Archive of Our Own

Derek can't focus on anything anymore.

For the first few days they'd kept him alert. Aware. Restrained, tied to the wall by the wrists and ankles with wolfsbane rope, vigilant and ready for an attack that still hasn't come. He has no idea how long he's been here for. He keeps slipping in and out of consciousness, part exhaustion and part whatever drug cocktail they've given him that day. It dulls his senses, almost to the point of nonexistence, and he'd be terrified by the way it feels if he could feel anything at all anymore.

But he can't.

All he can do is watch as an endless parade of people in white masks, white gowns, white gloves—white noise—come in and take sample after sample of his blood, until it feels like he's got nothing left to give and he succumbs to the blackness again.

+++

People who don't know him would disagree, but the truth is Derek Hale is an optimist. He has hopes and dreams. He tries—he tries really hard. He doesn't always succeed, but he almost always picks himself up and tries again, even when everything turns to shit. Even when has family was banished from their home planet, for a crime his parents didn't commit. Even when they were forced to settle on New Earth, feared and reviled in equal measure by the humans around them. Even when Derek's parents died, sacrificing their lives for those very same humans, leaving he and his sisters alone to fend for themselves, belonging in no place and to no one.

Derek remains optimistic because in the end, things usually work out. Things turned okay for him. Most humans are good. He's able to work for the Corporation, just like his parents, and to walk through the corridors of the Beacon—the very same corridors they walked through—and feel like he still heart a little piece of them in his heart. He lives, he breathes, he fights to see another day.

But even Derek's optimism has its limits. It's been slowly draining away, along with his lifeforce, as the minutes, hours, days pass, making it more and more difficult to live and breathe. More and more difficult to fight.

He's been captured and held hostage before, that's never the problem. The problem is that this time, he doesn't know whether he'll be rescued.

In his more lucid moments, he recognises the fact that Stiles probably doesn't even know what happened to him. They'd been deployed to the Perun with the directive to observe only, and it was supposed to be a quick, intelligence-gathering operation. They weren't supposed to split up, but Derek had insisted, determined to quicken their progress. Derek wasn't supposed to be caught, but his captors had somehow known about wolfsbane and the Lycan vulnerability towards it.

And how he's here, and Stiles is probably back on the Beacon. Maybe he's teamed up with Derek's sisters, and they're all trying their best to mount a rescue mission, but Derek's pretty sure Gerard Argent will find some reason why no one can come and save him. Stiles will object, of course, will spit and rail, but Derek is sure that ultimately he'll fail, and he'll die here, alone.

Which is why when someone careens into his room, swears, rips off their medical white mask and gown and gloves and it's Stiles he's seeing, in his khaki flight suit—Derek's pretty sure he's hallucinating.

"Oh shit, oh fuck— Derek, oh my god," Stiles breathes.

"You—" Derek croaks. He swallows. His throat feels like it's coated in barbed wire, but stubbornness goes hand in hand with optimism. He forces out, "I'm hallucinating."

"Always knew you dreamed about me," Stiles says, tone cheerful but in that strained way he gets, when he's trying to convince someone he's not upset about something. He picks his way over to Derek, hands reaching out but stopping to hover over Derek's heart.

"Shit, dude, you're fucking— is this all your blood?"

Derek doesn't bother to speak, this time. He lets his eyebrows do the talking, raising them up as high as he has the energy to.

Stiles, bafflingly, breathes a sigh of relief at that. "Oh man, thank god, you have no idea how much I missed your Eyebrows of Judgement, dude. I know your siblings are kind of similarly well endowed in the over-eye department, but no one else quite manages your levels of sass."

"Stiles. Hurry up."

He nods, fishing something out of his flight suit and flicking open a small knife. He reaches around to Derek's bonds. "Right yeah, like time is totally of the essence but I figured you'd let me know if the bad guys were coming back, right?"

"Whatever they've given me is— I can't hear or smell anything, Stiles. I've got exactly the same abilities as you right now." Stiles finishes cutting, and Derek can feel the exact moment he's freed because his legs collapse from under him and he goes lurching into Stiles' chest.

Stiles staggers back, but catches him and stares at him for a long, fraught moment. "Riiiight," he says slowly. "So, my plan to get you out of here may have totally relied on your super senses being fully loaded."

"Well we'll just have to come up with another plan then," Derek says, through gritted teeth. He tests out putting a little pressure on his legs, to see if he can hold himself up. He can't. Stiles tightens his arms around him. "Thanks," he says grudgingly. "For coming back for me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles frown. "Dude, what are you— I never left. You really think I'd leave you here?"

"Yes." He pauses, takes a moment to really consider everything he knows about Stiles. "No. I— I knew you would come back for me but I didn't think…"

"Well it wasn't all out of the goodness of my heart," Stiles admits, helping him move over to lean against the wall. "Every time we're sent out together your sisters threaten to remove my genitalia if anything happens to you, and I like my genitalia where it is. It's a look that works for me."

His sisters, shit. How long has he been here? Do they think he's dead? Has he put them through the grief all over again, made them relive the utter devastation of losing a loved one—

"Stop it," Stiles says warningly. "I can hear you brooding. They're fine, and they'll know for sure that you're fine soon enough."

"How long have I been here?" Derek asks quietly, and Stiles drops his gaze.

"Eleven days," he says. "It took so long to find you because these guys have like three of these facilities in a twenty mile radius, I had to try and scan without getting caught and—"

"I'm not thanking you again," Derek interrupts, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

"Fine," Stiles says, sounding petulant but obviously relieved. "Let's just focus on getting outta here then. Think you can walk?"

Derek doesn't even bother testing it this time. "No. Tell you brought something, an adrenaline shot or—"

"Oh shit, yeah, Melissa gave me this before I left, hold on…" With the hand not clutching on to Derek he reaches into the inside pocket of his flight jacket, pulling out a small metal case. He thumbs it open, revealing three sealed orange pills and a slim jar of black powder. He takes out one of the pills and replaces the case. "Open," he demands, gesturing to Derek's mouth.

Derek just looks at him.

"Open the hangar for the wittle spaceship," Stiles coos obnoxiously, bringing the pill right up to Derek's lips and poking at them. "Seriously, dude, you wanna get outta here or not?"

Reluctantly, Derek opens his mouth. Stiles drops the pill in, looking satisfied, and Derek tries not to gag as he forces it down. He hates taking pills, and he doesn't understand how humans can do it so often, and Stiles knows this.

"You're so ridiculous," Stiles says, shaking his head. "You got caught in that explosion last week like 'no biggie, just my intestines hanging out', but you can't stand taking one tiny pill?"

Derek ignores him, concentrating instead on his own body. He thinks he can feel his extremities tingling, regaining function already. His heartbeat is rising steadily, pushing his blood faster through his veins. His head feels less foggy, and it's going to take some time for his enhanced senses to fully recover but he feels better already knowing that they will. "I'm gonna need a few minutes," he says, pushing Stiles' arm off so he can support himself against the wall.

"We don't have—"

"Unless you wanna carry me?"

"Okay, yeah. Just." Stiles steps back, craning his head nervously to check the door. "Annnny time now."

Derek sighs.

"Alright! Shutting up, god." He looks down and starts fiddling with the screen of his wristwear, but forces himself to say nothing more, which is something Derek never thought he could actually do. Derek takes advantage of his stillness to focus on him and test his senses.

He's not able to hear much outside the room, but his hearing has been restored enough that he can hear Stiles' heartbeat. It's a sound he hadn't even realised he'd taken for granted until he can hear it again, and he spends a precious few moments letting it beat a rhythm in his head, attuning to it and centring himself. His sense of smell is next, and he forces himself to ignore the abrasive chemical scent that permeates the entire building. Stiles is his target. Stiles, who doesn't exactly smell all that great himself, considering the last time he would have bathed, but whose familiar human scent is comforting nevertheless. Derek can't pick up on any chemosignals yet, but considering how complex they are, particularly Stiles' chemosignals, he's not concerned. All in all, he doesn't think he'll improve any more than he already has within the foreseeable future. He needs rest and food, and they're not going to get either if they stay here for much longer.

"Okay," Derek says, pushing off the wall. Stiles' eyes snap to his. "If you've got somewhere we can go, I think I can help get us out of here."

Stiles grins. "Oh, I've got somewhere. I've got somewhere good."

+++

"This is not good," Derek hisses, because it's not. Because the place Stiles found for them to hide not only still in the compound, it's a tiny alcove tucked between a trio of dilapidated outhouses and a boundary fence.

"They don't use these anymore," Stiles says, crouching and crawling into a tiny space. He turns back to Derek and reaches out a hand.

Derek ignores it. "Really," he says lowly. "Because it definitely smells like people still use it."

"Yeah, which works in our favour. It'll cover our tracks too, which is what we want. We want that a lot."

For the first time in his life, Derek wishes he hadn't had his enhanced senses restored.

"Dude, there's no way we're gonna make it outta here tonight. See over there? That where we need to be." He points vaguely to their left, and Derek glances over to see a muddy open field, maybe a hundred yards long, bordered on its other three sides by thick forest. The field itself is empty, but a huge spotlight drifts over the area every fifteen seconds, and Derek knows they have heightened security at night. For the first few days after his capture he'd been restrained but not drugged, and he'd spent the hours listening in and evaluating their security. As soon as the sun went down, he'd counted at least fifteen different guards on a constantly-changing patrol pattern, as well as five permanently-stationed guards on the roof, all outfitted with sniper rifles.

If he and Stiles tried to escape now, be dead before they took two steps onto the field.

"I've been watching this place for the last forty hours," Stiles continues, shimmying further up into the nook. "We get one shot at escape, at sunrise when they shut off the spotlight and the guards switch shifts. Until then, we gotta lay low and hope they don't think we're stupid enough to've stuck around." He wiggles his hand expectantly.

Derek just glares at him. And then someone shouts nearby, mentioning "the prisoner", and he hears an alarm start to blare faintly on the other side of the building. Of course. He scowls and drops down, pointedly ignoring Stiles' hand. If possible, it smells even worse down here, and the ground is wet and sludgy. Derek desperately hopes that it's just mud.

"Oh my god, don't try and act all dainty now, big guy, you're smelling pretty ripe yourself," Stiles hisses, leaning over Derek to pull a sheet of tin across the entrance, shrouding them in darkness.

Derek can still see, though. He can see the way Stiles' movements have put his throat about an inch from Derek's face, and despite all his other scents Stiles still smells warm and familiar and of their ship and a little bit of home and Derek just—

He swallows and looks away. In this tiny, dank dugout that means he nearly gets a mouthful of rusty nails but it's still worth it.

"Seriously, how are you so freaked out about how sanitary our hideout is? We've seen way worse than this. Do you not remember the human flesh library on that Wiindigoo planet? Or the blood letting cult on Strigoi? Or—"

"I get it," Derek cuts in, "but those didn't smell like excrement. They just smelled like—" He fumbles for the word to best describe what he means. "Like humans."

There's a pause. Then, "Lycans are so weird," Stiles says. Derek's heard that before. He's heard it his whole life. The difference is, Stiles sounds affectionate when he says it, like he doesn't think Derek is some kind of monster. It shouldn't surprise him, he knows Stiles doesn't think like that. Even now, though, despite having grown up with humans—or maybe because of it—sometimes it's still just so surprising when he isn't considered an 'other'. "Some people would say excrement is one of the most human things in the galaxy," Stiles adds, completely shattering Derek's romanticised notions of him.

He's good at that. Unfortunately for Derek, he finds it endearing.

"Would one of those humans be Scott after he's eaten too much greasy food in the mess?"

Stiles snickers. "My bro has sensitive bowels, who're we to judge?"

"Oh I judge," Derek says. "I judge a lot."

"Duh, that's like the primary function of your eyebrows," Stiles shoots back, and Derek snorts.

They're quiet again, and Derek settles back against the most comfortable piece of wood he can find. He closes his eyes, and tests his senses again.

"Back to normal?" Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. "Maybe be by morning. Assuming we're still alive by then."

Stiles clicks his tongue. "It's cool, man. Just like, try and nap or something. I'll protect you."

It's more comforting than it should be, and Derek inches a little closer to Stiles, already feeling his exhaustion catching up with him again. He concentrates on Stiles' even breathing, and falls asleep on an exhale.

+++

Too soon, Stiles is shaking him awake.

"How do you feel?" Stiles whispers, sounding amused as Derek grumpily pries one eye open.

"Like shit, so I fit right in." He grunts, shifts his face out of something smelly and sludgy. He goes to stretch out his cramped limbs before remembering where they are. "It's dawn already?"

"In a few minutes." Stiles reaches down, pokes dubiously at his foot. "Can you run?"

"I…" Derek takes stock of his body—still fatigued, hungry, tired, sore. But in the end it's nothing he hasn't pushed through before. "Yeah."

"Good," Stiles says. He holds Derek's gaze for a moment, intense, before he breaks into a grin, shoves open their little cave and yells, "Run!"

+++

Derek gets shot twice in the shoulder and once in the thigh. There's no wolfsbane in the bullets so none of the injuries are life-threatening and his body just heals right up over the bullets. They're gonna be a bitch to get out later but he can't even feel them anymore. Stiles is hit too, grazed across the arm, but even though he lets out a yelp of pain Derek can only smell enough blood to indicate a surface wound.

It's enough to make Derek suspicious. This is supposed to be some sort of elite scientific facility, why don't they have an elite militia force guarding it?

"I think— I think they let us escape," Derek puffs to Stiles as they stumble through the trees to… wherever it is Stiles is taking him. To Stiles' ship, so they can get the fuck off this hellhole, preferably.

"Probably," Stiles says. He stops momentarily to consult with his wristwear again. "Probably hoping the locals will just tear us apart when we find them."

Derek grabs him by the shoulder, spinning him around. "Why are we finding them if they're that dangerous? Stiles, what—"

But then Stiles flings an arm up and clamps a hand over Derek's mouth. "Okay," he murmurs, leaning in close, "I know this is gonna sound the most hypocritical coming from me, but you gotta shut up now. We're not seeking the locals out, but we're probably gonna come across them anyway, and it'd be nice if it was on our terms. So no talking for now—my rescue, my rules buddy." He smacks Derek on the chest and doesn't even give him time to react before he's wandering off again.

Derek wonders what he ever did wrong in life to have to put up with Stiles Stilinski as his heroic rescuer, and follows him deeper into the trees anyway.

+++

Ten minutes later, Derek stops short. Something's not— he can hear something off, something metal-on-metal, but it's not coming from behind them, it's…

He picks up a branch and throws it at Stiles, who's still striding ahead. It bounces off Stiles' shoulder and he spins around angrily, and Derek gestures wildly at his ears, then in the direction of the noises. Stiles' mouth snaps shut and he glares, but checks his wristwear again and then ducks down, creeping into the underbrush, following Derek's directions. Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles arm pokes back out into sight and he flips Derek the bird. He's so mature.

Derek fervently wishes he didn't have to follow him but hurries after him anyway, catching up in a matter of moments. Together, they edge closer to the noises. It seems to be coming from some sort of clearing, judging by how the trees are thinning. After a few moments, Stiles holds up a hand and Derek stops short, nearly toppling into him. He has to dig his claws into a nearby tree trunk so he doesn't knock them both over. Stiles turns, frowning at Derek like he's the one causing problems.

Derek snaps his teeth at him.

Stiles is the one to roll his eyes this time. He leans in. "Behave, or you won't get your treat," he murmurs.

"Stiles," Derek growls.

He grins. "Seriously, though, if one of us deserves a treat it's definitely me." He nods towards the direction of the noises.

The thing is, despite how often Derek finds himself seriously wanting to maim Stiles, he still trusts him. Trusts him with his life, with his sisters' lives, and he knows the feeling is reciprocated. So really it should surprise no one when Derek does as Stiles requested, inches closer, peers through a gap in the branches and sees—

Stiles' ship. It's Stiles' ship, and god, Derek doesn't think he's ever been so excited to see that stupid hunk of junk in his life. But then he registers what else is in the clearing—a group of about twenty youths, all gathered around the Rosko-class spacecraft and bashing at it with mounting frustration, probably because their sticks and metal poles are doing nothing to the ship but scratching the already-faded paint job.

"These are the scary locals?" Derek asks lowly. "They're just kids."

"Kids who've grown up in a civil war and have been without basic amenities for so long they're basically feral," Stiles points out, wincing as one of the older-looking girls takes a massive swing at the Rosko's viewport. "Don't let their age fool you, Derek. These kids are still alive for a reason, and they're desperate, ruthless and half-starved. You really think they wouldn't kill us if we gave them the chance?"

Derek looks back at the bedraggled group. The boy closest to them is picking his nose. He focuses back on Stiles. "Fine. Please tell me you have a plan."

"Oh Derek," Stiles says, grinning unsettlingly. "When do I not have a plan?"

"Only when it matters," Derek mutters, but Stiles is already stepping out of the trees and into the kids' line of sight. "Stiles!" he hisses, grabbing for him, but that's as far as he gets before Stiles lets out an ear-splitting whistle.

"Children of varying ages and representations, please step away from my beautiful ship and gather 'round," he yells, sauntering towards the group—

—where he's immediately surrounded by seven different youths with their sharp-looking weapons.

Derek would very much like to punch him right now.

Stiles' heartbeat, though, barely even quickens. "Woah woah woah," he says, hands up in supplication but not sounding bothered in the least. "I wouldn't hurt me if I was you."

"Why not?" a tiny kid snarls. She's probably no older than eight. She's grotty and bloody, but vicious, and the way she's holding her spear makes it clear she knows exactly how to use it.

"Wellllll," Stiles drawls, "firstly, because of him." He inclines his head in Derek's direction, where he's still hidden.

Derek allows himself one perfect, beautiful moment to imagine himself wringing Stiles' neck before he gives in and lets his shift take over. He rolls his shoulders into it, feels his face ripple and distort, his features resettle. The claws are always second, pushing through his nailbeds in a way that he can only think of as comforting, and he grins. It's the first time he's shifted since before he was kidnapped. It feels good.

He roars for effect, and does a flying leap into the group to land in front of Stiles, snarling at the kids around them as they stumble backwards with wide eyes, some of the younger ones screeching in fear.

"Nice," Stiles tells him admiringly. He turns back to the kids. "Secondly, I'm probably your only chance to get off this shithole of a planet."

"What?" the closest kid bursts out.

"What?" Derek parrots.

Stiles shakes his head sadly. "Sometimes, it's really hard being me."

+++

What happens next happens so quickly Derek can barely keep up. Stiles, of course, seems to know exactly what's going on. He acts like this was his plan from the start, even though there's no possible way he could have accounted for a gang of war-ravaged children happening upon his ship and then deciding they needed to be evacuated.

It's easy enough to lure the kids on the ship—a few promises of a better life and some dehydrated food packs later, and he's managed to cram all of them inside. Then, wiping his hands off, he turns to Derek.

"Okay, so," he says. "I've put her on autopilot, so you shouldn't have to do much on the way back. They shouldn't pick her up on their sensors, I've got cloaking on, but I boosted shields to maximum anyway, just in case."

Derek blinks. "I—okay?"

"If you need to fly evasive, do it, she might complain but she can handle it, you've seen her do it. Also, she might need a little help docking back on the Beacon, but that's easy, you've seen me do it a million—"

"What are you talking about?" Derek interrupts, heart pounding in his chest, because it sounds like Stiles is saying— but there's no way he can mean—

"I'm not coming back with you," Stiles says softly. "I can't."

"No," Derek says, "no, I am not leaving you here, this is— no!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, I literally can't. There's not enough room on my ship dude, and we're pushing it in terms of mass as it is. We're just lucky those little brats hardly weigh anything."

"You can't— You're not doing this! I'll stay, I—" Derek shakes his head. "It should be me, you—"

"You need medical attention, and you need to get the hell away from the people who probably wanna cut you up." Stiles puts a hand on Derek's arm, slides it up to squeeze.

"But—"

"Derek," Stiles says, firm. His hand is warm on Derek's shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"You didn't leave me," Derek argues. "How can you expect me to leave you?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, it'll be fine. I scoped out like six different hideouts when I was doing surveillance to rescue you." He raises his eyebrows pointedly. "And even if I am captured, I'm just a boring human. They wanted you for your Lycan blood."

Derek crosses his arms. Mainly so he doesn't wrap his hands around Stiles' throat in an attempt to throttle some sense into him. "That's fine. But this isn't a time when being a boring human is an asset. This is a time when being a boring human results in a shot to the head."

"Derek," Stiles says again. He steps closer, so Derek is surrounded in his scent, his chemosignals—namely unwavering, resolute determination, distinctively sharp and entirely unbreakable—clouding Derek's mind. "You'll come back for me." He sounds so sure, and he can tell the exact moment Derek gives in. Because Derek somehow always gives in to Stiles.

"I'll come back for you," he confirms. "And you better not be dead."

Stiles grins, eyes sparkling with far too much humour for someone who potentially just sacrificed himself for a surly Lycan and bunch of strangers. "You do say the sweetest things."

+++

Derek barely remembers the trip back to the Beacon.

The shuttle is fuller than it's ever been, but it somehow feels empty without Stiles.

How is Derek going to explain this to Stiles' dad? How will anyone understand how Derek, a Lycan, could leave Stiles, a human, alone and abandoned on a war-torn alien planet? How could anyone forgive him?

Derek doesn't even think he could forgive himself.

+++

As soon as the Rosko is within range of the Beacon, the comms flare to life.

"Oh my fucking— no, fuck off Greenberg, he's my brother, I'm— Derek? Derek, are you there? Stiles, did you get him? You better not have fucking come back without him or I'll—"

"I'm here," Derek manages.

One of the kids decides to answer too, leaning over Derek to speak into the comms. "I'm here too!"

Cora pauses. "Stiles?"

The kid wrinkles his nose. "What's a Stiles?"

"Derek, where's Stiles? And who was that?" Cora demands to know.

Derek clears his throat. "We… we need a medic, get— get Melissa. And someone who can wrangle children, I've got— things didn't exactly go to plan."

"Wait, what— Derek, what?"

"Please, Cora," he says, voice breaking.

There's another pause. "Fine," she says eventually, probably through gritted teeth. "Docking bay 3B. Expect a crowd. See you soon."

The comm goes silent.

"Great," Derek mutters, before he takes a breath, deep and slow. The kids are going wild behind him, bravado overtaking their fear of the unknown, and he turns to watch them helplessly for a few moments. Then he remembers their reaction to his shift and lets it happen, feeling little more settled as it does. He flexes his fingers a few times, forces himself to concentrate on his claws extending and retracting. When he's calm enough he stands up and turns to the kids, letting out a roar.

They all fall silent simultaneously, staring up at him with huge eyes.

"All of you need to sit the hell down and hold on to something," he orders. "We're about to land, and this ship's a heap of junk on the best of days."

He turns back to the console. He barely remembers where the landing controls are, but he obviously presses the right buttons because soon enough they've docked, with little incident. On autopilot himself, Derek stands, releases the airlock, lowers the ramp and glares the kids off the ship.

Then he takes a breath, and follows them down the ramp.

Cora is in his arms in an instant, hugging him, checking him over, punching him on the arm, hugging him again. "Oh my god, Derek, I thought I'd never— what happened, what's—"

But Derek can barely hear her, because over her shoulder, looking expectant and hopeful, is Stiles' dad. And the longer he peers into the Rosko's empty doorway, the less optimistic he looks.

Derek squeezes Cora's shoulders in apology, and slips around her to approach John.

"Derek, where's my son?" he asks, voice barely steady. "Where is he?"

"I'm sorry, he…" Derek pauses, trying to think of the best way to say it, but then suddenly he's hit with the acrid stench of devastation and despair and Derek realises the he must think Stiles is— "He's not dead," Derek continues quickly. "But he couldn't— He wouldn't come. I found— the kids found us, they needed help but not everyone could fit on the ship and Stiles, he insisted on—" Derek shakes his head, determined. "I have to— I'm going to go back, I promised we'd save him, I promised I'd—"

"You're not going anywhere," Cora says firmly, hands clamped around his wrist. "You need to hit the infirmary, and then you need to debrief us about what happened, and then you need to eat and sleep, because you, dear brother, look and smell like shit."

"Fuck off," he snarls, "I'm not—"

"Go and get checked out, son," John says firmly. "I want you in top shape for when we go back for my kid."

Derek grits his teeth, hating that they're right. "Yes sir." John nods, turns away. "And sir?" Derek says, stopping him, making sure to look him directly in the eye. "If there's anyone who could survive down there, it's him. He believed in me, and I— we need to believe in him."

John nods and strides away, leaving Derek to be tugged to the infirmary by his overprotective sister.

+++

Cora, of course, has nothing on Laura.

Melissa's swabbing Derek's inner elbow with liquid wolfsbane so the IV needle will actually pierce his skin—because apparently even Lycans can get dehydrated and need intravenous fluids—when Laura literally skids into the infirmary, spies Derek's bed and launches herself at him from across the room.

Derek grunts but manages to manoeuvre her so she doesn't break anything important, only able to hold off for a few seconds before he gives in and hugs her back, squeezing her close, breathing in her scent. Going for so long without his family is something he never, ever wants to experience again. He didn't even realise it'd taken such a toll on him—it's not until she's up in his personal space again that he feels his whole body finally begin to settle.

Laura eventually rears back a little, and her eyes are teary. Derek can't help but smile at her.

And then she punches him so hard in the shoulder that the IV pops out.

"Hey maybe watch the physical violence for a little while, okay?" Melissa says, gently taking Derek's arm and re-inserting the IV.

Laura cringes. "Sorry, sorry, just—" She grabs Derek's face in one hand, squishing his cheeks and jerking his face around. "Never fucking do that again. I thought you'd fucking— God, Derek, you fucker!"

Cora snorts, sprawled in the chair on the other side of his bed. "That's pretty much all we've been getting from her since you were taken. Our favourite commander would've had her airlocked already if he was actually ever on board."

"You— Laura!" Derek pushes her off him, glaring. "You know we have to play nice with Argent! We need him on side or—"

"I know, I know, he hates us, he'd prefer if we were gone, blah blah. I wish I could just punch him in his smug, lecherous face a little bit. Just enough to break his nose. How satisfying would that be?"

Sometimes Derek wonders how the hell the three of them have managed to come so far. Some would say it's in their blood—their mom was the first Lycan ever recorded as being allowed to work with humans. She strove for peace and cooperation between all species, and was well-respected by almost everyone. Derek is pretty sure his capacity for hope and his persistence come from her. Laura, her first born child who thinks with fists first and decorum second, is somehow still on track to becoming a commander herself someday. And Cora is one of the finest pilots in the fleet, despite the fact that trying to get her to follow orders has sent more than one of her superiors directly into Dr Morrell's office.

Unfortunately for all of them, none of that means being able to get away with assaulting a commanding officer. "I'm not answering that."

She pouts. "Ugh, you're never fun. This is why we need Stiles around, he always loves my plans. Where is Stiles, anyway?" She glances around the otherwise-empty infirmary, like she wouldn't be able to see hear and smell him if he were anywhere nearby. "Did he miraculously manage to not get injured for once?"

Derek glances at Cora. Cora shrugs and goes back to reading something on her wristwear.

Derek clears his throat, and braces himself for more yelling.

+++

Laura's concern for him dissipates immediately once she realises he left Stiles alone on Perun.

"What the hell is this, kidnapping musical chairs? What the fuck? Derek, how did you let this happen?"

Derek opens his mouth to say… something, to say that he had no choice, that Stiles was the one who insisted on it, that he might not get recaptured, that he might be okay—

"You know what, don't even try," she snaps. "I don't wanna hear it."

Cora exchanges a bemused look with Derek. "Um, Laur? Our beloved brother was kidnapped and experimented on? He nearly died? He's been gone for a long time and we missed him and we're so thankful he's back?"

"Well obviously," she says, waving her hand dismissively. She turns to Melissa. "How long is it gonna take to fix him?"

"Well, his body will do a lot of it naturally, but he needs to keep up the fluids for at least another hour. I also need to remove the bullets, some of 'em are in there nice and good."

"The bull—" Laura shakes her head. "Fine. I'll be back to pick him up in an hour." She turns to Derek. "You better be ready to debrief everyone by then." She turns, and flounces out of the room.

Cora blows out a puff of air. "Well, that was—"

Derek holds up a hand, shaking his head, waiting.

Five seconds later, Laura stalks back into the room and over to Derek's bed, throws her arms around his shoulders, hugs him to her tight, and kisses him on the head. Derek pats her arm.

"PS," she murmurs, "you're also gonna go see Morrell for a psych consult as soon as we're done rescuing Stiles. You can compartmentalise until then, right?"

Derek pinches her on the thigh.

+++

Derek's actually pretty good at compartmentalising. It's not exactly something to boast about, but he's had a lot of practice. He'll probably have nightmares, but he's pretty good at those too—he's been having nightmares regularly since his parents died. Talking clinically about trauma to doctors and superiors is also nothing new, but talking about it to Gerard Argent most definitely is.

Gerard is a terrible human being. He's a bigot and a narcissist. He lets hatred and fear fuel all of his decisions, and there's no one that he hates more than a non-human. Derek has no idea why he's been allowed to ascend to a position of such power in The Corporation. He's a terrible leader and makes everyone's lives miserable.

As soon as Derek steps into John's office and sees Gerard's projection hovering over the desk, sees Gerard then glance up and eye Derek distastefully, like he's disappointed Derek isn't dead, Derek's heart sinks.

He catches John's eye. John looks at him with a heartbreaking mixture of desperation and defeat, and then Derek knows he's right. Gerard hates everyone in this room—John because he isn't afraid to question authority, and Laura and Derek simply because they're not human—and there's no way he's going to help Stiles.

Still, there's procedure to follow, and the faint possibility that maybe Gerard has some humanity left in him. There's also Laura's determination that Argent is going to see her as an equal, and that she is going to crack him through will alone, so Derek reports everything that he remembers, as objectively as possible. Laura and John interrupt him a few times to ask for clarification, but Argent just listens impassively. The only time he reacts is when Derek mentions Stiles giving him the orange pill, and Derek just knows that Melissa will be getting a call from Gerard soon, demanding to know what it was and what it did. Probably so Gerard will be able to find a way to destroy that, too.

Once it's all over, Derek takes the seat next to Laura. She taps impatiently at her wristwear, waiting for Gerard to speak first. She's barely managing, and she opens her mouth only to snap it closed again three times before he finally does.

"Well, thank you for sharing that Derek, I'm sure it was very difficult," he says, not looking contrite in the slightest. He leans back nonchalantly. "However, after hearing all the information regarding the volatility of Perun, I can't in good conscience send anyone else down there." He nods once, slaps his hand on the table, and reaches for his wristwear like he's ready to end the conversation, like—

Like that's it. Like it was easy. Like he's decided Stiles' fate, like his pettiness and prejudice have spoken, like Stiles doesn't even matter—

Derek's trembling. All over, he can feel it, he's shaking and roaring inside, and barely holding back his shift, only just managing to suppress the overwhelming impulse to just launch himself at Argent and rip off his—

"Sir," the John says, voice cracking, leaning so far forward in his seat he's almost tipping over, "please rethink this, Stiles is a very important member—"

Argent snorts, looking John right in the eye. "I understand you feel strongly about your son's rescue, we all do. I'm sure he is a valuable member of your crew. But I've made my decision. We'll just have to hope he can survive until things settle down and I can risk sending a rescue team out there. He's in my prayers." He nods once, then terminates the video feed.

There's silence for a few moments, and Derek feels the tension in the room rising right along with his own fury, can feel his urge to tear and rend building and echoing in his sister, until he starts to physically hurt with the power of it, and then—

"Fucking asshole," someone spits. Derek looks up, expecting it to have been Laura, but she looks surprised too. They both stare at John, who's standing now, his lips pressed together tightly. When his eyes find Derek's, they're glittering with a very familiar intensity. "This isn't over," he promises. "One way or another, I'm getting my son back."

"Fuck Gerard," Laura says viciously.

"Count us in," Derek promises.

John nods sharply and visibly straightens, pulling himself together, before marching out in the same direction as Gerard.

"Well, lil bro," his sister says, eyes glittering, smelling of fire and wrath, a force unto herself. Derek's just glad that they're almost always on the same team. "You ready for some treason and subterfuge?"

Derek grins.

+++

The next couple of days are passed entirely with Derek measuring how long it's been since he left Stiles. Laura made the decision almost directly after their initial meeting with Gerard that she was going to keep most of the details of the plan from Derek—even who else is involved in the planning, although he could definitely guess that part. He'd objected, initially, but eventually he'd realised it's for the best because this way, if he's questioned, he can plead ignorance. However, it also means Derek is left alone most of the time. Melissa hasn't cleared him for active duty yet, so he has nothing to distract him, and time eats away at him. He's constantly oscillating between forgetting that Stiles isn't here and uncomfortably aware of every second that ticks by and Derek isn't going back for him. At certain moments it feels fucking impossible, like when Derek goes to the mess and they're serving those little potato spirals Stiles loves, or when he's sparring with Cora and she trips him up and holds him down until he has to tap out, which Stiles would have loved teasing him about. Or when he sees John in the corridors, obviously just barely holding on, fists clenched and eyes sad.

And then there's the night time. Derek usually shares a room with Scott, Isaac and Stiles. He shares a bunk with Isaac, and Stiles takes the top bunk across from him, and he snores, and it's terrible. Except now Derek can't fall asleep without it. It doesn't help that the room hardly smells like him anymore either, which is another thing Derek never thought he'd never miss. Eau de twenty-something skinny annoying manchild.

And yet.

On the third night, Derek's been staring at the ceiling for three hours before he just thinks—fuck it. Fuck it. Without taking any more time to think about it, he hops lightly off his own bed and vaults up into Stiles', freezing when the rigid metal lets out a loud creaking noise. Scott and Isaac's breathing stays deep and easy though, so he unlocks his limbs and slowly, carefully eases himself down onto Stiles' thin mattress, nose pressing Stiles' pillow, and—

There it is. Stiles' scent, god.

His body relaxes immediately, and he slumps down further, gathering Stiles' blankets around himself. He won't sleep for long, he knows, so he'll wake up in more than enough time to move back to his own bunk and pretend like this never happened.

+++

He wakes up the next morning with Scott's face directly in front of his face, and he jerks backwards, eyes flashing in surprise.

"Hey dude," Scott says, looking amused.

Derek squints at him. "What…" And then he sees it, behind Scott's head—the faded grey of his own blankets, the photos of his family on the wall, his own bunk, his own bunk that he's not actually in because he's still in Stiles'— "Oh shit," he mutters.

Scott outright grins, smelling smug and delighted. "Yeah."

"Did—"

"Oh yeah, Isaac saw. So did Erica and Boyd, he invited them over. And they all took pics. They're probably sending them to everyone we know as we speak," Scott says cheerfully, leaning down to shove on his boots. "It's okay, they're pretty cute pics. You had the corner of Stiles' pillow in your mouth."

Derek groans, rolling over to glare at the ceiling. This is not how his life was supposed to go. His parents are supposed to be alive, Laura is supposed to be in training to follow in their footsteps, Derek is supposed to be the irresponsible middle son, acting out and dating a string of bad choices before finally settling down with someone and getting a job as Laura's accountant, or something. A boring, predictable life.

A life without Stiles in it.

Derek isn't actually ashamed to admit that a life without Stiles in it doesn't sound like a life at all.

Scott's scent shifts suddenly, and Derek looks down curiously. Scott's no longer smiling. He's carefully blank faced as he makes his bed, and Derek rolls to the edge of the bunk.

"Hey Derek," Scott says tonelessly, "do you think you could ever go back to that planet again? The one where they held you hostage?"

He carefully doesn't say, the one where Stiles is right now. Derek swallows and follows his lead. "I could. If I had to. I'm pretty sure the mental trauma would be limited." Scott looks up, and Derek holds his gaze. "Besides. There are some things that are much more important than my own sense of comfort."

Scott smiles slowly.

+++

On the fourth day, Derek finally gets the all-clear from Melissa. She signs him off and exchanges a nod with Laura before Laura grabs his shoulders and shoves him back down the hall in the opposite direction.

Derek frowns. "What was that?"

"That was me thanking Melissa for keeping you inactive for much longer than you needed to be," Laura says breezily.

"You—" Derek sputters, trying to turn in her grip, but her hands are like clamps. "What the fuck, Laura? I could've been helping!"

"Or you could've been screwing everything up. Derek. Please just trust me, okay? I know what I'm doing." Finally she lets go of him, but he doesn't bother turning to face her. He can smell her earnestness, her desperation that he'll believe her and cooperate. She must sense his assent too, because then she says, "Great! Now let's go, we're running late."

"For what?" he asks, but she ignores him, prodding him further down the hall.

Derek gives up and just goes with her. That's always the best way to handle her when she gets like this.

They end up outside the meeting room. Derek turns to her, eyebrows raised. Laura pushes the doors open and shoves him inside.

All eyes turn to them.

Apparently, Laura has dragged him to a briefing. He's never been to one this big before, with at least forty crew members all squashed in around the table, but Laura just pats him on the back and heads up to the front where there's an empty chair waiting for her. There's another seat further back next to Cora, and Derek takes it, already feeling his anxiety rising.

He hasn't been amongst such a big group of people in a long time, and he's almost forgotten how to filter out all the extraneous external stimuli. While everyone else in the meeting is being 'quiet' as Gerard's hologram monologues, they're not actually being silent. His advanced senses can pick every sigh, every creak of a chair, every gurgle of a stomach. Then there's the smells: the deodorants and perfumes and scented grooming products that no one is supposed to actually have but for which there seems to be a roaring black market trade anyway; the recently consumed food still lingering on fingers and breath; the chemical newness of fresh boots and the worn griminess of old; the underlying body odour that lingers no matter how much people try to cover it up. In other meetings, at least, he's had Stiles next to him, and Stiles has always been exceptionally good at providing little distractions. He's always chewing on his lip or jiggling his leg or tapping his wristwear, always providing something to centre Derek's senses and give him something specific to focus on. Without him, it's hard to narrow down all the sensory input.

He tries to concentrate on Cora, sitting to his left, but she's far too still. Laura is too far away, at the head of the table, and so is John. Derek's fumbling about, almost desperate enough to try Greenberg, when he feels Cora's hand on his arm.

He swings his head towards her, feeling like he might be a little wild eyed, a suspicion that's confirmed when Cora gives him a tiny get-it-together-you-jackass lip curl before saying, "Derek, did you hear Lydia's question?"

Derek blinks, casts about for Lydia, and finds her sitting a few people down from him, watching him with her eyebrows raised judgmentally. "What?"

"I was saying," she says, "that we could use you on aid mission to Radegast. The Rada tribe needs our assistance, and we've been tasked to head there tomorrow."

Derek frowns. They're… trying to send him on a mission? While Stiles is still stuck, alone, on a hostile planet? He glances at Laura for guidance, and she seems to be trying to tell him something with only her chemosignals, but with all the scents still so muddled in this room it's impossible to tell what. "Sorry, I'm just— Isn't the Rada tribe restricted to female-identifying lifeforms only?"

Lydia gives him the most strained, fake smile he's ever had the displeasure of receiving. "Yes," she says tightly, "but we'll be transporting a lot of supplies and we'll need both you and Cora with us. We just need your strength, then you can stay in the ship for a couple of days, work on getting cleared for combat again."

Now Derek really knows there's something up. Lydia knows more about the happenings on this ship than any other person. There's no way she doesn't know he was cleared for duty a few hours ago. "I've already been—"

But suddenly there's five pricks of pain in his upper thigh, way too close to his groin for comfort, and Derek looks down to see Cora's claws digging into his leg.

"That sounds like a great idea," Cora says, smiling insincerely, "doesn't it Derek?"

"I—" he starts, but the claws go deeper, and he's grunting out, "Yes, that does sound like a great idea," before he can think any further on it.

"Right, that's excellent, well done everyone, aid missions are great," Laura says, nodding, "and you know what else is great?" She gestures to Gerard, whose gaze cuts to her challengingly. "The amazing job our Commander is doing at running this fine ship lately, I think he deserves a round of applause!"

She starts clapping, and Cora finally removes her claws to enthusiastically join in, even calling out for Gerard to make a speech, and Derek would wonder if the blood loss from Cora's claws was making him hallucinate if his wounds hadn't already healed.

There has to be something going on here. This must part of some plan his sisters are a part of. There's no way Cora would be encouraging Gerard to speak, otherwise—she has a picture of his face taped onto her punching bag and takes great joy in calling him 'Fartgent' behind his back.

Derek barely holds himself in check for the last fifteen minutes of the meeting. He feels like Stiles must feel all the time, overstimulated and agitated and so full of nervous energy he feels like he might just burst out of skin. Finally Gerard dismisses everyone, his smug face winking out of existence, and Derek grabs Cora's wrist, yanking her out of the room and down the hall to a smaller conference room. Impatiently, he waits for Laura, who has followed them, to scan her wristwear and gain them access to the room.

They tumble inside, the door slides closed, and Derek finally lets go of Cora to cross his arms over his chest. "What the hell was that?"

"That," Cora snaps, "was you nearly screwing up the only chance we have to save Stiles!"

"Seriously Derek! I knew Gerard would try and assign you to a different op if you were cleared earlier, but we needed more time to figure things out, just— think about it. Radegast. Radegast, which is neighboured by several other hospitable planets, including…" She raises her eyebrows expectantly, and, finally, it all makes sense.

"Perun," he breathes. "We're going after Stiles anyway? We're going rogue?"

"Yep," Laura says cheerfully, her eyes taking on a near-manic gleam. "Gerard is gonna so pissed when he finds out."

+++

As it turns out, only Derek is going truly rogue. Lydia, Kira and Cora really do have to stay on Radegast and follow through with the aid mission, which is very real, and Scott, Laura and John are staying on the Beacon, in an attempt to ensure Gerard is distracted and doesn't get too suspicious. Derek can't imagine that any of them were too happy with those responsibilities but he's also intimately aware of how convincing his sisters can be.

+++

Derek is the second one to arrive at Kira's ship, only after Kira herself. It's Catanna-class, docked neatly in Bay 7D. Sleek and shiny, it's bigger than and the total opposite of Stiles' shuttle. Derek stops by the cockpit to greet Kira, but she's busy with the controls so he ducks out and finds somewhere to stow his gear. He ends up in the small mess, where it turns out he's not actually the second person on board—Lydia is already set up at the table, making full use of the integrated screens. She's flicking through a wall of tiny scrolling text when she notices Derek.

"Is Cora here yet?" she asks distractedly.

"She just joined Kira," Derek reports, listening in as Cora settles in to play co-pilot. "She says we'll be taking off ASAP."

"Good." Lydia finally looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Civvies?"

Derek shrugs. "May as well make the most of going rogue." The Corporation-mandated flight suits are cheap and scratchy, barely long enough in the leg to cover his ankles, and a hindrance to his particular fighting style. Stiles calls his more acrobatic moves ostentatious and unnecessary, but he never complains when Derek implements them to save his ass. It's just easier for him to protect everyone in his own clothes.

Not only that, but this technically isn't a Corporation-mandated mission. The only person he's representing this time is himself. Flashing his uniform around is probably a bad idea.

"You're a bonafide scoundrel," she says, before sobering and gesturing him over. "You need to make sure you're completely familiar with these."

She's very thorough. She has three separate contingency plans, plus detailed topographic maps, atmospheric assessments, weather reports, and copies of infrared scans performed by every satellite tasked to the area for the past three months. She brings everything up on the screens and lets Derek take it all in. He's honestly a little surprised at her thoroughness. He didn't even think she liked Stiles that much, but apparently he was wrong. He can see it in her eyes, as she irritatedly sorts through her files, looking for something—she loves him, and she's worried about him, and she misses him.

Derek isn't sure why that makes him feel so uncomfortable, but it isn't the time to unpack it anyway. Instead, he busies himself with committing as much relevant information as he can to memory.

Kira joins them some time later, leaning over the table to survey the screen closest. She reaches out a finger to poke at it.

Lydia swats her hand away. "Still on track?"

Kira nods. "We'll be another hour or so. Scott's been keeping me updated with Gerard's every movement. Even his bathroom breaks." She pulls a face. "I've never even considered the fact that he'd need to use the bathroom, like a normal person."

"Well, that's often the most terrifying thing about even the worst bully—when it comes down to it, really they're just like us," Lydia says sagely.

Cora, having sauntered in to hear the end of the conversation, snorts. "That's deep." She moves over to the kitchenette, grabs two energy bars and tosses one to Derek before sprawling on the opposite of the table. "Stiles better appreciate all the effort we're putting in to saving his ass. And he better not be dead, that'd be such a buzzkill."

Kira stares at her, wide-eyed. "You don't really think—"

"He's not dead," Derek snaps, throwing the bar back at Cora, harder than he probably should. The energy increase for Lycans is negligible anyway. "Stiles can look after himself." Stiles is one of the most creative, persistent people Derek knows. He may not have the physical strength of a Lycan, but he has the tactical brain of a survivor, and a lot of the time that's much more important.

"Right," Lydia says confidently. "He's much more capable than he looks, despite his general air of incompetence."

Cora shrugs. "If you say so, I guess." She turns to Derek. "So what's the plan?"

"We approach Perun in the Catanna, cloaking shields at maximum to disguise our presence. I take the short range pod down to the surface and land."

"The short range pod doesn't have any cloaking tech," Kira interjects, "but that shouldn't be a problem. As long as Derek keeps the systems at low power and moderates the speed of his descent, it should just read as a blip on any sensors."

Cora looks dubious. "'Should'?"

Kira shrugs helplessly. "It depends on how much attention they're paying."

"And how paranoid they are," Lydia says.

Derek ignores them all. He knows the risks, he's been through a million times in his head. He doesn't care. "Upon landing, I'll use the pod's computer to attempt to latch on to Stiles' bio-signal. Failing that, I'll abandon ship and use my own senses. Either way, I'm not leaving until I find him."

"And when you do?" Lydia prompts.

"We make our way directly back to the pod and send you a subspace transmission letting you know our status. Escape will be more difficult."

"If worse comes to worst, we're coming to get you," Lydia tells him. "Actually, fuck it—as soon as Stiles is secure, contact me and Kira will be there as soon as we can to pick you up."

"What about the pod?" Derek asks, glancing at Kira.

She shrugs. "I can make another one."

Derek blinks. He hadn't even realised she'd made this one, but now that he does he's… actually relieved. Kira is excellent at what she does. There's no way Lydia would've chosen to work with her if she wasn't. "Okay," he says finally. "Let's go and rescue Stiles."

There's a heavy silence for a few moments. And then—

"Ugh this is just so awesome," Kira blurts, and slaps her hands over her mouth when Lydia and Cora look at her judgmentally. "Does that sound cold? I'm sorry, but it's true! Aid is totally awesome, obviously, helping people in need, yay, but like…" She gestures at Derek. "A rescue mission, that's so cool!"

Lydia sniffs, but Derek can feel that she's amused. "I find your excitement inappropriate for the occasion," she says lightly.

Kira's eyes widen in horror, and it takes ten minutes of apologising before Cora takes pity on her and drags her back to the cockpit.

+++

Derek joins Kira in the cockpit once they drop out of FTL, perching in the co-pilot's seat and squinting down at Perun. The surface is greyer than he remembers—greyer than it should be considering how much of the terrain was forest. As it is, Derek can't see any green at all down there.

"What's with all the cloud cover?" Derek asks, frowning. "It was warm and clear a week ago. Lydia's research says we've still got another month of the dry cycle left."

"This planet's wet cycle is known to begin pretty suddenly and develop quickly," Kira says absently. She flicks a few switches, peers down at one of her readouts, and looks up to see Derek watching her with one raised eyebrow. She blushes. "What, I know things."

"You hate reading," Derek points out.

Kira wrinkles her nose. "It was in one of Scott's nature documentaries. There's some deadly breed of reptile that lives here."

"How comforting."

They're silent for a few moments, Kira fiddling around with a few more screens, before she sighs and turns to Derek, looking apologetic. "This storm extends across the entire south of the continent. It's fine, it's just… Well, the bad news is that you won't be able to power the pod down as low as we planned. The shields are too weak to withstand the pressure of the planet's atmosphere upon entry and tackle a violent storm, plus you're gonna need much more use of the nav systems. But the good news is the electrical activity from the lighting storm should make it more difficult for their sensors to get a decent lock on you as you descend!" she offers, still tentatively hopeful.

"And I thought I was an optimist," Derek mutters.

+++

"Ready?" Kira asks, hand on the pod's open hatch.

Derek nods, shaking his arms out, going through his mental checklist.

"Oh, now he's showing off his fancy jacket," Cora teases, poking him in the abs. "The one Laura got him that shows off his shoulders."

"The one Laura got me that's been treated with special polymers to keep it weatherproof," he reminds her. "The one that'll come in handy on a planet ravaged by storms."

"The only good present Laura has ever given either of us," Cora adds.

Derek nods. "That too." He pauses, catching Cora's eye. "Hey. If I don't—"

"No way," Cora says, shaking her head. "You are coming back alive. Laura can not be the only family I have left, okay?" She glares at him. "I'll never get any good birthday gifts, and that is unacceptable." Derek rolls his eyes. Cora ducks in, gives him a kiss on the cheek. "Our hero," she says, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Fuck off." Derek gently shoves her back. He takes a breath, lets it out, and climbs inside.

"Good luck," Kira says, and closes the hatch behind him.

+++

As it turns out, Derek needs all the luck he can get.

It's bad. The storm affects the pod much more than he thought it would, and he gives up on trying to control any element of his descent as soon as he hits it. It's violent, the pod is battered from all sides, and Derek grits his teeth and focuses on holding on, not on the way all his senses are telling him his death is imminent. He hits the lowest layer of atmosphere a lot earlier than he expected, and he has to lunge for the nav controls. Ideally, he'd direct the pod to land in a clearing, but there isn't one. Trees stretch as far as the eye can see—and where the eye can't see, a fact he discovers when he clips one unexpectedly, sending the pod off-balance and careening into the undergrowth below.

+++

He blacked out.

He knows he must have, because he lurches awake to the scent of blood and a sore temple, though the pain is rapidly fading, and he groans. Nothing else hurts, and the cut on his forehead has already healed, so he ignores his own state of being and focuses on the pod.

It's a wreck. Even if they'd wanted to try and escape using the pod, they won't be able to now. None of the computers are working, and Derek can smell smoke coming from the aft engine. The rear and only exit of the pod is completely destroyed, metal bent and smashed in, and if Derek ever wants to get out he has no choice but to punch out the front window.

Grunting, he reaches around to unhook his seatbelt. He braces himself as best he can, and aims his first hit to the centre right, where the glass is already spiderwebbing. It takes five hits and three broken knuckles, but he finally forces open a hole big enough to haul himself through. The pod immediately begins filling with water, rain from the storm forcing its way inside.

Once Derek finally fights his way out of the pod, he climb on top of it and surveys his surroundings.

He seems to have landed directly amongst a thick copse of trees. It's practically impossible to tell which direction is north, at least from here. He could climb from tree to tree, maybe scale the tallest one he can find and hope that he finds his bearings, but considering the heaviness of the rain that will probably be a waste of time.

He's on his own in finding Stiles, now.

Blowing out a breath, he pulls his jacket tighter around himself and starts walking.

+++

Nothing in Derek's life has gone smoothly. Ever. Even considering the optimism, he's never really surprised when things go wrong. Which is why, when only ten minutes after crashing the pod, he comes across a group of five people struggling through the rain and one of them is Stiles, Derek is pretty sure he's hallucinating.

He stops dead and stares.

It takes a full ten seconds before anyone notices him.

"Hey!" the first guy yells, and it's a guard, going for his gun. The other three guards follow suit, but Derek couldn't care less about them.

All he can focus on is Stiles.

"Oh, it's Derek! Hey Derek!" Stiles exclaims. It's faux cheerful. He's shackled and looks exhausted, no longer dressed in his flight suit but in bloodied, torn shirt and pants. He's shivering in the rain, teeth chattering, but that doesn't stop him from looking triumphantly at the guard closest to him and saying, "See, I told you Derek would come."

"Shut up," the guard barks, shoving Stiles forward, making him stumble, and the guard swings his arm so his gun is trained on Stiles instead. "What was this supposed to be, a rescue?" he asks, sounding amused.

Derek shrugs. "Something like that."

"Well, we're your welcoming party." The guard grins, gesturing to the group. "I don't know if you thought you were being sneaky, but we picked up your pod's presence as soon as you left your ship, so mark that down as a failure. And now you're here, trying to save your friend, and you're unarmed." The guard clicks his tongue. "Why don't you just surrender and save us all the trouble?"

"Okay, sorry not sorry to interrupt, but if you look closely you'll see that Derek actually has two arms," Stiles says helpfully. "And both of them have this really great feature you could only dream of."

"Yeah, and what would that be?" the guard sneers.

And Derek grins, shifts, and lets his claws do the rest.

+++

The last guard hits the ground, and Derek doesn't even bother shifting back to his human features before making his way over to Stiles. He was shoved over during the fight, then lost balance due to his shackles and collapsed in an awkward-looking heap. Derek crouches next to him and breaks his restraints, helping to pull him up into a sitting position.

"Hey b-big guy," Stiles stutters, teeth chattering.

Derek's hands are on him before he even realises it, running over his body to check for injuries. "Did they hurt you?"

Stiles shakes his head. "For evil scientists, they were s-surprisingly more gentle than they looked. They did some kind of blood test, but they s-seemed disappointed by my results and they just shoved me in a cell and ignored me." Somehow, he still has the energy to smirk at Derek. "Loo-looks like the human isn't worth anything after all."

"Definitely something to be proud of," Derek murmurs. Earlier, he couldn't hear Stiles' heartbeat around the rain, but it's been slowly easing over the past few minutes and now the too-slow thump of Stiles' heart is a little worrying. Derek eases off his jacket, sliding it onto Stiles' shoulders and guiding his arms through the sleeves. Stiles grabs onto his arm gratefully, and Derek smoothes it down over his neck.

"Oh my godddd," Stiles says, nuzzling his chin down into the warmth. "This is the b-best present Laura ever gave you."

"I'll buy you one when we get back," Derek says. He stands, dragging Stiles up with him, and pulls the jacket tighter around him. "We should get out of here."

Stiles shakes his head rapidly. "No way d-dude, not before we figure out what's going on. They're doing something shady down here and I wanna know what it is."

Derek just stares at him. "You want me to— You want us go back into the place where we were held captive and tortured?" Stiles opens his mouth to argue, and before he can Derek snaps, "It was at the least torture-adjacent."

"Uh… well…" Stiles says slowly, and Derek can just see his brain working, "I could go by myself, I guess…" He trails off meaningfully, glances at Derek and looks away just as quickly, biting his lip, eyebrows high.

Derek rolls his eyes. "You don't have to try and manipulate me. Wherever you go, I go."

Stiles blinks. Derek would take pleasure in the fact that he's finally, for the first time, managed to stymie Stiles Stilinski, but then Stiles' eyes gentle and he smiles, pleased and touched. "You really are sweet," he says softly.

He holds Derek's gaze for a few moments, and Derek feels himself swaying forwards. Stiles' eyelashes flutter, just a tiny flicker, but the movement draws attention to the rain-diluted blood streaking across his eyebrow. Derek swallows and pulls back—now is far from the time for… that.

"Shut up and let's get this over with," he says gruffly. He pushes against Stiles' shoulder to lever himself up, unbalancing Stiles and sending him back into a puddle, sputtering and swearing and scrambling after him.

+++

The rain holds off for long enough for Stiles to lead them back to the facility, but by then it's not anywhere near as inconvenient. In fact, they use it to their advantage, and manage to duck around guards and through the grounds undetected.

"Unlucky for the bad guys," Stiles murmurs, flattening himself against the concrete wall of the largest building, the same one they'd held Derek in, and peering around the corner. Derek really could have just told him that it was clear of guards, but Stiles seems to be enjoying the subterfuge. Maybe it's a good distraction. "I remember the layout of this entire place from when I cased it looking for you." He glances back at Derek and smirks, tapping his temple. "It's a vault up here, man."

"It's only been a few days," Derek says. "If you'd forgotten already I'd be concerned."

Stiles huffs. "Could you just let me have this, please?" He ducks around the corner and creeps up to a reinforced steel door.

Derek sighs. "Stiles."

Stiles hums distractedly, flipping open the wristwear scanner beside the door.

"I know you seem to think being Lycan gives me superpowers, but even I have limitations." Stiles turns to him, looking confused. "I can't get us through here. This door is way too strong."

"You sure?" Stiles turns to him, holds up his palms. "Show me those fists, big guy, big ol' fists, let's see 'em."

Derek sighs, mainly to cover up the fact that he wants to laugh.

Stiles shrugs, and then starts fishing around in his pants.

Before Derek can ask him what the hell he's doing, he yanks out his wristwear with a triumphant sound. "Low battery, but still good!" he says gleefully. "Hid it from them just before they found me."

Derek looks at him critically, trying to figure out where.

Stiles notices. "Trust me, you don't wanna know where." He winks, and snaps it on. Then, with smug grin, "I've cloned the wristwear of every single person I've come into contact with since I've been here." He waves his wrist at the scanner and the screen flashes green before unlocking the door.

"Of course you have," Derek says fondly, and follows him inside.

+++

Derek keeps his rear position, following Stiles through the facility. It's much easier this time, since Stiles seems to know exactly where he wants to go and Derek's senses are at full capacity. They make it to the room Stiles is looking for in a matter of minutes, and Stiles scans his wristwear again at the entry before pushing it open, ushering Derek inside, and locking the door again behind him.

"This is where they brought me to test my blood," Stiles says, making a beeline across the lab for the computers against the far wall. "I was kinda only semi-coherent at the time, but I remember enough." He sweeps his arm back to indicate the wall behind them. "Check that fridge, I think that's where they keep the samples."

Derek does as directed, swinging the massive glass door of the fridge open. The top level doesn't contain any samples that look like blood, but the middle level must have at least fifty tubes of blood, labelled and stored in a metal tray. "Got em," Derek says, pulling them out the tray. The first one is labelled Human—it's probably Stiles'. The next fifteen tubes are all marked Lycan, and Derek grimaces. The ones after that seem older, with different handwriting on the labels. They're tagged Selké, Bean Sí, Strigoi—

And that's when Derek realises what these people are doing.

"This is all non-human blood," Derek says, stomach clenching in revulsion. "They're— they're capturing non-humans, they're experimenting on them, they're taking their blood and—"

"And using it on their own people, to try and see if other species' characteristics can heighten human abilities, trying to make an enhanced life form, like— like they're creating supersoldiers." He taps at the screen few more times. "There've been twelve test cases. Only one was a success." Stiles turns to him, expression grim. "Derek, they used your blood."

Derek's claws pop out. He digs them into his palms, welcoming the burst of pain, using it to try and clear his head. "How?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't know, I can't— this is like, super complicated shit, Lydia could probably figure it out if I copy it onto my—"

"No," Derek says savagely. "If we take it with us, someone else could— I don't want this to—"

"I get it, dude," Stiles says. "I got your back." He turns back to the computer, seeming to sense that Derek needs a few moments. "On a completely unrelated note, I think I saw some jars of stuff next to the fridge that said they were highly flammable. And oh look, on the counter near the door, it's a bunsen burner." He starts tapping again. "Just as well they're opposite sides of the room, or a fire could start and destroy all of this super important research.

And Derek—Derek knows how to take a hint.

+++

They're safely several corridors away by the time an alarm starts to go off.

"—so I have no idea if they have everything backed up somewhere on another server," Stiles says, not bothering to raise his voice above the racket, fully aware Derek can still hear him perfectly, "but I deleted everything even vaguely related to their research on their system, and introduced a virus that should keep them pretty busy for at least a few days." They reach a crossroads, corridors heading in different directions, and Stiles is too caught up in his own thoughts to notice Derek is turning left. He starts going right, and Derek grabs his arms, redirecting him and hurrying him on. Stiles doesn't even seem to notice. "And I know everyone's trying to like, not interfere here and let this war play out, but this place has gone to shit, man. Kidnapping and experimenting on people, messing with DNA, trying to create their own super soliders, it's all fucked. And that's just these guys, who even knows what the other side is doing?"

Derek nods, only half-listening. All he feels is the deep thrum of his entire body telling him he needs to get out, and he's pretty sure the door they used to sneak in is just around the corner, and then they can finally escape and go home—but that's not what happens.

Instead, Derek doesn't hear the rapid heartbeat, the nearing footsteps, the harsh breathing, until it's too late, and he barely has enough time to push Stiles away before he's being lifted up and thrown into the wall.

"Derek!" Stiles screams, sounding horrified, and when Derek gets the chance to see his attacker he understands why.

The man is huge, muscles bulging in his hospital gown. His bare feet flex against the laminate flooring, toe-claws jagged and sharp. He has other claws too, but they're nothing like Derek's. They're bloodied and inflamed, spiking unnaturally out of his fingertips, and his fangs look equally as horrific.

This isn't a supersoldier. This isn't a Lycan.

This is an abomination.

Derek roars, bouncing back up and going directly for the thing's jugular. It dodges, faster than Derek, and its eyes glow a bright crimson. Derek's eyes flash blue right back, and he wastes no time in kicking out a leg, aiming for the kneecaps. It dodges again, and Derek growls in frustration, having to go on the defensive as the thing swipes back at Derek, catching him across his back, leaving four gouges across his spine. Derek swivels frantically, so they don't go too deep, and uses his momentum to launch himself off the wall and back into the thing's personal space. He goes for the eyes—the thing lurches back and tries for Derek's kidney. Derek parries and grabs the thing's wrist, twisting its arm around and back, waiting for the sound of broken bones, but the thing goes loose, turning with the movement. It uses Derek's strength against him, and before Derek can react it has him up against the wall by the throat. Its fingers squeeze, tight, tighter, and Derek struggles in its grip, desperate to get free—

Then, just as suddenly as he'd been attacked, Derek is released. The hand around his neck slackens and falls. The thing staggers backwards, one, two steps. It blinks, eyes fading back to a dull grey. And it falls to the ground, blood pooling out of the back of its skull, heartbeat slowing and then stopping completely.

Derek stares at it in shock. He slowly looks up, and Stiles is standing there, looking sheepish, a scalpel in one hand and an open vial of the wolfsbane in the other. A very familiar vial of wolfsbane.

Derek shakes his head. He steps over the thing's body, unwraps Stiles' rigid fingers from around the scalpel. It smells like a mixture of wolfsbane and the thing's blood—Stiles must have dipped the scalpel in the wolfsbane before shoving it directly into the thing's neck. He tosses it aside, then gently takes the vial from him too, recapping it. "Where were you hiding this?"

Stiles blinks innocently. "In my pants."

"How did you even— I don't wanna know what else you have in there, do I."

A slow smirk overtakes Stiles' face, and Derek realises what he's said far too late. "I don't know, do you?" Stiles asks sweetly.

Yes, is the thing.

"No," Derek says instead. He tilts his head. "More guards are coming."

Stiles e nods, swiftly following Derek's lead. "Let's get the fuck outta here. This place is the worst."

+++

Lydia's designated rendezvous point is three miles east, and as soon as they clear the facility he borrows Stiles' wristwear and uses the last of its power to send her the evacuation code. The rain is still holding off, which means Kira's ship might actually be able to land safely once they reach the clearing.

It's a tough trek through the thick forest and at first Stiles keeps up with him, but he tires easily and Derek can tell his adrenaline is wearing off. They don't seem to have fed him during the time he was held captive, and according to Stiles the only way he got anything to drink was by catching palmfuls of rain through the bars of his cell window. Derek itches to pick him up, carry him as far away from this place as possible, but he doesn't dare. Stiles would probably kill him, and they both know he'd rather push through.

It takes them just over an hour to reach their destination. Derek helps prop Stiles up against a tree.

"Shit," Stiles wheezes. "I can't tell if l'm like, outrageously delirious or the most rational I've ever been. My head feels like it's been in a blender, so it's probably the latter, right? Or, former, I dunno, which one means first?" He groans, tipping his forehead against the bark and squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck, this is why I try not to go more than half an hour without food."

Derek shakes his head, unable to stop himself from running a palm over Stiles' scalp.

"Shit, that feels so good. Do it again." Derek does, and Stiles pries one eye open. "Missed you, big guy. We need to stop meeting like this."

"You need to stop doing stupid self-sacrificing shit," he says firmly.

Stiles snorts. "Me? What about you, you are the most—"

Derek slaps a hand over his mouth. He tilts his head towards the sky, grinning when he hears the telltale signs of the Katanna's approach. Stiles slumps into Derek in relief.

"Oh thank god," Stiles says around Derek's fingers. "I had no idea where I was going with that argument."

+++

Kira doesn't land, but she does hover close enough to the ground that she can extend the ramp. Derek helps Stiles up, and the ramp slides closed behind them, the sublight engines whirring. The ship launches higher, finally taking them away from that shit of a planet, and it's the best thing that's happened to Derek in a long time.

Well, aside from… He looks at Stiles, leaning against the airlock door. Stiles is watching him—heart going crazy, hair stuck to his face, cheeks splotchy and red, lips wet and parted—and he looks so fucking beautiful Derek finds he can't hold back anymore.

Not only that, but he doesn't want to.

"We have about twenty seconds before Lydia gets here, and while I'm pretty sure she's just gonna yell at you, I can't decide whether to punch you or kiss you," Derek tells him honestly, finally.

Stiles' eyes widen. "Oh cool," he says, nodding rapidly. "Cool cool cool, cool. That gives me more than enough time to just—"

And then he goes boneless, 'fainting' right into Derek's arms just as Lydia comes charging around the corner.

+++

Lydia helps him settle Stiles in the infirmary of Kira's ship with minimal grumbling. Derek's pretty sure she's only holding back because she thinks Stiles is asleep. Stiles is actually pretty good at faking it, at letting his body go loose and malleable. His heartbeat and breathing are all wrong for someone who's supposedly unconscious, but Lydia can't tell.

They manoeuvre Stiles onto the bed and push him down, Lydia settling his head and Derek swinging his legs up and around. Derek takes off his tattered shoes and pulls the bedclothes up, tucking them just under his armpits. Lydia gently unclasps his wristwear and pockets it, before running her own over his body to scan his vitals.

"He's okay," she says, letting out a gusty breath.

"For the most part," Derek agrees.

"Thank you," she says, not looking at him. She taps at her watch some more.

"You too," he says.

She nods sharply, gives Stiles one last look, then leaves the room, letting the door slide shut behind her.

Derek drags a chair closer and settles into it. He crosses his arms, stretches his feet out and watches Stiles' face. His eyes move too fast under his eyelids and his fists clench and unclench restlessly. He's getting impatient.

Derek's just about to tell him to ditch the facade already when he finally pries one eye open and lets it focus on Derek.

"Why did you come back to rescue me?" he asks bluntly.

Derek blinks, wondering at the sense of deja vu. "It wasn't my idea."

"Bullshit. I know exactly who's behind all of this, and there's no way they'd make you do this if you didn't agree. So, Derek, why did you come back to rescue me?"

"Because you rescued me first."

"Nope." Stiles shakes his head. "We've saved each other a billion times by now, it's practically how we say hello, we're both comfortable with that. But that's while we're already in the field. Why didn't Scott just come?"

"Because Gerard would've suspected—" Derek tries again, and Stiles groans.

"Seriously, dude? Why can't you just tell me the fucking truth?" He throws himself back onto the pillows and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I know you can, you usually do, you're like the second-least tactful person on the Beacon, only behind me. Try again."

Derek pauses. He hates that he has to talk about this here, now, when Stiles smells like dirt and blood and pain. The fact that he's still wearing Derek's jacket helps a little, but he can't help wishing they were having this conversation in much more pleasant circumstances. "I didn't trust anyone else," he admits finally.

This time, Stiles doesn't argue but he does look a little confused. "You trust lots of people. You trust your sisters, and Scott and my dad. You trust Isaac, Erica, Boyd—"

Derek nods. "With my life."

"Just… not with mine," Stiles says steadily. His eyes search Derek's face, and Derek lets him look. Keeps his expressions open, and for once, lets someone really see. "I'm different."

"You're very different."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Wow, thanks for making that sound like an insult, big guy."

"It was. But it was also a compliment." He pauses, taking a moment to catalogue Stiles' reactions. He smells like… like he's tentatively pleased, if Derek is interpreting his complex mess of chemosignals right. Like the beginnings of hope. Derek ducks his head to make sure Stiles is looking at him, that he can see his meaningful smirk. "I'm great at multitasking."

Slowly, Stiles grins. "So…" he says slowly, leaning in, hand scooting closer so his fingertips brush Derek's arm. "You're cool that our first date has been spent flirting and stopping mad scientists from creating an evil army of supersoldiers that could potentially destroy the world?"

"Of course." He looks down and Stiles hand, shifting his own up so he can lace their fingers together. "I guess it's traditional to do something a little less life-threatening on a first date, but where's the fun in that?"

Stiles grins. He squeezes Derek's hand, and Derek holds on tight.

+++