Chapter Text
They hide underground. This isn’t new, to Derek, running. Lying low.
Humans don’t heal like wolves do. But for now, the wounds are manageable. Stiles will manage, with them.
It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.
With this new target on his back, Derek’s never been luckier to have no family. No close associates, no friends.
He’s kidnapped Stiles, but he leaves him alone. He’s not the monster Emory is.
He’ll get Stiles somewhere safe, and he’ll swear he lost him.
Stiles doesn’t take being saved as well as you’d think.
It takes him four hours to get bored.
“You’re bored,” Derek says. “You’d be more entertained, if he was still terrorizing you.”
“I don’t know, it’s the adrenaline,” Stiles says. “It gets addictive. I’m really fucked up now,” he adds, and his voice shakes. “In case you haven’t... noticed, I’m not exactly...”
Derek has no idea what to say to that. He has no idea.
He says nothing. And Stiles says, “Hey, Sourwolf. Anyone in there?”
“Derek,” Derek says, finally.
“Derek,” Stiles says, and looks at him assessingly. “You don’t look like a Derek.”
“Funny,” Derek says. “You look exactly like a Stiles to me.”
“Heh, he’s got jokes,” Stiles says. “There’s a sense of humor under that dour face.”
He’s still wincing. And a flash of rage lights Derek’s vision red for a second.
Standing over Emory, wrapping that belt around his throat—
But he quiets his head, eventually.
The scent blockers kick in soon enough. Stiles could—go for a walk, if he keeps his head down, if he's careful.
“No thank you,” Stiles says, and Derek can't blame him. But one of them has to, because Stiles eats his way through everything Derek thought to grab in the forty seconds before there were guns on them.
“You could've told me,” Stiles says, ridiculously stubborn for someone who, half a day ago, had to modulate every expression on his face. “I would've grabbed stuff too, if I knew you were actually planning a prison break.”
Bold of him to think that wouldn't've gotten him tackled on the spot. And maybe he knows that, deep down.
“Whatever, I could've done something,” he says, like Derek's wearing all that on his face. “I could've grabbed the nearest blunt object...”
Like he isn't hurt badly enough. Derek's jaw locks tight.
“Fine, great,” Stiles says grumpily. “I was a total damsel. Feel better?”
There's nothing better about it. Nothing short of a nightmare.
There are some jobs where, the second you take them, you need a plan. Either getting out and taking it all down when they least expect it, or going out fighting, taking out as many of them as you can.
But this one had Stiles. Stiles, who grabbed his arm before Derek could leave the safe house. Who said, “Don't you dare freaking leave me alone here. After that?”
“It's safe,” Derek said. “Fortified. He can't track your scent.”
“Yeah, and not to sound ungrateful or anything, but... What, do I just live here now?”
“He's gonna be looking for you,” Derek said, and Stiles said, “Yes, thank you. So I'm just waiting for him to die?”
“Something like that,” Derek said. Stiles raised his eyebrows at him, whistled.
“I hope that's half as foreboding as your face thinks it is.”
“So do I,” Derek said, and Stiles grinned.
“You got any method in particular planned?”
“A belt feels poetic,” Derek said, and Stiles' grin went wider.
“You couldn't've done it while I was there?”
No. Sometimes, things take time. And in that time, a lot of things can happen to onlookers.
“Yeah, you're a real badass,” Stiles said, and Derek said, “He wouldn't be the first one.”
“Really,” Stiles says. “What's your kill count?”
He really shouldn't have said it. He's still not sure why he did.
“Eleven,” he said, and watched the grin drop off Stiles' face.
Stiles rebounded quickly. Derek shouldn't have been surprised.
Next to Emory, everyone's a saint.
And it's a survival instinct. Making the best of a bad situation. Making friends with the tiger in your cage.
“So you're a tiger, huh?” Stiles says, tearing through the last of the onion rings Derek brought him. “Tigerwolf. Your fursona.”
Derek had no idea Stiles was this talkative.
“Yeah, you'd never believe what the constant threat of harm'll do to a person,” Stiles says, and Derek's vision fills with a future Emory's choking face. He'll need to look at the belts, find a sturdy one. One that's thin enough to really pull taut.
“Tiger Beat,” Stiles says. “Your favorite magazine. It's not pictures of beat-down tigers,” he adds. “It's, who'd make that magazine?”
Emory, probably.
“Yeah, I guess that'd be on brand, huh,” Stiles says. Like he can just read the name on Derek's face. “What a fun guy! Pillar of the community.”
But a second later, every inch of bitterness is gone. “Did you ever read those types of actual magazines? The teen heartthrob stuff. With folded up posters of Hilary Duff in the middle. Zac Efron... I had freaking Jesse McCartney up on my wall for a while as a kid, and no, I did not realize it was obvious. Why, what kid doesn't love Jesse McCartney?”
He's laughing. Impossibly, like he's been through nothing at all.
“Hey, no,” he says, wagging his finger at Derek disapprovingly. “Don't give me that tragic face. I just ate Hot Fries for the first time in... I don't even know how long. Don't bring down this moment with all your downer energy.”
“You ate onion rings,” Derek says. “You're still eating them.”
“Which should just tell you how much I missed Hot Fries, then,” Stiles says, and licks his fingers. “Don't get the wrong idea! Definitely bring me more onion rings. And curly fries.”
“The hot ones,” Derek says, and Stiles says, “Yeah, I see how that can get confusing. The... I mean, they are spiced, technically. And hot in terms of actual serving temperature. But yeah, unrelated to the bagged convenience store crunchy guys. Although, if they do make a snack kind of curly fries now, I probably would wanna try it. Out of morbid curiosity, at least.”
Derek nods studiously.
“I can make a list,” Stiles says, and that is probably a better idea than Derek just trying to remember all of this. It's a little harder when rage isn't involved.
“Aww,” Stiles says. “Yeah, the guy taking down my snack order is super scary. Tigerface.”
“You do remember that I'm a werewolf, right?” Derek says.
“A cuddly one,” Stiles says. “You're a bodyguard, that's not... You're a guard dog. Hey!”
He's grinning again.
“Guard-wolf,” he says. “Guard wolf-dog. Man's best friend.”
It's impossible to argue with him. It just turns into word association. To Stiles walking into a pun, and gaping at him, so surprised at it himself that it's hard not to absorb half of his excitement.
Derek's really not used to living with other people, but he's sure it didn't feel like this before.
He would've remembered something like that.
It occurs to Derek, eventually, that this is nesting. That this would be, if he was—If Stiles were—If this were a very different story.
He’s giving him shelter. Because the alternative is handing him back to a psychopath. He’s bringing him food. Because without it, he’d starve.
He’s not drinking through the night anymore. Because he needs to be alert, and ready.
Until he finds Stiles somewhere safe.
Nights are harder. Sleeping's always gonna be dangerous. When at any moment, Emory could come back to haunt him.
And even after giving in, agreeing to stay here while Stiles recovers, Derek never planned on sleeping in the same room as him.
He didn't really plan on sleeping at all. That's how it was before he found a drink strong enough to keep a werewolf down. He didn't sleep, and he got angrier, and then eventually, he ran himself into a wall and crashed for a few days. Rinse and repeat.
“Well that sounds like it sucks,” Stiles says, and his voice is rough from screaming. He didn't believe Derek the first few seconds he shook him awake.
But it always goes like that. And even once you know where you are, there's still the feeling. Like where you thought you were is still the real one, even as the details disappear.
And wherever Stiles was, it wasn't a good place.
“Genius in the house,” Stiles says, but he doesn't try to talk about it. Or just try to talk past it, force the conversation back into lighter territory. He dips his head, breathes deeply against his knees for a while.
“I could go,” Derek says, and Stiles says, “It's worse when you're not here. When I can't tell where I am, it's a million times worse.”
“There could be something,” Derek says. “A lamp, or something. Some kind of reminder.”
“A sign,” Stiles says. “'That's over, dummy! Calm down.'”
“Exactly like that,” Derek says.
“See? You do make jokes,” Stiles says. “You're just so dry with it. Covert joke agent.”
His breaths are almost back to normal.
“You really don't sleep?” he says. “How long until you crash now?”
It could be hours. Or a few days, or somewhere in between.
“There's no way that's healthy,” Stiles says, and Derek says, “I don't think I said it's healthy. It's manageable.”
“It's bullshit,” Stiles says. “You're gonna get brain damage. Or, or early dementia... You could die from not sleeping.”
“I'm fine,” Derek says, and Stiles says, “I don't care. Lie down right now.”
But he doesn't wait for Derek to make a decision. He's already grabbing his arm.
It shouldn't work, Stiles moving him. Werewolves are generally a lot stronger. Stiles would know that better than a lot of people.
But it does work, somehow. Stiles rolling over, giving Derek space.
“Don't hurt yourself,” Derek says, and Stiles says, “It's barely even bad. It's nothing.”
It's not. But Stiles says, “Fine, you can glare at it all in the morning. Close your eyes.”
Derek knows the fizzing darkness inside of his eyelids too well. Knows the shape the blur turns into, after a while.
When your stomach drops, and you're trapped in it.
“Easy,” Stiles says. “You're not gonna see that. You're gonna see me.”
Somehow reading his face again. Or his spine, or the catch of his breath.
“That's gonna be the whole dream,” Stiles says. “Just me, okay? Just me talking to you. Probably boring you to tears, have you ever seen Lord of The Rings? Well, it's gonna be a wildly faithful recap. With bonus commentary. Viggo Mortensen broke his toe for real! I bet you didn't know that, huh? Kicking the thing.”
“The thing,” Derek says, and Stiles says, “Yeah, I also don't remember huge parts of it. I might have to improvise.”
There isn't a dream. Just Stiles, in the morning, curled on his side next to him.
Derek closes his eyes again.