Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time he met Stiles was when the kid was 12 and Derek himself was 17, and there wasn’t a thing about him that made Derek suspect he’d be the Stiles he is today. They’d both been at the police station for different reasons and Stiles was the one of them that was there on his own accord. Derek wasn’t so lucky.

“So you’re like a real criminal then,” the kid whispered at Derek, who was handcuffed to the table in one of the outer lobbies. He obviously wasn’t their first concern if they let some random kid within feet of him.

Derek gave him a pointed glare, one that associated with ‘why are you even here?’ “How old are you, like twelve?” Derek scoffed, rolling his eyes intentionally.

“Yeah.” The kid said carelessly, looking over his shoulder while trying to be subtle about it. Derek assumed he wasn’t supposed to be there, obviously.

“My name’s Genim. You’re Derek Hale, aren’t you?” Genim introduced himself, looking him straight in the eyes, making Derek squirm under his gaze. Nobody’d looked at him so deliberately and yet casually the entire preceding year, needless to say he was uncomfortable with eye contact. This boy was not.

Genim leaned in closer, eyes shifty and secretive like in the movies. Derek almost smiled. “So… did you really do it?”

Derek looked up at the boy briefly, playing along and lowering his head, eyes glancing to his left. The kid was intrigued to say the least, almost falling out of his chair in anticipation.

“No.” Derek whispered, a smirk pulling onto his lips as he leant back into his chair, pointedly chuckling and looking around the lobby as the agents and officers rushed about, trying to come to some conclusion.

Genim scowled at him but without any real heat behind it. Reaching his hand over to Derek’s cuffs and bringing his face closer to inspect them. Derek’s face burned as the kid’s breath ghosted over his knuckles.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked abruptly, trying to jerk his hands away, only to be snagged by the metal around his wrists. It was the kid’s turn to smirk.

“Did you want to get out of here or not? I’m sure a conviction wouldn’t look nice on a college application.” Genim said carelessly, and that was the moment Derek knew he was far too smart for his own good. After the boy’s eyes flirted around the room, obviously looking for someone specific, he found the person hovering in the doorway leading to the break room, holding a steaming cup of cheap coffee.

Derek’s eyes followed him as Genim stood, nodding slowly. The kid looked older than he should’ve in that moment, standing above him.

“I’ll be back.” He said plainly, offering Derek a small wave of two fingers before sauntering casually over to the woman in the doorway.

The woman recognized him immediately, smiling warmly at the twelve year old as he approached. “What now, kid?” she said with a laugh as the kid almost face planted onto the floor, tripping over something that wasn’t there. Derek chuckled to himself for a brief moment before he realized. There really wasn’t anything there at all. The kid hadn’t even truthfully tripped. The clumsiness that everyone seemed to take as normal, was played.

Derek watched curiously as Genim approached her.

“Oh, Bonnie, I don’t need an excuse to come talk to my dad’s favorite FED, do i?” The kid smiled cheekily, eyebrows quirking up in acting. The woman rolled her eyes.

Then it all happened.

And yet nothing happened all the same.

Genim’s feet stumbled over some ghosted object under his sneakers and the boy nearly fell onto the woman. However the kid caught himself, just as he jostled the woman’s coffee. He reached out and steadied her elbow, thus keeping the cup’s contents off the carpet and where they below.

But if Derek hadn’t been looking so intently, he wouldn’t have noticed the boy’s index and middle finger slip into the pocket of the woman’s jacket, withdrawing silently a silvery metallic. Derek’s eyes bulged. And the woman didn’t even take notice, and neither did a single soul in the station as Genim quickly palmed the silver and let go of the woman’s arm.

“Jesus, Genim, be careful. Next time you might actually spill and then you’ll be the one cleaning the carpet instead of your father,” the woman said, voice still humorous despite the full threat. Infact the entire lobby was amused by the boy’s clumsy antics, oblivious to the 12 year old thief they had stashed in their police station.

The kid kindly excused himself, returning back to Derek with his smug smile replacing that of a false bashful one. The harsh pink tint to Genim’s cheeks faded within moments, and Derek found himself missing the flushed look on him.

But only for a moment because, ew, the kid’s like twelve.

Dropping dramatically back into the chair across the table from Derek, he reached forward and pulled a silver key from nowhere.

Putting his hands over Derek’s, He pushed the key into the handcuffs silently, smirk never fleeting. Derek’s face wouldn’t stop burning as he watched with a sick fascination.

“Go on then, before my dad comes back.” Derek hadn’t even realized the kid was finished, and he looked down to see the cuffs fallen away, only leaving faint red rings around his wrists to remind him of them.

The glint in the kid’s eyes should’ve tipped him off, but Derek was so freaked out by the kid he stood quite abruptly and made a beeline for the doors. No one seemed to notice, all their attentions back on their work as Genim sauntered over back to the woman, silently slipping the key back into her pocket without her looking up from her papers.

While he was watching the kid though, Derek ran into a brick wall. Well, not a real wall. But a very tall, sturdy man in the doorway. He looked up frantically, the sheriff looking down at him with a confused look.

“Where do you think you’re going kid? And how’d you get those off anyway?” He said, pulling another pair from his belt and motioning for Derek to turn around. As the teen did so, Derek caught Genim’s devious gaze, watching the boy’s shoulders shrug with nonchalance as he walked towards him and the Sheriff.

The older man looked up from the silver on Derek’s wrists (again, seriously?) and made a confused face. “What’re you doing here, son? I thought you were at Scott’s today?”

“I’m just hanging around Dad, learning the family business, all the rest,” he said, looking at Derek with that smug look.

Derek had witnessed the Sheriff’s kid pick-pocket a federal agent in the Beacon Hills Police Station in order to release a suspect in a murder/arson case. And the kid was fucking twelve.

Genim gave him a pleased look, probably from the streak of terror that crossed Derek’s face as he realized all of this. The kid didn’t even hesitate in walking past him and his father, right out the doors.

That was the first time he really met Stiles though, back when his name was unpronounceable and the worst he could do was pick pockets.

It was only a few minutes later, when the Sheriff asked for a source of Identification from him, that Derek realized the kid had pocketed his wallet on his way out aswell. And the worst of it was Derek hadn’t even felt him reach into his back pocket to get it.

Fucking hell.

Chapter Text

The second time Derek met Stiles, he was actually “Stiles.”

He also saved Derek’s life (in the most non-fatal way possible).

“Derek, are you sure this is a good idea? We could seriously go to prison for this…” Boyd began, looking wary as his accomplice pulled his hood over his head.

Derek gave Boyd a grimace as he handed over an empty duffle bag, pulling the keys out of the ignition and taking a breath. The two 18 year olds pulled ski masks out from under the seats and hid their faces behind the black fabric, knowing that this could very well be their last time as free men.

“It’s either this or we get killed, you know that.” Boyd nods slowly in reaction and the both of them tuck loaded revolvers into the inside pockets of their jackets.

One breath more from each of them and they’re stepping out onto the pavement and walking casually into the front doors of the bank, no one noticing their presence any more than the average visitor.

Derek gives Boyd a look, walking over to the doors and locking them. That got them noticed.

“Everybody get down! Hands where we can see them! We’ve got the bank surrounded, so you’ll do exactly as we say or we’ll shoot!” Boyd calls out over the main lobby. The majority of the people inside are adults, but there’re two children and an elderly woman and Derek finally felt the reality of their decision sink in.

But they were in too deep now.

“You!” Derek says, pointing to the main bank teller, a curvy man in his 50’s, “Bring me to the safe! Don’t try contacting anyone or I’ll put a bullet in your head!”

The older man whimpers in the least masculine way, hands in the air as he takes a step back from the counter.

“Please, don’t do this. I have a wife and-“

“Shut up! Bring me to the safe!” Derek snaps loudly, hoping to strike a sort of fear into the man, and it worked all too well. Damn.

“Okay, okay! T-this way,” the old man says, pointing towards the back room and moving quickly when Derek makes a motion to move with the gun he’s wielding.

It feels heavy and violent in his hands and he doesn’t like the feeling, wishing he could be rid of it sooner rather than later.

The older man begins to work the safe’s combination into the lock, hands shaking as he turns it. Derek growls in anticipation, he really needs to put this gun down, “Hurry up already!” He hisses and the man jerks away, missing the numbers and having to start again. Derek really wasn’t cut out for this bank robbing thing.

He has to get Boyd to do this, he’s better with people than him. Derek can watch the door and the hostages (oh my god, hostages).

“Boyd!” He yells, and right then he was thinking about how they should’ve had codenames instead of the obvious. They really hadn’t thought this through.

No answer.

Derek is beginning to sweat, and his hands are getting clammy as he holds the gun shakily towards the man, who’s now pushing the vault door open and scurrying inside too quickly for Derek to catch him.

The old man pushes a small silver button next to the doorframe and in that instant the bank lights up with red fluorescents and sirens of the screeching variety. Derek’s hands immediately fly to his hears, trying to save his eardrums the best he can as he gets a look at the old man, who has his arms shielding his face and is backed into a corner.

Derek takes one look at the money and shoves the most he can into the small duffle bag at his side, calling for Boyd over his shoulder as he does so.

Boyd doesn’t answer.

Then Derek starts to panic. Zipping up the overflowing bag, he points his gun shakily at the bank teller, “Don’t try anything!” before he’s walking back out to the main lobby.

What he finds back then plays with his mind, even today.

The bank is emptied completely of people (hostages), except for the figures of Boyd and a smaller boy. Derek draws his gun in record time and points it directly at the kid’s face.

The boy nearly falls over himself trying to get away from the barrel aimed between his eyes. Derek recognizes the clumsiness in an instant (mind you that this time was real).

“You!” Derek accuses vocally, taking a half-step back in shock as the thirteen-year-old is merely standing beside Boyd in the middle of a bank robbery. The actual fuck.

“Yes, it’s me. Now get that gun out of my face would you?” Genim says irritably. This gives Derek the chance to really take in the boy. Nothing’s changed in him really, besides the fact he grew a few inches maybe and his hair is virtually gone from a heavy buzz cut. He looks older, but not feature-wise. The way he’s carrying himself is more confident, more mature than he’d been the year before.

“Wait you know Stiles?” Boyd asks, looking down at the subject oddly, as if Derek knew no one. He wasn’t wrong though.

“What’s a Stiles? I thought your name was-“

“Change of taste,” Stiles retorts, Derek facing a look of impending violence coming from his leering eyes. “Now get that goddamn gun away from me.”

Derek looks amused, if for only a moment forgetting the reality of his current situation, “You’re in the middle of a bank robbery, what did you expect?”

Stiles grimaces, “I just don’t like guns.” He says, with no intimidating tone or harsh gaze. The kid is being entirely serious and Derek is almost afraid of that voice, the one that’s lacking all emotion he’d ever seen from the kid. Derek lowers his arm and eventually, after a pleading look from Boyd, puts the gun away in his jacket entirely.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m here, about the whole gun-robbery situation,” Stiles starts, motioning around him.

“Stiles is giving us an out.” Boyd explains, looking a bit relieved. Derek feels the need to play the cautious one this time.

“And what makes you think we need one?”

Stiles looks at him closely, as if under a microscope. Derek squirms under his attention.

“Well, you lost all your hostages, you have the evidence of said robbery in your hand, as well as probably-illegal guns, and you’re also on security tape as we speak. You really didn’t think this through.” Stiles rambles, and Derek is momentarily charmed by his knowledge. Momentarily.

“You won’t be getting out of this without being charged and you know it, so I’m offering you an out,” he finishes, stating the entirety of it as a matter of fact, as if it were in no way confusing.

Derek grimaces despite himself, “Why do you even care? And how’d you even figure out it was me?” he asks, realizing how completely absurd it is that a thirteen-year-old is telling him what he needs to do.

“I just heard it floating around.” Stiles answers, but only to one question. (Derek knows now that Stiles hears everything around town. Even the things his father doesn’t.)

“And why do you care if we go to jail?” Derek presses.

This creates a sort of thick atmosphere, and he can feel the discomfort easing its way between the three of them. Stiles sighs, his façade falling just an inch, enough to let Derek see that he really is just a kid.

“I know you’re not criminals, and I know how rough your life’s been Derek, and I know about you owing Israel money,” Stiles says because apparently he knows everything (he does).

“So I’m giving you an out, take it or leave it. You can walk out of here with enough money to pay your debt and your record as clean as it was thirty minutes ago,” Stiles says and Boyd is quick to agree.

Derek hesitates, because why on earth did some kid want to keep him out of prison? It isn’t as if he deserves it. So maybe he wasn’t found guilty of the arson and murder he was originally convicted of a year ago, he wasn’t a model citizen either.

Looking down at Stiles contemplatively, he sighs. He needs this, despite what his mind is telling him to do, run.

“Fine, what do we have to do?”

“Well first things first, go put all that money back and try not to touch anything else, fingerprints,” Stiles enunciates this notion by wiggling his fingers at them. Quite annoyingly.

“Hold on then, how-“

“Yeah, I know you need the money. But you’re not taking it from here, dumbass. They can track that. I’ll reimburse you myself, just go put it back.” Stiles says, oblivious to the sirens that are becoming louder outside. Derek and Boyd start to panic.

“You’re…giving us the money…” Derek tries, completely thrown by this gesture. It has an underlying hint of maybe not just being so that the money can’t be traced back to them.

Stiles nods and pushes the two of them off into the direction of the safe, folding his arms and turning his back to them.

When Derek returns from the cell with an empty duffel bag, Boyd, and a relieved bank teller, he’s expecting to see Stiles calling out “Psych! First class ticket to prison!” or maybe something worse (like a bullet in each of their heads).

But what he finds is Stiles isn’t even there, like he’d never even been there in the first place.

He’s left a thick envelope in his wake though, filled with cash from god-knows-where, and a short note attached to flap.

15k I had lying around is in the envelope, let the bank teller out first and take the side door out of the bank, there aren’t any cops there. Head straight to the train station by foot and try to calm the fuck down. You’re welcome, Derek. See you around.

Stiles.

Chapter Text

The third time he met Stiles, Derek was just finishing his training at the Police academy in Sacramento.

It wasn’t as if he’d only just suddenly decided he wanted to be on the other side of this battle he’d been involved in since forever…except it kind of was. Derek was a god awful criminal and despite how he might first come off, he had no idea what he was doing caught up in all of it anyway.

It wasn’t as if he’d borrowed money from a Mob boss as a seventeen year old because he was intelligent. He was a fool in that sense, but in reality he’d have done it all again. His fate be damned.

So there he was, standing in a lineup of ten 21 year olds, all with the same end game as he had, everyone with different drives.

Cora had asked him once, a year ago; why he decided so suddenly that he’d want to be on the side of the law (he’d told her everything, after all).

He couldn’t tell her this though.

It was a personal, and maybe even selfish, inspiration to be had.

He wanted to know Stiles.

He wanted to understand him and what better way to do so than to join the force in which the kid was consistently running from? But in reality, there couldn’t be a better option. Stiles was complex. Derek knew that much after only speaking with him once.

Derek wasn’t so apt on befriending people anyhow. But the kid was equally frustrating and confusing in the way that he’d known Derek would need him (Derek’s cheeks burned at the self-admission). Fifteen grand he’d given him, and it wasn’t just some out of pocket money. That was obvious enough.

Stiles was thirteen when he’d saved his life, putting him at about sixteen while Derek was twenty one now. It wasn’t something you generally told your sister, that you wanted to befriend a minor who was obviously heading down the path of a criminal.

Derek couldn’t afford to follow him on his way, he wasn’t clever or resourceful or all-knowing as the kid. He’d be caught in 24 hours.

With this job, Derek would be around criminals in the most legal way possible, he could study them and not be looked upon as a person of interest, perhaps. And if he could be the one to catch the goddamn kid that’s purpose in life so far was to make Derek look bad, well, that was a bonus.

The day came too fast.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry I know you’re busy…but you’ll want to take this…” said one of the receptionists, holding her manicured hands tight over the receiver. The tension was taut in every muscle she showed and one knowing look from her to the Sheriff and he was the same.

“Alright rookies, take a seat, would you? I’ll be back.” Derek watched curiously as the nerves seemed to come off of the wary man in waves. He took a seat slowly beside Boyd, who’d joined him in his crusade through the academy. His motive was more of a guilt-quelling one than anything else, but who was Derek to judge anyone on their inspiration.

Boyd leaned closer, “You think it’s his kid again? He always looks like that when Stiles gets pulled from school…” he thought aloud, looking to Derek for some sort of confirmation, only to find Derek’s attention acutely focused on trying to hear the muffled conversation at the front desk.

He only lost his concentration when he heard the call end, marked by a string of curses from the Sheriff. The older man breathed a stressed sigh before turning to them all, prompting everyone in the station to stand.

“Alright, well, gentlemen, and woman,” He looked pointedly with a forced smile over to Allison Argent, the only female rookie who’d applied.

“You might all know of Genim “Stiles” Stilinski and the…skills…he’s accumulated over his sixteen years. One of which he’s going to be firmly grounded for tonight,” the Sheriff tried to joke, a few pity laughs echoing across the room. The man talked about the kid as if he were just any criminal, not flinching in the least even with his last name in common with the suspect. Derek guessed he’d seen this a long time coming. And everyone knew this was far more serious as well, it involved Stiles after all.

“As you may be aware, a painting was recovered by the D.C. Art Crimes unit a few years ago, Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon, from a raid in one of the warehouses in downtown. Today it has been discovered as a forgery by one of their authenticators, and Stiles is our prime suspect as of now. This painting was originally worth around 15 to 17 thousand dollars, so it is obviously of our utmost concern.”

Derek sucks in a nervous breath, his stomach twisting in all the wrong ways. It’s not that common a count of money, he thinks, and coincidences happen all the time…don’t they? Fifteen grand though-

“We have a warrant to search his belongings, but he is currently MIA. He was last seen at the corner of Edgelawn and Tanner in dark clothing. Today’s your lucky day rookies,” the Sheriff says, his eyes darkening as he continued, in the way a parent’s only can when their child is finally labeled a criminal.

“Bring him in at any costs, he doesn’t have any firearms and he will in no way harm any of you. He’s not a fighter, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to persuade you otherwise,” the man paused, recovering his demeanor, “Alright then, rookies. Stay with your Training Officers until you get to the scene, then you’re on your own. Godspeed.”

Derek can hardly breathe and he’s sure he’s not the only one as they pile into vans and squad cars. But for him it’s not because of the tight space.

\/\/\/

Stepping out onto the corner of the place Stiles was last seen feels odd now, as if he was tied up in the kid’s shoes and trying to hide from the police. He feels a nervousness all too familiar creeping up his neck and he doesn’t like it any more the second time.

And then he remembers.

He’s not a criminal. He’s quite the opposite really, he’s in uniform. Officers are everywhere around him and he doesn’t have to feel nervous because they’re with him. He’s not the criminal anymore, not that he’d had a very long run at it anyhow.

He can’t, however, shake the thought that Stiles is feeling this way right then. It’s unnerving.

But the more steps he’s taking away from the corner, the less he feels so surrounded (no shit, there’s less people). He walks, Boyd lost and trailing behind him, wondering likely where the hell Derek is walking to. Like he has a clue.

He ends up in front of a very rundown old building, not knowing exactly where. But Boyd is standing to his left so he ought to find some comfort in him.

He doesn’t.

Pushing open the creaking doors, Boyd takes the lead for some reason Derek doesn’t care because he is too excited to listen to what he’s saying.
It might sound wrong and completely out of context but Derek is almost smiling in anticipation. Derek doesn’t smile.

The both of them are walking, cautiously in the least, towards the innermost part of the old building and it appears more and more to be a school than anything else. The rooms are empty and it smells of old books and wood and dust accumulating in the rafters.

He’s tailing Boyd from a distance, enveloped in the intrigue of it all. He remembers old dreams of finishing college and studying for days on end in libraries full of classic books and students cramming for exams. It’s a childish dream, he thinks, wanting to be important in some way that required more intelligence than where he was now. He wished for it all back in the quiet of his mind sometimes when the dark didn’t seem to fade away anymore. But that was a long time ago.

And everything shifted in one moment after, his life had become a cycle of this his last years.

Warmth enveloped his wrist in a way that his mind didn’t feel alarmed, and he didn’t yell in surprise as he was yanked not so gracefully into a broom closet by the hand in which held no accurate memory for Derek

It had been three years afterall.

All he heard was the faint shut of a creaking wood door and an intake of breath that was short, but not labored. It was excited and it was his own, he realized with a start.

Darkness was his only surrounding, but this dark felt warmer and softer and safer than anything he’d felt until now. A ghost of hot breath swept slightly over his neck.

The light came and it brought Derek to reality.

Derek stared into sharp amber eyes, still as thieving as they were the day he’d met them. The sirens and callings of “Derek?!” from a friend were forgotten in the presence of an absolute silence and a pink smirk pulling only one way.

“Hi.” The voice whispered, and Derek was pulled from a dream, his expression falling back to nothing as it always was.

“I should arrest you,” were the only words that didn’t make Derek want to touch that smile with his fingertips, so he opted for those first.

“It’s nice to see you too, Derek,” Stiles said with a frank roll of his eyes, nothing had even changed.

Derek looked down at the flashlight between Stiles’ hands, only now realizing it was his own and was quite obviously missing from his belt. He didn’t even ask how this time.

“I should arrest you,” he repeated because no other words were in his current vocabulary.

Stiles paused, searching his eyes for something Derek hoped wasn’t there. It must have been, though, because Stiles smiled and rose an eyebrow.

“But you won’t.”

Derek took too long to think over this, but after every thought and every excuse he knew the kid wasn’t wrong. So he asked the only other thing that was on his mind besides everything Stiles. It was related to Stiles in every way possible, but it wasn’t directly about him. Derek needed to satisfy his conscious somehow.

“Did you really give me money from forging that Raphael?”

Stiles laughed almost inaudibly, but with their proximity in a broom closet of all places, Derek heard pretty much every breath.

“I can’t seem to remember. Why don’t you tell me why you borrowed fifteen grand in the first place?” Stiles’ smirk never faded. Derek found he didn’t want it to.

After a minute of staring and contemplating and eye-pleading, Derek had to know. He had to.

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else, alright?”

“Who would I tell anyway-“

“Stiles.”

“Alright , alright, Fine. Pinky Promise and all that jazz.”

Derek sighed, trying to look anywhere else but Stiles’ eyes, but they were right there and everywhere at the same time.

“You know about the fire, right?”

Stiles only nodded briefly.

“I-. Well I didn’t have the money to pay for anything after it happened, you know…” Derek began and suddenly it was too bright and too hot and too small. But he didn’t stop either.

“Laura and Myself and Cora didn’t have the money for a proper burial or cremation or even a memorial service… so I asked around and-“

“Desperate times, I get it.” Stiles tone was so indifferent, it was shocking. He didn’t know why he was expecting sympathy or pity, because he definitely didn’t want it from the kid, but it still came as surprising. He was relieved in a sense, because he couldn’t have wanted it any other way and Stiles knew that. Stiles knew everything about him and yet nothing at all.

Derek felt exposed in a way that wasn’t entirely painful. He’d never felt a feeling like it before.

“Was it nice?” Stiles suddenly asked.

Derek looked up, surprised even further, “What?”

“The service or whatever, was it nice?”

Derek was smiling before he could stop himself, it was a faint smile, but one that held more meaning than a lot of things he’d told people over the years.

“Yeah, it was nice.”

“…Good.” Stiles said, speaking like he suddenly felt out of place, looking down at his shoes and simultaneously at Derek’s as they were standing so close.

“Oh, and I’m not admitting to anything, but if I did forge a Rafael, I bet it would be damn good enough to be in a museum for a few years before someone found out,” Stiles was suddenly saying, as if there had been no heartfelt moment in him at all. Derek didn’t expect anything less though, chuckling softly as he watched Stiles speak, just a few inches shorter than him. It wouldn’t be long until they were the same height.

The thought was equally as endearing as it was terrifying.

A silence swept over the two of them and everything seemed to hang in the air, frozen except for their breathing. Derek couldn’t bring his gaze away from amber brown eyes staring up at him, it was so hard to forget that he was still a child but Derek wasn’t considering his options now.

Stiles was on his toes, Derek’s eyes flickering back and forth from the boy’s lips and his eyes. Their lips hovered a breath apart, both waiting for the other and neither taking the risk. Stiles leaned in just that much closer, pressing his lips chastely to the corner of Derek’s mouth before moving towards his ear instead.

“Catch me if you can.”

Derek blinked and Stiles was gone and there was nothing left for Derek to do except miss what never really was. He stepped out of the closet, mind in an almost dreamy state as Boyd ran over to him frantically.

His words were lost somewhere in translation because Derek wasn’t listening. He still couldn’t shake the words from his memory even now.

Catch me if you can.

But after that day Derek never stopped looking.

Chapter Text

Derek didn’t meet Stiles again for six years.

The kid hadn’t resurfaced after he was nearly caught the first time and his father seemed to have given up hope of ever finding him after the first year. Derek knew the sheriff well enough to think the man didn’t actually want Stiles to be found, but that was a thought reserved for himself.

Derek wasn’t idle in those six years leading up to it though. Hardly.

He spent two of the six working in Beacon Hills’ PD, rising ranks in record time for a rookie before he decided he didn’t want to be handing out parking tickets and crashing too-loud college parties all his life. He’d known it all along, but it only really hit home in April of the year Derek turned 24.

“Is this really necessary sir? He’s been off our radar for two years now, he could be in another country for all we know-“

“Exactly the reason we need to start now what we should’ve a long time ago. We’re only that far behind now.”

Sheriff Stilinski let out a tired sigh, as they had all become since his son had disappeared. The man rubbed the bridge of his nose, pacing the small room irritably. Derek suddenly felt too large in it, even sitting amongst Boyd and a few of the other officers in the division.

The sheriff mumbled something to the voice on the other end of the phone receiver and promptly hung up, looking to his officers expectantly.

They all stood.

“I’m only making you all aware of this because you’ll likely be questioned in the near future,” he said tiredly, moving to stand directly in front of the small crowd. “The FBI will be reopening Stiles’ file now that they have claimed to finding evidence of his being in the city. They’ll be here to tomorrow with questions, considering we were the last people on his case since he disappeared two years ago. I apologize, but please tell them anything they need to know,” the man’s age really showed in those tolling few moments, and Derek finally saw it was really wearing him down.

“Thank you, dismissed.”

Whispers drifted the instant they left the room, Derek could hear it from the doorway. He turned back to face the Sheriff, clearing his throat as nonchalantly as he could.

“Um, sir. I was wondering if they were going to bring us, or anyone, along as a consultant…since we know him best…”

The sheriff looked up, a false smile pulling at his lips. It was a sympathetic one at best. “There’s nothing we can do, Derek. It’s above us now, the Feds have jurisdiction.”

Derek argued the best he could without coming off as knowing too much, but in the end he knew it was out of his hands, out of all their hands. They were just notes in the margins of Stiles’ file and somehow that really hit a nerve.

He was a side note. He was irrelevant to Stiles’ case and that didn’t sit right with Derek.

He left the precinct three days later.

Derek packed up his life in an instant and left for Quantico.

And that was that.

Three years later and he was FBI himself, working out of the office in Sacramento until he was put onto Stiles’ case after a year of prodding.

He was put in charge of it after the lead Fed had retired. Derek wouldn’t lie in saying he was upset at the guy’s retirement party.

But he hadn’t seen Stiles in six years.

And perhaps it verged on obsession that Derek had done all of this just to be put on his case but it didn’t matter because now it had paid off.

He was just that much closer to Stiles, even if the kid didn’t know it.

Derek, though, had a feeling he knew.

Stiles knew everything.

\/\/\/

Derek smiled absently, seeing his name plague on the front of the door to his office. It still wasn’t something he was used to, but it wasn’t relatively new. Pushing open the door, he stopped in the doorway.

Erica sat in his chair, legs folded elegantly and propped up on his desk, arms folding as she looked up at Derek. She smirked, giving a look to the second figure who sat in the chair across from her. Someone he’d never seen before, but who’s mug shot he was much familiar with. Scott McCall was much less intimidating when he was sober and not high off coke and sitting in the FBI office building. He looked almost childlike, like he wouldn't be prepared to hurt a soul. Derek knew better than to judge him by that.

“Erica, why is there a convict in my office and why are you sitting at my desk.” Derek said blankly, a tone he’d adopted from being around so many agents with no expression. It was impossible not to, actually.

Erica was an exception, but her only other expression was a smug one.

“I didn’t bring him here, if that’s what you’re asking. He was waiting for you, so I thought I’d give him some company,” Derek’s partner said with a smirk, returning her feet to the ground when he sent her a look.

The two held a silent conversation in their eyes that lasted almost a minute in total, only making the boy in the other chair squirm all the more.

“So, Mr. McCall. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Derek finally spoke, looking away from Erica and stepping in front of Scott, leaning on the front of his desk with his arms folded neatly across his chest.

The kid looked up nervously, silently glancing around the office for cameras and alternate exits. Derek had recognized the gesture after having interviewed many people of the same caliber. The kid gave the window an almost longing look, it was almost unnerving considering the office was on the sixth floor. Derek leaned into his line of sight, eyebrows demanding an answer.

“For the record, I served time for anything I was accused of,” Scott started, looking to the both of them hesitantly.

Derek nodded a bit too quickly, Erica shooting him a look from behind that Derek pretended not to notice. His mind was full on running now.

Scott McCall. Age 22. Closest known relationship with Stiles.

This was the closest Derek had come to Stiles in so many years, his mind buzzing with inappropriate adrenaline.

It wasn’t that Derek hadn’t been looking though, oh had he. But Stiles kept such a low profile that hardly anyone from either end had heard of any activity from him. Finding Scott McCall in his office was Christmas come early.

“I know what you think this is about, but it’s not. I’m only here to deliver something, I’m not selling out my best friend.” Scott said, watching Erica’s face fall back into to irritable. Derek, however, was silently ecstatic and doing his best to keep his face neutral.

Scott reached into his pocket, pulling out a small grey envelope and standing to face Derek, having to look up a small bit, but not appearing any more intimidated. He held out the envelope.

Derek slowly took it from the kid, eyes not leaving Scott’s and watching the kid’s eyes flick towards the door subtly in a way that Erica couldn’t see.

Derek paused a moment, but nodded and the boy made a hasty retreat. He didn’t even look back as Erica tried to lunge and catch the hood from his jacket, shouting “Hey!” Derek held a hand in front of her, keeping her from mauling the poor messenger.

“Derek!” she protested.

“We couldn’t hold him here for anything, and you know damn well he wouldn’t tell us anything anyway.” Derek argued, clearly ending the conversation before it even started. He gave her a look from over his shoulder.

Huffing, Erica understood the silent notion to leave and did so without much of a fight. She might have closed the door a bit more roughly than completely necessary, but Derek wouldn’t mention it. She let enough of his bullshit slide.

He stood there almost too long, staring at the ordinary envelope, knowing it should go immediately to evidence but knowing if he did so without opening it first, he might never get to read it.

Moving to sit down, he peeled back the flap and withdrew a folded sheet of ordinary paper. Unfolding it, Derek bit back a smile, knowing Erica was watching from her cubicle, trying to be subtle.

3120 Westlinger Blvd. Phoenix, AZ. 85003.

Wear something nice.

Also Congratulations on your promotion, I know I’m late.

(Scott can be absent-minded at times. I hope you don’t give him much trouble.)

I guess I can only hope I don’t see you soon.

Pity.

Chapter Text

3120 Westlinger Blvd. Phoenix, AZ. 85003.

Wear something nice.

Also Congratulations on your promotion, I know I’m late.

(Scott can be absent-minded at times. I hope you didn’t give him much trouble.)

I guess I can only hope I don’t see you soon.

Pity.

Derek felt very vulnerable as he stepped into the building, pulling at the tie around his neck like it was the source of it. Irrelevance was the bulletproof vest he’d decided was regulation for these kinds of things…but what kind of thing did this categorize in?

Likely of the absent-minded variety, Derek decided as he looked around the building.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting at 3120 Westlinger Blvd, Phoenix, AZ. 85003. But it probably wasn’t what he found.

He should’ve assumed Stiles himself wouldn’t be there, but some juvenile hope that he might see the kid still remained. He could be angry about that later, he supposed.

Because what he came upon was a gallery, not a quiet meeting place or a hideout or a storage building. An art gallery that was pleasantly filled with somewhat prestigious visitors, and a few Derek recognized from the newspapers. And from what he knew about those few, he assumed they were all filthy rich as well.

He ducked his head in a small attempt to hide his identity, if anyone recognized him at all. If they did, no one said anything. Derek was convinced this was a place to pretend your business partner was a stranger or your that your best friend was someone else.

The only thing that confused Derek was that this wasn’t anything strictly illegal. It was only an art show, after all.

An art show that Stiles Stilinski had invited him to.

Something was definitely illegal.

Derek moved forward from the doorframe, fading in amongst the crowd of people. The first painting he stepped in front of was one he didn’t recognize, but he could tell that it must be expensive, with so many people flocking to it. He came to the conclusion that he should really read up on this stuff.

Each painting seemed to be increasingly expensive, Derek decided, by the number of people standing in front of it. But also Derek made a living on reading people, and he found that the nicer the suit or dress on the patron, the nicer the painting must have been.

To Derek, paintings weren’t much of anything. Who would want some 500 year old fading portrait on a flimsy canvas that hardly made an ounce of sense?

But what he found at each painting, the patrons were awestruck and gleaming with admiration and Derek didn’t know why.

The only piece Derek took a liking to was one where not a soul stood, and no one even gave it a second look.

It wasn’t an elaborate painting from the 1800’s that demanded a professor to explain its significance. It was just a flower on a white canvas, and it was almost horrendously out of place. Glancing a fraction of an inch down, he let his eyes wander aimlessly over the name of the painting. The title matched its content, equally as simple.

Amaranthus cruentus.

The name of the flower in the painting, perhaps. Derek took another moment to look over the piece and sigh in relief of its utter simplicity.

Moving to walk away, his eyes followed to the far right corner, the signature.

It was hardly larger than a nickel, and almost begged to be ignored.

Genim

Derek hadn’t realized how long he was holding his breath until he was letting it out, feeling winded and faint. Running shaky hands through his hair, Derek let out a strong breath, trying to get back into his right mind. The mind of Derek Hale, FBI agent, rather than the half of himself that was, for lack of better words, obsessed with Stiles.

In that moment, a thousand new thoughts went through his mind, but he forced himself to single out the lead that seemed most prevalent.

He moved briskly from his place, eyes darting about in search of it. It had to be here, if Derek’s newfound lead was pointing the right way. He moved fast enough around the building that most people turned their attention to him, their eyes almost nervous with the thought that maybe he was bad news after all.

Derek wasn’t looking for someone though.

The room suddenly seemed too large as he was moving from each painting, trying desperately to not draw attention to himself, but also knowing it was too late for that.

He read every plaque below every painting, eyes scanning for it in desperate attempt to prove his mind wrong.

It couldn’t be here.

This couldn’t be what he was imagining it was.

Until he stopped, this was what he was hoping.

He stood in front of a painting he had passed by initially, only because of the crowd that seemed to hover around it in admiration.

Why hadn’t he seen it sooner?

Saint George and the Dragon

Read the plaque, and in a moment he knew what this was.

Derek’s mind was reeling. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering what on earth prompted Stiles to send him here.

Here was a personal collection of stolen art.

Here was a gallery viewed by patrons who weren’t there only to observe.

Stiles’ file mentions a good few of these paintings, as he was a suspect in the theft of them. Derek should know, as he had commited the entire file to his memory. (It was a large file.)

“Jesus Christ Stiles, what have you-“

And then the door flew off its hinges, clattering pointlessly to the marble flooring. People in uniform poured into the room, guns raised, which provoked screams from the women in the gallery.

“FBI! Nobody move!” shouted a familiar voice and suddenly Derek was wishing he were anywhere but here.

Laura Hale stepped into the room, the only agent not wielding a gun in anyone’s face, only proving to everyone there that she didn’t need one. Erica trotted behind in tow, eyes immediately falling to Derek and giving him a knowing look.

He’d been double-crossed by his own partner.

Derek felt nauseous.

She’d actually brought his sister into this.

Derek sighed in anticipation of the worst, but as Laura walked over to him, her aura was less than dangerous (at least to him). She actually seemed…proud?

Derek gave Erica a look and she returned with one that seemed to say Just wait for it.

“I’m not sure how you even got your hands on this information, but congratulations. I’ll be questioning you about this later.” Laura opened in a hushed tone, to only Derek before she turned to the room.

Every patron had their hands raised in defeat, knowing they’d been found out. Laura looked to her uniformed men.

“Cuff them and bring them in for questioning. I want to know who brought them all here and why.” People began moving on her command. “Bag the paintings, we’ll be getting them to an authenticator within the hour. This is our primary concern, all other cases are to be held until further notice.” The remainder of the officers began pulling the art from the walls with gloved fingers and putting them carefully into the evidence bags.

Laura turned back to Derek, forcing his shoulder back a little further in surprise. She softened, “Good job baby bro, you’ve finally made some progress in this case, took us long enough to get this far…”

Derek wasn’t even sure what was happening, he was only glad Laura seemed to be on the idea that he had been undercover or some falsified information.

Erica was suddenly his favorite again.

She slipped next to him amongst the chaos, the two of them leaving the scene in step.

“I burned the note, told her it was an anonymous tip. You went in undercover. You’re welcome and you’re going to be telling me everything the moment this is over.”

Derek couldn’t be more willing.

\/\/\/

Laura’s eyes thinned, skeptic and glancing between the two agents.

“So what you’re telling me is you got an anonymous tip about a suspected ring of private collectors looking to buy stolen paintings. You then proceeded to put Derek uncover to go investigate and furthermore you did so without my knowledge.” Larua said, looking pointedly towards Derek, as she’d heard the story from Erica once already.

Derek glanced to Erica, before turning back to his sister and nodding hesitantly in confirmation.

Laura sighed heavily, “Alright fine. Good job, dismissed.”

Erica stood to leave, almost too eager. But Derek couldn’t help but want more.

“So who did you bring in?” He asked, pointedly trying to hide his curiousity. Nonchalance was failing him though. “I mean, it’s relevant to Stiles’ case…”

Laura’s face twisted to confusion. “Stiles…?”

Derek cleared his throat awkwardly, “Um, that’s what everyone’s been calling him, because his name’s so-“

“Yeah, I get it, Derek.” Laura finished, still giving her brother an odd look.

She sighed, leaning back on her desk and folding her arms across her chest. “We brought in Gerard and Chris Argent, Jennifer Morell, Matt Daehler, and someone who calls themselves Deucalion. There were many others, but it seemed they were only invited there to pack the room…”

Laura explained, looking out the window, pensive. She didn’t quite understand what had prompted this bust, Derek could tell that much. Derek didn’t understand the motive, but he knew the most he assumed.

Laura must’ve found the need to continue, or to think aloud, because she did so without prompting.

“We collected a total of fifteen stolen art pieces aswell as three that seemed to have no monetary value at all…we’re looking into them more carefully, but the authenticator tested the stolen pieces and they all were positive…”

She trailed off.

“It confuses me, the way that someone would leave such a collection vulnerable like that.”

Seeming to regain her Federal composture, she finished, “We’re having D.C. Art Crimes look into the Raphael piece, the one pertaining to…Stiles’ case. We’ll let you both know if we find anything.”

It was a hint that they ought to leave now, and they both took it.

The moment they stepped out of the chief’s office, Erica spoke up.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and this case, and frankly I’m not sure I want to, but keep your head out of your ass when you do whatever it is you do. You’re welcome, by the way.”

And like that, Erica was gone back to her own office, leaving Derek to wonder how someone could have so much faith in him. He could be a mole, for all she knew. Though, it didn’t seem like she’d have cared either way.

Derek sighed and returned to his own office, and when he sat down behind his desk, rubbed his temples. He should’ve known he’d be getting many headaches like this. Stiles prompted migraines in Derek’s head.

Though, there was only one thing that Derek couldn’t seem to fathom, thinking back on the incident in its entirety.

Was it possible that Stiles was willing to sacrifice a portion of his collection, just to make sure that these private collectors would be looked into?

And if that were the case, maybe Derek didn’t know as much about the kid as he though.

He only knew Stiles on paper.

Was that supposed to hurt?

Chapter Text

It was three weeks before Stiles’ entire collection was authenticated and the stolen paintings were returned to their original owners. Most of them were given back to museums and art exhibits or family members of the artist. Only two of them were left in Derek’s office when he returned to work in the morning.

Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon was leant up against the wall in an evidence bag, because Laura had argued not returning it to the National Gallery of Art in D.C. because it was most relevant to the case. The director had agreed on the condition that in a year it would be returned to the museum without fail. Stiles seemed to have some fixation with this certain piece, and it was obvious to even the director that it would prove vital that they have it close.

The other painting left in Derek’s office was of no monetary value whatsoever. The authenticator had confirmed that it was nothing more than the average work of art, besides the puzzling fact that it was painted in the almost identical style of the other famous Renaissance paintings recovered. Oil on wood, using the same techniques, oils, and canvas as they would have in the 1500’s.

The authenticator recognized, as did everyone else, that the artist behind it was capable of forging virtually any Renaissance piece, since he or she produced Amaranthus cruentus with such finesse.

Derek shouldn’t have felt proud.

He shouldn’t have felt anything, actually. But in reality, he’d had more emotions towards a criminal than any single person in his existence, at least since he was fifteen.

Derek sighed, moving past the two paintings and sitting back in his chair. He leant forward, propping his elbows on his desk with his head in his hands. He couldn’t help but feel like he was far behind in this case. Stiles Stilinski was on a higher level than the FBI had originally put him as, and Derek felt like he should’ve told them so in the beginning. He felt guilty all of a sudden, having all this information and just conveniently not telling anyone about it.

Maybe they could’ve been closer to closing this case if he’d have just come out with it. But, now, if he were to tell Laura anything, she’d pull him off the case in a moment’s notice.

And Derek wasn’t sure he’d be capable of standing by.

Erica forced open the door to his office, stirring his thoughts out of his mind immediately and making him feel like he was a teenager again, caught doing something indecent.

“Alright. Out with it, Derek. What’s eating you?” She demanded, hands to her hips as she stood in front of his desk.

The two held a tight eye contact, Erica looking for him to respond.

“What are you talking about Erica-“ Derek sighed, acknowledging he was going to be cut off before he even began.

“No Derek, don’t try to turn this around. You’ve been keeping something from me, and since the note I’ve been conveniently ignoring it. So come on, out with it.” She slammed her palms rather dramatically on the top of his desk, leaning in close towards him, searching his eyes.

Derek absently looked away, glancing to the paintings.

It took Erica no time to switch tactics. She strode over to the two pieces, picking up the first one, Stiles’ painting. Derek stood immediately.

“Erica, put that down.” The girl’s mouth pulled into a smirk, and she pursed her lips, looking at the painting as if she were deciphering it silently. She then put it down, picking up the Raphael.

Derek sighed tiredly, “Seriously, Erica. What are you doing?” Erica held his gaze tightly, and he felt as if he couldn’t look away without giving something away. “Just put it down.” He must have already though, because she was full on grinning now, putting down the Raphael and picking up the first painting again. Derek tensed, realizing.

“Interesting, how you’re so much more protective of some random painting than a priceless painting from the National Gallery of Art,” she paused, returning a sharp look to him, as Derek’s was skeptical. “Yeah, I looked it up.” She clarified, rolling her eyes and moving to sit down on his desk, holding the canvas out to look at.

“No offense, Derek, but what’s so special about it. It’s just a flower on paper... who was it painted by, anyway?” she turned the painting over, looking for a name before finding it hidden in the bottom corner, just as Derek had.

She squinted a bit, thinning her eyes back at Derek.

Derek was squirming in his seat, hoping his emotionless demeanor hadn’t broken. He didn’t think it had, but Erica was too observant for her own good. She knew him too well.

“No way,” she said finally, Derek’s expression finally cracking as she came to a conclusion. His eyes fell, face losing the sharp lines and falling. “Shit, Derek. You’re in deep.”

Erica slowly leant the painting down on the side of Derek’s desk, folding her hands in her lap and looking over at him from where she sat on it. They kept a respectful silence between each other for a few minutes, before it was hesitantly broken.

“Do you want to tell me first, before I find out in some roundabout way and get all the facts wrong?” Erica offered, not looking directly at Derek as she had been the rest of the time.

Derek hesitated for a long time.

“It’s about a thirteen year long story, actually.”

Erica shrugged, offering a smile that did little to calm Derek’s nerves.

“I can get Greenburg to do my paperwork. I’ve got time.”

\/\/\/

As it turns out, Erica might’ve not been Derek’s ideal person to come out to at first, but she turned out to be the best option. Frankly, because she didn’t care.

“Really, Derek? That’s it?” She asked, exasperated. “I thought you were a mole or something, that’s the only reason I asked.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile, trying to hide it behind his hand as he looked up at his partner. He regained his composure after a moment, but his lips were slightly more taught to the left, if anyone was checking.

“But, I guess I’m glad I asked. Makes it easier to trust you when you ask me to do shit-stupid things,” she complained, giving Derek a knowing look. The two were at ease, much less stressed since they’d laid it all out. It was obvious between the two of them too.

The relaxation didn’t last long. It never does though.

A desk agent barged into his office, and he was frankly too stunned by it to reprimand the girl.

“Derek, line two. You’ll want to take this.” She looked pointedly to Erica, but not before Derek was picking up the phone.

“She’s my partner, she stays,” He explained, giving the girl a similar look before she left rather promptly. Derek met Erica’s gaze, taking his finger off the hold button.

“Derek Hale.”

”Agent Hale, we have something that you’ll want to see.”

“Who is this? Enough with the cryptic message, what is it?”

”Officer Argent, sir, SacPD. We had a warrant for an apartment building on the westside and went in for a well-known pimp. There was a shootout in the upper floor.”

“Why are you telling me this? We’re in the middle of a big case-“

“Scott McCall and Jackson Whittemore were caught in the crossfire, witnesses are saying they saw someone matching Stilinski’s description fleeing the scene.”

”We have a tail on the car he’s in right now. They’re in a chase.

”Hello?”

“Derek?”

He gave Erica a look, and immediately the girl was out the door and grabbing the keys to her car.

“We’re on our way, tell SacPD that we’ll be joining them.” Derek hung up promptly. He pulled open his desk drawer and, knowing he’d regret it, retrieved his spare gun before darting out the door to meet Erica at the ground floor.

He wasn’t looking forward to a high-speed chase.

They could only hope Stiles gave up the act before someone actually got hurt.

Chapter Text

”We have a tail on the car he’s in right now. They’re in a chase.”

Erica had been waiting in front of the Federal building, in her standard FBI black sedan, internal lights already flashing.

“Derek, you’re going to break the interior of my car,” she said, not taking her eyes off the road as she swerved in and out of traffic, sirens shrieking. Cars were weaving left and right, trying to get out of her way, but at even 11:00 in the morning, traffic in Sacramento was a bitch.

He blinked back to reality, realizing that he was gripping the car door with enough force to dent the interior or snap a nail. Derek brought his hand back to the radio that sat on the dash, turning up the volume.

”…car is a black sedan, not sure of the model but it appears to be the standard FBI issued vehicle. Currently on Highway 99 heading south-“

“Take a right!” Derek barked, watching as the highway marker flew past them. Erica all but slammed her foot on the brake like Derek was expecting, making a sharp enough turn onto the on ramp to throw Derek towards the center console. He gripped the handle from the roof of the car just in time.

“Jesus Erica, a little warning,” he said too loudly, as he looked ahead through the endless cars. Erica snorted.

“Well then, give me a little warning next time you want to spring a direction on me,” she retorted, anxious from the pursuit already. “Besides, I was an excellent precision driver at Quantico.”

Derek remained quiet for lack of another response. His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him as his attention had been focused intensely on the road. He quickly picked it up.

“Hale.”

”Derek, where are you guys?” Laura’s voice shouted through the reciever, “The kid has got to know we’re onto him by now, with all the radio broadcasting.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair, eyebrows furrowing. “We’re on the highway already. Are you here? Where are you guys?” He asked, sitting up in his seat and looking around amongst the cars outside. He could hear Laura swearing at whoever was driving in the background.

”We’re close. Just get there, ok? We can’t afford to lose him again.”

She hung up promptly, leaving Derek to himself with the reminder that if Stiles got away again, after having been this close to being caught, they wouldn’t see him again for a long time.

He was more upset about the idea than he should’ve been.

The police radio turned to static, voices fading in and out until there was little but mumbles of the voices. Derek groaned, slamming on top of the black box with his fist. Erica wasted no time in snapping at him.

“That’s not going to help anything, Derek. Stiles is probably blocking the transmitter,” she reasoned, not once had she taken her eyes from the road. Derek admired her focus.

Derek had no idea how Stiles could be managing to do anything while swerving in and out of traffic and trying to shake the cops, but he figured the kid could arguably do anything.

The static faded out for a moment before Derek could just bare to make out a single voice.

”…We’ve lost sight of the car-“

Derek slammed his fist down harder on the dashboard, this time startling Erica enough to jerk the steering wheel, almost colliding with a passing car. The car sounded its horn angrily.

“Oh, fuck off!” Erica yelled at no one in particular.

“Keep going, maybe we can find him again,” Derek was hoping, just as another Fed car came into view ahead of them, its lights flashing. He couldn’t help but be relieved that they weren’t the only ones still trying out there. He’d seen SacPD cars pulling off the highway in defeat. Clearly they didn’t feel the same drive as the FBI did.

“Pull up beside them, it’s probably Laura.”

In hindsight, Derek should’ve known the license plate and therefore the car didn’t belong to their division.

Erica pressed forward on the gas easily, pulling up to the right side of the matching car. Derek turned to look out the window.

It wasn’t Laura.

The woman’s hair was long and fell in red waves that Derek was sure he would have recognized, had he ever seen them before.

He hadn’t.

The girl turned to look at him, eyes shielded by a large pair of aviators. She raised a hand to wave in acknowledgement.

Derek did the same in reciprocation, eyebrows lowering in confusion. He didn’t know if maybe he’d just never met the woman before. Derek decided to refer to her as a Jane until he formally met her.

The Jane turned to her right, mouthing something to whoever sat in the passenger’s seat. Derek couldn’t see past the woman, who had sat up just that much straighter to block his view.

“Erica, speed up a bit, would you?” Derek requested, gaze not leaving the neighboring car. Erica looked at him curiously, but posed no argument. The car lurched forward just enough.

Just enough to see amber eyes staring back at him from the passenger side. His breath caught.

It was cliché in the sense that he and Stiles stared at each other for too long, the younger’s mouth open obscenely.

He clearly hadn’t been expecting Derek.

“Derek what’s going on?!” Erica yelled from behind the steering wheel, the stress finally getting to her. Stiles suddenly sprang to life, lunging over the center console in the sedan and taking hold of the wheel from the Jane. Before she could swat him away, he was jerking the vehicle into a lane further from Derek, effectively cutting off a Semi truck. The massive truck blared its horn, swerving into the left lane and nearly taking Derek’s car out.

Erica sped around the mass, glancing anxiously at Derek as they weaved around cars. “What do you want me to do?!” She shouted, apparently forgetting their proximity. Derek had too, everything was so loud and moving so quickly around them.

“Follow that Fed car. It’s Stiles.” He said abruptly, taking hold of the handle above his head as Erica floored the brake and swung into the lane by going behind a line of cars.

Through the back window of Stiles’ car, Derek could see him fumbling about and looking around frantically. The Jane was shrieking back at him before finding an opening and swerving onto the off-ramp.

Erica followed gracelessly, pointedly ignoring the cries from the rest of the traffic, the chase moving from Highway 99 to the overlap onto Interstate 5.

Stiles’ driver wasted no time in cutting in front of cars, not caring left or right what happened to them. The Jane was doing 60mph and quickly rising, but her technique was nothing short of what it had been before. The redhead was a very capable driver.

Erica praised her quietly, “Damn, she’s good.”

Being part of a Federal Division, they couldn’t risk the lives of those that just happened to be driving the Interstate 5 that day. Erica had to constantly slow and avoid sideswiping unsuspecting cars while the Jane was doing so with little to no hesitation.

Derek never took his sight off the car.

At least not until a minivan pulled in front of them, trying to get out of their way and doing quite the opposite. It set them back about a ¼ mile from Stiles now, and Derek couldn’t see him at all.

Forcing himself to think of what he knew about Stiles, Derek rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. He was drawing a blank. What a time to not have anything Stiles-related to think about. For as much as he knew about the kid, he had little idea as to who he was in person.

He was only glancing around for directions when he saw the off ramp for Highway 99 as the overlap finally split. And a dark sedan with its light flashing erratically, cars honking and screeching on tires.

“Erica. Get off here. They’re going back on 99,” he said, much more calmly than he was feeling. He reached for the switch to turn the sirens off, the air becoming eerily silent again.

“What are you doing?” Erica asked loudly, pulling a sharp turn onto the off-ramp and back onto the highway with ease.

“We’re going to keep it quiet and follow. What kind of places are off highway 99 here?” he asked, taking out his phone and preparing to look it up.

“Um, There’s a hospital. Kaiser South,” Erica was saying, eyes narrowing in confusion as she tried to glance to Derek. “Why?”

“Does it have a helipad?”

“Maybe…”

“We’re going to Kaiser South then,” Derek was saying, leaning back in his seat and visibly relaxing. Erica was beyond confused, but continued down the road as fast as she could manage without causing any accidents.

It was all too quiet without the sirens.

“What are you going to do if he’s there?” Erica was asking, trying to keep her attention on the traffic. For that Derek was glad, because his cheeks were burning.

“Try to bring him in. You should too.” Derek was saying, pointedly ending the conversation before it began. Erica knew that tone, and for once didn’t press.

They were pulling into the parking lot of the hospital within ten minutes.

Erica put the car into park hastily, leaving it stalling directly in front of the building’s front doors. A few of the nurses were shouting at them about fire hazards but hushed when they flashed their credentials in mid-sprint.

They didn’t stop to check with the front desk, but went racing up the stairs, no time for the elevator. Climbing an ungodly number of stair flights, people were shouting and calling security on them left and right. Derek knew they didn’t have the time to explain.

Upon reaching the uppermost floor, they wasted no time in slamming the door to the roof open with a crash. Erica was nearly thrown back down with the force of the wind.

Derek had to hold an arm over his eyes to keep the wind from stinging them, bracing a hand on the side of the building. He managed to lift his arm just enough to see.

Stiles was holding to the roof of the helicopter’s interior, a half-step away from the seat and safety of the cabin. Under his arm was a silver briefcase and over his shoulder a cylindrical container. Derek knew enough about art to recognize it as holding a sort of painting, or many paintings.

The boy’s doe eyes were trained on Derek while the red-headed Jane was at the controls, mouth shouting something that Derek couldn’t hear over the wind. Stiles moved to throw his things into the seat just as Derek attempted a step forward, only to be pushed back by the wind force.

Stiles looked back at him once more, pulling a smug smile to one side. But all Derek could think of was how close he was. After Stiles got on that helicopter, Derek wouldn’t hear of him for months. And he knew that.

It was more than frustrating.

Only that Stiles was suddenly shouting back at the Jane, taking his remaining foot off the step to the helicopter, and Derek almost thought that he was going to come back.

He never got to find out, because suddenly Erica was there and Stiles was reeling, shouting obscenities in pain and clutching his right shoulder.

Erica still had her gun trained at Stiles as the boy was scrambling the best he could to get into the seat now, Derek getting flashbacks of the theatrical clumsiness he’d seen when they’d first met before realizing that it wasn’t the time to be reminiscing.

Erica was still firing bullets at the helicopter as Stiles had already shut the cabin door with what little strength he had in his left arm (he was right-handed, Derek knew). It was lifting out of the air, bullets ricocheting off the metal with loud clinks.

Stiles didn’t even look back once after that.

Derek moved to lunge at Erica, gripping the gun in her hands and relieving her of the weapon with more force than necessary. He was shouting violent threats at the girl and she was shrieking back, but it was all lost in the remaining tail wind.

He was sure he might’ve taken a shot at his partner himself, if Laura wasn’t suddenly there and pulling him away from her. His sister had brilliant timing, and that was something he’d always known. One of the police officers of SacPD was trying to talk Erica down as well, and was much more successful.

Derek was jerking away from his sister’s arms.

“She shouldn’t have shot at him! He didn’t have a weapon!” he remembered yelling, but Laura looked perpetually displeased. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t hearing him.

He repeated himself probably three times, each time she just stared at him with a sort of pity.

“I know, Derek. But she did it for you,” she was saying, trying to lead him back into the hospital.

He let himself have one more look at the sky, wishing irrational thoughts that Stiles would be coming back down. But when he looked, he didn’t see the helicopter. He didn’t even know which direction it was heading for.

Derek didn’t think he’d ever yelled at Erica so cruelly, or felt this upset about losing a perp before.

His insides burned like acid and he couldn’t help but regret even meeting Stiles that day.

That day ruined him for everything else.

Chapter Text

“Scott McCall and Jackson Whittemore were caught in the crossfire.”

Only such a twisted idea of faith could be so cruel as to put two of their finest witnesses in the same hospital Derek had lost his finest convict. Laura had called it good fortune that they wouldn’t have to travel to another hospital to question them. Derek thought it was unfortunate.

Derek had been the one to pick up the phone when Allison Argent called and informed him of the boys’ whereabouts, and that she would be there for the follow up.

He was embarrassed, and somewhat wary of the impending conversation with his sister about what had happened on that roof. It wasn’t a secret. Gossip was wildfire, no matter where you were. Derek didn’t doubt that as well as his entire precinct, SacPD was also aware of his incompetence.

To add to his new reputation, Laura had told him to wait in the hall while she and Allison went in to talk to McCall and Whittemore separately. And as if that wasn’t enough, Erica was accompanying him in the hallway, looking at him with miserable pity.

It was unnerving.

And while he and Erica were not on speaking terms (Derek was still upset that she actually shot Stiles), the two of them didn’t hesitate to lean a little closer to the seam of the door, attempting to eavesdrop. They could hear mostly Laura, who was known for being loud, but Allison was much quieter. From where Erica and Derek were sitting, it seemed as though she wasn’t talking at all.

It was ten minutes of Laura’s commanding voice in monologue before the door opened rather briskly, and said agent glared at the two from the doorframe. She wasn’t naïve enough to have missed them trying to scramble back in haste, but in the moment she chose to ignore it.

“Derek, get in here. They won’t talk to anyone but you,” she said, eyes pointedly sharp. Derek stood, but didn’t move further. He looked to Erica, Laura doing so just after.

“Come on,” he said, and Erica grinned hesitantly, wasting little time to follow Derek into the room. Laura gave them a pleased look, closing the door behind them.

Scott was a mess. One arm hung in a sling, his matching shoulder bandaged in white. His jaw was crooked, more than usual, and blue and blue bruises painted both eyes dark. Upon giving Derek a guilty smile, he showed off the gap left by a missing front tooth. Erica winced.

Whittemore was significantly luckier. The only thing he had to show from his fight was a broken fist and bandage around his forehead.

When Derek walked in, their attention turned to him.

“Finally,” Jackson whispered under his breath, not quiet enough to go unheard. Erica gave him a nasty glare, and he shrunk back into the white sheets.

Scott tried to smile at them, but was met with hard gazes and prodding eyes. He frowned and averted his attention to Allison, who stood closer to him than she did Jackson.

“Well, let’s start from the beginning boys,” Laura said, provoking the conversation. “At the apartment building, how did the fight start?”

Scott cleared his throat, Jackson still refusing to look up. “Well, Stiles and I lived in 4C, and Jackson lived a floor above us I think.” Jackson grunted his assent when attention turned on him.

Derek, however, was reeling. While he had been under the impression that Stiles lived somewhere out of state (considering the art show in Arizona) or nowhere at all, Stiles had been living in Sacramento the entire time they were searching.

He was a bus ride downtown and Derek didn’t know. His fists tightened by his side absently, Erica giving him a knowing look that he didn’t see. She nudged his shoulder subtly, bringing his mind back to the situation. He was grateful for it.

“And, um, we heard yelling from upstairs and Stiles wanted to go see if the bastard was getting mugged, he’s like that, you know.“

Derek didn’t know.

“And the two idiots broke down the door,” Jackson interjected, seething in his seat with a huff.

“And he was fighting with some guy, who took one look at us and pulled a gun,” Scott recovered, sending Jackson a look that read ‘let me handle this.’

Laura looked skeptical, speaking up after a prolonged absence in the dialogue. “And, what, he just shot up the place? What were you two doing that had him on edge?” she said, her eyes accusing as she turned to Jackson.

His confidence deflated. “Nothing important…”

Scott looked at Laura for a long time. “Are you going to lock him up?” he asked, and upon seeing Laura shake her head after a moment of thought, he continued. “He was dealing pot.”

Jackson’s jaw dropped, as if he were offended. “I was not!” he yelled defensively, looking around the room for some sort of support. He played the innocence piece well, Derek thought.

“I was just-“ Scott cut him off with a look, and Jackson immediately let it go.

Derek wasn’t sure if Jackson might actually be telling the truth, but in the moment he frankly didn’t care. Marijuana was much less of a concern. He let the room quiet a moment before he brought up the only other thing that had been bothering him.

“There was a girl with Stiles in the car. A redhead. You haven’t mentioned her.”

Jackson seemed to stiffen significantly, but Scott looked around

“Who?” He said, looking across the room at Whittemore. He took a moment of hesitation.

“My ex-girlfriend, Lauren. I don’t know why she was with Stilinski, but he’s had a crush on her since middle school,” Jackson explained, face souring with each word.

Scott nodded his acceptance but said nothing more.

Derek wasn’t sure if he should believe either of them, but with no other leads to go off of, it gave him no choice but to at least consider them.

Stiles’ alleged crush on this woman did not ruin his mood in any way. Derek was not so impulsive to get jealous over nothing concrete.

Erica was trying hard to keep her laughter under wraps, but she was less than successful. The room turned to look at her.

Giving her a life-threatening glare, Derek felt his face burning red. Laura let her façade fall for a moment as well, catching her laughter in her hand and covering a grin. Her eyes glinted with curiosity though, and a promise that they would speak of it later.

The room was only quiet a moment, before Scott swore under his breath and Allison, looking startled, looked down at him from her place beside his bed.

“Stiles told me he’d call when he could. Where’s my phone?” He tried frantically to sit up, Allison’s hand pressing his chest back down. He struggled though, flipping the sheets and searching desperately.

“It’s probably with your other things in evidence. You’ll get it back soon enough,” Laura said just as Scott seemed to finally remember the room he was speaking to. Out loud. The boy’s eyes widened dramatically and a string of curses fell from his mouth. He pulled at his hair with anxiety while the weight of his words sunk in.

Allison was calling the nurse when Derek finally spurred into action. He ushered Erica’s shoulder towards the door while he moved. While he knew that Laura would be demanding an explanation later, he was surprised she didn’t make a scene of it right then. But he could suppose that his sister might’ve been thinking the same as he.

Erica was saying something at him, probably vulgar, but he couldn’t hear her over the rush in his head. Taken over by adrenaline, Derek’s thoughts raced because, while it had taken this long, he finally had a way to (hopefully) contact Stiles.

He assumed that Erica had given up after they’d been heading to meet whichever officer in the lobby had the confiscated phone.

The woman in uniform was caught off guard when the pair of FBI agents began hollering at her as she was just leaving the hospital.

“We need to see something in Scott McCall’s evidence bag,” Erica managed, still huffing from the run (and yelling at Derek).

“His cell phone, if you don’t mind,” Derek said, trying to push more politely in hopes of a more favorable answer than the woman’s face told of.

Sighing in defeat, the officer filed through the several bags, pulling out McCall’s phone and handing it to them without any resistance. Derek gave her a curious look, afraid to use it without permission, as it was still in evidence.

“They’ve already been processed,” the woman said, folding her arms over each other and staring with an intensity that made Derek cringe. Was he too obviously excited?

Did he really care?

He met Erica’s eyes. The two held tense eye contact for long enough that the cop walked away to sit at another chair in the lobby.

“Well, are you going to call or not?” Erica said, putting a tentative hand on her partner’s shoulder. She put on a supportive smile, but even Derek knew she was not in any way.

The phone was cheap and disposable, a flip phone and when Derek scrolled through the contact numbers, he found it had only three with names. The other numbers didn’t have any sort of distinction; Scott likely knew them by heart anyway.

Danny. Isaac. And Mom.

Derek took a leap of faith and decided on the most recently called number. Finally catching up to his breath, he let his finger hover over the call button for only a moment before pressing it.

It must have rung consistently five times with no answer, only lasting a few seconds, but feeling much longer.

“Hello? Who is this?” a voice suddenly asked, interrupting the sixth consecutive ring.

It was a woman’s voice.

“”Um-“ Derek paused, looking to Erica for assistance, but she wasn’t listening into the conversation. He took a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves and questioning why they were there at all. “This-this is Derek Hale with the FBI, but I think I have the wrong-“

“You’re from the FBI, perfect. I’m the medical examiner at the St. James Mortuary. An unidentified young man was brought in a few hours ago, and I’ve just finished with his autopsy but it was quite obvious that he died from a gunshot wound to the chest.”

Derek’s throat felt like it was thinning, no matter how hard he swallowed he couldn’t manage. Picking up on Derek’s change in breathing, Erica tightened her hold on her partner’s shoulder and leaned in close to hear the conversation herself.

“Why are you telling me this?” Derek found himself saying, though not recognizing his voice as his own. It was pitiful in the same way it had been when he’d received a call of his family’s death at fourteen, and it was the weak tone that Derek told himself he’d never hear again. His throat constricted further in reminder of those memories.

Was all bad news told over the phone? Was it that humans were too weak to face each other in their miseries?

“Your number was the only contact in this man’s phone. I’m sorry, Mr. Hale.”

Chapter Text

It couldn’t just be over.

It hadn’t really been over ten years.

Had it?

And what was this emptiness in his stomach?

Derek had asked Erica to call Sheriff Stilinski, perhaps because Derek himself didn’t have the heart to tell the man that after all, they’d found his son. They’d found him dead with a bullet in his chest. The man had had enough hurt already, and Derek was weak in his stomach from the news already.

Erica hadn’t questioned him when he left the hospital without telling Laura, or anyone for that matter. She took her instruction, Derek assumed, and left on her own to let his sister know.

Derek went to identify the body alone.

In the depths of his mind, he knew it wasn’t an educated decision, but this was Stiles.

His case.

His convict.

His Stiles Derek’s mind supplied, and even with no one in the sedan with him he had the decency to blush.

Maybe it was selfish, and maybe it was childish, but Derek wasn’t in a healthy state of mind to be correcting himself.

His knuckles were white, clenching onto the steering wheel with enough strength to make his hands ache. It was anger and dissatisfaction, he told himself. He wasn’t actually torn up about it. The paperwork would be temperamental and Derek didn’t like leaving a case without answers, was all.

Without letting his eyes even stray from the road, he found himself irrationally distraught by everything. When a car pulled in front of him, he didn’t hesitate to wail on the horn, which had become, in his mind, the only source of relief.

Trying and failing miserably at containing his road rage, he’d let his car yell at six cars in six different instances and he’d turned his sirens on halfway down the highway. This was an emergency, Laura would understand. The case needed fast closure.

He didn’t want closure.

He didn’t want Stiles to end.

Stepping out of the black sedan, Derek was unsure if the car ride had been impossibly short or unbearably long. And while lost in pointless deliberation, he walked into the whitewashed building, hoping somewhere that he had retained his stoic FBI aura.

He was immediately met with a young receptionist, who gave him the most miserable smile and Derek assumed she had perpetual tears in her eyes. “Hello, sir. I was told you would be coming to identify our John Doe downstairs. I’m so sorry for your loss, please come with me,” she managed, sniffling through her own kind of sadness.

He could all but nod, hoping he wouldn’t look like such a mess in the mortuary as this girl did.

He was brought into another whitewash room, and then another, and Derek thought no wonder it was so miserable a thing, the mortuary. Pitifully blank walls with body diagrams were supposed to brighten your mood, but it only reminded him of how the dead were stuck in a blackened world unlike these pristine walls.

Derek had become less than religious over years of distress.

The small woman disappeared after swiping her ID card into a slot by the door handle. She put on another melancholy smile, squeezing Derek’s shoulder in support.

Derek didn’t need support. And he sure as hell didn’t need her pity.

“Doctor Martin will be right with you, sir.”

It wasn’t more than five minutes before someone was entering again, this time with the familiar click of a pair of heels.

“Hello, Mr. FBI agent. You’re here to identify our John Doe?” a sickly smooth voice lulled. Derek turned to face her, struck with confusion because he was sure he’d seen someone like this before.

But Doctor Martin was tall, with close-to-menacing eyes and cropped blonde hair that just barely swept her shoulders. She seemed perfectly in her element, not a hint of sympathy in her entire being. Derek couldn’t have been more relieved, or, frankly, more intimidated by her.

He cleared his throat. “Derek Hale, sorry for the short notice,” he said, offering out a formal handshake. The woman was pulling on a pair of gloves simultaneously and looking at Derek’s outstretched hand with distaste. She pursed her lips with a forced smile, Derek took notice.

“Sorry. It’s procedure,” she said with faux regret.

Derek narrowed his own eyes, watching her fasad fall with practiced ease. She was deceitful in a way that put Derek on edge.

“You’ve already examined him, haven’t you? You won’t be contaminating-“

“Procedure!” she piped, falsely enthused.

He was beginning to feel uneasy for another reason than Stiles’ death when Doctor Martin finally opened a silver hatch in the wall and pulled out a table from it. The body was long and pale underneath a white sheet, and Derek felt his hands begin to sweat.

Seeing Stiles now would only enforce the truth that it really was over.

The first stage of grief is denial.

“Here we are, our John Doe,” she said, carelessly flipping down the flimsy covering from Stiles’ face. She leant onto the wall, standing in wait for who knows what. Him to start crying? A subtle nod? He couldn’t do either while holding his breath.

Derek looked down at the lifeless body, expecting to feel everything closing in around him.

He arched an eyebrow and looked back up to the woman.

“This isn’t Stiles,” he said, moving to the end of the pull-out table and lifting the sheet off the man’s feet. Reading his toe tag, he had never felt more relieved.

“Howard Lockwood,” he said, unimpressed.

The woman gave a small sigh of discontent and moved to stand beside him, irrationally close actually. She took the tag from his hands, examining it less than closely and only giving a curt shrug.

“Sorry, wrong corpse.” Without a second thought she covered the unfamiliar man again from head to toe, pushing the table back into the wall and shutting it unceremoniously. Derek’s relief lasted no longer. “All so similar,” she muttered to herself, obviously aware that Derek was close enough to hear.

She ushered him about three doors down. Unlocking the door and pulling out another. With even less grace than before, she folded the sheet away from Stiles’ face.

And it was Stiles’ face.

Letting out a pent up sound, that later Derek would not admit to, he let his sadistic eyes move.

His skin was paler than natural, because that was what death did to you. For a long minute, Derek just stared at his closed eyes, willing them to open and show him their mischievous glint that Derek so missed. He would never see it again. His lips were faint pink and for once, Derek mused, were closed and quiet. It was an unnerving silence that Derek had never felt in Stiles’ presence before.

He missed the boy’s obscene and over-open mouth, but found it odd that he’d never quite appreciated them enough before. Death did that to you, he supposed. When you’re dead is when people really start listening.

Derek held himself back from his urge to touch Stiles’ face, as it would send up red flags. The doctor would probably have him escorted off the premises for indecency. And he wouldn’t fight her on it either, he was afraid.

Settling for trailing his fingers lightly over the chilled flesh of Stiles’ arm, Derek wrapped his hand loosely around Stiles’ limp fingers with sadistic fascination. His heart felt like it was boring a hole in his chest for everyone to see.

It was only when he thought of this did he get the feeling he was going to cry, which in itself was not right. Derek hadn’t cried since that fateful day when his childhood melted into ashes. He closed his eyes, effectively cutting off the tears and he swallowed them down. He showed nothing of it on the outside except a slight glassiness of his eyes.

Dr. Martin noticed though, and with a look bordering on curiosity, excused herself temporarily. Derek heard only the soft snap of the metal door back into place.

Suddenly it was all too hard to breathe, alone with what was only left of Stiles.

Derek’s entire life purpose was laid out in front of him, on a table in the morgue.

“…Fuck…” Derek found himself whispering, running his free hand through his hair, his opposing hand still held onto Stiles’ own, clinging for a life already lost.

He bowed his head down in a sort of reflectance of his own life. If only he’d been looking up though, he would’ve seen a very bright brown eye peeking up at him. And a lopsided pink smile.

It was gone the moment Derek looked up.

But Stiles always left a trace, wherever he went. Derek had figured out a long time before.

A ghost of a blush dusted the boy’s cheeks, slowly fading with each passing moment that Derek was standing, stunned.

With careful subtly, Derek moved his hand from Stiles’ hand to his wrist, pressing his fingers down over the protruding veins.

No pulse.

Derek blinked a few times, hoping to regain some form of dignity while he wasn’t checking a dead man’s pulse. He shook his head, but allowed himself one last check before he called the doctor back in.

“I can’t believe I’m actually…“ Derek mumbled to himself, trailing off as he moved and quite unceremoniously put two fingers to the faint skin just below Stiles’ jawline.

He didn’t get a pulse.

He got a laugh.

Stiles’ lips moved and he let out a sharp spout of laughter, eyes flicking open and immediately finding Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes, in turn, were wide as saucers.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that! I’m extremely ticklish,” Stiles’ overly-loud voice was telling him. Derek was irrationally happy but his exterior couldn’t have been more stoic.

And pissed off.

And all-around confused, really.

“Wait a second,” Derek said to himself, refusing to acknowledge the life that was staring back at him. He put his fingers back to Stiles’ throat, harder this time.

He could just barely feel it.

A tiny pulse, lagging in consistency.

“What the actual-“

A sharp pain bloomed on the right side of Derek’s neck and immediately he moved his hand to catch whatever it was that bit him.

He caught onto a syringe instead, and upon risking the pain, turned his neck to find Dr. Martin holding it with a rather distasteful look on her face.

“Lydia, are you serious?!” Stiles’ voice was yelling, and Derek was too far into shock of hearing it again to understand exactly what he said.

A cold rush flushed through his entire body and it took only a second for him to realize he was losing feeling in his feet.

“He would’ve called someone!” Lydia yelled back, finally pulling off the blonde disguise. Derek knew he had ultimately been fucked over the moment he saw red hair.

And also the moment he lost feeling of his body and dropped ungracefully to the floor. Trying to recover quickly, Derek found he couldn’t at all. He was literally paralyzed from the neck down.

“Fuck.” He said, as a matter of fact really. He was busy trying to make sense of everything when he finally tuned back into the argument. Stiles hadn’t moved, at all, from his place on the table, but Lydia was still screeching at him.

“You just paralyzed a federal agent!” Stiles yelled in retaliation.

“Oh, shoot. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize your boyfriend was a fed!” Lydia shrieked back sarcastically. Derek could just feel the red on his face.

In the meantime Lydia was growing increasingly irritated with Stiles’ protectiveness of Derek, and let out a sharp closed-mouth scream. Stiles took only a moment to stop talking, eyes widening in fear.

“Lydia. Lydia, please. Come on, I’m sorry!” The panic in Stiles’ voice was evident and Derek moved his head just enough to see the girl approaching the pull out table. While she had no visible weapons, Stiles was nervous for a reason.

Lydia pushed Stiles’ paralyzed body off the table with practiced ease, not flinching when he abruptly hit the ground. The boy swore to himself, pressed face down into the pristine floor. Derek had the decency to look away, begging himself not to think of Stiles in any related compromising position. He figured dead corpses were not supposed to be wearing clothes and in that moment neither was Stiles.

Lydia rolled Stiles’ pliable body over onto his back with the heel of her shoe, graciously put the sheet back over his lower half to preserve some of his modesty. Honestly, that had been thrown out the window though, as he was literally lying naked on the floor of the morgue next to a federal agent. Though, the situation should’ve been more uncomfortable than it was in reality.

“Seriously, Lydia? Come on,” Stiles pleaded, and from his face Derek assumed he was desperately trying to get his body to move and obviously failing as he saw nothing of the sort. Derek was soon chuckling lightly to himself.

Stiles turned his head towards him as much as his neck would allow. A wry smirk tugged his lips sideways, almost a smile.

“What, you think this is funny?” Stiles said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well I have some news for you, Derek Hale. You’re on the floor too.”

Derek’s breath caught silently, in quiet content from hearing Stiles’ say his name.

“You know who I am,” Derek said, as a matter of fact.

Stiles must’ve rolled his eyes, Derek could feel the atmosphere change further from seriousness. He was almost… flirtatious.

“No shit I know who you are, I’ve known who you were for, like, ten years. You’re not easy to forget, Derek,” Stiles said quietly, and Derek listened as his voice quieted with each word. He tried to bite back smile, but frankly he decided it was too much work.

He had a wide white grin, turning his face away from Stiles to hide it. He was supposed to be stoic around perps. But Stiles didn’t really feel like all the others he’d caught before.

Lydia broke their silence with a distasteful groan.

“Seriously? Ugh gross, I’ll be back in-“ She checked her watch, “Ten minutes. You both had better not have dirtied my floor when I get back,” She said, trying and failing to keep the fond out of her voice. She rolled her eyes affectionately, leaving the room with the click of her heels on the floor.

It was likely one of the more awkward silences Derek had been in, but it wasn’t as stressful as he thought being in a room with Stiles would be. A contributing factor might have been the paralysis, but that was subtext.

“When I get out of this I’m going to arrest you,” Derek found himself saying, because words were not his forte and of course he had to make it awkward and remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to have a crush on his convict.

Or a platonic fascination, not a crush.

But because, of course, this was Stiles and Stiles was good with conversation (it said in his file, pg.6 line 3, but Derek had known that already), the boy only laughed. And Derek let himself dwell on it for a long time, glad that he was able to hear it again. To appreciate it.

“Of course, FBI agent, and all that jazz. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” Stiles said, moving his neck in a way that reminded Derek of a shrug.

The silence was comfortable, only for a few moment before Derek was spilling in effort to end it.

“I think about you a lot.”

It only left them with a more palpable tension, whether it be sexual or awkward, Derek wasn’t sure anymore. He recovered from his word-vomit with desperate determination.

“I-I mean, your case. It- I go over it…more than, more than the others. You’re very- It’s all very interesting.” He grunted, clearing his throat and wishing it would clear his mind of the last half minute.

Derek stole a fleeting glance at Stiles, finding a constricted smile and rosy cheeks. Derek’s insides tightened at the sight, feeling his face deepen in red. They were a pair of school girls, he supposed.

Stiles seemed a bit hesitant, eyes flicking around the room nervously. He never stopped smiling.

“Yeah, no. I get it, my case…” Stiles said, but was that vague disappointment? The conversation only paused as long as Stiles did.

“I think about you too,” Stiles admitted, turning his face towards Derek and successfully catching his gaze. He was still smirking somehow, his lips never stopped. Derek kept wanting more and more to touch them. “A lot.” He drew out the last syllable with a quiet lull. “Lydia thinks I’m obsessed,” the boy said with a shrug, throwing all uncertainty out the window.

Derek was still grinning like an idiot. He chuckled slightly to himself, looking back up at the ceiling in hopes to quell the growing happiness in his chest, knowing it wouldn’t last.

“She and my partner would get along well,” Derek said, and he took pride in the little laughter that Stiles put out. The boy looked at the ceiling as well, wishing they were in any other situation than the one they were in.

“Your partner that shot me in the shoulder?” Stiles asked, feigning anger. Derek found it irrationally cute and would slap himself if his arm would just listen.

He paused, guilty. “Yes, that was Erica. I’m sorry-“

“Nah, it’s ok. I got this awesome scar from it anyhow. Stiles tried moving his head to look down at his shoulder, but couldn’t quite do so. “I’ll have to show you when I’m not paralyzed from the neck down.”

Derek smiled, wondering why he was so content, lying vulnerable on the floor with Stiles’ partner walking the halls. She obviously had extensive knowledge of death and likely how to kill humans, more specifically him. He should be more worried, but he wasn’t sure he could if he tried. Stiles had a calming effect on him and it would ultimately be the end of him.

“…hurt like a bitch though.” Stiles finished, Derek unaware that he had even been talking the whole time. It was probably creepy, the way Derek had been staring. Stiles didn’t seem to mind, or even notice.

Derek had never been good with eye contact when he wasn’t trying to intimidate someone, but now it wasn’t even worth the fuss. Stiles’ eyes were open and laughable and comforting, and they watched each other for long moments before Derek had to break it.

“Erica, my partner, thinks I’m in love with you,” just because now was obviously the right time to be spouting these things without a filter.

Stiles paused in his response, searching Derek’s face for something he didn’t find. He seemed slightly more pleased, but overall cautious.

“Are you in love with me?” he asked, as if it weren’t the most colossal thing. As if the truth to that question wouldn’t ruin Derek for everyone else.

And if he had to dig himself out of a hole because he answered truthfully, so be it. He already had a shovel in toe.

“Yeah, I think so…” Derek said, trying to pull off the nonchalance that Stiles managed, but losing. He watched Stiles closely for an outward reaction, but he found none. Other than a small frown that ruined Stiles’ perfectly taught smile.

The younger man sighed and Derek felt immensely smaller.

“You don’t even know me,” Stiles said tiredly, eyes meeting Derek’s in the middle. This look was much more uncomfortable, at least on Derek’s end. Vulnerability was suddenly flushing in again.

“I do know you, though.”

Stiles shook his head to the best of his ability, unconsciously moving his head closer to where their arms were overlapping. Derek noticed Stiles’ fingers twitch absently, praying for more time.

“You know my file. You know me on paper.” Stiles looked down to his own hand, managing to flex his fingers and move his toes. Derek tried the same, only to find his appendages didn’t move. Stiles had been injected at least five minutes before Derek.

And in that moment, Derek realized he was going to lose Stiles again. He tried to not let it show, but he couldn’t stop the miserable frown pulling at his face. His eyebrows lowered, watching as Stiles curled his fingers around Derek’s wrist, who so wished that he could feel them.

He only felt helplessness.

“I wish I knew you more,” Derek found himself saying, convincing himself of this impending separation that would inevitably tear him apart again, from the inside. Stiles moved his arm fully now, still lagging from the immediate command it wanted to try.

Stiles began to sit up, just as Derek’s mind fell down another rung.

Stiles’ eyes were watery, but Derek pointedly ignored it. If he allowed himself to watch Stiles cry, and not be able to do anything but stare back, he wouldn’t be able to deny what he felt anymore.

He wasn’t denying anything anymore.

“Maybe in another life,” Stiles was suddenly saying, running his hand slowly up Derek’s frozen arm, coming to rest on his shoulder. He wasn’t looking Derek in the eyes either, but chose instead to look at the crease of his lips.

The both of them jumped when the door burst open again, heels clicking along the floor with purposeful speed this time.

The moment was broken and it wasn’t likely there would be another like it. At least not in the near future.

In another life… Derek was reminded.

“We’ve got to go now, his partner is here,” Lydia said, voice quieted and now respectful, a stark contrast to when she had left. She knew the situation as well as they did.

Stiles immediately sprang into action, losing the sheet and moving towards Lydia to grab the clothing she was actively setting out for him. His limbs were still lazy and clumsy, but he managed with little help.

Derek didn’t watch as he pulled his clothes back on.

He really didn’t.

He was forgotten in the rush, Lydia zipping up a large duffel bag and Stiles pulling on a dark tee.

And then they were gone.

Lydia rushed out the door, giving him a fleeting look of pity.

Stiles didn’t even look back.

He wondered how long he would be like this, laying vulnerable on the floor. Alone after everything he’d been through in maybe over twenty minutes. Hadn’t it felt like an eternity?

He almost missed it, wallowing in his own thoughts, when the door swung back open and Stiles was whispering “Fuck It.”

The younger boy stumbled over to Derek’s incapacitated figure on the ground, dropping down to straddle him with his thighs. He was smiling again, and Derek couldn’t help but think that was fast.

Derek couldn’t think of anything when he felt Stiles kissing him with cold lips that tasted as pale as they had looked. A warming palm traced his jawline and Derek finally found the momentum to reciprocate the kiss, an almost-smile pulling at his own lips.

It was gone in a fraction of a second, left with the lingering warmth. Stiles was stumbling to his feet, innocently covering a grin with his hand as he moved and darted towards the door.

He waited though, this time. And giving Derek a heart-warming laugh and a toothy grin, the boy shook his head.

“I’ll see you around, Derek. You hear me?”

The moment the door shut behind him, it was being thrown open again, and Erica and Sheriff Stilinski were frantically breathing and rushing to his aid.

Derek moved to sit up and found that he could, using Erica’s arm to lift himself off the ground. She was yelling something at him, but he was too interested in how they had missed Stiles, when he had just so recently left.

“Derek? Derek talk to me! What happened?!” Erica demanded, pulling at his clothing, trying to get his attention.

The Sheriff stood in front of him.

“He’s really flushed, we should probably get him checked out before you start questioning him.”

Derek was still grinning, though. And he found he couldn’t stop.

Because Stiles Stilinski was not dead.

And because maybe, in another life, Stiles Stilinski loved him.

Chapter Text

Derek (unsurprisingly) was taken off the case. He also wasn't allowed back to work for three weeks.

It would have been two, but Laura pushed for another, saying he had been medically compromised for the time being.

It wasn’t a complete lie, Derek supposed.

Stiles’ accomplice, Lydia, had injected succinylcholine, a beta blocker used for anesthetics and paralyzing agents, into his muscle tissue and bloodstream. While the intended paralysis didn't last long, it took him a full week before his nausea and headaches went away. If only that small amount affected him this way, he felt terrible for Stiles, who had to have been under the effects much longer than Derek.

Derek rolled over onto his stomach, his face obscured by the pillow. He hadn't been out of bed yet that day (out of his apartment was a different story), the time verging on 12:00 pm. There really was no point of doing things for three weeks. He'd already acknowledged that basically his entire future hinged on one boy that filled his stomach with butterflies every time he saw him. Derek bit back a smile, teeth hovering over his bottom lip as he remembered what Stiles' lips had felt like. It was completely embarrassing and unnecessary, because he wasn't a teenager, but even so the memory was only just fading, and Derek was determined to hold onto it as long as he could manage.

A chorus of knocks sounded at the door to his apartment, and Derek couldn't hold in the groan of false agony at being disturbed when he was doing absolutely nothing.

"I come bearing gifts!" Erica called from the outside, knocking louder to get her point across.

"The Door's open," Derek grumbled, loudly and through his pillow. It was the most energy he'd put out the entire day, perhaps.

His partner kicked the door open unceremoniously, making a bee-line to Derek's kitchen countertop and letting the armful of things tumble onto the marble. She seemed determined, oddly so, and looked over the contents curiously before stomping a heeled foot on the ground twice. Derek knew better than to ignore that, and stumbled out of his bedroom looking less like a million bucks and more like a dusty penny that's perpetually stuck under the washing machine. Erica didn't mention it, a good sign that she was not there to bother him. At least that wasn't the only thing.

"It's not very reassuring that you leave your door unlocked-" Derek was about to protest, but she continued before he could get a word in edgewise, "But, I'm not here to lecture you on your own safety." In a dramatic swish of paper, Erica laid out a map over the countertop, looking to Derek with a sort of terrifying smirk.

"And this is for?"

She huffed and flicked Derek in the ear closest to her, effectively waking him up enough to really look at the map.

There's nothing really revealing about it except that it's a world map, which is something. 

He looked up at her incredulously. 

Erica groaned, but gave in and began fishing through her pile of trash. "I'm going to help you find Stiles, once and for all. And we're going to put him in jail for the least time we can bargain for so you and the delinquent can fuck like rabbits and you can get out of this funk, alright?"

Derek blinked.

"Wait, I don't-"

"Save it, Derek," Erica said, smug and failing to hide a smirk creeping onto her features. 

Derek decided to save it. "Alright fine, but how? He's probably out of the country by now, he could be in the wind completely for all we know," Derek pondered, finally pulling up a chair and looking over the map. Suddenly he realized how big the world is.

Erica grinned, almost manically, and shuffled a few papers before handing Derek a small stack of them. 

"Scott McCall, one of Stiles' known associates-"

"We've met."

"Don't interrupt, it's rude," she chastised, but points a manicured finger at the typed papers, tapping incessantly. "McCall's phone received a call from a disposable cell phone this morning. When we asked, he clammed up about it."

Derek looked down at the paper, reading absently over the words recorded by what he assumed was a bug planted in the phone when they'd taken it. He wasn't sure if that was legal, but frankly he didn't care. The dialect felt devoid of human touch when written down, it didn't feel like Stiles, but then again it was just the written word.

"Even so, we don't have the technology to track a disposable phone from god-knows-where," Derek said, looking to his partner, who looks no less enthused. She must've considered it, because she's pulling a laptop out of no where.

"That's why I've called in Danny," Erica said ominously, turning the computer's screen towards Derek. A tan-skinned boy sat on the other side, waving a few fingers haphazardly, but staring at his screen intensely, likely looking at another window.

Derek paused, catching Erica in a side-ways glance. "Stiles' Danny?"

He can recall seeing the first name, also lacking a surname, on Scott's cell phone.

Erica nodded, holding up a hand before he can get wily. "He doesn't know where Stiles is, but if there's anyone who can find him, it's Danny."

He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair to keep it off his forehead. Looking at the screen, he watched the hacker stare daringly back at him with a grin, showing off a set of dimples Derek hadn't anticipated from a criminal.

"You ready?" He asked, and Derek nodded his affirmative.

There's a click and then the audio begins, muffled through the small speakers.

The first thing he noticed is the sound of the ocean, loud and deafening in his ears. However, his breath is what holds when Stiles' voice starts.

"Hey Scotty, how're the feds treating you?"

"Stiles this really isn't a good time-"

"I know, I know. It'll only be a minute."

Derek hears Scott sigh defensively. "Stiles-"

"Look I need you to contact Dad for me alright? Tell him I'm ok, not dead, perhaps. I'm not sure how in the loop he's been kept about me lately. I don't want him to worry."

"Yeah, I'll tell him, alright. Anything else? They're literally watching me talk to you right now."

Stiles' laughter rings. "Tell them I said hi."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Fine, fine. I'll see you soon."

"Hopefully not."

There's a click and it's ended.

Derek didn't realize Danny started talking for a good minute afterwards. 

"Repeat that, please?"

Danny looked confused, curious even, but relented anyway with a knowing smirk. "I said I can make out three distinct noises in the background from this, and since I can't track this sort of phone-"

"You've taught him well," Erica commented, and Danny smiled all too revealingly. 

"This is all we've got," Danny finished, clicking a few keys before playing three audio clips separately.

"The ocean. Church Bells. And do you hear that inconsistency in the wave crash?" Danny asked the room, playing the clip once more while the FBI agents nodded. "There was a storm there, wherever he is." The hacker looked pleased with himself, sitting back in his chair with a witty grin.

Derek has one to match.

"If the call was placed..." Derek looked at the papers for confirmation, "Three days ago, at around midnight, all we have to do is find what place on earth had a storm at that time."

Erica nodded, but looked a little worse for wear. It was all overwhelming, and to do so much detective work with so little evidence was stressful. "We can narrow it down to tropical areas outside the United States, assuming he's fled the country," she added.

Danny agreed with a short nod, "And I'll do some research on the church bells, maybe they're unique to an area or denomination or something," he pauses, but his fingers are typing a mile a minute and don't hesitate the slightest. "I'll get back to you on it."

His face disappears with an audible click and Derek and Erica are left with the paperwork, Derek crossing off non-tropical areas and Erica reviewing the national weather channel's online page.

He's smiling still, even though it's tiring and hours later they're coming up with blanks.

He's that much closer, he thinks.

The hunt is afoot. 

"Alright boys, let's see what we've got," Erica says finally, affirming the notion with a resounding clap.

They've been working for days now, and Derek can feel how close they are. 

"The call came in at midnight," Derek starts, scribbling down so on one of the many pads of notebook paper strewn across the countertop. 

Danny's incessant tapping of the keys on his laptop echo throughout Derek's kitchen. "The church bells rang four times, so let's assume wherever Stiles is... it was 4:00 pm," he adds, not looking away from his screen, his eyes darting left and right.

Derek glances around the world map, eyes flicking over the time zones before steadying on one, "Vanuatu. It has waves, churches, no extradition...it works."

Erica sighs softly, shaking her head as she reads the national weather channel's history, "No good. The only storm activity at 4:00 pm UTC +11 was in Russia."

Derek looks up, confused as to why Stiles couldn't be on the coast of Russia before Danny pipes up from the background, "Lydia is afraid of bears, and we can assume she's with him still." Derek sighs, dropping his head to the table. He's not sure who this Lydia person is, or why she's even with Stiles, but he finds he's too frustrated to be jealous about it. But Danny knows them both, probably knows everyone, and Derek will reluctantly take him for his word, for lack of better option.

"Alright, Let's try 4:00 am," he suggests tiredly, propping his head up with his hand and glancing around the world map. He crosses off the entire country of Russia with a black sharpie. It should make him feel better, but it really doesn't. They're hardly narrowing it down as it is.

"Little early for church," Erica points out objectively, but doesn't take her eyes off her notes.

"Not necessarily, sometimes they have early masses in the southern regions for the fisherman that sail out after dawn," Danny explains, finally pausing in his researching and looking the both of them in the eyes. "My boyfriend took me to Guam last summer on vacation." He resumes his typing, presumably going back to another tab because his eyes don't focus on anything concrete. 

"That puts your boy in UTC -1," Erica finishes and Derek doesn't have the heart to correct her. His eyes dart across the map in the appropriate time zone until he finds the only tropic islands they haven't ruled out yet.

"Cape Verde Islands," he says aloud, staring at the cluster of islands on the map as if they might tell him exactly where Stiles is.

"No extradition!" Erica blurts excitedly, standing up suddenly and leaning over the table to look at the map.

"There were storms in the region at the time of the call, but there are dozens of tiny islands," Danny adds helpfully, albeit quickly. He's almost like a computer himself.

"What about the bells, Erica?" Derek asks hopefully. If they can narrow it down just a bit more, he'd be more than willing to walk the islands with a picture of Stiles to wave around.

Erica sighs, flipping papers, "Well Danny's analysis says they're Spanish brass," Danny makes a noise of confirmation from somewhere off-screen, "but the islands in that area were colonized by Portugal, not Spain." She sighs, sitting back down and holding her hands in front of her eyes. She groans loudly, "Dead end."

Danny must have been summoned by the call because he's back in his seat with a freshly-printed piece of paper in his hands, and he's actually looking at them this time.

"Hold on, I might have something," he scans over it a moment.

"In 1798, a bell was brought up from the wreckage of a Spanish ship in the Trinidad. It was hung in the Church of St. Christopher in the port city of Santa Maria, on the northern-most coast of Cape Verde," Danny rambles right off the page. When he's finished, the FBI agents stare at him incredulously and he can't help but grin back at them, dimples drilling holes into his cheeks. "You've got to love the internet."

Erica fumbles with her phone for a minute, "Hey, Danny, bring up that audio clip of only the bells."

She presses a button and the chimes of bells from the church ring from the speakers of her phone, directly from the parish's webpage. 

Derek doesn't even need to hear it when Danny plays the clip and the match directly, but it really hits it home because he grins determinedly and circles the Cape Verde Islands three times in red on the map. 

Danny sighs, obviously pleased, but seems to move on fairly quickly, going back to his rigorous typing.

Erica jumps up and yells, because when she's happy, she's loud.

Derek just smiles hopefully, sinking back into his chair in relief and resting his head between both hands. "We found him..." he whispers to himself, eyes pointedly watching the small printed islands on their map, the red ink seems to glows, almost like a promise.

 "Thanks Danny, dismissed," Erica says, bending to look at the screen completely. Danny smiles and waves and he's gone.

Erica grins, hugging Derek's shoulders into her side and laughing good-naturedly, "Now we just have to find a way to bring him home."

Chapter Text

Derek goes back to work on a Monday, Erica trailing along behind him, his only support.

Laura has requested his presence in her office, but the moment he's stepping into the room he can tell this is much more serious than a re-instation.

What throws Derek for a loop is that she allows Erica in this time, and pointedly gives her a look of her own. All Derek can think is that she knows, she has to.

"Derek, Ms. Reyes. I'd like to introduce you to Matt Daehler from OIA," she's saying, and Derek finally realizes there's someone else in her office, looking decidedly smug and staring curiously out the window like this is some cheap action film. When the man turns around, Derek wants to roll his eyes. Daehler's face is the classic shifty-arrogant persona, and he suspects the agent probably has a problem with putting dramatic, yet completely unecessary, pauses in his sentences. It's just brilliant. 

Derek must just be glaring, because Erica eventually has to respond for him. "And what brings the Office of International Affairs to the White Collar division?" She's less than enthused about being included in the meeting after all. Careful what you wish for, he supposes.

"Genim Stilinski," Matt says, matter-of-factly, and Derek cringes at the name. It's perhaps because he knew it was coming, or he's embarassed on behalf of Stiles for having that name on file, but either way Laura notices. She doesn't say mention it, but she's the kind of person to hold it over his head without actually saying so.

"It's been three weeks and the bureau hasn't gotten a single lead in this case since," Matt continues, dramatic pauses very much evident, but not worth mentioning. "He's in the wind, and that's the last place someone with his... track record... should be." Derek couldn't agree more, suddenly.

"As you're aware, we have agents working overtime who are turning his case upside down, but it takes time for someone with Stilinski's knack for disappearing," Laura says suddenly, defending the bureau and Derek by extension, because Daehler is very much stepping into his personal space. Perhaps to intimidate, but really it's just melodramatic.

"But those agents aren't Derek Hale, who's known the convict since they were both children," Daehler's dropping the bomb and Derek is stunned to say the less. The guy's done his homework, and to say Derek's caught off guard is an understatement. Laura looks affronted, staring at Derek as if in some new light. It's humiliating, but Erica takes an implicating step forward. To Derek's relief, Matt backs off a few steps.

"I've given my statement. Everything I know about Stiles is in the file," he says, avoiding the topic and watching the room's tension rise a level as he refers to Stiles, as "Stiles".

Daehler looks absolutely murderous though, but not in the upset way. More in the, I've got you cornered way. Laura looks decidedly guilty, but Derek can't understand why.

"Everything that's official, maybe," Matt says, turning to look back to the file he's been waving around like a damn flag.

"Agent Daehler, if Derek say's it's all there, it's all there," Erica snaps pointedly, her upset seeping into her tone without strain.

A silence sweeps the office, and for a minute Derek thinks it's over because Laura's giving him and Erica the get-out-now eyes.

"Genim Stilinski has 23 known aliases, including the name by which he refers to himself, Stiles," He gives Derek a pointed look at that. "He speaks 12 languages, including conversational Swahili. He has a self-deprecating God complex, and-" Matt actually laughs to himself a minute, shaking his head before shutting his file. "He takes flight over fight. He runs."

Derek smirks daringly at that, meeting his gaze, "That he does."

Erica pauses, looking to Laura, "Are we done here?" Laura nods to them an affirmation but none sooner does Daehler speak up again.

"Not yet," he interrupts again, "I'll have you know, Agent Hale, I'm going to find him. Whether it be here or across the globe. Maybe I'll start somewhere south?"

Derek's expression falters just a moment, but it's enough to be noticeable. Matt takes the flash of uncertaintly and runs with it, grinning in self-satisfaction.

"I hear Cape Verde has some beautiful weather."

Matt's out the door before Derek can strangle him out of spite, fear, and god-knows what else. 

He knows where Stiles is.

He knows where Stiles is.

A practical bounty hunter that will likely bring Stiles back, dead or alive, knows where he is.

There's no way he could have found out by himself, no goddamn way. No one would have told him. Erica is standing by his side, stiff-backed and stunned to silence. Derek highly doubts the snitch is Stiles' Danny either, since the guy is on the run himself. Derek can feel his eyes are overly wide, but can't stop it even as he looks at Laura.

She looks particularly guilty.

"You were withholding crucial information, Derek. He had the grounds," she explains slowly, unable to keep her distaste from her tone. Derek is about to throw a fit, or a lamp or something, but Erica slams her fist down on the desk first.

"He was in Derek's apartment?!" she shouts, and Derek can see everyone look towards them, even through the glass walls.

Derek doesn't care, all he can think is that Stiles is going to be found. And not by him.

No doubt if Matt finds him, he'll run. And if he runs, Matt won't hesitate to follow. Without self-preservation.

"..I'm sorry, but it's out of my hands," Laura continues, Derek finding himself zoning in on their conversation.

Laura looks directly at him, eyes telling a different story than what her lips are. 

"I've been told to put you on leave again," she starts, eyes intense. "Use this time to think about what's really important. If you decide it's Stilinski...I understand."

Derek's thrown for a loop, watching as Laura sits back in her chair, glancing between the two agents.

"But I can't protect you," she pauses, leveling Derek with a look, "Do you understand?" She dwells, eyebrows raised with purpose.

He does.

"Comletely," Derek responds, with a smile tugging sideways and a new-found air of hope.

He has Erica by the arm within moments, and hes pulling her out of the office.

Erica looks at him wildly, yelling about insane partners and FBI protocol when Derek interrupts her.

"Erica." She pauses mid-sentence, "Book us the next flight to Cape Verde, would you?"