Work Header

the sky ain’t all there is

Work Text:

Stiles names his ship Malum Lupus, because he has a bad sense of humor five centuries out of date. No one’s ever called him on it, but then, Latin is a language deader than most and twice as obscure. He calls her a whole host of ridiculous nicknames, although the one that everyone else prefers is simply Wolf.

Maybe that’s what makes it so fitting that fugitive Derek Hale winds up in his cargo bay, half dead and more than a little feral. 



“Look,” Captain Stilinski says, crossing his arms and glaring at their unwelcome guest. “I don’t know how you got on board, and I don’t really care. You’re getting off at the next trading post, and you’re gonna be grateful that it’s not through an airlock.”

The stowaway glares at him wordlessly. There’s something wild in his gaze, something that makes the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck raise. Stiles takes a step back — and feels like an idiot for it. The man is handcuffed to a bulkhead in the passenger quarters, for the gods’ sake. He can’t exactly do anything, even if he wanted to.

“Do you have anything to say?” Stiles prods. “Pleas, explanations, come ons?” 


“No?” Stiles sighs and uncrosses his arms. “All right then. Someone’ll be by to feed and water you every once in a while. We’ll be at Cere in a day or so, fuel and reavers willing.”

Stiles turns on his heel and gets the hell out of dodge. There’s something seriously creepy about this guy, and it’s not just that, when Jackson had tackled him to the floor, he growled like a rabid dog. Just as Stiles goes to slide the door shut, the interloper speaks.

“My name is Derek,” he says. “Where am I?” 

Stiles hesitates, and while he knows it’s stupid, he answers anyway.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, since no one actually calls him Captain Stilinski. Even when he orders them to. “And you’re on the Wolf.”

He doesn’t understand why the name of his ship makes Derek laugh, but the sound is unnerving enough that Stiles slams the door closed and backs away as fast as he can. He puts Allison on guard duty and pretends that he isn’t fleeing when he goes to tell Danny about their change in destination. 




Stiles wakes up with someone’s hand pressed over his mouth. He makes a small noise of protest before he’s hushed by a soft growl. The dim light emitting from his comm unit shows his least favorite stowaway looming over him in the darkness.

“Dmudme, mwha tha ffffummf?” he says around Derek’s hand. He reaches for his gun, but Derek’s other hand catches his wrist and pins it. 

“The Alliance is here,” Derek hisses. Stiles’s entire body goes rigid, because holy shit, how. There better not be a traitor on Stiles's ship, okay, or there will be some definite airlock-tossing once this is sorted. Derek meets his eyes, and holy shit, are his irises glowing? Stiles shoves that away for later. Right now, he’s more concerned with the Alliance finding the six crates of illegal arms he has stashed in his cargo bay.

Apparently satisfied that Stiles won’t scream for help, Derek releases him and backs off. Stiles rolls off of his bunk and to his feet with more grace than he usually manages. Sneaking onto ships isn’t exactly the Alliance’s style, which scares Stiles more than the fact that they’re there in the first place. 

“They’re here for you,” Stiles whispers, narrowing his eyes. 

Derek sneers at him. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Footsteps echo on the railing outside the hatch to Stiles’s quarters. They both hold their breath, and Stiles is glad that Lydia nixed his idea of putting name tags on everyone’s doors. His ship is filled with odd nooks and crannies; that’s what makes it such an ideal smuggling ship. You can’t tell what’s going to be a closet or a room. The footsteps pass, and Stiles feels like he can breathe again. 

“Are you wanted for rape?” Stiles asks, because this is important. Derek blinks at him and then snarls silently, clearly insulted. “Hey, I have to ask! Murder?” Derek sets his jaw and stares at him. “Did they deserve it?”

Derek looks away. “My name is Derek Hale. The Alliance killed my entire family,” he says lowly. “And then they kidnapped me and my sister. And they murdered her. I killed to get free, and I killed for revenge.”

Stiles nods. He adjusts his grip on his gun and walks over to his comm, planning on using the crew’s emergency communications system, made just for these circumstances. “That’s good enough for me.”


Stiles meets Derek’s freaky glowing eyes. “Because if anyone killed my dad, I would slaughter every single one of those fuckers.”

Derek swallows and grunts in understanding. Stiles raises Lydia on the comm and explains, quickly and quietly, that the Alliance has invaded and that he’s tired of disappointing his Brown Coat father.




Stiles leads the Alliance goons on a merry chase, taking them through the guts of his ship. Down one corridor and across another, over the rails of the cargo bay and up, up to the mess and the common area. His crew picks them off one by one as he strings the Alliance soldiers out, leading them through tight corners that eliminate their defenses. 

And in the last turn, when it’s just him, his injured shoulder, and two of the thugs left, Derek Hale is waiting for them with brilliant glowing blue eyes and fucking fangs, because that’s a normal human feature. Stiles gets out of the way and wonders what the fuck did the Alliance do to Derek.