Of course, Stiles calls Derek as soon as he can and leaves a voicemail informing him that, as part of his super cool new FBI internship, he’s going to be investigating him for murder.
“Also, you still run funny. Okay, bye!”
And of course Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when, two days later, he comes home from the third day of his internship to find the unidentified “mass murderer” in his cheap efficiency studio, lounging on his second-hand couch, reading his Criminal Profiling textbook.
“Seriously, dude?” He yelps, dropping his messenger bag on his foot. “I thought you had grown out of your bedroom creeper ways.”
“Being framed for murder brings it out in me,” Derek replies dryly, snapping the book shut. He stands up, strides toward him, and pushes the heavy book into Stiles’ chest. “And I don’t run funny.”
Derek has an honest-to-goodness beard now. With some gray hair. He looks much older than he does in the video the FBI has, and Stiles wonders if he would have recognized him if he didn’t know him so well.
They’re sitting across from each other at the tiny craigslist table that serves as Stiles’ desk, updating each other on what they know of the investigation into the “bizarrely feral unsub in the wilderness of North Carolina,” aided significantly by the classified files that Stiles snuck out of the office yesterday.
Their knees keep bumping, and each time they do, their eyes lock for a quick second before they awkwardly shift away. Stiles loosens his tie and pushes the rolled-up sleeves of his buttondown shirt up his forearms, feeling hyperaware of Derek watching him, his still-ridiculous eyebrows bunching together. It’s kinda wild, really, just how familiar the swoop of nervous excitement in his stomach feels, along with the warmth spreading across his cheeks.
“I’m starving,” he says, hoping Derek isn’t paying too much attention to his heartbeat. “We should order some food.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, all serious-like, while they’re eating pizza.
“Derek,” he answers, aping his tone.
“For harboring your fugitive ass again? No problem, big guy.”
“For believing me. You didn’t question me when I said I was framed. You didn’t ask me if I did all the things they said.”
For a moment, Stiles is confused. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him to question Derek’s innocence. “You are a lot of things, Derek, but a mass murderer is not one of them. It never even crossed my mind that you might be guilty.”
Derek pauses and looks down at his plate for a moment. “I know that you’re risking a lot for me, again. It…it means a lot, is all I’m trying to say.”
He’s looking at him with a familiar unguarded expression, that mix of awestruck understanding and something else that has always made Stiles’ heart race and his stomach drop. “Hey,” Stiles shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s what I do, right?
Derek smiles softly, dipping his chin down while looking up at him from under his lashes. “Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”
A bit after midnight, Stiles starts to yawn.
“You should sleep,” Derek says, closing the file he’s been reading.
Stiles nods. “I do have to get up early for another day of trying to figure out how to get you off.”
Derek levels him with a silent glare.
“Trying to figure out how to exonerate you,” Stiles sputters, cheeks on fire.
“Derek, you’re wanted by the FBI. Do you really think you should be wandering around Quantico?”
“I can take care of myself, Stiles.”
“Yeah well, aren’t you here because you know you don’t have to take care of everything by yourself? Let me help you, okay?”
He stares at him for a long time before he answers. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, that’s barely more than a loveseat and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. There’s plenty of room for both of us in the bed.”
Derek watches him like he’s trying to puzzle something out; he looks over at Stiles’ cheap couch, then at the comparatively spacious queen size bed in the corner. “Fine.”
Derek borrows sleep clothes, and Stiles tries not to let it show all over his face, what it does to him to see Derek in his baggy sweatpants and threadbare white t-shirt that’s a little too tight.
He switches off the lights and they lie in bed facing away from each other, each huddling close to their respective edge of the bed. Stiles has no idea how’s he going to sleep - he’s been imagining him in his bed for years now, but he never thought it would happen with Derek as a federally wanted fugitive just as he starts his FBI training.
In hindsight, he supposes, he probably should have figured something like this would happen, given the general fuckery of their lives.
But he finds that, despite the risks he’s taking and the danger they’re in, he’s happy Derek is here. Thrilled, actually. He’s missed him since the day he left Beacon Hills, even though he refused to admit it for a long time, scared about what his longing might mean.
And no matter how messed up everything is right now, it feels right that Derek is here, and he’s grateful to him for that, reassured that they’ll figure this out together.
He rolls over. There’s enough moonlight from the window that Stiles can see the strong lines of his back, can track the muscled curves of his arm with his arms and wonder what it would be like to touch him.
“Derek,” he says quietly.
Derek rolls over to face him, bringing him closer to the middle of the bed, which suddenly feels much smaller. “For putting you at risk again because people can’t seem to stop wanting me dead?”
“For trusting me.” Stiles shifts so he can see him better. “For trusting me to help you. It means a lot to me too, that you’d come to me for help. I’m glad you’re here.”
Derek studies him for a long time, like he’s trying to decide something; even though it’s mostly dark, he knows Derek can see him perfectly with his damned wolf eyes, and it makes Stiles feel exposed and vulnerable.
Eventually, Derek slowly moves his hand to the center of the bed, palm up in a silent, gentle invitation.
Stiles accepts, slides his hand into his. Their fingers intertwine, fitting together perfectly. Derek’s hand is warm and strong, his touch amplifying the feelings of relief and calm that his presence brings. Stiles is rapidly realizing that he just might need this, might need Derek, and it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
And, judging the by way Derek’s stern expression eases in to calm repose, and the way his body visibly relaxes, he feels it too, and Stiles smiles, holds his hand tighter.
They fall asleep like that, anchored.
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