Mark Silber didn't die.

More's the pity, Derek thinks as he watches his chest mechanically rise and fall from behind the glass in the hospital.

Stiles is down the hall, skin pale with a grey tone that makes Derek want to wrap his hands around Silber's throat and finish the job Stiles started.

I'm with you.

Stiles's voice had been distant back at Silber's place, hoarse and scared and Derek never wants to hear that tone of voice again. Stiles had curled his fingers into Derek's shirt and not let go until they were prised off him by doctors fawning at him. Stiles never liked being crowded, doesn't like being made a fuss of. Derek had wanted to shout at them, keep Stiles with him and patch him up himself. He wants to be there now, watching over Stiles, staring at the cut down his cheek willing the skin to knit together, to heal, to not scar even though he knows it will.

The scars on the inside will be worse though, Derek knows that, knows they will have to navigate through them with trepidation, but Derek also knows that no matter what Stiles says, they will navigate together.

Derek had a taste of not having Stiles in his life. He doesn't like it.

Stiles is floating. It's dark, safe, there's no Mark, no knives glinting in the semi darkness, no dank walls and thoughts that he might not see his dad again. Or Derek.

Derek.

Derek had been there, Stiles can remember feeling his hands on his shoulders, grounding him as Stiles wound his fingers around Derek's wrists. He can still remember those fingers wrapped around Mark's throat.

He's floating, but the sounds of the hospital are faint in the background of the black, a faint beeping, the quiet murmur of people and Stiles struggles against his own desire to stay where he is and his body's desire to wake.

"Stiles?" It's his dad's voice, concerned like Stiles hasn't heard it for a long time. Stiles blinks against the bright lights. "Turn the lights down," his dad says in his FBI voice, authoritative and it's instantly obeyed, the lights dimming to a brightness where Stiles can open his eyes. John swims in his vision, gradually clears and Stiles never wants to see his dad look like this again.

"Dad," Stiles tries, his voice is hoarse, and John reaches for the glass of water next to his bed, a straw rests against his bottom lip and Stiles takes a sip, cool water soothing his throat.

"Hey," John says, putting the water back on the table and patting Stiles's hand delicately. They don't do this, this touching like this and Stiles wants to turn his hand over and curl his fingers together with his father's, just hold on for a while whilst his body gets used to being awake. "How you feeling?" John asks and then makes a face that Stiles wants to laugh at. "Stupid question…"

"Fine," Stiles says, curling his fingers briefly and weakly around his father's before letting go before either of them get awkward.

"I want to ask you what you remember but I'm not going to yet, you need to rest," John stands and straightens out his FBI jacket. He looks tired and Stiles wants to berate him for not taking care of himself but he knows it will fall flat when Stiles is lying in a hospital bed.

"Just woke up," Stiles manages and his dad lets out a small laugh and reaches down to run his hand over Stiles's head.

"It's ok, kiddo."

"Derek?" Stiles asks as John opens the door. A blast of hospital noise reaches Stiles and he wants to wince at it, to block the noise out.

"I'll go get him." It sounds like placating, but Stiles doesn't care right now, he just needs to hear that Derek is here. That's all he needs.

Derek's worried face is in his mind as he drifts back to sleep.

"Why does he get help?" Derek hears himself ask as John slides into the space next to him. Derek's eyes are fixed on Mark's prone figure, the dark purple bruises forming around his throat and if he squints, Derek can see the way they match Stiles's hands perfectly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees John open his mouth to reply. "He doesn't deserve it."

"No," John says, after a moment of silence. "He doesn't. But we don't get to make that decision."

"I know," Derek runs his hands over his face and looks at John for the first time since they rescued Stiles. He looks tired, and suddenly he looks his age.

"Stiles was awake. Asking for you. I told him you were here, but he's asleep again," John looks down at his empty palm like he's expecting something to be there. He curls his fingers inwards and clenches his hand to a fist.

"Is he…" Derek trails off because of course he's not ok. John shakes his head gently.

"He's alive." John stands and looks down at Derek. "I don't know what's going on between you two…" he holds his hand up as Derek goes to say something, "and frankly I don't care. I'm not going to give you the 'not in work' speech. As long as you're both happy and you don't let it interfere…" he lets that bit hanging and Derek nods, swallows and looks up at him.

"I don't know either, to be honest," Derek admits and John nods, claps a hand on his shoulder briefly.

"I believe that whatever is between you two helped save him, Derek," John smiles ruefully, "do I need to give you the 'hurt him and I kill you' speech?"

Derek shakes his head and lets out a small laugh as he says "no," quietly.

"You should get some rest," is John's parting comment as he walks away.

The room is quiet when Stiles opens his eyes again, head thick and throat dry, cheek throbbing from the cut and the broken cheekbone. Only the quiet beeping from the machines breaks the silence. He lifts his shaking hand to the bandage on his cheek, fingers across the almost coarse material.

"Leave it," Derek's voice comes through the silence and Stiles jumps slightly, searches into the shadows in the corner of the room to see him sitting on a hard chair facing the bed. His hands are clamped around the arms, one ankle resting on the other knee. He rises stiffly, wincing as he pops his back and walks over to Stiles's bed. Stiles wants to smile at him, wants to kiss him, to curl up with Derek pressed to his back, comforting heat seeping in through his skin and warming him from the inside out. He blindly gropes for Derek's hand instead and Derek just runs his fingers across Stiles's knuckles before shoving his hands into his pockets and Stiles wants to cry suddenly.

"Hi," he tries and a flicker of a smile crosses Derek's lips briefly.

"I don't know if anyone has told you, but Silber's alive," the look on Derek's face tells Stiles he didn't want to say that but he felt he needed to, to allay Stiles's worry perhaps. Stiles shakes his head for lack of a better response. "We've got enough to process him once he wakes up. He'll go away Stiles. And Kate, she'll get her visitors privileges taken away, we can't punish her anymore but she'll…"

"Stop," Stiles mutters, pressing his fingers to his forehead and Derek bites on his bottom lip. "Just…"

"Stiles," Derek's still not looking at him and Stiles wants to scream at him.

"Look at me," he regrets it almost immediately when sympathy swims across Derek's face as he lifts his gaze to Stiles's eyes. "Is it really that bad?" Derek closes his eyes.

"It'll heal," Derek says in response and Stiles scoffs, his head pounding softly behind his eyes.

"Talk to me," Stiles can't keep the hint of pleading out of his tone and he reaches for Derek again, fingers curling slowly inwards as Derek doesn't move and Stiles lets his hand drop back to the bed.

"I need to get back to the station." Derek drops his head and toes at an imaginary scuff on the floor.

"Of course you do," Stiles hears himself say and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see Derek walk away from him.

"What is wrong with you?" Lydia asks as she hands Derek another coffee. He wraps his hands around the mug and tries to remember how many he's drunk today. He frowns up at her as her words slowly register.

"What?"

"Why aren't you with Stiles?" Lydia asks, sitting down across the table from him, Isaac looks up from his pile of papers but doesn't say anything and Scott's on the phone with Allison in the corner of room. He doesn't even flinch. Erica is off dealing with the Press, her pretty face and easy smile the best weapon against the vultures of the press.

"Lyds," Derek starts and she holds up a perfectly manicured finger and Derek often wonders how she keeps them so immaculate.

"Don't 'Lyds' me, why aren't you with him?" She arches an eyebrow over one green eye and Derek wants to squirm. Isaac clears his throat and looks back down at his papers. None of them are eager to leave, as Stiles is still in the hospital. The local Police have given them free reign of the station and with paper work still to do, it's the easy solution to stay until Stiles can at least travel without it being detrimental to his health.

"He needs rest," Derek hears himself say, pathetically and even Isaac snorts at that. Derek glares at him and Isaac pointedly ignores him, head seemingly buried in his papers.

"Bullshit," Lydia spits out and Derek frowns slightly. "He needs you, you big idiot. God, sometimes I swear it's like dealing with babies," she sighs heavily and dramatically.

"I don't know how to help him," Derek admits and Lydia's expression melts sympathetically and she reaches out to place a small hand over his.

"You know exactly what to do Derek, you've done it before with so many victims," she says and Derek shakes his head.

"Stiles isn't a victim," he replies and Lydia nods.

"He was…and he needs you to help him not be one anymore." Derek feels guilt bloom through his chest, the ugly taste of it at the back of his throat and he wants to vomit, wants to run until his legs and chest burn, until he remembers nothing except the feel of Stiles alive and whole under his hands.

"I keep seeing him broken," he admits quietly and Isaac flinches in his peripheral vision but doesn't say anything. Lydia nods again, as if forcing Derek to continue. "I look at him and I see him hurt and bleeding and it's my fault," he finishes helplessly. Lydia frowns and squeezes his hand.

"It's not your fault," she says and Derek shakes his head.

"He came here because of me, because he was worried about me, all of this Lyds, all of it is my fault."

"Stop it," Lydia raises her voice enough that Scott looks up from his phone call and Isaac looks up from his papers. "Stop it," she says again, quieter this time. "Don't do this to yourself, Derek. Don't take all the blame like you always do. Focus on Stiles because he's the priority here, not your own sense of guilt. So pull yourself together and do what you have to do to help him." She finishes, leaning back in her chair and glaring at Derek.

"How are you always right?" he asks trying to lighten the mood and Lydia shrugs, flicks her hair over her shoulder and takes a sip of her coffee.

"It's a gift," she smiles and Derek feels almost lighter suddenly.

Stiles is awake and up when Derek goes to see him late the next afternoon. He's movements are shaky, stiff from being confined to bed for days and his colour is slowly returning. There's a bruise of livid purple and red across his cheekbone, curling up around his eye and over the bridge of his nose. Luckily the break to his eye socket wasn't bad enough to warrant surgery but it no doubt hurts like a bitch and Derek winces as he watches him through the glass. The cut on his cheek has been left uncovered and it's an angry red line down his face. It's deep and even from here Derek can see the stitches marching down his skin. It'll scar but Derek knows it wont take anything away from Stiles's looks. As if he can feel Derek's thoughts, Stiles touches it gingerly with his finger tips and a look of disgust crosses his face as his fingers trail down from nearly at the corner of his eye to his jawline. Mercifully, it's neat enough that it hasn't pulled at the adjacent skin and the line of his face is still as heartbreakingly perfect as Derek thought it was before. Only now it wears the marks of proof that Stiles survived.

He knocks gently on the window and Stiles jumps, but turns and graces Derek with a tight smile as he sits back on the edge of his bed. Derek pushes the door open and is hit with the smell of antiseptic but underneath it there's iStiles/i.

"They say we can get out of here today," he says, going for something neutral and Derek wants to pull him close. He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods.

"I know, I spoke to…" he trails off, the nurse's name escaping him. Stiles lets out a knowing laugh and shifts his IV stand. The wheels squeak slightly.

"Barbara," he offers and Derek nods. "Not what I wanted in a nurse, but…" he shrugs and presses his hands to his broken ribs. Derek steps up to him, stands in front and Stiles looks up at him. "I missed you."

"I'm sorry," Derek says and reaches out, touches Stiles, cups his hand around his good cheek and Stiles presses his cheek to Derek's palm.

"You don't get to feel guilty, ok? You don't get to do your Soul Wolf thing and go all broody, you dick," Stiles smiles slightly but there's a heat behind his words that makes Derek smile despite the vehemence.

"I'm sorry," he says again and reaches his other hand down to run through Stiles's hair.

"This is the first time you've touched me since," he says and Derek feels the delicate bone of Stiles's skull beneath his fingers tips and he's all too aware of how little pressure it would take to break them. He wants to drag his hands away but he keeps them pressed to Stiles and leans down and presses their foreheads together.

"I'm sorry," he says one more time and Stiles curls his fingers around Derek's wrists.

"It's ok," Stiles presses his fingers to the veins in Derek's wrists, presses them in like he's trying to feel Derek's pulse. Derek lets out a shaky breath and Stiles steals it as he breathes in.

"It's not…I…"

"Hey," Stiles soothes and Derek wonders when this became about Stiles soothing Derek. He curls his fingers into Stiles's hair and breathes in. There's Stiles under the scent of medication, hospitals and the crude soap they use here, the earthy, real scent of Stiles, the one Derek woke up to embedded in his pillow only a few mornings ago. "I'm ok…scarred a little, but I'm ok." His self-depreciating laugh makes Derek smiles and he pulls back from Stiles, standing straight and moving to sit on the bed next to him.

"Chicks dig scars," he says and Stiles nudges his shoulder into Derek's.

"It's not chicks I'm trying to impress." Derek lifts Stiles's hand from his knee and turns it over, palm upwards and trails the tip of his index finger across the lines. Up the curving Life Line from the bottom centre, across the Head Line where it pauses briefly then draws back across the Heart Line, following it along where it curls up between his index and middle finger, then traces over the numerous branches from the Fate Line.

"I'm suitably impressed," Derek mutters, turning Stiles's hand back around and running his finger over the small bruise from the IV. "I have to go and see Kate."

"I thought you might," Stiles replies, turning his hand back over and curling his fingers around Derek's index finger. "I don't want you to."

"I didn't think you would," Derek says, curling his hand around as much as he can with Stiles's hand clamped around his index finger and covering Stiles's, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

"When are you going?" Stiles asks and Derek pulls his finger out from Stiles's practically vice like grip. He runs his hand over the back of Stiles's head once and leans forward to press a kiss to his temple.

"Now," he says it right against the skin and he can feel Stiles's pulse beat against his lips.

"And then we're getting out of here and going home?" Stiles sounds childishly hopeful that Derek smiles.

"Yeah, we're going home."

"I should be there with him," Stiles says, trying to shove his feet into his sneakers. It hurts to move that way so John sighs and sinks to his knees to shoe the sneakers on instead. Stiles grimaces but allows his dad to do this for him, at least for the time being. The cut on his cheek throbs and Stiles knows he looks like a mess right now with bruises still plain across the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbone. That hurts too, like a bitch, but if Stiles thinks hard enough he can almost imagine the bone knitting together so slowly under his skin and it fascinates him enough that it distracts from the pain for a while. His ribs only hurt when he breathes. But at least he's alive.

"No," John says, standing with a groan that wouldn't sound out of a place on a man of 95. "You shouldn't. What on earth do you think you would achieve by being there?"

"Something," Stiles grumbles childishly and John raises an eyebrow at him as he bunches his sweater together and holds the head hole open for Stiles. Stiles glares at it. "Really? You have to dress me now as well?"

"Unless you want to do it yourself with those broken ribs," John says and there's a hint of a smile on his lips. Stiles sticks his tongue out at him but John just advances with the sweater. He manages to get it over Stiles's head, and then it's just a matter of getting the arms in. It hurts, of course it does, but it's a hell of a lot better than doing it by himself, if slightly more embarrassing. John holds up Stiles's coat and Stiles groans.

"Urgh…kill me."

"He nearly did," John says quietly and Stiles instantly feels guilty. "Allow your dad some indulgence…I almost lost you," John looks up at him and Stiles wants to smack himself.

"Sorry," he mutters as John bunches up one arm and holds it out. Stiles puts his hand through it and John glances up.

"Thing is," John says almost conversationally as he bunches up the other arm and holds it out. Stiles eases his arm through the hole then pushes himself up from the bed, grunting with pain as his body protests. John pulls the jacket over his shoulders, leaves Stiles to fasten the zip. "You never stop worrying. Never. I guess one day you'll realise that."

"And it's worse with a kid like me right?" Stiles asks, grinning briefly and John smiles and pulls Stiles into a gentle, brief hug.

"The worst."

"You don't have to do this," Scott says and he pulls the SUV into the car park outside Beacon Hills Institute for the Criminally Insane. The building looks as mundane as when Derek last saw it but he knows what evil lurks inside it. He frowns at the front door.

"Yes I do," he says and Scott leans across and touches his shoulder. Scott is Stiles's best friend, his oldest friend but him and Derek haven't ever really been anything more than great colleagues. They're a great team, but not much more than that outside the office.

"He's my best friend," Scott says and it's not a warning, not a claim to Stiles like it could be, Derek gets what Scott is trying to say. "I can do it."

"She killed my family Scott, and she nearly killed my…" Derek trails off and Scott cocks his head to the side.

"Your what?"

"Stiles, she nearly killed Stiles," Scott sighs gently like he was expecting another answer but he nods and lets his hand fall from Derek's shoulder.

"Ok…let's go then."

"Where's Derek and Scott?" Stiles is seconded on the couch of the Jet, Isaac and Lydia next to him on either side. He's been instructed not to move under any circumstances and to ask Lydia when he needs the bathroom. She grins at him, all teeth and tiny immaculate danger and he sits and keeps he wills his bladder to control itself.

John looks up from his papers, "they're catching the next commercial flight down," he says and Stiles feels himself stiffen.

"Why?"

"They're talking to Kate," Isaac offers and Stiles feels his stomach churn with worry. He wants to argue, wants to shout at his dad for not telling him, and for not waiting. He wants to be there when Derek gets out, he wants to hug Derek. He wants Derek to help him forget he nearly strangled a man to death a few days ago. He keeps seeing Mark's surprised eyes bulging slightly when he shuts his own eyes and he knows Derek can make that go away. More importantly, he doesn't want Derek to be alone doing this.

"Scott's with him," Lydia pats his knee as if she can read his mind and to be honest Stiles wouldn't put it past her. He tries to get as comfortable as he can given the pain in his ribs. Lydia rests her head on his shoulder briefly and he's grateful for her comfort.

"I know…I just…" He tries lamely to explain and she nods, pats his knee again.

"That fact that you two are so hopelessly in love with each other should be cute but the fact that you can't tell each other is just pathetic," Lydia says whilst inspecting her nails. Isaac chokes but doesn't look up from his book and Stiles feels his jaw hit the floor.

"What?"

"Oh my God, Stiles, do I really have to spell it out to you?" She asks, pushing herself upright and straightening out her dress. John chokes down a laugh from the other side of the plane and Stiles feels his cheeks flame. He glares up at her. "What? Everyone knows, except obviously the two of you." She huffs and strolls off on impossibly high heels to the on board kitchen.

Stiles glares at the floor ignoring the bloom of pain in his chest and the realisation knotting his stomach.

Kate looks pleased with herself. It's a normal look on her face, Derek's come to realise, but now, knowing what he does about her, Derek hates it even more and can see the twisted malice behind it.

"Derek," she welcomes graciously. "I thought I was having my visitation privileges revoked?" Derek sits down in front of her, Scott to his left and he crosses his arms over his chest. Kate looks at him, to an outsider her expression would be blank, awaiting something to react to but to Derek it's calculating. "How's Stiles?" Scott shifts on his left and Derek continues to stare at her. She stares back. Derek wants to kill her, he wants to feel the life seep out of her, watch her eyes go dull. And he promises himself, as he watches her across the table, that if she ever escapes this place, he will do that. The clock on the wall ticks loudly whilst they study each other, seconds then minutes pass and he feels Scott get restless next to him. Kate's face changes, a hint of worry leaching in through the calculating.

"We've got Mark Silber," he says eventually and a flicker of isomething/i passes over her face. "He's in a coma…Stiles made sure of that." He adds with triumph and Kate's face twists with anger.

"I guess I underestimated him then," she replies, leaning back in her chair and masking her fury well.

"Stiles or Mark?" Derek asks and she shrugs.

"Both…Stiles especially. I thought he would go down easily. I hoped Mark would take matters into his own hands and squeeze the life out of him easily. I dreamed of your face when you found him, you know. How you would look with Stiles dead in your arms," she says and Derek bites down on the inside of his cheek.

"You are never get out of here, you understand? Never. You're never seeing anyone again except the people that work here. You are never allowed access to computers," he says, leaning forward and Kate mirrors him.

"You think that's punishment for me?" She asks and Derek nods once.

"Yes, no one to fawn over you, no one thinking you are a Goddess? Yes Kate, for you that's punishment." Kate's eyes narrow, her hands flatten against the table as she leans forward even more.

"I will destroy you…you hear me, Derek?" She says, her voice a little above a whisper.

"You've tried twice now…try harder next time." Derek stands and signals to the Porter who unlocks the door and stands aside as Scott walks through it.

"Derek…" Derek turns and Kate looks like she wants to launch herself across the table at him. "Say hi to Laura for me."

"Goodbye Kate."

The door closing and locking behind him has never sounded so liberating.

"You ok?" Scott asks as they slide back into the car. Derek looks down at his hands and tries to ignore the blood that seems to be indelibly marked on his palms. Blood from so many people that he couldn't help. He sighs and rubs his hands on his jeans.

"Yeah," he replies, looking up at the Institute. "Yeah, I'm good. Let's go home."