whatever, mortal.

“Give it up, Stiles,” Derek says. He droops against the tiled wall and sighs. “He’s probably long gone with every scrap of evidence we had.”

“We can get it all again! We can get more and we can hide it better this time,” Stiles promises. “We’ll get her. We will.”

Stiles crouches in front of Derek and sticks out his hand. “Derek,” he says, very seriously, “take my pinky.”

Derek’s eyebrows lift comically high. “Stiles,” he says, very seriously, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Stiles just shakes his hand, pinky finger outstretched into Derek’s personal space, until Derek grudgingly curls his own pinky around it.

“A pinky promise is an unbreakable vow, Derek,” Stiles tells him. “We are going to catch Kate Argent and we are going to make her pay. Okay?”

Derek still looks sceptical and beaten, but his mouth quirks into that not-smile that always makes his eyes look unfathomably green. “Okay,” he says.