AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. Warning! This chapter contains a moment of anti-gay language and violence.

Derek awoke a few hours later. The sun was higher now and his wolf eyes squinted in the brightness. He crouched and surreptitiously looked out at the scenery passing by from his vantage point on the flatbed. There seemed to be far less desert and a lot more city. As he looked around, a sign flew by, welcoming him to the outskirts of Reno, Nevada.

He was nearly there.

The truck was slowing down for a mandatory weight check. As it barreled onto the scale, Derek made his move. He leaped dramatically from the bed of the truck and could practically feel the shock and amazement of the passing motorists. The truck driver screeched in terror and nearly crashed on the scale, but he took no notice of any of that. He just ran west, harder than he'd ever run in his life. He reveled in the feeling of his muscles moving and the feeling of hard mountain soil beneath his paws. Dirt and pine needles flew behind him as he ran.

"Stiles," he panted. "I'm coming for you, Stiles."

That evening found Stiles sitting the same wooden chair in the basement of the Hale house. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were tied to the wooden legs. Despite this, Stiles still stared at Peter with hatred and anger. Even though his ribs were cracked, and his lip and eyebrow were bleeding, and his diaphragm struggled for every breath in pain and panic, he looked directly into Peter's eyes without flinching. He was starting to make Boyd, who had watched on from the staircase, nervous for the young man and his act of defiance.

"Maybe you'll have to give up on this one, Peter." He was only half-joking.

Peter wiped his face with a handkerchief. Stiles dully wondered who even carried handkerchiefs anymore. "I never give up on anyone, Boyd." Though he was attempting to be mild and unconcerned, Stiles was proud of the undercurrent of frustration beneath the man's voice. "I didn't give up on you, did I?"

Stiles coughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the cement floor. "You really should give up on me," he said. He smiled, and his teeth were red. "Come on, man, you don't want my hyperactive little ass in your pack."

Peter growled softly. There were definite notes of frustration hidden in it. He pocketed his handkerchief and without warning slapped Stiles across the face. It rang out clearly in the dark basement and Stiles felt his lip slip open again.

"All you have to do is say yes, Mr. Stilinski," Peter said. "Your injuries will heal. You'll have super powers, just like in those comics I know you love to read."

Stiles spit again. He glared at Peter and seethed, "You didn't touch my comics at my dad's house, did you? Those are worth a fucking fortune."

Boyd chuckled from his seat on the stairs. "What do you have?"

Stiles leaned around Peter and answered, "I have a mint copy of The Amazing Spiderman #1. Street value: over $80,000." He smirked smugly as Boyd's jaw dropped.

"Seriously?" Boyd made to stand but Peter snarled at him with pulsing red eyes. He faltered and sat, eyes downcast.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and flared his nostrils. "Mr. Stilinski -"

"You know," Stiles grinned, "if you want to put your mouth on me, you might as well call me Stiles."

A fist landed in his gut, cutting off his air and making him cough and wheeze violently. As he choked, Peter thwacked him in the nose. From a normal person it might have only stung, but from a werewolf it was an instant bloody nose, possibly a break. Stiles grunted in pain, blood dripping down over his lips. He thought it must be broken. Peter bent over to look him in the eye while he struggled for breath. "I think you're just wasting my time, Mr. Stilinski," he murmured. "What are you stalling for?"

Stiles groaned and leaned back in the chair. His head was ringing, but when he opened his eyes and looked back at Peter his voice was surprisingly steady. "I'm waiting for Derek. Or for you to kill me. One or the other."

Peter growled and shoved against Stiles' chest. Stiles could only brace himself for impact as he fell against the floor. He shouted out when he landed on his sprained wrist, which broke instantly underneath him. A heavy booted foot rested on his chest. Stiles looked up to Peter's face, still challenging him through his pain. Boyd was standing, eyes yellow, ready and waiting.

"He is not coming," Peter hissed. "Boyd killed him."

"Boyd said he might have survived," Stiles grunted through the blood flow.

Peter rolled his eyes and gave Boyd an angry look. "It's possible. The moon exploding is possible. Let's do a little math, shall we?"

His booted foot moved and Stiles was suddenly flung the right way up. Peter paced in front of him, tapping his fingers.

"Boyd picked you up around ten, right? Let's say it took Derek an hour to heal. Just for argument's sake. So Derek started on his trek at eleven. Now werewolves are fast, faster than a regular wolf, and we have greater stamina. But then," and he smirked at Stiles, "you must know that by now."

Stiles spat at him again, deliberately aiming for his shoes.

Peter wiped his boot on Stiles' dirty jeans. "Boyd found you about nine hundred miles away. Isn't that right, Boyd?" He called to his beta, who nodded.

"So, a wolf running non stop at around 45 miles per hour -"

"Twenty hours." Stiles whispered.

Peter slapped the back of his head. "Sorry, Mr. Stilinski," he said loudly, "I didn't catch that."

Stiles coughed again. "He'd be here in twenty hours."

"Good job, Mr. Stilinski. You win this portion of the contest! Boyd, tell him what he's won!"

"Not dying just yet," Boyd quipped.

"But!" Peter stopped his pacing. "For all his innumerable faults, my nephew is smart. He wouldn't run all the way here. That'd be suicide! And he wouldn't risk himself for a pathetic piece of shit like you," he added maliciously.

Stiles bit back a bitter laugh. "You want me."

"No," Peter corrected, "I want to break you. Then I'm going to bite you. But where was I? Oh, yes. Derek would never run all the way. He'd steal another car, hitch a ride, something, anything to get here faster, right?"

He leaned inches away from Stiles' face. "Right?" He questioned again, his eyes tinting red.

Stiles refused to answer. For the first time, he looked away from Peter and down at the floor. He had been thinking similar thoughts for hours. It had already been twenty hours since Stiles had been kidnapped. So where was Derek?

Please be dead. Don't come after me. Run away, Derek, far far away.

"So where is your precious fucking hero?" Peter whispered viciously in his ear. "He either doesn't want you, or he's dead. Which scenario would you prefer?"

A lone wolf's howl wailed in the distance.

Peter looked up, totally disbelieving. Stiles could only sag into the chair, a relieved smile spreading across his face.

Derek had never been so tired. Every movement burned as he ran, and not even his werewolf healing could keep up. The disgusting burger he'd eaten had long since been burned away for fuel, and he'd only stopped for water once, somewhere in the Plumas National Forest.

His entire being wanted to drop and sleep for days. He very nearly did, and even began to slow down.

Then he caught the scent.

It was so faint, it hardly even existed anymore. It had been left at high speed, leaking out of a barely cracked window. But it was there.

Derek did stop then. He lowered his head to the ground, sniffing once, twice, just to be sure. He had to be absolutely sure. His trembling muscles and sickened heart depended on it.

He stepped forward, scenting the air. Took another step, another sniff.

Stiles.

He took off again, faster than ever. His muscles screamed and healed and screamed again, but he only lengthened his stride as the scent continued to get stronger. Soon he began to recognize patches of the forest; once he had run here, carefree, with his family. The memories only provoked him further.

Derek howled into the darkening sky. Peter and his beta would find him soon, he knew. He would have to fight, but before he fought for his life, he wanted Stiles to hear him. He wanted him to hear, even if Stiles couldn't understand the language, that he had come for him, had crossed mountains and deserts and suffered for him.

Because he loved him.

Already he could smell the burnt remains of his house, though he was still about a mile away. Crashes echoed in the forest and Derek heard Peter before he saw him. The hulking alpha, in a tangle of dark fur and sharp claws, collided with him, slamming them both into a tree. Dizzy from the impact, Derek saw the werewolf who had killed him, crouched some feet away from them. He was still half-human and snarling savagely.

Peter transformed back into his human form easily, his stark nakedness completely ignored. "You're very nearly shy of your deadline, nephew," he chided, as though Derek were seven years old again and had done poorly on an assignment. "I thought you would be here much earlier."

Derek whined. His shoulder felt broken and wasn't starting to heal yet; whether he was so exhausted he couldn't heal or whether it was because an alpha had injured him, he didn't know. Either way, he lurched to his feet and growled malevolently. He could smell Stiles' blood on Peter's hands.

He was so exhausted he didn't even smell the tranquilizer dart before it hit him in the chest.

Derek sagged limply into wolfsbane infused handcuffs. He was tied to a rickety wooden chair in the middle of what had been his family's living room. Someone had given him sweatpants. How thoughtful. Dimly he counted the heartbeats in the house, something his mother had always taught him to do. One, definitely Peter. Two, calm and collected. Three, erratic, afraid, elated. Stiles.

Peter appeared in his line of sight, fully and impeccably clothed again, as thought he hadn't just romped in the woods. "Good, you're awake. That wasn't even a particularly large dose; you must have been exhausted." His tone was condescending.

Derek growled low in his chest and glared. Peter took one look at him and burst out laughing. "My God, you two are perfect for each other. You even glare alike."

"He learned from the best," Derek grumbled.

Peter laughed again. "He's downstairs, as I'm sure you can hear. Safe and sound."

The blood Derek could smell reeking from the basement said otherwise. "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

"Because I promised you I wouldn't if you got here by tonight, and here you are." Peter spread his arms, gesturing widely. "And I always keep my promises."

"Bullshit," Derek grunted. His chest hurt from being body checked into a tree. "You always promised Mom you'd give us dinner before dessert and you never did."

"That was a long time ago, Derek." His uncle's face looked hard and closed. "We must think of the future. Speaking of which, I have a proposition for you."

Derek only glared at him harder.

"I'm going to give you two choices. One choice lets you and Mr. Stilinski live. The other kills you both." Peter held up two fingers to Derek's face. He tried to bite him, but Peter only smiled tightly. "The first choice," and he dropped one finger, "is where you accept me as your alpha, stop this silly little defection, and join me. We fake Mr. Stilinski's death to appease the CIA, you apologize to Mr. Cross, and everything is right as rain. I'll even bite him." Peter smiled wolfishly at Derek's sudden snap to attention. "And you two can continue your little clandestine love affair. But you both will submit to me."

"What do you want?"

"Power, Derek." Peter's eyes took on a similar dark look Derek had seen on Stiles' face the last time they'd been together. While Stiles' meant a lust for him, Peter's was a lust for power. Suddenly he understood everything.

He drooped against the chair, the wind completely knocked out of him. "You killed everyone because you wanted to be the alpha instead of Mom."

Peter threw his hands up in the air. He didn't bother denying it. "She was four fucking minutes older than me! It should have been me! Instead I was relegated to being a babysitter for her sniveling pups and you, you fucking faggot," he suddenly grabbed Derek's chin, forcing him to look him in his red eyes, "were the worst of them all. Laura and Cora were supposed to survive. Not you. Never you!"

Derek was propelled backwards, the chair leaving skidmarks against the charred wooden floor. He gaped at Peter, still trying to process this unfathomable information. "What about Kate?"

"She was a pawn, just like you," Peter responded roughly. "Just a way to get inside. She just did her job a little too well."

He turned and jabbed a finger into Derek's bare chest. The cut left behind by his extended claw immediately began to coagulate. "I still haven't told you about option number two. You refuse me. I kill Mr. Stilinski while you watch. And then I kill you."

Peter grabbed him by the hair and ripped him from the chair. Derek, too weak to fight and bound with the wolfsbane cuffs, could only bark at him. Peter dragged him to the door leading to the basement. He whispered into Derek's ear, "You two have til tomorrow morning to decide. I suggest you sleep on it." And he threw him down the stairs before slamming the door and locking it.

Derek landed painfully on his back at the base of the stairs. He gave up trying to stand after his legs collapsed underneath him; one of his ankles was badly twisted.

"Hi." A pale voice called to him from the gloom. It was Stiles, still bruised and bloody and tied to another identical wooden chair. A high-pitched whine escaped Derek. Whether it was happiness or need he couldn't say. All he knew was that he wanted to be twenty feet to his right. He tried again to stand, his left leg shaking uncontrollably as it tried to heal. He could hear Stiles muttering quietly, "Come on big guy, come on..."

He stood. Then he took a step forward. Another hop. After five torturous minutes of hopping and staggering he collapsed to his knees in front of Stiles, his hands against his chest and his head in the younger man's lap. Derek inhaled his scent. It was dark with pain and blood and burnt with anger, but there it was, a bloom of candy cane happiness that he knew must be for him.

"Hi," he finally managed to croak in response.

Stiles laughed softly and bent at his waist to rest his cheek on Derek's sweat-soaked hair. "You came after me."

Derek sighed into Stiles' thigh. He nudged Stiles' face and looked up at him. "Did you think I wouldn't?" He couldn't disguise the hurt in his voice.

"I thought... it would be better if you didn't," Stiles murmured into Derek's hair. "It would have been better if you could leave me and escape -"

Derek could only silence him by surging up and pressing his lips to Stiles'. They were chapped and bleeding, but Derek was soft and undemanding. The younger man gasped meekly and kissed him back, only pulling away when Derek couldn't help but nibble on his lower lip and draw blood from the sensitive split.

"I'm sorry," Derek whispered against Stiles' cheek. He nosed against the stubble starting to grow there. "But you are a fucking idiot."

Stiles leaned back, surprised.

"Of course I would come for you," Derek insisted. He pressed closer so his entire body fit between Stiles' knees. He fit his face into the hollow of Stiles' throat and breathed in again, wanting to fill his head with the scent that they were both alive.

"Derek." When he didn't move, Stiles grumbled and nudged the other man with his knee. "I would love to hug you, dude, seriously, but I am tied to a chair. Can we fix that before my wrist heals weird?"

An angry flash passed over Derek's face. He gracelessly shuffled around to undo Stiles' tied hands. It was difficult, considering his own hands were bound, but in the end he managed it. After he'd freed Stiles' ankles Stiles untied his hands. Stiles stood weakly, then surged forward to embrace Derek, clutching at him like a lifeline. They supported each other for a few steps until they could fall against the basement wall. They stretched their legs out and Stiles winced, palming his side with the cracked ribs.

"So," he gritted through the pain, "how are we going to get out of here?"

"We're not."

"What do you mean, we're not?" Stiles was flabbergasted. "You're the guy who just ran nine hundred miles in a day. You don't fucking give up."

"I'm not giving up," Derek grunted. "My family designed this basement to keep werewolves in during the full moon, when we can lose control. It's fireproof, soundproof, lined with wolfsbane and mountain ash – like an electric fence for werewolves," he explained. He pointed to the few windows at ground level. All were barred. "That's bulletproof glass with steel bars. And the basement door is lined with mountain ash too. Once the door is closed I can't get through, and it has three deadbolts, so neither can you." He sighed and leaned against the cold cement, thoroughly defeated.

Stiles leaned back with him, his brain furiously working to find a flaw in Derek's description. But even he had to admit defeat; he'd been down there for the better part of the afternoon and hadn't seen a weakness.

"I'm hungry," he grumbled a few minutes later.

"Of course you are," Derek said with a smile. He wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulder and kissed his temple.

A pizza and two large bottles of water were hand delivered by Boyd about a half hour later. Stiles groaned when he read the label for his favorite Beacon Hills pizza place, one he hadn't visited in the better part of a year. Derek began growling the second the door opened, but Boyd was balancing the food in one hand and Derek's service pistol in the other. It was still loaded with wolfsbane bullets.

"You shouldn't have," Stiles snarked as Boyd tossed the food their way. The pizza nearly escaped the box as it flew towards them.

"Fine, starve." Boyd shrugged and backed slowly up the stairs, the gun still trained on the both of them. The door closed with several audible clicks.

It was just a pepperoni pizza, but they both nonverbally agreed it was the best pizza they'd ever tasted. Derek ate half of the pizza before Stiles had even finished his second slice.

"No, it's okay," he gestured to the remaining two slices. "Go on, take them."

Derek started feeling guilty about wanting them, but Stiles nodded encouragingly. He was too busy trying to eat the scalding food without agitating the cut on his lip. After finishing, Derek could feel the calories going to work inside his body. His muscles felt less sore and his ankle felt completely fine.

They sat back against the wall again, sated and exhausted.

"Come here." Derek pulled him closer. Stiles grumbled good-naturedly and fell against Derek's chest. It felt awkward at first, but Derek maneuvered him so he sat on his lap, his head resting in the crook of Derek's neck and their legs tangled together.

"I missed you," Derek finally whispered.

"I know," Stiles yawned against his ear. "Boyd is way worse driving company than you are. I had to pee in front of him and everything."

"Oh no," Derek muttered sarcastically, "what a nightmare."

"It was legitimately awful. I could go on and on."

"I had to raid a diner dumpster for food," Derek murmured. "I think I win the most-hardship-in-the-last-twenty-four-hours award."

Stiles was quiet for a minute. "If that's an actual awards category," he whispered, "I think I should win. I had to watch you die. I screamed for you," Stiles voice broke, "and you didn't answer."

Derek tightened his grip around Stiles' waist. "I had to lose you." He placed a gentle kiss on Stiles' forehead. "That was pretty bad, too. And then of course I did do the dying part."

Stiles gave a watery chuckle that turned into a grimace of pain. His ribs twinged underneath his skin. Derek slid his hand carefully against Stiles' hot skin and pressed against his ribs. Stiles hissed in pain at the pressure, but then the pain was suddenly gone. He opened his eyes to see the veins of Derek's arm darken. Derek's eyes glowed blue for a moment before he removed his hand.

"What – what was that?" The sudden lack of pain made him feel heady and weak.

"I took some of your pain away." Derek flexed his hand. "Helped you heal a little bit. The pain bit is only temporary though."

Stiles could only stare at Derek's hand. He reached out and tugged at Derek's fingers. Derek let his hand go limp so Stiles could examine it. He pressed his fingertips to the pads of Derek's own fingers and traced the lines of his palm. Derek nosed along his hairline while he laced their fingers together.

"I can't believe you didn't think I would come for you." Derek whispered. He looked at their joined hands.

"It's not that I didn't think you would," Stiles muttered. "It was -"

"You didn't think you were worth saving." Derek squeezed him gently again. "I know."

Stiles could only nod.

"Remember what I told you last night?"

"About being a guard dog?"

Derek shook his head and snorted. "I told you I never wanted to get rid of you." He disentangled their fingers to delicately cup Stiles' face. "That sort of implies the 'I will do anything for you.'" Stiles shook his head, but he was smiling. Derek kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the very tip of his nose, before capturing his lips again.

"I missed you too," Stiles whispered into his mouth. He felt Derek grumble contentedly against him.

They kissed slowly, gently, as though they had all the time in the world. As though the world wasn't going to end the very next morning.

After a few minutes Derek let out a shaky breath and leaned his forehead onto Stiles'. "We have to talk," he muttered. "We – we have to decide."

"They gave you two choices too, right?" Stiles chuckled dryly. "Fuck them. I'm not taking the bite from Peter."

Derek whined against Stiles' skin. "You'll live." His hands clutched Stiles' shoulder blades and pulled him even closer.

"I don't care," Stiles whispered. When Derek whined again he continued, "I'm not being, like, suicidal or anything. I want to live, okay? But I don't want to be a werewolf if it means I have to be like them.

"I'd rather be like you." He gave Derek a widemouthed smile, and Derek thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. It was getting colder in the basement, and neither of them were wearing shirts or had blankets of any kind. Their breath began to fog. Stiles shivered, both out of cold and exhaustion.

"Hey," Derek nosed along his jaw. "Go to sleep. It's okay."

"But -"

"Stiles." The gentle growl sent new, more pleasant shivers up Stiles' spine. He acquiesced though, and settled himself more comfortably on Derek's lap. His hands eventually loosened from Derek's neck and fell limply between them. Soon his breathing was easy and even.

Derek wouldn't sleep. He wanted to savor his last night with a human Stiles before he told Peter yes. What else could he tell him? Kill my pack, kill my new reason for living? He was too selfish to let Stiles die.

But what if...

A tiny idea blossomed in his mind. Derek didn't look at it, think about it, in case the flame of it snuffed out. He worked around it, fanning it, adding new pieces until it was a full fledged plan.

The moon had been aloft for hours by the time he settled into sleep, nervous but satisfied about his idea. Stiles was drooling on his shoulder again, but he didn't care. He wouldn't have it any other way.

AN part two: Okay, so my inspiration for the beginning part when Derek finally smells Stiles is totally from Balto. I can't even lie about that. Also! I will totally pay someone to draw me a picture of Derek collapsed in front of Stiles' chair. I'm not even joking.