to get out of the hairiest situations.

However, this one didn’t give them much to work with. There just weren’t many options they could pursue to make a great escape. And if they were out of options, Stiles knew they might as well accept this miserable fate of suffering.

An arm knocked against his, harder this time. Stiles winced before letting his shoulders slump forward. He glanced at Derek, who had his brows furrowed.

“What?” Stiles asked with a defeated sigh.

“It’ll be fine,” Derek told him softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“They’re leaving a trail behind even if they don’t realize it.”

“But is it strong enough for the Pack to find us?”

Derek shrugged but didn’t answer. A trail was a helpful lead, but if his dad, Scott and everyone else were scattered on the other side of town—or hell, in another state—it would take ages for any of them to pinpoint wherever Stiles and Derek were.

Which meant they were ultimately fucked. Doomed. Good as dead.

Stiles tried to inhale, but his breath got caught in his throat. He tried again, and then his heart started racing, his chest tightened up and an awful tingling spread through his body like rapid-fire. As if to paralyze him. Numb every single nerve until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

“Stiles!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the panic would disappear. Even though Stiles tried to focus and breathe, he kept slipping away. The rope dug deeper into his skin, his whole body tensed and sweat trickled down the nape of his neck. Jesus Christ, Stiles was spiraling way out of control. If he didn’t rein everything in—

“Hey, breathe with me, okay?”

“Can’t,” Stiles wheezed out, drawing his legs up. He clenched his trembling hands into fists against his chest. “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can! I know you can because you have before. Just try this time.”

Stiles sucked in another shallow breath and shook his head. There was no use. He couldn’t do this—not when he felt like he was choking. Like the world was about to end.

But then, there was a loud rustle, and something suddenly brushed against his face.

So cold.

Sharp.

Yet gentle.

Soothing.

His nerves jolted, then quivered at the strange sensation that vaguely felt like fingertips pressing against his skin. Trying to wake Stiles up. Convincing him to come back to the present. Take control.

And that was when his mind came to a reeling stop.

Stiles’ eyes shot wide open as soon as he snapped out of his stupor. There were definitely hands touching his face—rough, familiar ones that were cut, bruised and still restricted by vines. It was only when Stiles finally looked up that he found worried hazel eyes staring back. Eyes that could be read so easily, like an open book.

Are you okay?

You’re safe.

I’m sorry.

There was so much Stiles want to say, yet he couldn’t help but whimper and lean into the delicate touch. It had been a while since someone else took care of him. Stiles was so used to handling one disaster after another. Always ready to take down the next Big Bad. Suck up the consequences.

Rinse and repeat.

But maybe he didn’t have to do that on his own anymore.

Because if Derek was here now…if Stiles could let his guard down even for a little bit, maybe that would be okay. Maybe he could believe the notion that if he ever fell or got left behind, someone would always come back for him.

Just like old times.

Relief washed over Stiles as his body relaxed and he finally started to breathe. Listening and taking cues from the way Derek inhaled and exhaled.

In and out. Slow and steady.

Once his breaths evened out and his heartbeat stabilized, Stiles sagged back against a stack of crates. He sighed heavily.

Things had been going so well. Stiles had been working hard to get his shit together over the past few years. Not just with Pack stuff, but constantly reminding himself where he was. Learning how to watch out for the red flags to push through whenever anxiety tried to creep into his day.

And now? Stiles felt like his effort was wasted. How had he not seen this coming? He constantly dealt with things with pointy teeth, stabby claws, scary pincers and fuck knows what else that could easily kill him in one go. He knew which party tricks to throw whenever witches or hunters so much stepped a toe in Beacon Hills.

What could have possibly triggered a complete meltdown today, of all days?

The van drove over a pothole, making Stiles flinch from the impact. Cool hands instantly dropped from his face. Stiles looked up and frowned. Only to see Derek hastily shuffle back on his knees, bracing himself as he rested his palms on his thighs. Already rebuilding those rigid walls that had crumbled down only seconds ago. Regarding Stiles with such hesitation, almost like he was afraid.

It wasn’t like Stiles was in Derek’s company every day. But to see the bastard draw back like a deer in headlights after years of being away?

What the flying fuck.

Stiles couldn’t believe Derek was reverting back to old habits. Acting like they were strangers. Like nothing significant had ever happened between them. As if they shouldn’t about care each other.

Sure, their relationship wasn’t conventional, but they were still packmates. Friends. Possibly something more. Before Stiles even had a chance to poke at the latter option, though, it had been wrenched away from his grasp.

Unattainable. Impossible.

Until now.

So, no. If Derek was pulling this crap on him, Stiles wasn’t letting that slide. Not this time.

“Are you good?” Derek grunted, his voice low.

“Oh, I’m splendid,” Stiles rasped before clearing his throat. “You fucking jerkwad.”

“Stiles—”

“Save your stupid excuses for a time when we’re not in mortal peril, okay? I thought we were past all this bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?”

A hot spike of anger rose in Stiles’ chest as he glared at the man kneeling in front of him. Suddenly, all the other emotions Stiles thought he’d shoved inside a tight box hovered over him like shadows. Threatening to swallow him whole.

Bitterness. Disappointment. Shame.

How was this the same man who just pulled Stiles out of a panic attack? The werewolf who used to climb through his childhood bedroom window to cuddle whenever the nights became too unbearable to fall asleep alone? A person who he’d eventually grown to like, then love with his whole entire being?

Just when Stiles thought he could reach Derek, he felt like he was tumbling backward again. Making an ass out of himself. Hanging on to a foolish wish that was never going to happen unless he said something. Did something.

Which was terrifying as fuck, but Stiles was so damn exhausted. Of hoping. Dreaming. Waiting.

He was done. So fucking done.

“Seriously?!” Stiles hissed, sliding his legs out until they thunked against the floor. His hands resting on his lap were clenched into fists again. “This is about you giving off mixed signals! Every time something bad happens, you’ve got no problem charging in with your fangs and claws out. As soon as it gets better, you run away like a wounded puppy!”

“I’m here now,” Derek replied with a scowl.

“Against your will. Unless you voluntarily crawled into a windowless van to play hostage.”

“Is that why you’re angry?”

“Hmm, why do you think?”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Maybe you shoulda talked to us more and not be a stranger. There’s something called a cell phone, and I know you have one.”

“It’s for emergencies.”

“Are you saying you never called or texted Cora just to talk? To keep in touch?”

A guilty expression appeared on Derek’s face, and Stiles knew he’d caught the fucker red-handed. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Oh my God! Then what the hell are we? Garbage?!”

There was no way Derek could miss how pissed off Stiles was now, even with an off-kilter super sniffer. Because Stiles was positively seething. Vibrating with rage and all the fuck you vibes he could muster.

If Stiles wasn’t (literally) tied up or feeling so wrung out, he probably would have taken a swing. Maybe two. Because that was how angry he was at Derek.

For leaving. For not saying goodbye. For abandoning him.

After everything they’d been through, did none of that history matter?

Stiles could have easily let Derek die. With Kate’s bullet. In the pool. Hell, he could have stayed home like a proper, well-behaved kid instead of driving thousands of miles to La Iglesia. But Stiles wasn’t proper or well-behaved. He generally hated following rules because nine out of ten times, the ones set in place were pretty pointless.

And when no one else took action, he did. Stiles had done (and would always do) something to help. Every single time. Stiles might be a snarky asshole, but he still had a heart. He still cared about who lived.

If Derek lived.

Basically, Stiles had become invested in Derek’s well-being because what was he supposed to do when the dumb wolf kept crawling back to him? Asking for his help while bleeding on his carpet and his clothes?

It was inevitable that Stiles would get attached. Completely bound to happen.

Too bad the sentiment wasn’t mutual.

Stiles forced himself to take a deep breath, feeling it rattle inside of him. He’d forgotten how aggravating it was to extract actual words from Derek. How it could take minutes (or even hours) of dancing around each other before they came to some kind of agreement about even the smallest things.

Given what was at stake, he knew he needed to persevere.

“You know, if you didn’t want to be part of the Pack anymore, you coulda said something. Talk to Scott, do the formalities, and move on. Simple.”

“That’s not what I—”

“So ditching us and forgetting about the people who repeatedly saved your ass was your brilliant plan?” Stiles snapped furiously, cutting Derek off. “FYI, these are also the same people who care about you!”

“You idiot, of course I know that!” Derek growled back with frustration. “I care too! I always have and always will. Did you really think I didn’t?”

Something about the way Derek’s voice cracked made Stiles stop ranting. Made him zero in and take a closer look.

And what Stiles discovered was that even though this was still the same stubborn, broody werewolf who liked to bite first and then ask questions later, Derek had also changed.

Beyond the murder eyebrows, the defensive tough guy act, and all the blood and gashes, Stiles could see someone who had experienced so much. Someone who was selfless. Vulnerable. Resilient. A person who also wanted to be comfortable in his own skin. To find somewhere safe to settle down. A chance to belong. To stay.

Stiles could relate. Maybe all too well. Because even though he had lived in Beacon Hills his whole life and had those he considered family by his side, sometimes he still felt out of place. Like an anomaly. A B-Grade second or a box of damaged goods.

Different.

Not that he’d ever said anything to Scott or the rest of the Pack.

But knowing that someone else understood—that Derek might know what it was like to be lost while waiting to be found—it made Stiles feel a little less alone.

All of Stiles’ anger dissipated, only to be replaced by sadness and regret. He wished he’d known sooner. That this was the astonishing soul Derek had become.

“Your method of caring needs major work, Sourwolf,” Stiles quipped weakly.

The words were enough to make corners of Derek’s lips curl up, even if his smirk looked wry and tired. Derek visibly relaxed before he actually knee walked toward Stiles. The rare sight should have been comical, except mobility limitations in a packed cargo bay were a thing.

If Derek was still willing to stay close, that meant he didn’t hate Stiles. Which was a huge win, all things considered.

Tension bled out of Stiles’ neck and his shoulders the moment Derek gingerly sat down and pressed up against his side. Shoulder to shoulder. Thigh to thigh. Perhaps the closest they’d been since their van ride to Mexico so long ago. It was almost like Stiles’ body craved for physical contact—a particular touch that seemed familiar. Genuine. Solid. One that offered the reassurance and comfort Stiles had always wanted but was always too afraid to ask for.

“I talked to Scott. Before I left,” Derek clarified, leaning against Stiles. “I wanted to make a choice that was truly mine and not driven by an obligation or a threat.”

“You wanted free will.”

“It’s not a privilege many of us get. Family usually sticks together. When someone leaves, they don’t always come back.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and straightened up. He had an inkling there was a lot more layered in that answer. Given their current company, Derek was being vague. Careful. Almost like he expected Stiles to figure out what he really meant without saying the actual words.

And Stiles did. Of course he did.

Born wolves stick with their pack for life. Unless they’re exiled, abandoned or killed.

This was a fact anyone attuned with the supernatural would know about traditional werewolf packs. Pack dynamics were usually driven by obedience. Structure. Legacies.

But the McCall Pack wasn’t traditional.

They were a unique ragtag group who believed in protecting the peace and doing the right thing. They operated on trust. Loyalty. Friendship. Advocation. But they also appreciated freedom. Following one’s dreams or gut instinct. Even the bitten wolves got to exercise those liberties, ones that most werewolves would never have.

As long as a mutual allegiance existed, so would a bond. Because that was made someone pack.

It definitely made sense why Derek would want that type of connection. The guy deserved to put himself first for once and being part of this particular pack offered a chance to heal. To let go of painful memories and reclaim ones that had been long lost. To get some actual rest, and maybe learn how to live again.

All things that were difficult yet possible to achieve.

Or so Stiles had been told. If General Washington’s insights were anything to go by, though, dying was easy. Living was harder.

Even as a human who’d grown up with a generous amount of free will, Stiles was lucky he could keep up with basic activities of functioning. Like hydrating or eating. Sleep didn’t always like to cooperate. Self-care was still a work in progress. And trying to balance out his dopamine level or regulate his brain-to mouth filter? Let’s just say that was a whole other can of worms to deal with.

Add in mood swings, sensitive senses, and the possibility of losing his mind every full moon while not killing anyone or getting himself killed…yeah, no thanks. Stiles didn’t need more wolfy chaos to spice things up. He’d seen and experienced more than enough trying to tame testy Betas. He couldn’t imagine how much more complicated life would be living as one.

“Scott never mentioned this before,” he finally commented, since it was a fact and the truth.

Derek sighed and bowed his head. “I asked him not to.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “What? Why? Because if we’d begged you to stay, you wouldn’t have ever left?

“Yeah, something like that.”

Ouch.

The honesty shouldn’t have struck Stiles in the core until it hurt. But it did. Like hell. Maybe because he didn’t expect Derek to be so forthcoming. So blunt. So sure.

Stiles swallowed thickly, his throat feeling tight and sore. What was he supposed to say, now that he knew the truth? Derek staying meant a continued cycle of him enduring more pain and guilt. But Derek leaving had somehow created a new void in Stiles’ heart.

They never stood a chance. And this was why life was so unfair.

He cast his eyes down to his hands. Waited a few beats, then licked his lips before dropping the million dollar question.

“Why did you come back? I mean, you had a gazillion reasons to leave this shithole, so...”

Before Derek could respond, something large suddenly slammed into the cargo bay and shook the van. Stiles jolted upright and Derek growled loudly.

“What the hell is going on back there? Shut up!” a muffled voice hollered from the front.

“That’s not us, asshat!” Stiles shouted back. He warily eyed the double barn doors. “You might wanna check your shitty side mirrors though!”

“Why you little—”

Another bang, and this time, the doors dented inward. The van shook harder, and the hunters swore as they swerved on the road. Stiles slid into a wooden crate before Derek smooshed into him like he was like the filling of a PB & J.

Stiles grimaced, then moaned. “Oww!”

Derek huffed before shifting away. “I think the Nightmare found us.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious!”

How ironic it was to be stuck in this current nightmare because of…a Nightmare. Except this wasn’t footage from a B-rated horror film. The thing that was chasing them right now was a real monstrosity that fed off of people’s terror like nobody’s business. Yay.

Of course, things got worse when they turned hot and steamy (and not in the sexy kind of way). The temperature skyrocketed until Stiles felt like he was trapped in an inferno, and the van’s doors started melting.

“Oh my God! What the fuck?!”

“Stay back!”

“It’s not like I’ve got much room to do that!” Stiles countered as he quickly surveyed their surroundings. He hoped the stacks of crates didn’t topple on top of them or burst into flames.

“Take cover behind me!” Derek yelled, already on his hands and knees to become a meat shield. Fucking werewolves.

“Are you insane?! You’re gonna get your skin singed off like last time!”

“I can heal.”

“Not fast enough!”

“You’ll be roasted alive if you don’t move!”

“So will you!”

“Stiles, look out!”

The sharp warning was what made Stiles comply and dodge behind Derek. And a damn good thing he did because a stream of flames shot out and missed them both by a fraction. Stiles panted hard on the floor before rolling onto his stomach. He propped himself up on shaky forearms to peer past Derek’s shoulder…and oh God.

A few crates were definitely charred because even he could smell the scent of burnt wood lingering in the air. But now there was also a clear view of a black horse on fire galloping furiously after them.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Stiles muttered, his mind blown.

The Nightmare looked pissed. Crimson eyes glowed as its mane and its tail grew bigger and brighter. The beast neighed, flaring its nostrils angrily. Infuriated that it had missed its moving target and was clearly determined for revenge.

Stiles had only seen the Nightmare once from a distance in the Preserve. He’d stayed back with Lydia while the rest of the Pack tried to trap and contain it near the Nemeton using their super powers. But demonic horses couldn’t die. The old texts stated Nightmares could either be temporarily shackled with blessed, rune-etched cuffs or exorcised back to Hell itself. Otherwise, they were practically invincible once they were set free.

This particular one was making the best of its freedom by literally trying to light their asses on fire.

The Nightmare let out another incensed neigh, a cue Stiles and Derek took to plaster themselves against the floor as more flames blew above their heads.

But it wasn’t nearly enough to stay low and out of the way. The cargo bay felt suffocating. If they didn’t do something soon, they’d probably die from extreme heat, smoke inhalation or both.

Derek must have had the same thoughts, which was probably why he pushed himself up at the last second. Only to get scorched by a burst of fire. He roared with agony as flames licked at his exposed arms. Completely disintegrating the wolfsbane that bound his wrists together, but burning him in the process. Derek recoiled and dropped back onto the floor. It was like déjà vu—the way he gritted his teeth and whined in pain like he did only days ago.

“Derek!” Stiles screamed in horror. “Shit!”

One glance at Derek was all Stiles needed to realize how bad things were. It was bad enough that Stiles needed to convince himself to stay strong. To not get sick from the sight and the smell of burnt flesh. Oh God, he was next, wasn’t he? If Derek couldn’t even get past a demonic horse, how the fuck was Stiles going to?

The van squealed into a sharp left, and Stiles cursed when he slammed into another crate. He looked back to see if the Nightmare was following, and oh, was it ever. The beast ran faster and faster, until it looked like it was about to jump inside the van.

Like that was going to happen. Nope. Not today.

Stiles would do whatever he could to get it to back off. Even if that meant throwing himself out there like a self-sacrificing moron with no super powers or protection whatsoever.

That was the thing though. Once his brain came up with this dumb idea, his instinct latched right on to it. Convinced that this was the right solution. The only way to go. Stiles honestly just wanted to stop hurting. For his family and friends to be safe. To be left alone so he could live life in peace.

He had to try, right? Stiles had to at least try the very thing no one else had the balls to do yet.

Getting onto his forearms and knees, Stiles awkwardly crawled (more like squirmed) toward the melty double doors.

“Stiles! NO!”

Fingers brushed against his ankle, and for once, Stiles easily evaded Derek’s grasp. Except somehow, he still toppled over nothing and landed on his back. He blamed the stupid hunters, who revved up the van and drove faster.

Quicker than the blink of an eye, Stiles slid across the floor and grimaced as the cargo bay’s metal threshold singed him through his shirt. At the last second, he desperately kicked out his leg. Something caught onto his ankle, stopping him from fully tumbling out of the van. A small win Stiles would pay for when he felt something pop and white hot pain surged up his entire leg.

It sucked. A lot. Stiles held back from yelling and instead bit his lip until it bled. He was used to shitty injuries like this, but with a Nightmare glaring at him…well, he’d have to heal up later.

Stiles knew he should be terrified. In a sense, he was, since he was probably going to die. But he was also high on adrenaline, which brought all of his frustration and rage back to the surface. To the point where he thought he could feel both crackling in the air.

“Don’t you dare!” Stiles spat out, even though his whole body hurt and his lungs burned. “Touch him again, and I’ll send you back to Hell!”

The Nightmare fumed and actually screamed (who knew wild horses could do that?).

So, this wasn’t exactly how Stiles envisioned the confrontation to go. He was seconds away from either plummeting onto the pavement or becoming this monster’s snack. But Stiles needed to stick with the game. Stay assertive. Be clear. Direct. Keep all the attention pinned on him. His words. His command.

“My Pack has done nothing to you. Leave us be!”

There was another scream, and then an excruciating pain squeezed Stiles’ heart. Stiles cried out before clenching his jaw shut. He could do this. He tried his best to keep his eyes open and locked on the flaming horse that stared right back. A monster who greedily absorbed every ounce of fear, grief and remorse Stiles had been carrying around for years.

If the Nightmare wanted to feed on all of that, fine. Stiles had no problem serving that shit up on a plate. He had plenty of feelings to share. Perhaps too much to share.

Maybe that was a plus because suddenly, the Nightmare hesitated. It flinched before its fiery mane and tail extinguished. Glowing red eyes dulled to a normal black. What now trailed behind the van resembled a plain racing horse.

“Leave Beacon Hills at once and never come back! You got that?”

The beast whinnied but backed off, miraculously obeying Stiles’ command. And just like that, the smoke and heat in the cargo bay vanished. So did the pain surround Stiles’ heart.

Stiles blinked as the van kept driving, leaving a confused Nightmare behind.

Suddenly, he was yanked back inside of the van. By his jeans and his bad leg, no less, and that really hurt like a bitch. Enough to make his muscles seize up and his back arch while he whimpered and cried on the floor because his leg fucking burned—

“You’re okay. Just hold on…”

Gentle fingers brushed Stiles’ face, wiping away the tears that streamed down his cheeks. They reached up to push Stiles’ hair away from his sweaty forehead. Skated down his neck, shoulders, and eventually rested on his forearms. His wrists. Pressing firmly against his rabbit-fast pulse.

“Keep still.”

He tried. He really did. Stiles tried to focus more on the hands touching him and less on the pain.
Tried to ignore how spent he felt from being thrown around like a rag doll. He even tried internally reciting one of his go-to mantras.

This too shall pass...

If he repeated the words to himself enough times, maybe they’d come true.

Eventually, they did.

The pain ebbed away to a point where Stiles could think without losing his mind. A relieved sigh whooshed out of him as his body slowly relaxed.

How Stiles was still alive? It was a miracle he was still breathing. That his heart was still beating. No living creature should have been able to evade death like that.

Yet, here he was. Physical proof of survival.

Of course, that couldn’t have happened without Stiles enduring fresh cuts and bruises, a fucked up leg (which he didn’t dare move) and red, chaffed wrists. Wrists that were apparently no longer bound by rope but were instead encircled by cool, trembling hands and…were those faint black lines creeping up Derek’s forearms? Maybe Stiles was seeing things since those forearms were still raw and blistered. And totally not healing.

A twisting feeling churned in his gut as Stiles looked up at Derek, who hovered over him with his eyes closed and his lips pressed together. Almost like he was praying. Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Oh my God,” Stiles gasped, trying to shake Derek’s hands off. “Stop! You don’t need to do this.”

“I hurt you,” Derek acknowledged, holding on tighter before his eyes snapped open.

Jesus Christ. Something in Stiles’ heart shattered when he saw how wrecked Derek looked. Derek’s face visibly paled, and his droopy, bloodshot eyes stared at Stiles with resigned regret. Like Derek wasn’t doing enough. Like everything was all his fault, even though it was absolutely not.

“Dude, you just saved my life. Also, you’re still injured.”

“You’re in pain.”

“So are you, buddy. Save the wolfy mojo to heal yourself.”

“There’s—I can’t take anymore pain.”

“Then don’t. That’s why I’m telling you to stop.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

Frankly, Stiles wished he had an answer. But he didn’t since they were both spiraling toward delirium fast and desperately needed medical help. Without help…well, this was it for them. Whether they only had minutes or seconds left to spare, Stiles wanted Derek to take care of himself. To stop taking more pain when he didn’t need to.

He opened his mouth to say just as much when loud curses came from the front of the van.

“What the hell are you doing, Ralph?!!”

“What’s it look like?”

“You drove us off the damned road!”

“This was a suicide mission anyway.”

“Gimme the wheel!”

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you, Francis.”

“We’re going to crash—”

“You’re outta your mind if you thought we’d get out of this alive.”

Something about those particular words made Stiles’ blood turn cold. Stiles looked at Derek with wide eyes when he heard and felt the van ramp up.

“Holy shit! Is he going to—”

Before Stiles could finish his sentence, an arm snaked around his waist. Lifted him up from the floor and threw him into the air. Stiles would have shrieked if he didn’t plunge right into cold water.

It was the best and worst feeling.

The force from falling shocked his nervous system, enough to ease some of the pain while rousing Stiles back to full attentiveness. Stiles flailed and gasped, accidentally swallowing water as his limbs fought against him. Bubbles blinded his view and shit…he could feel his body being dragged down. Fear ran through him as he tried his hardest to move. His lungs protested, his head started throbbing and—

Somehow, Stiles drifted up and broke the surface. He didn’t know how, but he was grateful to gulp much needed air again as reality crashed back around him.

Of course, sucking in too much oxygen too quickly triggered Stiles to have a coughing fit that almost made him sink. But he didn’t. A firm arm swooped in and curled around Stiles once more. Keeping him afloat. Alive.

Derek. This had to be him.

Life-or-death situations were the only times Derek got touchy-feely, and Stiles already knew what it was like to be pressed against two hundred pounds of werewolf and muscle. To be surrounded by open water with nothing else to cling onto but each other.

This time, though, Derek was holding Stiles up. He had all the cards in his hands now—the ones that determined their fates.

“A lake!” Derek snarled, shaking water droplets out of his eyes. “Those shitheads drove us into a fucking lake!”

“Of course they did,” Stiles panted. He scrunched his face up. “What’s with us and water anyway?”

The exasperated huff was expected. The softness that brushed Stiles’ temple though? Not so much. Stiles almost stopped breathing when he felt it again, this time on his cheek. Stubble and lips. A ghost of a kiss. A silent farewell.

Something seized in his chest at that very thought. Maybe it was time to face the hard truth.

No one was coming to save them.

Stiles was a useless cripple, and Derek couldn’t tread water like this forever. There was already too much weight for him to carry toward the visible shoreline. If the load became lighter, though, then maybe…

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Let go of me.”

Derek looked at Stiles sharply, his face flickering with alarm and confusion. “You’re joking, right?”

Stiles shook his head and gave Derek a sad smile. For once, he was trying to be noble. “Do it.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Stop being stupid.”

Fine. Derek had a point, and while this was a stupid plan, it was the only one that had a sliver of potential.

Way back in the pool, Stiles saved Derek because that had been the right thing to do. Derek had been paralyzed, and no one deserved a death by a lizard face or drowning. Stiles also knew Derek would be the key to surviving past high school. They hadn’t even liked each other, yet Stiles gave Derek a chance by believing in him.

And he still did.

Stiles would always believe in Derek because Derek Hale wasn’t someone he could ever ignore or forget. They’d both grown up. Seen some shit together. Witnessed each other at their best and worst. At their worst, their options had always been limited but obvious. Save each other or die trying. All or nothing.

This time, things could be different. Stiles didn’t expect or want Derek to be his knight in shining armor. If Stiles could offer Derek one more choice, maybe this whole ordeal wouldn’t be for naught. At least someone would walk out alive.

“Your limbs still work. Mine suck right now.”

“And?”

The arm wrapped around his torso squeezed a little too tight, making Stiles grimace and whimper. The grip loosened, slipped and—welp, he was dipping back into the water again. Before Stiles could panic or flail, Derek heaved him back up. He dragged Stiles’ arm over his shoulder. Pressed their bodies closer together. Splashed and kicked hard until they were both steadily floating again.

“Shit. Sorry,” Derek apologized, sounding completely winded. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this..."

“Then stop!” Stiles demanded after gasping and spitting out water.

“Do you want us to drown?”

“You could swim to the shoreline.”

“That’s still hundreds of feet away.”

“Might be easier without the baggage.”

“No.”

“Come on! I’m literally weighing you down!”

“I don’t care.”

“Use the energy you have to save yourself! Derek, please—”

Stiles cut himself off when a nose bumped against his cheek. Warmth blew against his chilled skin, trying to seek Stiles’ undivided attention for one second. It worked—almost too well—because that was when Stiles realized how close Derek was. Close enough where he could see droplets clinging to dark lashes and concerned brows furrowing even more. His heart thudded hard in his chest, especially when Stiles found clear eyes regarding him with such determination.

“I’m not going to lose you, Stiles,” Derek simply said. “Never again."

He must have heard wrong. His ears must be clogged because Stiles swore that sounded like a confession. A promise. Or was it reassurance?

Stiles didn’t know what to think as his pulse roared in his ears. There was no mistaking what Derek’s words and gestures meant. Derek cared about him. Derek cared about Stiles’ comfort and safety. Since both of those things were no longer available, Derek was willing to risk everything to stay with Stiles.

To the very end.

God, there were so many questions Stiles wanted to ask. So many comments he wanted to shout and rant at this stupid, precious wolf.

But he never got to. Stiles barely had time to scream when something grabbed his ankle and pulled him down. Water suddenly blurred his vision, his hearing became muted, and a crushing iciness seeped in until he couldn’t breathe…couldn’t think...couldn’t feel anymore…