A/N: (No trigger warning for this chapter, read on with impunity. PS: do you guys like having author's notes at the beginning of every chapter or are they annoying/distracting/boring?)


Derek wouldn't tell Stiles the rest of his real name. He just kept repeating that Stiles didn't need to know, that it was none of his business, that he needed to stay out of it, without ever giving a satisfactory reason as to why. He didn't use the classified excuse again, though, which Stiles filed away for future reference. If it was actually some secret government conspiracy thing going on, then classified would probably be his go-to response to people not in-the-know. So he could cross legitimate government conspiracy off his list of possible explanations, for the moment at least.

Getting out of downtown was not easy. For one, Derek was still losing blood, though not nearly as much as he had been at first. Counteracting the serum suppressing his wolfiness had kicked up his healing just enough to slow the bleeding and get him back on his feet, but the bullet was still in there, shifting around whenever he moved and doing more damage, and he wasn't improving enough for Stiles' comfort. Their travel was understandably slow.

It didn't help that they had to actively avoid the first responders that were finally making it to the scene. It went against every instinct Stiles had to hide from the police sent to help them and to sneak past the ambulances and paramedics with a GSW on his hands, but after an hour or so he finally managed to get Derek to the parking garage where he had left his Jeep.

He wasn't happy about getting blood on the seats, but honestly it wouldn't be the first questionable stain and he was beyond caring at the moment. He checked his phone with one hand as he pulled out of the garage, heading down the most obscure back roads he could think of to get them to the right place while avoiding roadblocks and lingering police presence. He winced; he had seventeen missed calls and six texts from Scott, all demanding to know if he was okay, and two calls from his dad. He put off answering his dad—the Sheriff was not who he wanted to talk to while aiding and abetting a fugitive from his own department—but he sent a quick text to Scott letting him know he was alive and en route.

Scott was waiting for them on the stairs up to his second floor apartment by the time they pulled into the parking lot. He was pacing along the railing, looking very much like a caged lion instead of the wolf he was, and his hair was spiked up funny from all the times he'd run his fingers through it. Despite the half-worried, half-furious expression on his face, he managed to keep his mouth shut until Stiles had lugged Derek all the way into the apartment and the door was closed firmly behind them. Then—

"What the everloving fuck, Stiles?"

"I know, I know, I know," Stiles groaned, trying his best to lower Derek onto the couch carefully. He was a clumsy person by nature, though, and careful had never really been his forte. Derek did make it to the couch in one piece, but he was white-faced and decidedly unhappy upon landing.

"You go to a protest, get caught in a riot, don't answer your phone for two hours so I think you're dead, and then show up at my apartment covered in blood with a dude with a bullet hole in his stomach?" Scott said, and yeah, it sounded pretty bad when he listed it all out like that.

"I know, Scott, okay? It's fucked up, I get that! Trust me, I definitely get that," Stiles said with a mildly hysterical laugh. "But there are some extenuating circumstances and also a gunshot wound here that kinda requires some medical attention."

"So you come to me?"

"Who else do I know with medical training?"

"Oh, I don't know, Stiles, maybe someone at a hospital!"

Stiles rolled his eyes, then grabbed Scott by the arm and physically dragged him into the little semi-attached kitchen. He looked back at their guest and saw that he was frowning more heavily than usual as he watched them go; that lent credence to his theory that Derek's heightened werewolf hearing hadn't been restored yet either. He tugged a protesting Scott around so that Derek wouldn't be able to read their lips or anything and made a shushing gesture.

"Look, I'm sorry, Scott," he whispered. "I know this is crazy and all kinds of illegal and I shouldn't drag you into it, but there's something big going on here. I don't know what it is just yet, but it's something, and you know I can never resist an ambiguous something."

"You mean you can never resist figuring out what the something is," Scott said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking thoroughly disapproving. Luckily Stiles had had many years to immunize himself to that particular look, and it wasn't like he could deny the accusation when it was spot on.

"Best case scenario: he's a guy who just really wanted to serve and protect. A werewolf trying to follow his passion, just like you," he said, and just like that Scott started to melt, sympathy working its way past the anger until his crossed arms fell away and his shoulders slumped. "Worst case scenario," Stiles pressed on, "he's involved in some big werewolf rebellion, dedicating his life to the cause and fighting for a better future. And really, I would argue that that's not even a worst case anything considering the cause in question is near and dear to my heart and completely worth fighting for."

Scott huffed in exasperation, glancing over his shoulder at Derek. "And if that's really what it is?" he asked. "What are you going to do then?"

Stiles shrugged; he hadn't really thought that far ahead, at least not in any detailed sort of fashion. He was more of a broad picture kind of guy where the future was concerned. "Look, are you gonna help us or not?"

Scott maintained a glare for about four seconds before he caved, which was actually a long time for him to hold out against Stiles' best pleading face. He did punch Stiles pretty hard in the shoulder before he went to dig out his extensive first aid kit, though, but Stiles thought that was fair considering the circumstances.

"Go shower and change," Scott said as he lugged the kit back into the living room and laid it out on the coffee table. "You reek, and you're not gonna wanna watch this anyway."

Stiles considered protesting—he had grown out of his thing about blood years ago, he definitely wouldn't pass out now like he had when Scott got his tattoo—but the thought of a hot shower and clean clothes was enough to bring tears of gratitude to his eyes.

He heard the TV click on when he was halfway to Scott's tiny bathroom, volume turned up higher than it usually was. He didn't realize why until he had peeled off most of his layers: it was for the benefit of the neighbors, to cover up Derek's strangled scream of pain as Scott dug his fingers into the wound to get the bullet out. Stiles grimaced and turned on the water; he didn't particularly want to hear that either.

He used up an inordinate amount of Scott's body wash, resolving to buy him more at the earliest convenience, and scrubbed until his entire body was the pink of fresh, clean skin instead of red and brown and grey. Then he just let the hot water run for several more minutes, forehead pressed against the still-cool tiles as he just breathed. He didn't stay in there as long as he really wanted, mostly because he thought that he might have a breakdown if given the time to actually think about what had just happened in detail. Instead he turned off the water, toweled himself dry, and stole clothes from Scott's dresser that honestly might have been his at some point anyway.

Stiles emerged to find Scott washing his hands in the kitchen sink, pink suds flooding down the drain, and Derek shirtless, which was just not fair. Granted the shirtlessness was to give Scott access to the wound, but still, that sort of chiseled chest was just insulting. Blessedly, his abs were mostly obscured by a thick swath of white gauze wrapped tight around his middle. Derek had his head leaned back, long neck exposed in an oddly vulnerable position for a threatened were, and his eyes were closed. He still looked pale.

"Hey," Stiles said, quiet as he hip-checked Scott and made him splash water across what little counter space existed in the tiny kitchen. "How's he doing?"

"His healing is still slow," Scott murmured, frowning at Stiles as he snatched up a towel to clean up the counter. "There must have been some kind of wolfsbane in that serum to affect him so strongly for so long."

"But he is healing? He'll be okay eventually?"

"Yeah, he'll be fine. The question is," Scott said, lowering his voice even further, "what do we do with him in the meantime?"

Stiles bit his lip, his thumb tapping out a frantic rhythm against his thigh as some news station on the TV, turned down low now that the loud part of the medical procedure was finished, droned in the background. He was about to start listing options—he always thought better out loud, or at least written down and with copious visual aids—when Derek let out a snarl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and had Scott whining on instinct.

There was no threat that Stiles could see by the time he got to the end of the couch, no cops busting the door down or anything, but he followed Derek's alpha-red glare to the television. There was an old man on the screen, wrinkled and grey but with a commanding presence, and the byline was scrolling with info about the riot. Stiles fumbled for the remote and turned the volume back up again.

"...unfortunate incident, but it has been taken care of. The situation is contained and now the proper steps must be taken to ensure that no such thing is allowed to happen again."

The header said "Gerard Argent, Attorney General." Stiles had heard plenty about him, both from the press and from his granddaughter Allison, more than enough to know that he was a bigoted prick. That he blamed the weres for starting the riot was obvious, even if he hadn't stated it explicitly. It was enough to make Stiles a little sick to his stomach, and Scott looked ready to punch something, but Derek was something else. His eyes were still glowing and his fangs were dropped, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

The growling stopped as soon as the screen cut to someone else, even though that person was even more explicitly anti-were. Interesting.

Stiles might have commented on that, might have asked what it was about Gerard Argent specifically that set him off, but the obnoxious trill of his phone ringer beat him out. His dad's picture was up on the screen and Stiles groaned long and loud, aggravation and guilt duking it out over which got to make him feel more like shit.

"Dude, you haven't talked to your dad?" Scott asked, horrified.

"I was a little busy!" Stiles shot back with a flail in Derek's general direction; annoyingly enough, Derek was giving him a judgy face too, probably because he worked with Stiles' dad and knew how prone to worrying he was. "Plus! Dad was probably busy too with all the shit going down! I was gonna call him eventually, I swear."

"Well, answer it now before he starts seriously thinking you're dead!"

Stiles stamped his foot in a childish display of frustration that he thought he had earned by now, but swiped to pick up the call anyway. "Before you say anything else, I'm fine!"

"Jesus, kid, don't do that to me." His dad sounded tired and old, like he had aged ten years in the last three hours. Stiles winced; he hated making his dad sound like that. He had made an effort to cut down on the occasions when that tone was warranted but honestly there was only so much he could do to curb his own natural tendency toward getting into trouble.

"I know, dad, I'm sorry. I'm didn't even think to check my phone once I got out of the square." It was a lie, but only a little one and it was better than trying to explain his current situation. He wasn't sure if that would end in his dad arresting Derek and grounding Stiles for the rest of eternity, or if it would drag his dad into aiding and abetting a criminal, but both options were better off avoided.

"C'mon, Stiles, you gotta work with me here," the Sheriff said, the sound of papers rustling in the background as he worked with one hand and held the phone with the other. "I've got a dozen people in lockup who don't belong there, the riot squad captain using my ass as a chew toy, journalists breaking down my door, and a missing deputy; I don't need to be worrying about my wayward son too."

Stiles' mouth went dry. "Missing deputy?" He hoped he sounded appropriately worried and not like he was fishing for information. Derek looked up sharply and the tight clench of his jaw screamed frustration that he couldn't hear the other side of the call.

His dad sighed and Stiles could see in his mind the way he would be pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes. "No one's seen Garrison since the riot," he said. "He was on duty in the square, but he hasn't checked in and none of the hospitals have anyone matching his description. He's just gone."

"Wow," Stiles said. "No idea where he might be then?" He saw a lot of the tension leave Derek's shoulders, and the rest of it fled when Stiles echoed his dad's confirmation with a nod.

"Look, kid, can you come down to the station?" his dad asked. "Just so I can see you with my own two eyes? Make sure you're alright?"

Stiles smiled, his chest feeling warm and fuzzy in the way it always did when his dad broke through the tough cop exterior to just be his dad for a minute. "Yeah, I'll be by soon. Promise."

"You've got an hour to make it here," his dad said. "After that I've got a meeting set up that I can't get out of." Just by his tone, it was obvious that the meeting wouldn't be a good one. Stiles really hoped the blame for this whole thing wouldn't end up in his dad's lap, but that was a distinct possibility, and the fact that he couldn't do a damn thing to help grated on him.

"I'll be there." It was the least he could do. "Love you, dad."

"You too, kiddo."

Stiles hung up and turned decisively to face Derek, who actually looked the tiniest bit intimidated by the sheer determination he was sure was on his face. "Alright, I've got less than an hour to figure out what the hell you're up to."

Derek bristled. "It's none of your damn business what I'm up to," he snapped.

"Considering that you're breaking the law, making my dad look like a fool, and bleeding all over my best friend's couch—" Stiles counted them off on his fingers, face screwed up in an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. "—I think maybe it is a little bit. I saved your life, now I want in on whatever long game you're running."

"How do you know you want in if you don't know what the game is?"

Stiles looked at him long and hard, eyes narrowed as he thought over everything he knew of this man, of Deputy Michael Garrison. His dad spoke highly of him, said he was one of the best, and Sheriff Stilinski was not an easy man to impress. Stiles had seen the deputy at the station, working late into the night on one case or another, refusing to go home until it was closed. For fuck's sake, Stiles had seen the man literally rescue a kitten from a tree once. Whatever he was, werewolf or fugitive or whatnot, he was a good man. And that was more than enough for now.

"Call me nosy, if you want," was what Stiles ended up saying instead. "I've always wanted to be part of an underground rebellion. Always said I'd make a great secret agent. Can I go undercover next?"

Derek opened his mouth, the scowl on his face foreshadowing a diatribe of epic proportions, but he didn't get the chance to say anything. Scott's head whipped up, wide eyes aimed at the door, and he let out a noise of distress. Stiles knew that face; that was the caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar-before-dinner face but with an extra dash of panic that was far from reassuring. Scott only made it halfway to the door before it opened.

Allison came in juggling two bags of takeout, her phone, purse, and keys, too busy focusing on her hands to look up and see what she had walked in on. "Scott!" she said. "I got chinese, since you didn't answer my text about wh—"

She dropped everything she was holding and also screamed a little bit. Probably because the tan couch had very dark but still obviously red blood stains on it. But also maybe because Derek was snarling again, eyes redder than the blood, even more wolfed out than he had been at the TV a few minutes ago.

"Whoa, dude!" Stiles said, instinctively stepping between him and Allison, hands raised as if that would do any good in fending off an alpha werewolf in a rage. Then Scott was growling too, wolfed out and falling into a protective stance in front of Allison, who might have screamed again because she didn't even know that Scott was a were, and honestly this was devolving far too quickly for Stiles' liking.

"Hey!" he yelled, loud enough to get everyone's attention onto him instead of each other, since obviously that was only exacerbating the situation. "You," he said, pointing what he hoped was an authoritative finger at Derek, "sit the fuck down and knock it off. You!" Pointing at Scott this time. "Take her in there and tell her everything. It's about time anyway."

There were several more very tense seconds of aggressive posturing from the werewolves, Scott unwilling to back down until he was certain that Allison was safe and Derek still incensed for some completely unknown reason. Then Derek blinked and the red was gone. He slumped back against the couch again, still breathing hard but shifting back to his fully human face. At a shooing motion from Stiles, Scott took a stunned Allison by the hand and tugged her into his bedroom, shutting the door behind them and leaving Stiles and Derek alone.

Stiles just stared at him for a minute, raising his arms out to the sides in a universal what the fuck gesture, and said, "Dude!"

"Don't call me that," Derek said, as if he had any right to dictate the terms of the present discussion.

"What the hell was that?" Stiles asked, completely ignoring him. "Where do you get off practically attacking Scott's girlfriend?"

That got another growl out of Derek, thankfully without all the shifting and unnecessary aggression. "He's dating her?" Derek spat. "Is he out of his mind? She's an Argent!"

"Okay, how did you even know that?" Stiles demanded.

Derek's nostrils flared and his eyes flicked back to the closed door Allison had disappeared behind. It had to be a scent thing then, something about her smell that marked her as an Argent. Stiles tried to smell it himself, but all he got was a faint whiff of something flowery, some sort of perfume. It wasn't exactly offensive to his nose, but apparently to Derek's it was damning.

"Doesn't he know what that family does to people like us?" Derek asked, skipping over Stiles' question.

"Yeah, he knows pretty well," Stiles said. Scott knew better than anyone how bigoted the Argents as a whole were. He'd had to listen to Allison lament her ultra-conservative relatives on a regular basis, and Stiles had had to listen to Scott panic over the fact that Allison's family would never be able to accept them. That's why Scott had put off the conversation he was having right now for as long as he had; he didn't want to know what her father would do if he ever found out, and Stiles wasn't keen on imagining it either. "And he also knows that Allison's not like the rest of her family."

Derek scoffed, a dismissive noise full of disgust and disdain. "Please," he said. "Did she tell him that?"

"She didn't have to."

"They're all the same," Derek insisted. "Liars and specists and—" He cut himself off abruptly, jaw clenching as he looked away. It looked like he was struggling to control himself, to keep from wolfing out again, and Stiles stared a bit more.

This was not a normal reaction. Stiles knew a lot of weres, Scott and Erica and Isaac and Boyd and plenty more, and he had seen them all face some sort of anti-were prejudice. Erica and Boyd had been the victims of violent hate crimes because of what they were, Isaac faced harassment on a regular basis, and every one of them had had their job opportunities severely curtailed. And yet none of them had this visceral of a response, and certainly not focused on one particular family, triggered by nothing more than a specific scent.

"Allison's a good person," Stiles said, softly now; Derek's obvious distress, covered as it was by anger and aggression, had taken the wind out of his indignant sails pretty efficiently. "She is," he repeated when Derek gave a jerk of his head in denial. "We've been friends for years. I know her, and I know she doesn't share her family's views. She would've been at the rally with me if she didn't think she'd be disinherited and thrown out of the house for it."

Derek was looking at him now, eyes trained not on his face but on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat, Stiles realized, though he was obviously still straining with his weakened senses.

"You trust her?" he asked, voice hoarse from all the growling.

There was something about the intensity in his gaze, the way he was searching so hard for any hint of a lie, that made Stiles' heart race, though thankfully it was steady. It stayed steady as Stiles said, "Yes, I do," and Derek's eyes met his. After a long and torturous minute full of that same x-ray-ing sensation from back in the alleyway, Derek nodded.

Having apparently made the decision to trust Stiles—tentatively, at least where Allison's loyalties were concerned—Derek all but collapsed again, hands fluttering uselessly over his bandages as his head fell back. Now that the anger had fled, he radiated exhaustion, and Stiles suspected it wasn't just the physical kind.

Slowly, cautiously, Stiles edged closer until he could lower himself into the ratty armchair Scott had picked up for ten dollars at a sketchy consignment store. The ancient springs squeaked under his weight and Stiles flinched, waiting to see if it would set Derek off on another rage or something. Instead Derek snorted softly, a weary sort of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth, and Stiles decided he was safe for the moment.

The coast being clear was always Stiles' cue to push the boundaries. "So are you gonna tell me what your mission is?"

Derek sighed, but he didn't open his eyes this time, apparently too tired to get angry yet again. "You don't need to know," he said.

Stiles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "If there's something going on," he said, "something important, then I can help. Whatever this mission is—"

"It's not some big important thing, Stiles," Derek said. "It's personal. And it's too dangerous for you to get involved."

Stiles bit his lip, brow furrowed as his thoughts chased each other around in his head. He traced the line of Derek's profile, the jut of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbone. He lingered on the creases around his eyes and the dark shadows beneath them, on the pale expanse of his bared throat and the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallowed. He said, "Just because it's personal doesn't mean it's not important."

Derek turned to look at him then, his own eyebrows pulled down in consideration, or maybe it was confusion. He didn't say anything and Stiles let him look his fill, hoping Derek found whatever he was looking for in his expression. After a few moments, something of the tightness in Derek's expression eased, almost imperceptible but drawing a small smile onto Stiles' face anyway.

"So you're not gonna claw Allison's face off, are you?" he asked, reasonably confident that he wouldn't get mauled for making the joke now.

Derek gave another of those snorts, because apparently he was above laughing like a normal person, and rolled his eyes. Stiles rolled his right back, exaggerated so that his entire head followed the motion, and sat back in his seat to kick his feet up on the coffee table like Scott always told him not to. He glanced at the still-closed door. He hadn't heard any shouting, and he had kind of been expecting shouting. He bit his lip again, gnawing on it as guilt curdled his stomach again.

"I really hope they're okay," he muttered. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if his reckless decision to bring Scott into this mess cost his best friend the love of his life.

Derek laughed—a real laugh this time, with vocalization and everything!—and said, "I think they'll be fine. It sounds like they're sucking face now, anyway."

Stiles gaped at him in shock, adding in a little flail for emphasis on just how shocked he was. "Dude! 'Sucking face,' really? How old are you?"

"I'm only twenty-four!" Derek said, actually sounding a bit offended.

"Right, sure, whatever, grandpa."

Derek put one of the couch's mismatched throw-pillows to good use by actually throwing it at him. Stiles threw it back, minorly outraged, but Derek caught it before it connected with a smug smirk on his face. Stiles was looking around for something else he could throw, grumbling under his breath about stupid old deputies and annoyingly good werewolf reflexes, when the door to Scott's room finally re-opened.

Allison still looked a bit nervous, but Scott had her hand firmly in his and she followed him into the living room willingly enough. Derek shifted into a more upright position on the couch as if he might still be preparing himself to attack, or maybe to run. He grimaced when he sniffed the air, a shadow of the anger returning before he could push it back down with a shake of his head.

Allison bit her lip, unsure, and then shook off Scott's hand to step forward with her head held high. "I'm Allison," she said, firm and determined. "I don't agree with my family on pretty much anything, and I'm sorry that people like them exist to make life more difficult for you. Also, I'm sorry I sort of shrieked when I came in and saw you; Scott said it hurt his ears."

Derek's eyebrows rose, any lingering anger overridden by surprise. "Um. Thanks?"

Stiles bit back a snort of his own.

"I won't tell anyone you're here," Allison offered. "I have no interest in getting anyone in trouble, especially not for stupid laws that shouldn't be on the books to start with." She smiled, bright white teeth and dimples and all, and Derek's eyebrows slid up another centimeter or so, in danger of disappearing into his hairline. "If you need anything, help or supplies or a ride out of town or whatever, I'm available."

Derek opened his mouth but no sound came out, apparently too stunned to speak. Stiles chuckled under his breath and dug his phone out of his pocket because if he looked at the comically shocked expression on Derek's face for a second longer he was going to burst out laughing and someone in the room would probably hit him for it. The time stared at him accusingly from the lockscreen, though, and he cursed.

"Touching as this Kodak moment is," he said, "I've got somewhere to be and it's time sensitive." He had fifteen minutes to get to the station before his dad had his meeting and it would take him six minutes to drive there. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, feeling every sore muscle all over his abused body pull and twinge with the movement, various bruises making themselves emphatically known.

"I'll get out of your hair," Allison said easily, grabbing her keys and purse from where she'd dropped them and checking the takeout bags to see if the food was ruined. Apparently she deemed them acceptable, because she put them on the coffee table in front of Derek with another blinding smile. "You're welcome to these, if you want. I don't mind."

Stiles turned away from them, though he made another mental note at how blatantly taken aback Derek was that Allison was being nice to him instead of driving ring daggers into his kidneys or whatever else it was he expected Argents to do, and said to Scott, "Is it okay if I leave him here for a while? He could probably use, like, a six hour nap anyway, so it's not like you need to entertain."

"I have to get to work soon," Scott said, running fingers through his hair and leaving it sticking up all over the place. Allison reached out to smooth it down again with a tsking noise.

"I'll just go," Derek said, trying to lever himself off the couch. He made it halfway to his feet, face twisted in pain, before Stiles and Scott each had a hand on one of his shoulders, pushing him back down again.

"Oh no you don't, you're not going anywhere," Stiles said in his best imitation of his dad's I'm-the-Sheriff-don't-contradict-me tone. Apparently it didn't come across well because everyone in the room rolled their eyes at him, which he thought was a little rude.

"Look," Scott said to Derek. "If I leave you alone here for a while, do you promise not to steal anything or whatever?"

"Scott, dude, he's an officer of the law!" Stiles protested. Then he remembered the whole werewolf thing and the whole fake identity thing and the whole fugitive from the law thing and he shrugged. "Well, sort of."

Derek glared at him, obviously knowing the turn his thoughts had taken and not appreciating it, before turning back to Scott with an impatient sort of smile. "I won't steal any of your shit," he said. "Not that there's anything worth stealing."

Scott ignored that last bit, just grabbing his jacket off the rickety mess of a coat rack he insisting on having. "Your healing should keep accelerating as you metabolize what's left of the serum in your bloodstream" he said as he pulled it on. "Get some sleep and you should be fine before too long."

"And after that, if you need help getting out of the city or whatever," Stiles said, ignoring the way his stomach flipped over funny at the prospect that Derek might leave and never come back, taking his danger and intrigue and disconcertingly intense eyes with him, "I've got a police scanner in my jeep. Very good for, you know, evasion...and...stuff."

He trailed off at the highly judgmental look Derek was giving him, a reminder that, for however long, he had been a real cop and he did not approve of how ready and prepared Stiles was for this particular eventuality.

"Okay, we'll just leave you to your convalescence," he said, shoving his feet into his unfortunately still blood-splattered shoes, snatching up his keys, and following Scott and Allison to the door. He turned back at the last minute. "Oh hey! How would you feel about giving me your login because of reasons?"

Derek frowned. "My what?"

"Your login," Stiles repeated. "You know, at the station."

"Why?" Derek asked, highly suspicious.

Stiles shrugged, trying to exude innocence, or at least harmlessness. "So I can check some things, be fully informed on the stuff dad doesn't want to tell me. Knowledge is power, you know." Derek didn't looked convinced, which was understandable considering it only qualified as truth by the loosest of criteria. "I could just use my dad's, but he always notices when I do that. Yours would be a lot less conspicuous, and I'm kinda hoping to keep a low profile here."

Finally Derek groaned and said, "Fine." He rattled off his username and password with one more dirty look for good measure, which Stiles was too busy fist-pumping the air to notice. Maybe now he could get some real answers, since Derek had been less than forthcoming so far. He didn't need Derek's cooperation to figure out what was going on, just some good old-fashioned detective work of his own. He had methods.


Trigger warning: None