Title: Rats' Alley
Author: auburn
Art: dazedrose
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, in passing or mentioned: Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Lydia Martin, Danny Mahealani, Vernon Boyd, Sheriff Stilinski, Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, minor supporting Original Characters.
Tags: Alternate Universe, Dystopia, Apocalypse, Plague, Road Trip, Werewolves, Horror, Fire, End of the World As We Know It, Angst, Dark Ending, M/M, Animal Death, Graphic Violence, Attempted Murder, Not Season 3 Compliant, Alpha Derek
Warnings: Violence, Death, Animals Die, Massacres
Author Notes: Conceived, plotted and mostly written before Season Three, so very, very Season Three canon non-compliant. Betas: eretria, murron, sian1359 (errors left are mine and an editing crash).
Summary:  Four years after season two, after the pack has solidified and are attending school in Southern California, civilization crashes to a halt that kills most modern electronics. Derek orders the rest of the Hale Pack to either wait in LA or return to Beacon Hills, while he heads to Mexico to retrieve Stiles. What should have been a few days' trip turns into an odyssey contending with human horror, natural disasters and a lethal disease that may infect werewolves too. Derek and Stiles are forced into a closer partnership and an honest relationship even while they have to face that there is no promise of safety at their destination. Not for them, not for the Pack, and not for humanity.

No one guessed the domino fall of civilization would end with a howling from the forest when it all crashed to a halt.

---

Rats' Alley

I said kiss me, you're beautiful, these are truly the last days.
Dead Flag Blues, God Bless You! Black Emperor

Somewhere between Barstow and Vegas, on the boring uphill climb out of California, signs were posted telling drivers to shut off their air conditioners and keep to the speed limit. It was the desert, or close enough: it was hot and a straight away. Most people ignored both the speed limit and the warning. The ones who paid attention were usually the ones with the windows rolled down and a nervous eye on the temperature gauge.

Coming back from Nevada, no one gave a damn.

Derek had his windows down because he liked the rush of smells that flooded the SUV he drove on the bounty hunting jobs, even the mixture of exhaust and hot rubber. Along with those came the scent of baked earth, dry brush and the variety of desert life, intricate and layered and intriguing. Sometimes, he wanted to just pull off the road, stop, and inhale.

Beacon Hills sat in Northern California only a couple of counties away from the redwoods, and the Preserve had always smelled of damp and pine. Derek liked cool and rain, he'd even liked New York, outside the city. The desert had never been his favorite place, too different from home, but the emptiness of this part of the state appealed to him. It smelled better than Los Angeles at least.

He had no intention of stopping, however. Instinct and what Stiles insisted was paranoia pushed him to get back to his territory as soon as possible, where he could protect his pack, no matter how competent they were now, even knowing that they could call on Hester's pack if real trouble showed up, and that any – or all – of them would call him if something happened. He'd spent the last month and a half braced to receive a middle of the night call from Stiles, worrying about his annoying and amusing packmate's study trip to Baja California. Stiles had a talent for finding trouble even in the most innocuous situations and studying with a bruja really wasn't safe, even for a member of a werewolf pack. Danny was careful and Lydia might laugh because Stiles might have saved Derek as often as Derek saved him since they met, but Derek couldn't shake the habit of worrying. Stiles was still stubbornly human, after all.

If he worried more about Stiles, it was because Stiles was a trouble magnet and the only pack member living away from the pack and Derek would stick with that story to anyone else, even if he had to admit to himself it went deeper. And maybe, when Stiles came back, if no one was trying to kill them that week, he might even finally give in to Stiles' awkward, determined efforts at seduction, now that Stiles wasn't in high school. Six years age difference wasn't the horrifying gap it had been when they first met. Twenty and twenty-six didn't freak Derek out the way sixteen and twenty-two had.

Derek tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and let himself half smile. Maybe. Maybe Stiles was right. Maybe they could be something good.

He could at least try. He'd come that far, farther than he'd dreamed he might after Laura died. Far enough he could see his sister would have wanted him to have good things in his life.

He just had to stop ignoring the way Stiles made his breath come faster and pretending he didn't know the arousal rolling off Stiles around him wasn't just teenage hormones.

Maybe the brief trip to Vegas was a sign, not that Derek believed in those, but... He needed to take a chance, gamble that he could live and not just endure. Derek quirked a smile at his thoughts. He wasn't much for gambling, but he thought the odds were in his favor for once.

A river of weekend gamblers were pouring back to the LA basin – Derek's bail jumper had been one of them, now in the hands of the Las Vegas PD – and Derek let his foot press down the gas a little more, half intending to pass the mini-convoy of semis ahead of him. The SUV coughed and died instead; not just the engine but the electronics as well. Swift reflexes and strength let Derek wrestle the steering wheel right, hard enough to bounce off the Interstate and maintain control as it bounded onto the shoulder at eighty-five miles an hour. The SUV pinballed and smashed sideways between two other vehicles in a horrendous screech of metal on metal and dust rose in a choking cloud around it.

Derek's head snapped to the side with a crack. The steering wheel pulled leftward fast and hard enough it caught his thumb and dislocated it as the seatbelt caught and cut across his chest. He felt something in his shoulder wrench too before the airbags deployed and obscured the kaleidoscope swing of sun glaring off spinning glass and shining paint.

No one else had managed to maintain any control and the SUV didn't so much escape the massive pile-up as end up on the fringe. The deafening, disorienting noise of so many cars impacting each other came from every direction. Derek's hearing shut down in self-defense, leaving only a ringing whine in his ears.

He blinked and pulled in a hard breath once the SUV shuddered into stillness, rocking back onto four wheels and settling. He pushed until his thumb relocated and waited out his body repairing the rest of the damage it had taken, his neck healing last, while the world outside the shattered glass windshield went terribly, terribly quiet. His mouth tasted of his own blood – so familiar – briefly. He wiped a trickle from his lips with the back of his wrist, before it ran into his stubble.

The driver's side door had caved in and jammed the seat belt. Derek shifted his hand and used a discreet –he didn't want anyone to see -- claw to slice it open and pull himself out from the driver's seat. His ears still rang, worse than in any other car accident he'd ever experienced. The need to hackle up, to shift, tugged at him with a sense of something gone very wrong. In Derek's experience, wrong always equated to dangerous. The perpetually paranoid part of himself warned of hunters and wondered if he'd been targeted because he was alone.

An inhalation did little to soothe his rattled nerves, but he didn't catch the telltale scent of wolfsbane. Raw gasoline, burning oil, rubber, and dirt dominated the scent picture, but a second breath brought him one more element, growing stronger: blood to go with the cries coming from everywhere around him. Not hunters, he thought, it sounded like there were too many people involved. This was too overt.

The passenger side doors were both blocked by another vehicle and Derek glimpsed more cars beyond it, but couldn't make out much through the brown fog of dirt still drifting down. He punched out the shattered windshield, peeled the broken glass back with little care for his hands, and climbed out onto the crumpled black hood, leaving a bloodied handprint behind him on the dashboard.

He hadn't grasped the extent of the smash-up from inside. The hairs on the back of his neck and on his forearms lifted and Derek barely held in a freaked out snarl.

Crouched, one knee bent and one down, with his left palm flat on the hot metal, Derek stared. Cars and trucks were tumbled like dominoes as far as the road stretched in either direction, jammed into each other, crumpled, turned around, flipped, lying on their sides. The chaos extended to the other side of the freeway and the two lanes heading east too.

His ears had healed enough he could hear the cries from people trapped in their vehicles, panicked voices, angry shouting and screams.

A blue sedan had t-boned into the SUV. Derek glanced through the spider-webbed windshield and picked out the driver, slumped and unconscious, but alive and probably all right, judging by the steady thump of his heartbeat. He turned his attention to the woman in the older compact accordioned between the passenger side of his SUV and a banana yellow Hummer. Her heartbeat was jackhammer fast and uneven. Her gaze caught with Derek's and she began crying. The sobs mixed with the higher shrieks of a child somewhere close by.

Carefully, Derek dropped from the SUV onto the compact's hood. The metal groaned and dented under his boots. There was no way to get the doors even with his strength.

She gestured and tried to turn herself to look in the back seat. Derek cringed inside as he saw the two forms in back, both in child safety seats, because he could hear her heartbeat, but only one other.

He mimed for her to duck her head to protect her face and kicked the windshield in. Once he could, he snaked his arm in and shut off the ignition, annoyed with himself for not thinking to do the same to the SUV. A loud thump and the hated sound of flames signaled a gas tank had caught fire somewhere in the tangle of cars.

"My kids – " the woman gasped as the safety glass caved in and covered the seat beside her. The smell of fresh blood almost choked Derek, thick and salty and humid inside the confines of the little car.

"I'll get them first, then you," Derek said.

He crawled inside and leaned past the trapped woman, between the seats, to free the first child. He thought the boy was probably three or so. He'd never been good at judging human ages. Born werewolves matured physically faster, able to keep up and run with a pack within the first year of life, though their development slowed down to something closer to human after that. It made home schooling a necessity and paperwork in the modern age a nightmare.

Derek released the boy from the safety seat and lifted him free so he could place him in the woman's arms. The kid was half awake and whimpering, but okay. At least, Derek thought he was.

The other boy wasn't. He looked older, but still small enough for a safety seat. Five, maybe. The blood choking thick in Derek's nostril's came from his slight body. Derek wasn't sure how to free it up. A piece of metal had sheared through the Honda's driver's side passenger door and gone through the boy's shoulder and chest.

His hands hovered over the body and he felt sick, because he had the strength to bend the metal, to tear the safety seat loose, to break and rend with tooth and claw, but he was still as helpless as he'd been when Kate Argent burned his family alive. He didn't know what to do.

"Danny?" the woman asked, voice quivering with a sob that said she already knew on some level. "No, no, no, no... Please, no, Danny... " The jackhammer beat of her heart, the acrid flood of grief and terror she put out, both thrust Derek back to his own moment of endless denial. His family died and he couldn't help them and there was little he could do for this little family either. Couldn't tell this woman anything was okay or would ever be again. He never had been.

"Danny," she sobbed again. Panic quavered in her voice and she jerked against the seatbelt and steering wheel, thrashing futilely against the confines. Derek could smell the terror and denial sweating out of her; the smell curdled the blood in his own veins. He'd smelt like that, sounded like that, once. When everyone died and all he could do was repeat no, no, no, over and over again the way this woman kept repeating Danny, Danny.

Derek winced at the name, because his human pack member of the same name could just as easily die. He told himself Danny Mahealani was safe back LA. He was probably at school right now. If he wasn't, then Danny would be home, at the pack house in Nichols Canyon that Derek had bought when the pack relocated to attend college.

Derek twisted to face the woman. She had the younger boy pressed to her, one hand protectively cupped to the back of his neck, fingers threaded into the bowl-cut hair the same shade as hers. She was repeating ‘Danny’ over and over under her breath, freckles stark against her shock pale face. Derek pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Let me get you two out of here," he said.

"Three! Three of us," she insisted, her voice rising and rising, flailing one arm out as if she would hit Derek for telling her anything different. She twisted in the seat again, or tried to, but her legs were trapped under the dash. "You can't be... You could be wrong. He could be okay. Please, I need to get him out – " Her voice broke on a small scream before she cut herself off and choked on wet sobs.

"Don't look," Derek told her. He took a deep breath. "I'm sure."

He knew he wasn't comforting. He'd never been able to make words offer any ease. If Stiles were with him, he'd say something awkward and out of context that would still provide a distraction, or hover silently and still be more helpful emotionally than Derek. But if Stiles were here, he'd have been hurt in the pile-up or devastated by the death of a child and Derek was abruptly glad Stiles was elsewhere for once.

She didn't say any more and Derek focused on finding a way to free her. "Are your legs broken or just trapped?" he asked.

"Just trapped," she replied. Her voice trembled and had gone thick. The little boy had begun whimpering in response. He let a sigh of relief, because he had no equipment to deal with that kind of severe injury. Humans were so horribly fragile.

"Have you -- has anyone called for help?" she asked.

Feeling like an idiot, Derek contorted enough to pull his cell phone out of his pants. Someone must have reported the massive multi-vehicle crash, but he could – He stared at the black face of the smart phone. It had been fully charged when he left Las Vegas. He tried powering it on again. "Damn it."

"In my purse," the woman said and nodded to the passenger floor board. The contents of her purse were spilled across the carpet. Derek spotted a phone in a bright pink case and snagged it. His frown deepened when the phone proved as dead as his own cell. When he silently set it down, the woman asked, "No coverage?" Somehow, she'd calmed herself down. He could see she was shaking, biting at her lower lip, but she was keeping herself together on the surface. Derek could hear her heart trying to beat its way free of her chest and the quick breaks in her too fast breathing, the grind of her teeth as she swallowed back all her words and denial. The living child quieted again and he realized she was trying to hold herself together and not terrify him.

"No power," Derek answered, still frowning. His mind went to the supernatural and whether there was a spell that killed cell phones. Cell phones and cars, he corrected himself, as he repositioned himself and the ugly reek of burning gasoline filled his nostrils. Priorities. Figure out why later, get out now.

After a brief examination of the car's interior, Derek took hold of the steering wheel. "Close your eyes again," he ordered.

The woman gave him a wide, disbelieving look. Derek glared back until she closed her eyes obediently.

He tore the steering wheel free with a crack and groan from the plastic components. Muscles in his shoulders and back tore with the strain, but knitted together a moment later. Derek tossed the steering wheel out the empty frame of the now missing windshield. With it out of the way, he could reach down and find where the seat bolted to the floor. "Oh my God, I can't believe you did that."

"Adrenaline," Derek said, flat and uncaring if she believed it or not. "Hold onto – " he stopped because he didn't know the kid's name.

"Billy. I'm Angela."

"Hold onto him."

He found the first bolt and ripped it loose. He had to reach over Angela to get the bolts on the other side before the entire seat came loose and Derek could push it back, finally freeing Angela's legs. It put him over her in intimate position that would have been awkward in another lifetime.

She had on a pink and white sundress and cheap sandals. Her legs sported cuts and an abrasion on one knee, but were mostly okay.

Derek took Billy in one arm and helped Angela climb out over the dashboard, handing Billy to her once she was on the hood, then exited himself.

"Oh my God, God, God," Angela whispered as she looked around. The hot wind off the desert whipped strands of dirty blond hair over her face, tangling it, gluing strands to her skin. She clutched Billy closer to her. The toddler clung like a leech and Derek had begun to worry over how quiet he was. "What happened? How could this happen?" A sob convulsed her frame. "Danny. Damn it. Danny."

"Come on," Derek said. He closed one hand around her elbow to steady and urge her on. She was about one breath away from losing it again. "You have to get away from the cars. Some are already burning."

"Danny – " She wouldn't move and he couldn't drag her away despite having the strength to do so. He wanted to ignore his own memories but he couldn't.

"I'll get him." He wasn't leaving anyone, even dead, to burn.

Derek crawled back into the car and made himself cut the body free and pull it loose. He couldn't keep Angela from seeing as he brought Danny out. She sobbed but said nothing, just stumbled and staggered over the uneven landscape of wrecked cars along with Derek until they could jump down to bare earth. Derek carried Danny and wished the feel of blood soaked through his clothes and into his skin and caked under his fingernails wasn't so familiar.

Other people were out of their vehicles now. Some stood, some sat on the side of the road and stared, and a few were out in the wreckage trying to free others – or unwilling to leave someone. Derek walked farther out from the road, vaulting a ditch to find a place to lay Danny's body down. Angela followed him, stumbling down through the weeds, crying and half blind, clutching Billy to her and nearly falling twice. Derek waited for her to make it up the other side, pretending he didn't see the way the skin around her eyes already looked swollen and bruised, the snot choked thickness in her words, or the way her eyes couldn't stay on the body in his arms, slipping to the side, gaze lost on the horizon, instead. After a brief second of internal debate, Derek pulled his shirt off, leaving him in one of his sleeveless undershirts. The shirt made a poor shroud, but at least it covered the boy's torso and face. When he looked up, Angela was staring at the dirt to the side of Danny, not blinking, and he guessed she was going numb.

"You should stay here," Derek muttered, wanting to get away from her and the pain searing the air around her, "I'll come back."

She nodded but he wondered if she'd really heard him. He left her sliding down to her knees next to the little body, rocking Billy in her arms.

He went back to the knotted rope of wrecked cars and found someone else to get out and someone after that, caught broken bits of information as he worked, but nothing that answered his questions. He cut himself and was burned more than once. It didn't matter. The sun seared from its zenith, so bright no one could look up or find any shade. Salt sweat burned into his eyes and mixed with dirt and soot when Derek wiped it away.

Another man joined him as he knocked out a back windshield on a car with an older couple trapped inside. Derek's new partner had a blue plastic tarp he laid over the sharp edges and pieces of glass and an easy patter that got the old man and old woman to crawl out over their car's trunk. Derek pegged him as a professional; the gray t-shirt under the man's plaid work shirt had a faded out logo for a fire department and he'd donned heavy protective gloves that looked flame retardant.

The old man had an antique pocket watch and went on and on about the shameful response times of emergency personnel, declaring he was timing everything, while his tiny, white-haired wife rolled her faded eyes in exasperation.

After ushering the two seniors toward the side of the road, the guy wiped sweat from his forehead and commented, "So far no one knows shit. You?"

Derek grunted a negative.

"No one can get any kind of signal, electronics are fucked. It's not just cells, there's a guy back there with a sat phone. He's got nothing. Same for the people with tablets and laptops and other crap I've talked to so far."

Derek shrugged. He listened for the sound of anyone in any of the cars near by. Figuring out what had happened could wait until later. He pointed toward a partially crushed hatchback and then headed to check it. Someone had left their dog trapped in the baking prison of the car. It made him growl in his throat, low enough no one heard it but the dog, which exploded into fearful barking.

"Geezer McGrumpy back there's watch was working though," the guy added as he came to Derek's side. He had a tire iron in one hand. "Let's get this bitch open. Poor dog's gonna cook otherwise."

Derek wiped his hands on his pants and took the tire iron. It was the work of a moment to work the thin edge between the car's door and the frame and pry. He found it satisfying, using the strength that often had to be used in combat for something so simple. The door look gave way with metallic squeal.

The dog, somebody's half Pit Bull, cowered back from Derek until he caught its gaze, then bounded out and streaked away.

"Well, that's about as much thanks as anyone else has given us. I suppose we should be grateful he didn't bite."

Derek gave him a flat look and said, "I bite too."

"Not something I needed to know." But the guy laughed before he sobered and said, "This is just going to get worse. People are going to drop from heat stroke even if they aren't injured and there's enough fuel leaking everywhere to send up some of these cars like bombs."

Derek started toward another vehicle, a van tossed on its side, weaving between cars when he could and going over them when necessary. He paused before vaulting into the empty cargo bed of a pick-up and glanced back. "You coming?" he prompted.

"Yeeesh, yeah, let's keep at this as long as we can."

Black smoke billowed into the bleached blue sky as one crashed car after another caught fire. Derek's companion jolted along with him and cursed under his breath. "No god damn equipment. This is shit."

Derek and the other man weren't the only ones pulling people from the wreckage, but inevitably the flames found victims still trapped in their vehicles.

The thin screams made him want to run and run until he couldn't hear, couldn't smell, couldn't see.

He gave up when a Toyota exploded into flames so close the heat blistered his face briefly. Most of the other rescuers had already retreated, except the guy that Derek had been working beside. He cursed viciously and dragged Derek away from the Toyota.

"Shit. Stop. We don't have the equipment – " His red hair, buzzed close to his head, had gone dark with sweat and his freckles stood out even against his reddened skin.

Derek could have pulled himself loose easily, but didn't, instead just shrugging the man's hands off his shoulders after a moment. He breathed in deeply and kept his face turned away until the blisters were gone.

"Still got your eyebrows?" the man asked.

Derek chuckled. If he only knew... Stiles had teased them all enough over the beta form's lack of eyebrows. "Yeah." He wondered if Stiles was all right, if whatever this thing was had affected more than a stretch of California desert. Baja was isolated; safer in some ways, more exposed in others. He wished like hell Stiles was beside him instead of there.

His nameless partner peered up at the cloudless sky. "Something's really wrong," he said.

Derek stared at him silently before nodding.

"Even with the roads completely blocked, there should be choppers out here, surveying the extent of all this. CHP. Someone." A wave of one dirty hand took in the long line of the highway and the cars clogging it. "Someone must have noticed something – "

Derek rolled his shoulders to release a little tension.. It didn't matter what had happened. They had to deal with it. If no one came – and clearly no one was, the afternoon had rolled onward and the shadows were stretching black and long – then everyone had to take care of themselves. He'd already done more than he had any reason to do. He hadn't bothered himself trying to figure out the reasons for the mess. Someone else could figure that out. Someone else could play rescuer, too. He had no obligations to anyone here; he had to get back to his pack and take care of them.

Another wave of heat from the burning Toyota made him start moving again. He picked his way back to his SUV. The other guy followed him. Years of ending up covered in either his own or an enemy's blood had taught him to keep something in his car to use to wash up along with at least a change clothes. He cleaned himself up and pulled a clean shirt out of his duffel bag before deciding on what to carry with him.

He had trail mix, protein bars, and a case of bottled water. He added another shirt, fished out a butane lighter, and then grabbed the bag with the gear he used when he went after a bounty. Bulletproof vests and guns were excess baggage for an alpha werewolf, but it paid to fit in and look like a normal human. Working by himself raised enough eyebrows, though Boyd and sometimes Isaac helped out occasionally. The bag had a knife, zip ties, a windbreaker and a baseball cap, along with his guns. He didn't want to leave those behind. He added in another shirt, a couple of bottles of water, and half the box of protein bars. He handed off the rest and said, "Grab anything here you want."

A coppery eyebrow went up in response to that. "So, I'm Alex," the man said and offered his hand. Derek shrugged at him then tossed him the rest of the protein bars and trail mix. After a second's consideration, he added the extensive first aid and emergencies kit Stiles had insisted he carry. He slung his gear bag over one shoulder and picked up the rest of the water. Alex followed with a chuckle.

Angela was where Derek had left her. She sat next to Danny's body, still rocking Billy. Her shoulders were sunburned. It took a minute before she looked up at Derek and Alex, even when their shadows fell across her face. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut.

"You're back," she said eventually.

"I've got water," Derek told her. "This is Alex."

"Alex Komorovski."

"Angela Bailey. This is Billy." Billy peeked at Alex briefly then hid his face against his mother again.

They both looked at Derek. Derek handed Angela a bottle of water and didn't offer his name.

Angela alternated drinking and giving sips to Billy. Alex winced when he saw Danny's covered body and said nothing. He sipped slowly at the bottle of water Derek handed him and squinted westward. "Any ideas?" he asked eventually.

"Walk," Derek replied. A ragged line of people already had the same idea. Some were headed west down the side of the highway, though a few were marching back, maybe figuring they were closer to a town in that direction.

Alex nodded.

"My grand dad has a house in Afton," Angela said unexpectedly. "We should go there."

Derek shrugged and finished his own water. "I've got to get back to LA." He glanced down at Angela and Billy, then caught Alex's gaze. "Keep the water."

Alex raised his eyebrows again. "You sure?"

He could shift and find water. He could even hunt. There were always jackrabbits. (Derek drew the line at cats. He wasn't a coyote, damn it.)

He meant to nod and leave, but the shift of gravel under shoes snapped his attention to two skinny guys headed toward them. Both had their eyes on the case of water.

"So, hey, how about sharin'?" the one wearing tie-dye and a beanie asked.

"Yeah," the other one, taller and skinnier and smelling of patchouli and grass and body odor to Derek's nose, agreed.

Alex's pale blue gaze flicked to Derek and they weighed helpfulness against looking out for themselves, Angela and Billy.

Derek fished out a single bottle and held it up. He tossed it to Tie-Dye. "That's it. Go." A hint of a growl rolled under his flat words. He let his eyes flare red, just for a second, where Alex and Angela couldn't see. The shift painted the two men in monochrome reds, a glow of heat coming off them even in the desert, and they looked like prey. Derek didn't know what his face looked like, but both men stumbled away in a hurry.

With a grimace at how much longer this was going to take, Derek turned back to Angela. The Afton exit had to be around twenty miles down the highway. "Let's go." At least it would take him in the right direction.

"You're a chatty bastard, aren't you?" Alex commented after an hour of silent walking. They'd brought Danny's body, wrapped in the rain poncho from Derek's emergency kit. Derek carried the body without discussing it with either Angela or Alex. He knew even if they covered the corpse with stones, scavengers would find it before morning. The bones would end up scattered across the desert and no one would find them. It was just nature, but he wouldn’t leave this child for the animals the way Peter had left Laura's body.

"Very," Derek said and allowed himself a smirk.

Alex let out a snort of laughter before slowing his stride to even up with Angela. "You want me to carry him for a while?" he asked.

After thinking about it for a minute, Angela nodded and handed Billy over. The boy protested, whinging wearily until Angela's murmurs settled him. Alex whispered encouraging silliness to him next. They kept walking, sometimes passing others who were going slower or had stopped. Once, a set of three bicyclists pedaled by them. The endless line of motionless cars stretched ahead of them as they topped a small rise and continued on into the distance. Derek stopped and waited for Alex and Angela to catch up, watching the uneven, unorganized trail of people walking ahead of them. When he looked back there were more straggling behind, as far as he could see.

Smoke rose from burning wrecks, thick and black, and periodically a boom would sound from another gas tank going up. It sounded like some kind of desultory bombardment, like a lazy siege, like a war, like death. Every shift of the wind brought the reek of smoldering rubber and flesh.

Despite the heat, Derek shuddered. He really hated fire. He feared it, a fear that writhed and clawed at him inside, tearing at his control every time.

They walked onward, until the sun hung over the western horizon, and Derek pinned down the sense of silence bothering him. It wasn't truly silent, because the sounds of the natural world were unchanged, and he could hear Angela, Alex and Billy close by and often enough other stranded walkers ahead or behind them. It was the lack of anything electrical. The hum of civilization, the buzz that came off power lines and crackled sometimes where stray voltage leaked, that formed as much a background to life as the sough of the wind or his own heartbeat, was gone. Derek frowned. He and Laura had been in New York when the Eastern power grid went down. He remembered the people walking out of the city, an exodus, and it resembled this too much.

The grid crashing hadn't crashed vehicles, though. This was bigger.

They walked through the post-sundown dusk and Derek steered them away from a rattler sliding its way out of the daytime shade once. Angela squeaked and danced back into Alex. "Worry about them when they're coiled up," Derek told her.

"I'll worry about them, period," she snapped back.

He shrugged.

Flashlights, it turned out, still worked. Too simple to be messed up. The patchy thread of people walking became slightly more familiar as a line of lights in the dark. It seemed paltry compared to the usual river of head and tail lights, though.

The dark told Derek more than the day had. The stars overhead were stunningly brilliant and the horizon disappeared into the sky without the silhouette of light pollution.

No glow from a town's lights nearby or the LA basin to the southwest diluted the pitch black of the night. No vehicles, no aircraft, and when Derek peered up, he couldn't pick out the track of a single satellite either, when it should have been much, much easier than normal.

He stopped stock still though because something else colored the night sky abruptly, brightening until Alex and Angela both noticed and looked up too. A curtain of green rippled across the sky, then pink, more green, delicate flares of light that were still brighter than Derek had ever imagined aurora could be.

"Look, Billy," Angela prompted her sleepy son. "Look, isn't it pretty?" Billy smiled at the sky and the cascades of light.

"Yeah, it's pretty," Alex muttered to Derek. "It's pretty like snow in the freaking Sahara. I mean, I'm right, that's like the Northern Lights?"

"Aurora Borealis," Derek agreed.

"Which we should not be seeing down here, especially not like that," Alex said. "We should be seeing light pollution from LA."

"Yeah."

"I figure there's been a war or something and no one bothered to tell us."

Derek grunted.

"Maybe a terrorist attack with an EMP," Alex said.

Derek side-eyed him. "You're the firefighter. You guys probably got briefings or seminars on that kind of stuff."

"And you're a cop or – "

"Bounty hunter," Derek corrected him.

"Huh."

"We should keep moving." The aurora light made it a little easier for the humans to see where they were walking. They should take advantage while they could.

Not every vehicle had died. Just most and, in many cases, the vehicles that didn't were still wrecked in the pile-ups of vehicles that did fail Derek realized. They spotted a rusted truck that likely predated WWII chugging down a gravel road at one point, so distant only Derek could really make it out.

When they finally reached the nearest cluster of buildings and businesses, Derek's ears even picked out the chug of a generator running somewhere.

Angela was drooping, though they had stopped and napped for several hours during the night, and Alex had taken over carrying Billy. She perked up as they came in sight of the buildings, though her steps slowed again as they drew closer and couldn't miss the gathering of aimless people standing around the dark gas station slash mini-mart or the cars standing in the street or haphazardly steered into the ditches. They might have walked out of the wilderness but they hadn't found any real sanctuary.

Derek doubted Angela had been thinking about it, but he hadn't expected anything different.

"No power here either," Alex commented.

"Keep walking," Derek murmured to Angela. He hefted the Danny's limp corpse in his arms higher. Rigor had come and passed during the night.

They'd rearranged the bottles of water, hiding them in pockets and Derek's gear bag, making for easier carrying and keeping people from seeing them. He didn't think anyone was desperate enough yet to attack them for a few bottles of water, but he had had enough bad encounters with humans to know it wasn't impossible. Fear made them crazy. Werewolves, like most predators, were predictable by comparison, except when they were in human form. It was the human in them that made them most dangerous, the mind and the madness, not any animal instincts.

Before the pack, before Stiles, Derek had often wished he could have nothing to do with humans again.

"Um," she said a while later, "I know this road. I think if we go up it a couple of miles, it crosses with the one I usually take to get to Grand Dad's place."

"Think we can get there before the heat of the day?" Alex asked.

"I guess."

Alex hefted Billy higher in his arms and walked in the direction Angela indicated. Derek adjusted his grip on the bundled body. The smell of old blood and decay coated his nostrils; he could taste it at the back of his tongue.

"Is your grandfather going to be there?" Alex asked later, when they'd passed out of the barely there town and were strikingly alone, and had seated themselves next to the empty county road. It seemed as good a place as any to pause and share out some of the trail mix and a protein bar. Billy had begun whining that he was hungry. The road stretched out, without a hint of shade, or another road or house. A break was in order anyway: Angela's feet were blistered under the sandal straps despite the band-aids Alex had applied from out of the emergency kit. She'd impressed Derek with how little she complained. He knew part of it was shock, knew she'd cried quietly all through the night, but she hadn't broken down entirely.

Then again, he'd grown too used to his pack, who made complaining about everything an art form for years.

"No," she said. "He's in the hospital. I was driving to Barstow to visit him. I couldn't leave the kids... " her breath hitched on a sob, but she swallowed hard and went on, "at home."

"No one's there?" Derek asked.

"No one. A friend of his is keeping his dog." She picked out a raisin from the mix and handed it to Billy, who examined it with a child's fierce concentration before condescending to eat it and demanding, "More."

Angela found another raisin for Billy. "I hope he's okay." Her fingers trembled.

"Danny?" Billy asked.

"He's with Granny Mimi, baby. It's just us now, so we've got to take care of each other."

Derek flinched on the inside, reminded of Laura telling him the same thing after the fire. They'd gone from a big, rowdy family to just the two of them and a badly burned uncle lost in a fugue state with no prospect he'd heal. They'd taken care of each other for six years, until Laura decided she had to go back to Beacon Hills and refused to let Derek come with her. He'd survived losing his alpha. Losing his sister had almost killed him. Four years later he'd made a new life with his own pack, but the reminder of that time still had the power to hurt.

"What was he in for?" Alex asked. Alex's phrasing made it sound like Angela's grandfather had been in prison. Derek choked back a snort of inappropriate laughter. He had some tact. Sometimes. More than Stiles did, at least. He thought Alex might have asked his question because he'd seen something in Derek's face.

Angela didn't answer and Derek figured they'd leave it at that, it wasn't any of their business after all, but after Billy had finished the trail mix, she got to her feet and said, "Congestive heart failure. Whatever's going on, he wasn't coming home again anyway. At least... at least he doesn't know about Danny." Her voice hitched and she wiped her eyes with the heel of one hand.

~*~

The house turned out to be a dilapidated, but clean double-wide mobile home, situated in the dubious shade of three tired, dusty eucalyptus trees. Telephone and electrical lines hooked into it from a cracked and slightly leaning pole and a propane tank sat out in the sun, white paint gone chalky. Dry, brittle weeds poked up between the rutted tired tracks that constituted the drive way. An even older barn, with a rusted tin roof and holes in the creosote-soaked board walls leaned catty-corner to the mobile. Behind it, an equally aged windmill creaked, too locked up for the nearly nonexistent breeze to move.

Angela retrieved a key from an empty hummingbird feeder and let them in. The mobile home was dark, hot and stuffy inside, smelled of illness, age, musty carpet, and the dog that was no longer there. Derek stopped in the doorway, unwilling to step inside with Danny's body. If he brought the body inside, the smell and the memory of it would stain the place.

Alex bypassed him and looked around, while Angela set Billy on an old couch and dropped down beside the toddler.

"Hey," Alex said, "gas stove and gas fridge. No juice, no problem."

"No juice, no pump, no water," Derek pointed out. He set Danny's body, in the shadiest, coolest part of the front porch.

Inside, Angela tipped her head back in exhaustion and said, "There might be a generator out in the barn."

"I'll go look." Derek still didn't feel comfortable entering someone else's dwelling – their territory. He didn't let werewolf instincts rule him, but he listened to them. He hoped he'd find a shovel or something he could use to dig with besides his hands too.

"I cleaned out the fridge last week," Angela said, "but there's still stuff... "

"I'll fix something," Alex promised and returned to the kitchen area. Derek left them and walked across the bare gravel and dirt to the barn. The interior had been mostly stripped, but he found the generator under a greasy tarp, a metal Jeep can of diesel next to it, the battery carefully disconnected. A wrench and several cans of oil sat on a rickety shelf above, next to a metal funnel and several dirty rags.

Derek raised his eyebrows in approval. He poked around the rest of the barn, finding a push lawnmower, a rusted out hot water heater tank, a trailer with flat tires, a wheelbarrow, shovel, hayfork, and hoe with a split handle, along with an old barbeque and several bales of straw that he figured were at least five years old, along with several galvanized garbage cans that had once held feed from the scent. The central, open portion of the barn held a faded blue pick-up truck, a motorcycle under another tarp, and space where another vehicle had been parked. Both the pick-up and the motorcycle were old enough to be called classics, if not antiques, but appeared to be in good shape. Just like the generator, when he checked, the batteries were disconnected.

The bird crap caked on everything explained the tarps. Derek's nose wrinkled at the smell of feathers and guano mixed with stale hay and, again, the dog, though that was fading. No cats were around, though he smelled an opossum somewhere deeper in the barn and a few rats. He found a round-point shovel and a post-hole digger in the bed of the pick-up. The handles were a little loose with age, but they'd still work.

The green-painted generator was a behemoth that hadn't been shifted in years. Even with Derek's strength and Alex pushing too, getting it out of the barn and in place to hook up left him and Alex breathless and sweating. He sent Alex into the mobile to get something to drink and ask Angela if there was a toolbox, half afraid Alex would give himself heatstroke if he stayed outside and exerted himself any more. He knew it had to be like an oven inside, but the shade and easing off would help the other man.

Two hours later, he had the generator hooked up and running. The sound seemed much too loud in the afternoon stillness, the first cough and chug as it caught sounded like a shot, and startled a dozen gray pigeons out of the barn. The stench of the exhaust caught at the back of Derek's throat and he found himself half eager to live in a world not constantly contaminated with the reek of burning petroleum products, though he never had. It was too strange to imagine though; whatever had happened, he couldn't conceive that it would be permanent. Internal combustion still worked after all: the generator running before him gave testament to that.

He shook his head over his musings. There were more concrete tasks to face. Things that had to be done now instead of worrying about later.

Alex slapped Derek's shoulder. "Good job, man."

Derek straightened up. "We need to bury the boy."

"Come inside first. Eat. We've got canned chili, cheese and crackers and some warm beer."

"You should fill every container you can with clean water and not run the generator any more than you have to," Derek said as he followed Alex back to the mobile. There were plastic lawn chairs on the back porch now, along with TV trays, and they all sat where the air cooled in the shade just a little bit. Either that or someone had noticed Derek's reluctance to come inside, but he dismissed that possibility.

He ate everything set out. A sense of how wrong things might be made him aware of how precious food might become. Besides, he was hungry. "Thanks."

Angela smiled weakly. "I haven't thanked you." Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed; while he and Alex had been working on the generator, she'd been crying, but kept it to herself. Derek figured she had every right.

He nodded and silently left the porch. Alex followed him. "Pick a place you don't look at from the windows," Derek said. He retrieved the shovel and post-hole digger and nodded approval at the spot behind the pump house Alex had picked out. He set the point of the shovel into the dirt and drove it down with a grunt.

Alex started a hole diagonally from him. They worked steadily through the rest of the afternoon, until they had a grave deep enough nothing would disturb its contents.

It wasn't the first grave Derek had dug, after all.

Alex found an aged sheet and wrapped it around the body before they lowered it into the earth. Angela cried, ugly, choking sounds heaving out her, blind and oblivious to Derek and Alex, until she broke and ran back into the trailer Derek began the work of filling the grave, figuring Alex would follow her. As the first shovel full of dirt rained down onto the sheet, Alex muttered, "Fuck." He wrestled the shovel away from Derek. "Go wash up. You did the hard work."

Derek found a faucet and hose and rinsed off as best he could. He still didn't want to go inside the mobile home. It felt that if he did, he'd be binding himself to the place and the people.

Angela walked out and handed him a towel. He dried his hands and face, then ran it over the back of his neck. "You could come inside – "

"No, thanks."

She looked like she wasn't surprised. Alex joined them and began hosing off his hands and forearms. "Jesus, that feels good."

"There's a '56 truck in the barn and a motorcycle," Derek mentioned. He tossed Alex the damp towel. Alex scowled at it.

"You think you can get them to run?" Alex asked as he used the towel anyway.

Angela said, "Gran Dad loves that old truck, won't part with it, and he's kept it running. The motorcycle too."

Derek forced a smile. "If it was an EMP, they're probably old enough to be okay."

"You want to take the motorcycle, don't you?" Angela asked.

"I need to get back to my pa–people."

She laced her fingers together and flexed them, then nodded. "If the truck runs, you can take the Norton."

Derek nodded. He actually preferred the motorcycle to the truck; it could go off-road and maneuver through traffic jams and pile-ups and he anticipated more and worse the closer he got to Los Angeles. He didn't offer to buy the motorcycle or promise he'd bring it back. If he could, he would, but Angela didn't seem to be fooling herself about the odds any more than he was.

Two hours later, Derek swung astride the Norton. He had his shoulder holster on, his gear bag strapped to the bike, and four cans of chili and a jar of peanut butter, along with a filled canteen of water. He'd offered Angela one of his guns, but she'd dragged a case from under her grandfather's bed and revealed a hunting rifle and a shotgun.

Alex shoved his hands in his jean's pockets and rocked on his heels, reminding Derek of Stiles. Reminding Derek the pack were likely all together, but Stiles was alone in Mexico. He wanted Stiles back where he belonged, then everything wouldn't be making Derek think about him, because he'd be there, right next to him. Not having Stiles around kept Derek too much on edge, made his claws curl at the tips of his fingers, nearly visible. "I should get back to my station," Alex said, voice snapping Derek out of his own thoughts. "I just don't know how much good I could do."

Derek didn't agree or disagree.

"I think I'll stay here though, until we know what's going on."

Derek nodded. He reached for the Norton's ignition.

"Good luck. Shane."

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him. "My name's not Shane."

"Gotta call you something and you're driving off into the sunset alone after sort of saving the day, so... It's that or 'who was that masked man?'"

Derek almost smiled, reminded again of Stiles. "Not sundown yet."

"Close enough." Alex held out his hand. Derek shook it.

He turned the ignition key and the Norton purred to life. Angela hadn't been kidding. Her grandfather had kept the classic 1974 machine in top condition.

He'd never been much good at talking, never mind saying good-bye, so Derek gave Alex a nod and lifted his hand in a wave to Angela and Billy, then turned the Norton toward the road.

It had taken a major chunk of what money Derek had inherited from his family, along with selling a small section of prized Hale land to the Beacon Hills Wildlife Preserve Trust – they'd wanted that land for a decade and he'd made them pay through the nose for it – to buy the seven bedroom mansion in Nichols Canyon, but Derek had considered it worthwhile. While many people had thought he and Laura should have been rich from life insurance, werewolves didn't expect to die in accidents or in any fashion that would let heirs collect, so there hadn't been anything except a policy on the house. That money, when it finally was disbursed, had gone to Peter's long term care. Selling that small piece of Hale land had been the only way to fund the pack's move south. Thinking about it as he headed there, he still considered it the right choice.

The Nichols Canyon house had been a good buy, though. He'd sell it once everyone finished college and they could move back to Beacon Hills. By then, he figured to make a profit, since they'd all matured beyond tossing each other through walls before moving in. The rich neighborhood meant no one raised eyebrows over security fences or the way the pack kept to themselves, another plus.

Lydia dealt with being social whenever it became necessary. Derek wasn't positive, but he thought she might have fostered the idea she was a starlet and everyone else was her entourage among the neighbors. The credit card sprees on Rodeo Drive and her convertible probably reinforced that image. He had no idea what anyone made of the bounty hunting gear he sometimes still wore when he came back from a job.

Better than anyone starting to think they had a pack of werewolves living in the center of LA.

Two, in fact, but Hester's pack of undercover feds – all bitten wolves – had their own ways of keeping a low profile. It turned out badges could be useful even for the supernatural.

Lydia had been the one to find the house in the first place when it became abundantly clear neither werewolves nor magic users did well in dorms.

Anonymity and exclusivity were the first levels of protection for the pack house, but not the last. Derek had given his and Stiles and Danny and Lydia's paranoia free reign with his credit cards and it had resulted in a security system that outmatched most mansions in Beverly Hills or anywhere else on the planet. No more relying on werewolf senses only.. Working as a bounty hunter and occasionally helping Hester's Fed pack out when they ran into something supernatural had provided another layer of security in the form of being tapped into law enforcement networks. Scott and Stiles' devotion to first person zombie video games – along with Stiles' disgust with all the bad choices programmed into said games – had resulted in major, though hidden modifications to the house too, along with preparations for a siege or bugging out.

Derek felt confident the pack were all there at the house and fine. He couldn't pretend to himself he wasn't worried about them, however.

Full moons, Derek took them all into the desert or the mountains, federal lands, and they cut loose, howling, running, mock fighting and seriously hunting. One of the humans always went with them, to watch the cars or the camp or deal with anything the wolves couldn't while shifted. It kept them healthy and tight, just the way living in the same house did, cementing the pack's ties to each other.

Derek wouldn't regret the money even if he never sold the house either. While living in the urban sprawl meant he couldn't wolf out or wander four-footed often, it provided a level of safety from hunters that isolation hadn't offered his family. In addition, the house wasn't owned under the Hale name, so hunters weren't going to trace it to him and come looking for the pack.

Having a place to run wouldn't have saved his family when Kate trapped and burned them; there had been no warning. It might have saved Erica, though, if he'd had somewhere safe to hide the pack when the Alphas moved in. Backs to the wall, they'd had to fight. These days, he knew he'd take everyone and run rather than risk their lives over a territory. Escape routes were well and good, but they didn't get used if you were convinced you had to hold out because you had nowhere to go. Back then he'd been young, in over his head and too proud to admit how scared he was all the time.

When they went back to Beacon Hills, if he didn't keep the Nichols Canyon house, he'd use some of the proceeds to establish a safehouse somewhere. Somewhere a pack could blend into a populace. Hunters looked for wolves in rural areas; better to get lost in a crowd.

He didn't liked the crowds he'd seen as he made his way through LA. People were still trying to help each other out, but fear was creeping in at the edges. He'd come in through the north, bypassing the usual routes since they were heavily clogged with dead cars, and ended up picking his way slowly through the side streets because the freeways were a thousand times worse than the pile up on Interstate 15.

Then again, Derek didn't like crowds, period. Crowds became mobs with one finger point and accusation. Then out came pitchforks and torches, or at the least fists, boots, rocks and clubs. Just because he could survive a riot better than a human didn't mean he wanted to test his endurance.

Hunters might be a moot point soon, Derek reflected. Like everyone else, they'd be preoccupied with simply surviving, though probably better equipped to do so than most others. They shouldn't have time, resources or any incentive to come after a strong pack. He curled his lip. Hunters and humans weren't the only dangers. With the lights out, everything that lived in the dark would have free reign. Hunters would be the first thing most of them went after.

Derek could muster little sympathy at the thought.

He took the bike through Cahuenga Pass down to Mount Olympus and into the canyon, leaning into the winding curves so he didn't need to slow down much. The back road and cross-country trip back had taught him all the motorcycle's idiosyncrasies. He liked it and thought vaguely if the world went back to normal, he'd get himself one.

Derek didn't think the world would be going back to normal any time soon, though. The lack of electricity, transportation and tech had everyone inconvenienced and irritated, but it hadn't been long enough for the weight of disaster to really make itself known. It was a slow motion catastrophe; the dominoes hadn't finished falling.

Heavy chain and a padlock had replaced the electronic lock on the gate to the private driveway. By the time Derek has stopped in front it, engine idling, one foot balancing the bikes weight on the brick paving stones – contemplating whether to break the lock or vault the gate while leaving the Norton outside – Isaac appeared at a run. He produced a shiny key and opened the gate.

"You got something running!"

Derek rolled the bike inside and motioned Isaac to climb on once the gate was chained closed once more. Isaac wrapped his arms around Derek in a tight hug and chattered into his ear as they made their way up the driveway.

"So, Scott wanted to go looking for you, but Lydia told him not to be stupid, you would come back to us and we have everything here to get along until things get right again," Isaac explained. "We figured you were okay. No one's eyes went red, anyway."

Derek didn't point out that none of them would become alpha if another werewolf killed him. Fight other werewolves wasn't something he worried about much any longer. Derek had been fighting for his life against omegas, betas and even alphas for the last four years. He was vicious when pressed these days. What Peter had done to Laura had taught him you couldn't trust another werewolf any more than another human, not even pack, not even family. Put together with the burn scars Kate had left behind on his psyche, Peter's betrayal nearly wrecked him, left him dour and suspicious and cold to the bone. Isaac and Stiles had been the ones who convinced him he didn't have to be. He extended a measure of trust to his pack now, but not to many others, even if he knew them, like Hester's pack or the McAllisters up in eastern Oregon. Any rogue beta or omega that came after him found out at least one reason there wasn't an Alpha pack any longer.

He parked the motorcycle between Boyd's brown pick-up and Lydia's cherry red convertible. Both vehicles had a light coat of dust and tree leaves caught at the base of the windshields, indicating that hadn't been moved in some time. The absence of any other familiar vehicles didn't surprise Derek. They had likely been away from the house when the electronics on everything failed. He knew everyone would have made their way back on foot.

The feel of them, worried but calm and now relieved, sifted through the pack bond. His shoulders loosened. He could tell no one was hurt.

The distant rumble of a generator, muffled behind walls and earth, meant someone had cranked it into life. The house would have running water; one thing Derek had insisted on was a well. He disliked even the idea of being subject to city water. Too dependent. Too easy to poison the water supply coming into the house with wolfsbane, if hunters ever found them, too easy to shut it off or for it to fail as it no doubt had now. A well, a generator and solar panels had meant not being vulnerable.

Since they were using the generator and potentially precious fuel, Derek presumed the solar panels had failed. He wasn't surprised; his life had taught him most things failed eventually. He wondered if he wasn't so much calm and in control as he was just desensitized to catastrophe. Stiles would say he was rocking the whole PTSD thing, dissociated from his emotions, but Derek didn't think so. Stiles wasn't always right... He felt emotions, he was aware of his damn feelings, he just didn't see any point of putting them on display. He shook his head, once, trying to shake away the thoughts about Stiles.

He knocked the kickstand down with his boot and killed the bike's motor. Phantom vibration tingled through his body after hours astride it.

Isaac drifted his hand over Derek's shoulder as he climbed off. "It's good you're back." He squeezed once before letting go.

Derek followed him inside, through the foyer and into the back and the big, all-purpose room with the wall of French doors facing out to the pool and the trees and shrubs that provided another layer of privacy. The rest of the pack, except for Stiles, were sprawled around the room, trying to look less tense than they were.

"Good, you're here finally," Lydia said. She didn't look up from the notebook she was writing and sketching in with a mechanical pencil. She'd drawn her hair back in a simple but still stylish ponytail. The strawberry blonde of her high school years had darkened into a deeper red, but she still kept it long and model smooth and shiny.

"Sorry I dawdled," Derek replied.

Boyd nodded to him and went on eating his way through a plate full of cut vegetables. Between Boyd's pragmatism and good sense and Lydia's brains, the pack had been in good hands.

Danny – their Danny, not the child Derek helped bury, his blisters healing before he drove away from the grave he helped dig, and he wished his thoughts would mend as easily – had taken over the largest coffee table and had a disemboweled laptop spread across it. He'd pulled the hard drives, set them aside and was examining the motherboard or whatever they were calling it for laptops these days. Derek used them, he didn't repair them. Chips, he thought, they used chips that had to be protected from electrical overloads. He remembered enough to know magnets created currents and to keep them away from delicate computer media, no more. Danny carefully set aside the piece of equipment in his hand before making a note on a piece of scratch paper and moving on. Watching him almost made Derek ache. The depth of his relief at having Danny there surprised him less than it might have once, though.

"Hey, Miguel," he said with a nod to Derek, the way he always did, a brotherly tease reminding both of them of their first meeting in Stiles' bedroom, when Derek had been a fugitive and Stiles had introduced him as his cousin.

"Danny."

Stiles was right. Derek was crap at showing emotion or saying anything, but the bonds that ran between the werewolves at least were filled with his relief and determination to keep them all whole and safe. All, the werewolves and the humans; Derek didn't distinguish between then any longer, didn't try to pretend differently. Maybe his voice gave away a little more than usual, because Danny looked up, brows arching over his dark eyes and flashed a smile at Derek that Derek returned with a slow nod, because he was still shit at being demonstrative and the whole pack, human and wolf, knew better than to push his boundaries, because it only made him worse.

He loved his pack. He trusted them. But not with all of him. There would always be a piece of Derek waiting for the next betrayal and a knife in the back. That's what life had taught him to expect.

His gaze drifted to one of the reasons he would never quite believe in his pack's devotion, no matter how many time Stiles urged him to let go of the past.

Scott McCall. Beta, but not a beta Derek made, and according to the Alpha pack, before their defeat, a destined alpha.

Scott and Allison were curled together on the love seat. No surprise. On one hand, Derek admired that they were still as devoted as they'd been as high school sweethearts. On the other, Scott's single-minded focus on Allison made him a poor leader. He'd always put Allison's welfare over his. Derek had no problem with that, but a good alpha – which he hadn't been at first, he acknowledged if only to himself – looked out for all of the pack. Then there was Scott’s determined idealism. Scott wanted to believe the best, wanted to give everyone a chance and then a second chance, and for every time it paid off, there were two where it cost someone their life or one of the pack pain and fear.

Scott might make a good alpha in ten years or so, though, Derek acknowledged, after all, Derek was learning too.

He doubted he and Scott would ever be buddies, though. Pack, yes, with all the loyalties that came with the bond, but not quite friends.

Derek thought that was okay, though. When he needed a friend, he turned to Stiles and had since almost the beginning, when they were still calling each other enemies.

Allison gave him a half smile. Scott opened his mouth, shut it, then blurted, "How'd you get the motorcycle to work? Nothing's running here. The electricity is out and the cars all quit and even when Lydia hooked up the generator, the laptops and TV won't boot. What's going on?"

Why Scott thought Derek had all the answers baffled him.

"Honey," Allison said while placing her hand on Scott's arm.

He looked abashed. "Sorry?"

"The motorcycle works because it's an older model. I got it from a woman in exchange for digging a grave," Derek said, even knowing Scott would demand to know what that meant and what Derek had done.

Allison and Stiles made up for Scott, Derek had long since decided. It didn't hurt to have a voice of dissent in the pack, either, but it was the three humans Derek valued most. Stiles and Allison were every bit as ruthless as the rest of his werewolves and able to do things the wolves couldn't. Allison kept them dialed into the hunter networks and Stiles had magic at his finger-tips, strong enough to lay out an alpha with word and rune traced in the air. Lydia was, of course, a social genius as well as intellectual. The three of them were more dangerous than any weapon ever manufactured.

He found himself half looking for Stiles, expecting to hear his excited voice, even though he knew Stiles couldn't have made it back from Baja Sur. Out of all the pack, Derek had been the one to protest hardest over Stiles decision to take the study trip to Mexico. Stiles had practically cooed at him, asking if the alpha was worried in mocking voice. Derek hadn't been able to admit it, but he was. The others hadn't realized that Stiles absence would tease at them like the hollow of a pulled tooth, an empty space they kept noticing without his presence. They naturally wanted everyone together. Derek just pretended he didn't, even as he relaxed when they were. He wanted all of his three humans here, where the pack could keep them safe, but especially Stiles. Derek missed the little shit. His absence felt like a hole in his chest now. It wasn't just the pack who needed Stiles. Derek did too.

"So, what's the plan?" Lydia asked. Her lips curved into a smug smile. Derek had no doubt she already had a plan and if his existed and didn't coincide with hers, she'd tear it apart with a few razor sharp remarks. He wouldn't enjoy it, but it was part of why he kept her around. Like Stiles, she called him on anything and everything stupid he did.

He walked over to the oatmeal-colored couch and dropped onto the cushioned expanse, then stretched his legs out. "Sleep," he decided. "Food." He tipped his head back and let the couch support it. Credit where credit was due, Lydia's decorating choices didn't just look good.

A couple of hours sleep would be enough to keep him going for days. Perks of being the alpha. He let his eyes close almost involuntarily. The couch was more comfortable than anything else Derek had ever owned. He re-evaluated the order of his plan. The couch smelled good; he didn't. "Shower first."

"Oh, and then, then we'll talk about – ?" Lydia demanded.

"Never mind that," Scott interrupted, "why were you digging a grave?" Derek heard him leave the loveseat and imagined the glare being turned his way. He swallowed a growl, hoping if he did, Scott wouldn't escalate this into another dominance contest. "Hey!"

Derek didn't bother lifting his head or opening his eyes. "Maybe I killed someone." He really wasn't good at not pissing Scott off.

"What!?" Scott sounded scandalized and that turned to anger. "What's wrong with you – You can't just go killing people – We should be out there helping them."

"Stop being stupid," Lydia said. "No one gives you a motorcycle for digging the grave of someone you killed." She paused before adding thoughtfully. "Maybe for killing someone... "

"No," Derek stated. He sighed and added for Scott's sake, "I didn't kill anyone."

"Scott," Allison said. "We don't know what Derek saw, but judging by what's been happening here... We should be happy he made it back." Derek opened his eyes, pleased she'd defended him, normally that would be Stiles' self-appointed job, and saw Danny nodding. "Lydia's still right. We need to stick close until we know what's going to happen."

Coming from Allison, that calmed Scott more than any explanation from Derek ever would. He sighed again, opened his eyes, and levered himself to his feet. He wasn't exhausted the way a human was, but he was weary. He didn't ask what she was talking about, assuming the humans were doing what humans did when the rule of law broke down. It was selfish, but he didn't care: his people were okay.

"But Derek just said – "

"Scott. Derek just got here," Danny said. "Dial it back. We're all safe. That's what's important."

Everyone was safe for now except for Stiles in Baja. That was a festering sliver under Derek's skin.

"Fine, fine, whatever," Scott muttered to Allison. "It's just, we've been waiting for Derek and I want to know what we're going to do now we're all finally here."

Derek didn't realize he'd begun growling until Lydia snapped, "Stop it. – Scott, we aren't all here. Stiles, remember?"

Scott winced even before Allison punched him. Derek upped his estimate of Scott's alphahood to fifteen years. "Hey, you know, Stiles can look out for himself." His face darkened with embarrassment and what Derek hoped was shame. Scott never worried about Stiles. The member of the pack with a track record of sticking his nose into trouble, all with the best intentions – well, not bad intentions – and Scott never gave him a second thought.

Derek looked at Scott with arched brows. "I'm getting a shower, six hours sleep and something to eat. Then I'm going to get Stiles."

It was an old resentment, one Stiles never seemed to feel toward his friend, but Derek did. Scott had taken Stiles for granted and endangered his friend's life, leaving Derek to look out for him, more than once. It pissed him off then, when he didn't even like Stiles. It still did.

"I didn't think you'd worry about Stiles," Scott said baldly.

His claws punched through the upholstery. How could Scott not know Derek would go after him? Even if Derek didn't care about Stiles, and he fucking admitted he did, Stiles was pack.

"Stop embarrassing yourself and us," Lydia sniped at Scott. "Everyone here knows Derek worries about Stiles all the time." Her attention reverted to Derek. "And us. So, plan?"

She conveyed her usual condescending air, implying she knew exactly what they should all be doing, including Derek, but a hint of worry threaded through her voice. He noticed she didn't object to his plan, only wanted more from him. That meant that Lydia was scared, something she would never let show if she could help it. Derek got that, it was the basis of why they got along, in fact. Never show weakness.

"You and Boyd are in charge. Stay here until we get back, then we'll relocate to Beacon Hills if things aren't any better."

She nodded in satisfaction. "What about Hester's pack?"

"They're Hester's responsibility." Hester's pack were all adults and had been when the rogue alpha bit them. Hester struck him as eminently capable of handling any disaster scenario. She might be tiny and ancient, but she'd adapted to becoming a wolf and then an alpha after tangling with the rogue better than any other bitten wolf Derek had ever met. She'd take care of her own pack. "Don't invite them here unless something goes really wrong."

Lydia laughed at that and Derek arched his eyebrows at her, prompting a near giggle. "Really wrong," he repeated.

If Stiles had been there, Derek knew he'd have repeated his patented, 'Oh, my, God,' as dramatically as possible, then listed everything already wrong and all the possible causes.

"I should go," Scott said. "He's my best friend."

"No."

"But – " Of course Scott protested, but at least this time Derek knew it was out of care for his friend and not just to annoy Derek. It softened him toward Scott, the way Scott's good intentions always did. Not enough to change Derek's mind about who was going and who was staying, but enough to admit his own bad temper hadn't really been warranted. He needed to go after Stiles. He was the pack alpha after all, he told himself it was instinct to go after a missing packmate.

"I'm going. You're staying here with Allison." He knew that argument would crumple Scott's automatic protest of anything Derek decided.

Another stretch made the bones in his neck and back pop audibly. Scott winced and Derek hid a smile. It had sounded a little like it did when his bones shifted and he cracked his neck before taking his half-transformed shape, the nightmare wolfman version. Which usually preceded Derek throwing Scott around until the beta remembered who was alpha.

"I'll bring you some sandwiches," Isaac offered. "And there's some fresh fruit that won't last much longer. We're eating all that stuff first."

Derek nodded and headed for his bedroom and its luxurious in-suite bathroom. Clean clothes and clean sheets were in his future if for just one night. He clasped Isaac's shoulder briefly as he passed him, then Boyd's as he walked behind Boyd's chair. Boyd grunted around his food; he'd grown as taciturn as Derek after Erica was killed. Next, Derek touched his fingers to Allison's where they rested on Scott's arm and then pressed his hand to the top of Scott's head firmly in a mixture of comfort and authority.

Danny was already bent back over his laptop and gave Derek an absent wave of a hand, saying, "See you in the morning."

He glanced back at Lydia from the doorway. "You can tell me what you've figured out once I've slept."

"I can give you a short version right now."

Derek debated it and leaned against the doorway with a 'go ahead' gesture. Lydia tapped her pencil on her notebook and nodded, more to herself than to him, then said, "Theory A: High altitude electromagnetic pulse, likely from an nuclear device detonated over North America, in which case I would think that some low frequency radio transmissions from countries not effected in the either the Southern Hemisphere or Eurasia would now be making it through to hardened or protected receivers here."

"Or?"

"Coronal Mass Ejection. A 'super' solar storm, something bigger than anything ever recorded." Lydia made a disgusted face. "Which isn't even a blip compared to geologic or stellar time frames. Before electricity and satellites, how would we have noticed a solar storm? I think – Well, NOAA scales have noted aurora visible at latitudes as low as Florida in the case of G5 geomagnetic storms. The displays the last two nights have been brighter and more prolonged than anything I've ever read of, but they would fit with Theory B."

Derek pushed away from the doorway. In neither case was there anything he could do about what had happened beyond taking care of his people. "Is there a Theory C?"

Lydia gave him her Mean Girl smile. Derek braced himself.

"Fucking supernatural shit, of course."

Of course. He wanted his shower. Theory C would inevitably find its way to them if it proved out. If it did, they'd definitely need Stiles' brand of magic mojo.

~*~

The Norton ended up with its tank filled with gasoline scavenged from Lydia's convertible. Isaac took care of it while Derek was still sleeping, mentioning it casually when Derek walked into the kitchen following the scent of food and pack, still disconcerted by his dreams of Stiles' lean body under him. He didn't let himself think about Stiles that way usually, though it had grown more difficult lately, but it shocked him how much he wanted that dream.

Derek forced himself to focus on logistics instead.

They actually had cans of stabilized fuel, additives, oils and other fluids in the garage. Boyd had insisted on all their vehicles being equipped with siphons that worked with a squeeze bulb instead of needing someone to suck gas. Boyd hated the taste and smell of gasoline and diesel. No one knew why or had the gall to ask; if Boyd wanted you to know something he said it. Otherwise, he said nothing and that hadn't changed since high school. Derek found Boyd soothing. He watched with strange, touched feeling as Boyd added one of those siphons to the backpack standing open on the kitchen counter. He could see everyone had added something to it. Sunshine filled the room, promising another beautiful day, at least until around noon when the heat reached unpleasant levels that would linger well past dusk. The rest of his pack moved sleepily around it, padding on silent bare feet, brushing up against each other and Derek repeatedly, acting like a family should. He had to blink hard when he realized that. His pack was finally what he'd been longing for since the fire.

Derek almost choked on his coffee. Instead, he muttered a soft thanks to Boyd.

"Stiles said you never can be sure gas stations down there will have gas and that was before this shit storm hit," Boyd explained. He showed Derek the rest of what he'd gathered from the house's supplies. Nalgene bottles for water, two extra epipens, one loaded with the ashes of a variety of the common wolfsbanes hunters used, one with the exotics like Nordic Blue Monkshood: that had been Melissa McCall's idea and all of them carried one each now. Isaac had probably been the one to decide Derek should carry spares.

Boyd held up an item sealed in a clear plastic baggy. "This is the same kind of water filter Stiles took with him."

Derek didn't say he didn't need it. Stiles might. He just went on eating the massive breakfast Isaac had whipped up. The six burner professional quality stove was gas and still worked and Isaac was the best cook out of all of them. He had already put together a cooler filled with plastic tubs of sandwich fixings for Derek to take with him along with high calorie military rations. Isaac never made sandwiches to go – said they got soggy – instead he sent everything to put together a great sandwich. Take and make instead of take and bake.

Isaac loved Papa Murphy's pizza take and bake.

A rolled up sleeping bag sat next to the backpack, ready to be tied down at the bottom.

"Should we be thinking sustainability at this point?" Lydia asked. Danny picked an apple out of the half empty pottery bowl on the counter and crunched into it, nodding his secondment of her question.

Derek swallowed his scrambled eggs before replying. "You know more than I do."

"I was just thinking it would be easier to go out and pick up things like seeds and gardening tools now," she said. "If we're staying here."

"Even if we're not, seed packets are pretty light. We could carry them with us if we left," Danny volunteered. He tossed Boyd an apple, round and green, Derek's favorite, and Boyd tucked it into the pack.

"Or just get them when we get to Beacon Hills," Scott said.

"Yes, but Scott, what if we don't make it there for some reason?" Allison pointed out.

"Better to be completely prepared, as Stiles is always telling us," Lydia declared. "We'll lay in a supply. We need to find out what's going on in the rest of the city anyway. – Danny, did you get that laptop working?"

"Not that one, but we've got a couple that were insulated down in the basement, the way Stiles insisted. They're working, but there's no Internet, no servers, no ISPs up to hook up to," Danny answered. "There might be military or even harden private networks, but they're not open to anyone outside their systems." He made a face. "Everything else is fried. Grids still down. No one's coordinated enough to start any repairs. Some radio is back up though." The shadows under his eyes testified to how late in the night he'd worked to find out even that much. "It doesn't sound good. Mostly FEMA recordings, nothing useful."

"Santa Ana's are blowing again," Isaac muttered. He served plates of eggs and sausage to Allison and Scott.

"Pay attention to the wind," Derek said. "It's still wildfire season."

"There was a fire up in the San Bernardino Mountains before the Crash," Boyd said. "No one's been fighting it since."

"If a fire comes through here," Derek ordered, "run. Don't try to fight it, don't endanger yourself trying to take too much with you. You can scavenge, as long as you're all alive."

"We'll be here when you get back," Scott said. "If we're not, we're headed home. We won't take any dumb chances."

Derek huffed out a skeptical breath, but nodded. "I should go." Part of him felt guilty over leaving them again so soon. Was going after a single pack member – because it was Stiles, he'd always go after Stiles if he could – too much, too like the narrow-focus he criticized in Scott?

None of his pack had seemed surprised or disagreed with his plan, not even Lydia.

Scott surprised him into freezing by wrapping Derek in a tight hug. "Get Stiles and take care of yourself."

Derek awkwardly patted Scott's back before stepping away from the hug. He was a little more prepared as the rest of his pack also hugged him one by one.

Lydia hugged him last and patted at Derek's chest once she let go. "We need you both."

Isaac ran ahead of him to unlock the gate again as Derek rolled the bike down the bricked drive. Just as Derek steered through, Isaac crowded close and shoved bag of Reese's Pieces into Derek's jacket pocket and a pair of black aviator glasses into Derek's free hand.

"Stiles' favorite," Isaac explained. "Be careful, Derek. I don't want a new alpha."

Derek arched his eyebrows. "Don't make me have to bite a bunch of new betas." No one could replace his betas. He might not have known jack when he started his pack, but he'd never regretted anyone he bit voluntarily. The only others had been Jackson, who had blackmailed him, another reason the Bite had gone sideways with the boy, Victoria Argent in wolfsbane dazed attempt at self-defense, and Gerard –

He didn't like to remember Gerard and the way Scott, under Deaton's tutelage, had used him. Or the pain and hell that came afterward as result of that genius plan, either. They'd survived and he'd even accepted Scott back into the pack. Things were good now.

He should have known it wouldn't last. Derek scowled at the thought. Stiles would kick him for thinking like that, calling it regressing, and insist instead that, yes, they, including Derek, did deserve good things, even if disaster was always around the corner.

"You'd miss us," Isaac crowed, dragging him back from the dark turn his thoughts threatened to take.

"I just don't want to train any more new wolves."

Isaac just grinned. Derek tried to growl, but the sound that came out was one he remembered his father making, a chest deep rumble filled with affection. He muttered his dad's old mantra under his breath, "Be good," and revved the bike, but knew Isaac heard him anyway before he drove away. He was already calculating how much time he could save getting to Stiles if he skipped stopping to sleep anywhere as he turned south toward the border.

Even an off the grid, piss poor fishing village on a beach with such crap waves that the surfers never bothered with it noticed when the lights went out. Especially when the lights weren't the only things to kick it. The jackass with the yacht anchored outside the bay started the day complaining all his electronics were out. His outrage ratcheted into red-faced disbelief when confronted with the lack of working telephones. Stiles had to wonder how much good a land line would have done him when he was so angry he couldn't talk anyway.

Stiles didn't expect to always get a sat connection, even with the sat phone he'd invested in – read Derek insisted on buying for him because cell reception was shitty everywhere on the peninsula – so he didn't worry as morning wore on into afternoon. He didn't even expect to always have electricity. That's what batteries were for. Consuelo's little village only had electricity when Manuel cranked up his generator at night to light up the single cantina. Stiles usually bought a beer and a plate of fish tacos – freshest fish ever – while he plugged in and charged the batteries for his electronics after a day of doing chores and listening to Conseulo lecture him on her brand of magic. A big tip at the end of the night kept Manual happy.

So he expected his laptop to boot when he sat down with it. When it didn't, he started paying a little more attention to the jackass's complaints. Others were wondering too, because as isolated as the village was, they did have contact with the outside world, and the lack of anything, no land line telephone, plus no television or radio transmissions from anywhere really had everyone on edge.

Stiles knew the pack and especially Derek worried about him living and studying alone down in Mexico, but abruptly he felt cold sense of worry for them. The regular phone calls were provided reassurance both ways. What if something big had happened? What if something had happened to one of the pack, to Scott, to Derek? Stiles wasn't there with them. His chest felt tight as he thought of Derek running into trouble alone in Nevada or hunters targeting the pack while Derek was gone. If that happened, it would devastate Derek; Stiles knew, because it would hit him the same way.

Even Stiles' emergency crank radio got him nothing but crackling and whistling static when he checked it. Betsy the Jeep's old AM/FM probably wouldn't have even picked that up, but he'd replaced it with a sat radio. But it got nothing, not even XM Radio, which he'd always been able to pick up anywhere, when he cranked the Jeep to life and switched the radio on.

By the second day, Stiles had that crawling, hunch your shoulders and get ready to run feeling that always preceded another shit show. He hadn't heard from the pack in more than a week. Derek insisted on weekly check ins – either someone called Stiles or he was supposed to call Derek to prove he was still alive. It went both ways: Stiles couldn't settle if he was worrying about the pack. And now all he could do was worry about them and Derek in particular and, damn it, he should have taken his chances and said something to Derek before leaving, what if it was too late... ?

No news, Stiles reminded himself, was good news, but in his experience, no news just meant no one was left alive.

Stiles wasn't worried about that yet, but only because he set enough alarm spells on the house, along with the human and werewolf members of the pack that he'd know if any of them died. He was worried though.

Good old Betsy Blue, his nearly antique Jeep still ran, but the alcalde's 2013 Cadillac – no one was asking where the money for that had come from – was a dead.

The acid trip light show provided by the aurora for the last two nights convinced Stiles something big had happened. Convinced him it was time to get out of Dodge, as it were, before the already insular villagers decided the local bruja's gringo apprentice needed to be exorcised or sacrificed or just beat to a bleeding pulp on the general principle that the norte americanos had to be responsible for whatever was wrong.

There were already whispers that the lights in the sky were obviously a sign from God.

Stiles didn't know if they were from God, but he figured they were definitely a sign to beat feet.

He packed up Betsy with everything he thought he'd need to get back to the border the next morning. Consuelo provided two old-fashioned Jeep cans of gasoline and helped him strap them to back of the Jeep. Her tiny brown almost claw-like hands were as expert at that as they were at mixing herbs and casting. She made him load extra bottles of water in the passenger side too and packed him a lunch, complete with tortillas so fresh they were still warm.

The bells of the one room church at the other end of the village were ringing as Stiles got behind the wheel. Consuelo tugged her shawl over her hair and eyed Stiles, eyes bird-bright and coal-black in her wrinkle mapped face.

"So, thanks for everything, and you know, I'd call and let you know what the he-heck is going on, if the phones were working, but anyway, I think it's time I headed home," Stiles blurted. "I've learned a lot from you, really, but yeah – time to go home."

"Vaya," Consuelo replied.

Stiles bobbed his head. "Right. Got it. Go. Definitely." He was good with that. His creep-o-meter was edging toward the red zone every minute he stayed. He wasn't going to feel right in his skin again until he saw Derek and Scott and the rest of the pack and, God, he hoped they would be heading back to Beacon Hills, because he needed a big hug from his dad, one that would prove the Sheriff was okay.

Consuelo nodded slowly. Just as Stiles put Betsy in gear, her hand darted into the Jeep and dropped a cloth-wrapped bundle, perhaps nine inches long, into his lap. "You will need this." Stiles fumbled for it and she tapped his arm. "Open it later," she said. Her fingers closed tight on his forearm, tight enough they hurt. "Now, go."

Stiles took his foot off the brake and let the Jeep start rolling.

"Vaya a su lobo," Consuelo told him.

Stiles stared at her. Of course she'd known he was part of a wolfpack. Her magic had assuredly pinged some werewolf magical reek on him. From him.

Sheesh, he thought, as he steered Betsy onto the gravel and dirt road that would take him inland to the highway. Drainage and erosion had the road – more of a track, really – ribbed and Betsy's old shocks weren't much compensation. Every jolt translated through the worn out cushioning on his seat and up through his tailbone.

It occurred to Stiles, though, that she hadn't told him to find the pack or even the wolves. Just his wolf. Not go with God, not go home, gringo, not go back to your pack or your friends or his father. Go to your wolf.

Consuelo hadn't meant Scott.

Hell, Stiles knew she meant Derek; the old witch had read his heart like a Times Square billboard. She'd meant Derek. It didn't matter if she even knew who Derek was, he was out there and he was the one Stiles had thought of first.

The problem was Derek was also the one who would run for the hills if he ever bought a clue and realized how Stiles felt about him.

~*~

Stiles kept trying the radio out of stubbornness, working his way through the frequencies and never getting anything more than spitting and screeching intermixed with a warble that sounded disturbingly like the banshee on crack they'd run into in West Hollywood one night. Boyd had eventually jerked its larynx out after it followed them back to the house.

Derek told it to leave first.

When it didn't... well, Boyd wasn't just quiet. He liked quiet.

Stiles liked noise, so he turned the volume down and listened for any hint of change in the quality of the static.

He had to bump slowly south to San Jorge, the closest place that even showed on a map, before turning north and then crossing most of the peninsula to get to Highway 1. Even past San Jorge – where there was nothing was any better than the village – it was slow, careful going. Betsy didn't have skid plates and he didn't want to rip out an oil pan or the transmission working his way across places where the road had washed out.

In the end, even all his care couldn't save the Jeep from a flat, the sidewall of the back right tire sliced open as if a knife or a sharp claw had caught it. Only Stiles knew claw wounds and this had just been a freakishly sharp bit of stone.

He'd taken the warnings about Baja roads to heart, however and had not only his regular spare, but a second one tied down on the Jeep's roof. He rolled Betsy to a lurching stop on a flat stretch of hard pan, set the brake, took in the damage and then scavenged two – not sharp, thank you – rocks to wedge under the good tires, then climbed on the roof to get down the second spare tire.

It took him most of an hour to change the tire, mostly because he did it extra carefully. He couldn't call for help and no one would be looking for him. The high summer sun prickled at the back of his neck where the gap between his hair and his collar left it exposed and sweat darkened the front of his blue Avengers t-shirt and glued it to his back. Even so, he stopped to study the horizon periodically. It would be just his luck to get caught in a flash flood from a freak rainstorm.

The silence settled oppressively around him as he worked. The only sounds were from a lizard or a bug skittering in the brittle grass struggling between the rocks strewing the hillside. Even the ratcheting squeal of the tire wrench as he worked the lug nuts loose preparatory to getting Betsy up on the jack didn't break the sense of everything being muffled. The quiet filled up the air so thick he kept swallowing to try to get his ears to pop.

If this was anything like the werewolves' senses, he did not want, Stiles decided for nth time. Nope, no thanks, give him some good old tinnitus and, holy God, what he wouldn't give to be able to hook up his mp3 player and blast some AC/DC or Metallica. Hell, even Kansas – Supernatural might have led him to his dad's old back catalog of rock music for the road – anything that would distract him from the sensation that he, the bugs, and the lizard sunning itself on a rock were the last things left alive on the planet.

He broke the last lug nut loose by bringing the ratchet handle around to where he could apply his weight to it but it could only drop about three inches before running into the dirt. For a second he worried the handle or the socket would bust or strip, but then it gave away with a groan.

The lizard spooked when Stiles began jacking Betsy up. "Rude," Stiles announced. He could feel the work in the muscles of his back and shoulders, because Betsy was loaded heavy with gas and water and extra tires along with everything else Stiles had considered he couldn't live without while he faked an anthropological survey for his classes while studying with Consuelo.

Well, that settled it. If even the reptiles – there was a joke about Jackson the Lizard King in there somewhere, though no one had seen him since high school – weren't going to hang around, then Stiles was going to have to entertain himself.

He was going to sing.

Boyd and Lydia wouldn't let him sing at the house. His own father had once contemplated letting Stiles serenade a suspect into confessing, but gave up the idea, worried the department might be sued for human rights violations.

After some consideration, Stiles decided on REM. It was just too good not to. His voice warbled as he began the first verse, stumbling and wrecking the quick paced rhythm immediately and laughing before he went on, da da da-ing whenever he couldn't remember the intricate lyrics.

" …Snakes and aeroplanes… "

He jacked Betsy up high enough he could not only pull the flat but fit the aired up spare back on, spun the lug nuts the rest of the way off one by one, and stashed them in his pocket so they wouldn't get lost or clogged with dirt and sand. As he worked he relived his dad talking him through each step, explaining the reasoning, even before Betsy became his, before he had even a learner's permit.

"… offer me solutions, offer me alternatives … and I decline!" Stiles yodeled triumphantly, stopping to puff a little as he lifted the flat off and dropped it in the dirt out of the way. Hah. He wrestled the good tire on gleefully, got it on with no trouble, clearing the threads on the lug bolts so they wouldn't get scraped down, and kept one hand braced against the center of the rim to balance it while he started twisting each of the lug nuts on. They spun on without cross-threading and he grinned.

That done, he released the jack and let Betsy sink down onto the tire. The Jeep's weight kept the tire from spinning as he tightened the lug nuts one by one.

He didn't need to be a werewolf to get things done. He was awesome. Fuck the Bite, he ruled.

"It's time I had some time alone," Stiles shouted and danced around the Jeep as he returned the jack and wrench and socket to their places. The flat went on the roof and was lashed back down, because rims weren't cheap. He bobbed his head to the memory of the music in his head and mock drummed a solo on Betsy's hood. " … some time alone and I feel FINE!"

He ignored the grease and grit under his fingernails and retrieved a bottle of lukewarm water, already filtered, and gulped it down, the overflow dribbling down his chin and neck to soak the collar of his t-shirt. That felt fantastic enough he bent his head and sloshed some on the back of his neck too.

Betsy crossed the rest of the wash without a hiccup and climbed out without trouble. There wasn't a speck of shade anywhere in sight, so Stiles parked at the top and treated himself to more water and the frankly delicious food Consuelo had sent with him. He wouldn't be eating Mexican that good anywhere north of Ensenada, after all.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of barren desert and billowing dust, only the mileage ticking over on Betsy's odometer proving he was making any progress at all. Stiles didn't even try to make it to a town or campground. He was alone with a working vehicle in a world he was increasingly convinced had a severe shortage of the same. The cars left abandoned on the road, not even pushed to the side, told him Betsy the Jeep had suddenly become a hot commodity. He parked again as dusk gave way to a true night darker than Gerard Argent's soul and slept in the driver's seat, protective and concealing runes and wards traced in the dust on the windows and windshield, and used his sleeping bag as a blanket and pillow. No one not supernatural too would even notice the Jeep with the no-see-ems, as Stiles had dubbed them, working.

He still slept for crap and it wasn't just the back breaking position.

Stiles ate the rest of Consuelo's tortillas the next morning as he drove and made Highway 1 ahead of his internal schedule. Betsy wasn't exactly made for speeding, but Highway 1 was in pretty good repair and he could let his baby push up to fifty and higher for the first time since the last time he'd driven the same road.

He spotted the glint of light on chrome on the motorcycle south of Guerrero Negro.

It was the first moving vehicle he'd seen.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised at all when a closer approach revealed the rider to be dark-haired and sporting sunglasses, a leather jacket too long in the arms, and stubble.

Derek.

He hadn't thought Derek would come after him. Derek had the pack and took his responsibilities to them very seriously. Yet he'd left them to find Stiles. He'd known Derek cared, at least in a friendly fashion, about him, but this... this was big. It made a bubble of warmth open up and fill him. Derek had come, not sent someone else.

For once, Stiles wasn't an afterthought, the one someone better round up too.

They came to a stop parallel to each other. The Jeep's rattling engine sounded in counterpoint to the throaty rumble from the motorcycle. Derek balanced the big machine effortlessly and Stiles spotted the slight release of tension in his shoulders as he let go of the handlebars and rested his hands on his thighs.

Stiles leaned his elbow against the edge of his rolled down window down and grinned.

"Fancy meeting you here." His grin got wider. The awful tension he'd felt since starting out was unwinding now Derek was in front of him, now he knew Derek was all right, and if Derek was here, then the pack were all fine too. "You do know you're now a complete cliché, right?"

Derek bared those white teeth at him.

"Is it the Fonz?" Stiles went on, because he was on a roll and he always talked to drown out his own emotions, especially the ones that meant he wanted to climb out of Betsy and wrap himself around Derek's broad shoulders and squeeze until that leather jacket creaked. "No, wait, Danny Zuco. No, no, Peter Fonda in Easy Rider!"

Derek took off his sunglasses and folded them one-handed. "You know, if I kill you right here, I can just leave you for buzzards and no one will ever know." He lifted his lip to show a little extra fang. Despite that, amusement and warmth showed through his usually stoic expression. Enough that Stiles wondered if Derek hadn't missed him as much as Stiles had missed seeing him every day.

"Awwwww. Did I hurt your feelings, Fang?"

"Just keep driving, Stiles. I'll follow you."

"The puppies all okay?" Of course they were; Derek wouldn't have left them if they weren't.

"Ye – the pack is fine, waiting for me to bring you back and then we'll re-evaluate whether to stay in LA or head back home."

"Home," Stiles declared.

When Derek didn't object, he knew he'd already won any argument from the rest of the pack. Stiles pumped his fist. "All right, let's get this convoy on the road!" He slipped Betsy back in gear and hit the gas. If he let himself look in his rearview mirror at himself, his silly, relieved grin would no doubt be embarrassing. Derek had come after him. He wished he had someone to fist bump with and settled punching the Jeep's seat before apologizing to it.

After a few minutes, Derek and his motorcycle appeared in the rearview mirror. He stayed there, much more like a sheep dog than a wolf, until the sun, bloated red and poisonous looking, sank in the west, when he caught up next to Stiles and yelled it was time to camp for the night.

Since Stiles' eyes were drooping, he shouted his agreement and let Derek take the lead to find them a decent spot, trusting Derek's vision more than his own tired eyes.

~*~

Derek didn't have anything with him on the motorcycle – Stiles didn't ask where the bike came from – except a rucksack, a sleeping bag, and a leather jacket. Whatever supplies and food he'd brought with him on the long drive had been consumed or jettisoned. Stiles, however, had everything, including his own go-bag, emergency kit and bug-out bag. Which included his old sleeping bag, along with a tarp. He wished he'd invested in a foam pad or an air mattress, but once Derek swept the bigger rocks away, the sand made for a reasonable nest to sleep on. Possibly better than the cot at Consuelo's house with the back-torturing broken springs.

He brought it out and unzipped it to lay out for the both of them while Derek buried their garbage. Both of them walked a circuit around the camp; Derek sniffing for threats and Stiles tracing a series of warning and repulsion wards at the cardinal points.

The sun, swollen red and huge, had sunk by the time they were done, only enough gray light left to keep Stiles from tripping over his own feet as they came back. It was enough to watch Derek though, so he did. Stiles always watched Derek when he could. The end of the world wasn't going to change that. It had been years, but he still hadn't mastered his fascination with the difference between Derek and the other werewolves, the way Derek lived in his body, in his self as a werewolf in a way none of the betas did. Stiles couldn't decide if it was Derek, or because Derek was alpha, or because Derek was a born wolf. Maybe it was all of the above, but he found it entrancing when Derek would do something particularly wolfy unconsciously. 

Of course, Stiles covered that by making a dog joke at least eighty percent of the time, but only because he knew it wouldn't make Derek stop or hesitate the way the same joke would get under Scott's skin. Scott never wanted to be a werewolf. Stiles was damned sure Derek never wanted to not be one, even if he hated the danger that had haunted his existence because of it. 

The sleeping bag smelled of sweat and a hint of the mothballs and insulation in the Stilinski attic where it sat for years, but mostly of Stiles. At least to Stiles' nose. He watched Derek breathe in and wondered how much more a werewolf, especially a born one, could learn from its smell. Wondered if Derek was inhaling his scent, the Stilinski house, something of Beacon Hills even, from the fabric.

Derek didn't wrinkle his nose at the smell of the sleeping bag. Instead his eyelashes fluttered down for a breath as he inhaled before he gave a soft sigh and sank down on it. "Stiles," he ordered, the implicit Come here, lie down, go to sleep all rolled into the faintly exasperated way he said Stiles' name. He was smiling, just at the corners of his mouth, eyelids heavy, and he looked like everything Stiles wanted.

Stiles swallowed an ache in his throat, because no matter how sure he was that Derek wanted him back, neither of them had had the guts to do anything about it. Instead, they mocked and sniped at each other as if each could barely tolerate the other. They were both too afraid to do anything else.

With an eye roll and sigh of his own, Stiles sat down and arranged himself next to Derek.

Baja got cool over night, since it was basically desert with an ocean front, but werewolves were great bed warmers, Derek especially, and Derek always let Stiles cuddle up closer than anyone else. He'd often wished he knew this for more intimate reasons than the pack habit of all sleeping together after the full moon or just snuggling against whoever happened to be sharing a couch or love seat, but settled for getting platonic affection at least. Werewolves liked to touch a lot. Once he'd gotten used to it, Stiles liked it too.

Derek rolled onto his side, back to Stiles, before reaching back to catch Stiles' arm and pull it around him.

"Really?" Stiles asked. "I get to be the big spoon?" 

"Shut up." 

Stiles wriggled closer without pulling his arm out of Derek's grasp, until they really were spooned together, and he would swear Derek leaned into the contact with a hum of contentment. Derek might not be a big talker, he wasn't half as laconic as Stiles made out, but he was pretty tactile. He might not say anything comforting, but he'd pat a shoulder or squeeze an arm, bump up close, or just stand nearby, a silent bulwark radiating warmth. It took years for Stiles to figure out Derek needed to be comforted in the same physical way he offered and not with awkward words and inane jokes, which had always been Stiles' go-to. 

"Cuddlewolf," he mocked fondly now.

"Dick." 

Stiles tucked his nose against the nape of Derek's neck, where his breath would tickle the short clipped dark hair, and closed his eyes. "Did I say thanks?" 

"For what?" Derek managed to sound exasperated and sleepy. 

"Coming to get me." 

"Didn't you know I would?" Now Derek sounded curious and put-out, his body tensing in conjunction with his emotions.

When Scott had joined Derek's pack – at Allison's urging – it had been all too easy to become Derek's friend and to find himself, in quiet moments when they were alone, wanting more. This could be the moment, if Stiles had the balls to commit, to have more from Derek than simmering moments of awareness that one of them always choked off. But he'd have to be the one to put himself out there and say yes, this was what he wanted, Derek was who he wanted. Derek would never because he worried about the age difference, the werewolf difference, and especially that as alpha he could coerce someone in the pack too easily. 

"I didn't actually think about it," Stiles admitted and tucked his knees behind Derek's. It was nice being approximately the same height. Neither of them ever had to look up or down when they argued, either. He flattened his hand over Derek's stomach, felt Derek's muscles twitch in response, the way he tensed under that touch, and guessed if he pushed the intimacy further it would only have Derek drawing away. It always had before. It wasn't like Derek was utterly oblivious; he couldn't miss Stiles' attraction to him. It was the emotions Derek denied and Stiles couldn't really blame him. Derek had nothing but bad associations with romantic attachments. Stiles suspected Derek felt more for him than Derek was comfortable with, but getting him over the past was a long, slow project. "I'm glad, though."

"Go to sleep or I'll start regretting it." He sounded gruff, but he wasn't moving away from Stiles at all. Stiles smiled to himself. He'd taken the chance to study away from the pack for more than one reason and it might have paid off. Derek had missed him. Derek was maybe, even, seeing him as he was now and not as a sixteen year old high school student who was completely off limits for reasons emotional as well as legal.

"No you won't."

Derek relaxed back against him and Stiles hummed happily, distracted from the current shit show long enough to fall asleep himself. The wards he'd drawn around the camp site would slow down anything normal or a nasty supernatural threat long enough for both of them to wake up and kick ass. And he had Derek, pliant and drowsy, in his arms, closer than ever to what he hoped they both wanted.

~*~

Stiles led in the Jeep, because it was slower than Derek's motorcycle and more likely to run into something it couldn't navigate. He didn't expect problems, but Derek was paranoid over losing him if Stiles had to stop. Stiles didn't have a problem with it. Let Derek ride drag and choke on his dust on the long stretch between Guerrero Negro and El Rosario if that's the way he felt.

The Jeep's gas tank was full and he had two cans of fuel strapped to the back, along with plenty of water, but Stiles' nerves were still vibrating with anxiety. There had been people in Guerrero Negro, but the only ones who had spoken to them had been three stoned surfers with a VW van out of clichéland and some very frightened tourists who were stranded with a useless RV. None of them had a clue what had happened and what Derek could tell them hadn't been much improvement. Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to smell the fear.

Stiles felt guilty over leaving them behind, but Derek wasn't going to stick around and Stiles felt the same drive to get back to the pack, if not so strong as Derek did.

He wished he had Derek riding in the passenger seat. Derek wouldn't say much but at least Stiles could talk at him. Derek's habitual quietness fit with Stiles' motormouth and talking always kept Stiles distracted from looming catastrophe. He understood why Derek wanted to keep the bike, though. Running vehicles were going to be a premium for a while, maybe a long while. Too bad Betsy didn't have room to load the bike inside.

The noonday sun glared down on the red dirt, rocks, cacti and brush on either side of Highway 1 through a stretch which only looked deceptively flat, arroyos and ravines hidden in the heat mirage shimmer that hovered always ahead, before the highway climbed through barren brown mountains. It made Stiles hunch his shoulders and tap a twitchy beat against the steering wheel with his left hand. He really wished his iPod or the satellite radio he'd tuned to XM Radio while he was in Baja Sur worked. Music would give him a rhythm to drive to and mask the fucking silence and emptiness that came with being in the lead.

He checked the rearview mirror for Derek every few minutes. What if the bike broke down? He'd need to stop and pick Derek up.

Stiles cranked his window down. The heated air dried out and burned his skin, parched his lips and smelled like mesquite or sage or some kind of brush with a hint of dust and creosote. Sweat glued his over-shirt and t-shirt to his back and the driver's seat. Stiles squinted at the shape of a car sitting beside the highway as it materialized from the glare. Where the hell had he left his sunglasses anyway?

The Jeep rattled past a maroon Prius, adding another layer of dust to the once gleaming paint and chrome and glass. A glance showed no one in it and no sign of anyone. Wondering where whoever it belonged to had gone gave Stiles the willies. Where had the people gone? Out there in the cholla and sageuso, the ocotilla and elephant and boojum trees and cardón? He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and pushed his foot down on the gas, edging the speedometer up another five miles per hour, because the creepy feeling just kept getting stronger. The Jeep was noisy with the windows down and that was better than nothing, even if Stiles found himself listening for any untoward noises from the old engine and the rattle and bump that the shocks couldn't compensate for made his arms ache and his tailbone sore.

They passed more cars, one abandoned in the middle of the highway, and Stiles pretended to himself he was used to them. He did such a good job he didn't pay too much attention to the truck blocking one lane ahead of him, didn't slow down, just casually swerved sideways around it as the road dipped into an arroyo he hadn't realized was there.

The second truck parked in the way made him slew the wheel to the right, hard, and he felt the Jeep rock onto two wheels. Stiles registered the spark and lagging reports of gunfire along with the windshield frost-spidering around the holes punched through it but was preoccupied trying to maintain control. The Jeep was going too fast for the circumstances and the crumbling tarmac had no shoulder for pulling off. He tried to swing the wheel back to the left, but the Jeep had already tipped too far and then all Stiles could do was cover his face and hold on as it flipped onto its side in a roar of protesting metal. Dirt billowed into the air as the Jeep slid along its side off the road until it had shed the last of its momentum with a creaking shudder.

The impact knocked all his breath out but his seat belt held and his head didn't hit anything. It felt like a panic attack because his seat belt cut into his chest and punched the breath out of his lungs, but then he was gasping hot, dry, gasoline-stinking air in and scrabbling at the seat belt release. His elbow hurt where he'd hit the gearshift and his ribs felt bruised along with his collarbone where the belt had caught him hard. "Ouch, ouch, ouch," he blurted out though there was no one to hear it.

More gunfire interrupted his shock as Stiles scrambled his way out of the Jeep. He dropped to the road, raised his head out and came face to face with a shotgun muzzle and a bandana-covered face. Stiles' ears were still ringing. He didn't hear the buzz of the motorcycle arriving, but his head felt clear enough to take advantage when Derek's arrival provided the perfect distraction.

Derek skidded his motorcycle around the first truck then laid it down so it barreled like a cannonball through the group of men already headed for Stiles and the Jeep. Derek leaped off the bike and shifted in mid-air. His body rippled from human through the beta form and into full alpha. The man with the shotgun turned and gaped.

Stiles didn't waste his time looking. He grabbed the muzzle of the shotgun and jerked it to the side, away from him. The shotgun went off, emptying into the undercarriage of the Jeep. Stiles whipped the shotgun to the side again and caught the man's finger in the trigger guard. The snap of bone vibrated through the shotgun. The man might have screamed; Stiles didn't know, because Derek had landed in the crowd of armed men and their shrieks blended with panicked gunfire. He jerked the shotgun away, reversed it, gave it a pump and pulled the trigger.

Another man was running at him and he had a semi-automatic rifle held high, ready to fire.

Stiles shot him too.

His ears only rang harder now and his breath sawed in and out of his raw throat. He swallowed hard, but there was no more noise, just a click he felt more than heard in his dry throat. "Der – " His voice sounded so strange Stiles had to try a second time. "Derek?"

He felt the rumbling, deep growl more than he heard it.

The massive form of Stiles' favorite alpha werewolf crouched in a pile of bodies. Stiles decided he wouldn't look much closer because it looked more like a pile of parts. The parched soil absorbed the blood pooling from them so fast it didn't even look red, just darker, wet earth.

Derek snarled before rolling huge shoulders and shaking. Blood flew off his fur. Some of it had to be Derek's but he would heal, probably already was, since any bullets that had hit wouldn't have been loaded with wolfsbane.

Stiles gagged a little. He'd never seen Derek kill someone human, not even a hunter, before. Not as a human, not as a beta, and not since he'd become alpha. Four years and Stiles had never seen Derek shift into a full wolf before. He didn't think any of the pack had, wasn't entirely sure any of the others knew it was possible. 

Well, Scott should have known, he'd seen Laura's body before they removed the wolfsbane rope and she'd been a wolf... But Derek had never spoken of it. Peter had never looked like a real wolf when he was alpha. 

But Peter was batshit crazy then, Stiles reminded himself and thought of something else. The whole kanima thing when Jackson turned into a vengeance-driven lizard monster instead of a wolf. Identity issues kept him from taking a wolf shape... and then Matt got hold of him and Gerard, but he couldn't have become a kanima without the Bite. Werewolves were shapeshifters basically, but they... Stiles laughed a little hysterically to himself, because he'd been studying magic for the last four years and hanging out with werewolves and fighting supernatural nasties it seemed like once a month and he'd only just figured it out: werewolves shifted into the shapes they believed they would.

Jackson had been too screwed up to get it right; he'd twisted himself up. Scott shifted into a beta form much like whatever he'd glimpsed of the alpha and then Derek in beta form. And the born Weres grew up taking the shapes they saw their families take, their own psychology influencing how far they could or couldn't shift. Derek became a wolf because he'd been raised to believe the beta and alpha forms were all there was. Maybe. Sometimes supernatural stuff just looked at logic and laughed in Stiles' experience. But it was a cool theory. And what had Derek said, after the pool incident, something... Stiles had been slightly distracted with the nearly drowning and keeping Derek from drowning and annoyance at Scott and relief Scott had finally shown up, so it wasn't something he'd registered except in how it applied to Jackson and the kanima. 'We’re all shapeshifters. It happens rarely, and it happens for a reason. Sometimes the shape you take reflects the person that you are,' Derek had said. So maybe Derek did know. Sort of. It was always a toss-up what Derek knew, since he'd only been sixteen when his family died and hadn't been in training to become alpha anyway. 

It explained why there were other types of Were, however: at some point someone had been bitten, infected, turned, however you called it, and hadn't imprinted on the wolf form but something else. He was so not telling that to the rest of the pack, maybe not even Derek, because they had their anchors now, and finding out they might be able to take other shapes could make them lose control. Or maybe he would, because he wanted to see the rest of the pack as full wolves, thought they would be beautiful, the way Derek was now: night-black fur, white razor teeth, and slanted crimson eyes, leggy and bigger than any natural wolf, bigger than the biggest dire wolf would have been, shoulders level with Stiles' chest. 

It looked like he'd gained mass with the shift and, God, those paws were huge. Derek's muzzle was soaked with blood, still so fresh it dripped scarlet from his canines, and puddled under his feet. Stiles dismissed the idea that he should be disgusted or afraid because of that. Those bastards had meant to kill him. As far as he was concerned, bathed in the blood of the enemy was a good look. 

Oh, yeah, yeah, he was going to think that way, because he wasn't going to have a hysterical melt down in front of Derek. No way. Derek who had just killed a lot of people too and turned into a full on wolf for the first time that Stiles knew about and who was looking at him. Stiles crossed his arms and shoved his shaking hands into his armpits, where they couldn't be seen. Not going to think about it, he repeated to himself, they deserved it, they did. 

Derek shifted back and forth on his feet, obviously hesitant to approach Stiles, and it broke Stiles' heart a little that Derek thought Stiles would reject him in any shape. "Oh shit. Shit. Derek. It's okay. It's fine, dude." 

Stiles dropped the shotgun he'd picked up and started toward Derek. He only winced a little at how pissed his dad would be at him for dropping a loaded weapon. He held his hand out toward Derek and spread his fingers wide. Empty hand, no threat. "Hey. I just... fuck, I just shot people." 

Stiles froze as it percolated through his head. He'd shot two people. Holy God. He pushed it down and channeled his teenage self, the one that played video games and still hadn't really grasped the difference between on-screen killing and real death, because at the time only his mom, his dad, and Scott had truly been real to him. 

Maybe all teenagers weren't one step away from being sociopaths, but Stiles had been colder then than he was now. It had been like a game, finding out about werewolves, fighting evil supernatural things and bloodthirsty hunters and fantasizing about Derek Hale. His hands weren't lily-white. He hadn't been innocent since he'd been sixteen and he'd argue he hadn't been then, either. But he hadn't been a murderer.

Not a killer, either.

He'd shot two people. The echo of the shots played in his head. Shot them. He could still feel the shotgun's kickback in the muscles of his arms. He was a killer now.

Jesus.

He didn't have time for this. Derek was whining. Holy God, Derek was almost whimpering and that was all wrong. He had to get his head together. They had to get out of here.

He refused to beat himself up over these assholes, like they mattered more than the supernatural creatures he'd helped put down over the years. Dead was dead and nothing alive wanted to die, Stiles didn't want to die, and this time he'd been luckier, smarter, and better prepared than these guys. So he was alive and Derek was alive and they weren't and that was the way he liked it. Stiles swallowed hard. Fuck them. 

Derek lowered his head, ears flattened to his massive head, tail low, and whined. 

Stiles gestured Derek closer. He was cool, he was ice, he was not bothered – Derek could smell it on him, the panic and fear and guilt that wanted to swamp Stiles' thoughts. He had to distract him. "Hey, hey, you're amazing like this, you look like you could give pony rides." 

That got him a bared fang and a snarl, which Stiles preferred over the whipped dog look. Derek padded over and nosed him hard enough he almost fell over, snuffling at him just the way he and the other wolves did when they wanted to be sure he wasn't hurt. Stiles' hands went to Derek just as automatically, combing through the thick, surprisingly silky fur to check for wounds. Derek's eyes weren't alpha crimson any longer, but the same pale green, gray and gold they were in human form. They looked very wolfish, as though Derek really had always been destined to take this shape, even if he hadn't been born to be an alpha. Privately, Stiles wondered how much of that was social conditioning bullshit meant to brainwash werewolf kids out of going for each others throats when sibling rivalry really could get someone killed. It made no sense to be thinking of things like that under the circumstances, but he needed to think about anything except – the trigger under his finger, metal warm from the other man's hand, the pull, the recoil, the blood splatter –

His heart kept speeding up and Derek whined again, heavy and real, so there that Stiles gave in to how much needed him and leaned in to wrap his arms around Derek's furry form in a tight hug, his knees gone weak and his breathing tight as relief and postponed fear set in. 

"I killed them," he muttered into Derek's fur. "I'm a killer now. Shit. It didn't feel like this when I threw that Molotov cocktail at Peter... I don't understand." 

Derek grumbled and nudged in closer to Stiles. They stayed there until their shadows had switched direction and the back of Stile's neck felt hot with sunburn, before he pulled back and gave Derek a pat. He had to get a handle on this. He could deal – or not, repression was a respectable choice, damn it – later. It cost him an effort, but his voice and words came out mostly normal. "So you want to go back to two-legs, even if you aren't much more talkative that way? 'Cause I think, no, I know, we should get our asses out of here and soon." 

Derek gave a huff that sounded exactly the same as he did when he tipped his head back and rolled his eyes at something Stiles or one of the others had done. "Dude, don't roll your eyes at me." Derek turned his head and licked a long, wet swipe over Stile's cheek. Stiles jerked back, slapping a hand to his face, "Ewwww, dude, not cool, you need to at least gargle or something before licking someone's face after tearing out someone's throat with your teeth!" Then he laughed almost hysterically, because all those times Derek threatened to do that to Stiles, he'd never really believed Derek would. But it turned out, Derek certainly could.

Derek could kill people. Derek had killed people. Stiles had just killed people. Two of them. The bodies were just over –

He wasn't thinking about it. He stared at his Jeep instead and scowled. "Crap. Betsy's totaled."

Derek managed to smirk with a wolf face and trotted away, back to where he'd laid the motorcycle down in a skid as he came off it and transformed. Stiles watched him shift back, the way his back arched and he twisted in pain as bones reshaped themselves and pale skin replaced fur, until he was crouched on tiptoe and fingers rather than four paws. He looked away as Derek fished pants out of the gear bag strapped to the motorcycle, but not before wondering if the triskele tattoo was there on Derek's back under the fur when he was in the wolf form. 

The Jeep really was history this time, even if there had been a tow truck and mechanic and garage to call. The front end had crumpled like an empty beer can introduced to a frat boy's forehead. Stiles cursed under his breath as he looked if over. 

Derek's motorcycle had survived his unorthodox dismount somewhat better. Once Derek had it standing again, he unbent a couple of badly dented bits with that casual, insane werewolf strength, turned the key and it ran. Stiles felt relieved even while he suppressed the pang of sorrow over the Jeep. That Jeep had been with him for a long time, and belonged to his mom before that. He unloaded it and sorted the absolutely necessary from the ‘we only might need it’ stuff packed in the back, pausing to toss Derek a v-neck t-shirt – Derek caught the bundle of gray cloth in one hand – before fitting everything he could into one duffel bag. No books, no knick-knacks, just a spare set of clothes, his magic journal and supplies, the bone knife Consuelo had handed him before he left the village, a canteen, medical kit, Adderall, flashlight, and a lighter. He considered the little solar or crank-powered emergency radio. He could use it to charge his cell phone and laptop, but there was no cell coverage anywhere and the laptop was heavy and awkward. When he tuned the radio to the national emergency weather channel, all that came through was fluctuating white noise. 

Derek walked over and tucked the laptop inside the bag, then the radio. "You've got a copy of the Bestiary on it, right?" 

"And other stuff, but I've got all that back at the house and the laptop's fried," Stiles said. "It's all backed up on a cloud server – Shit." He stopped. "Yeah, better keep this. Maybe Danny can salvage the hard drive. Right? Right. We should have made a hard copy." He grabbed the sleeping bag and brought it over. "I mean, that's definitely going to the top of the list, copy out everything into journals, like some Medieval monk, and if we have to do it by candlelight, I'll probably end up half blind before I'm twenty-five … " 

Derek hefted the duffel in place without comment and strapped it and the sleeping bag in place. He settled into the seat and started the bike, then turned his head and with a nod, indicated Stiles should climb on behind him to ride pillion. Which Stiles had known was the natural choice, but he still hesitated for a minute. "Should we snag a couple of guns?" he asked. 

Derek shrugged. Derek would never be a gun nut; his weaponry of choice came with his physiology, after all. When it came down to it, Derek wanted to rip and tear and claw, not shoot. 

After a minute, Stiles gave up on the idea. He couldn't bring himself to loot the bodies for the guns and ammo on them. Couldn't look at them or the way dust settled on the blood and their open eyes. 

"Stiles." 

"I know, I know, let's go, before the buzzards give us away." 

He didn't see the birds circling high up yet, but they would be soon, and they were a dead giveaway – Stiles choked on a gurgle of laughter – that something was dead. He didn't want to be around when someone showed up to ask questions. Or shoot first. Which reminded him... 

He bolted back to the Jeep and tore out the registration and insurance papers from the glove box. No point making it easy for someone to track him. Not that he thought anyone would chase him all the way back to LA or Beacon Hills under the circumstances, but there was a possibility the world's governments might get their acts together and restore civilization and the internet and, if they did, someone would link his Jeep to him pretty fast. 

He fitted himself behind Derek, unsure, but before he could settle on a choice, Derek reached back and pulled Stiles' arms around his waist. 

"Hold close and move with me," he instructed. Stiles shifted and obeyed, molding himself close the Derek's muscular back and catching one little finger in Derek's belt loop while wrapping his other hand around his wrist. The big bike rumbled between his thighs as Derek guided it back to the worn road, heading northward once more, the sun hot on the back of Stiles' neck.

~*~

The ambush spooked both of them and Derek turned the bike away from the highway and bounced them off-road and inland as sunset approached. Stiles had to swallow twice before he could make his dry mouth work and asked, "Why are we out in the shitty scrub? At least I could wash off at the beach, even if I do end up with salt in places I don't want salted – I actually don't want any of me to be salted, it sounds like a cannibal preserving bits for later, like salt beef, and, yeah, no, let's ignore the innuendo there, because so not what I meant – "

His skin was still too hot and alive everywhere he had been pressed against Derek. He needed to talk so he'd calm down, because Derek wasn't going to keep on ignoring all the ways Stiles was giving himself away if he didn't. 

"The beach is too close to the road and too exposed," Derek interrupted. "No campgrounds or surf spots. Too known to the locals." 

"Oh." Stiles knew he sounded out of it, but his fingers tingled with the want to just reach out and touch Derek. Holding onto him as they raced down the road had been thrilling, almost as good as the way they'd spooned together the night before. He couldn't though, because if he did, Derek would retreat and Stiles would be left sleeping cold and alone. He just had to remember to not blow it, to take what was offered and not try for more. But fuck if it wasn't true, his reach would always exceed his grasp, and he wanted so badly. 

"No fire tonight either." 

Stiles started to protest, but stopped himself. Just because he wanted to distract himself and Derek didn't mean he had to argue. He was better at that than he used to be. He didn't have to be contrary. Derek had a good point and Stiles didn't want to get murdered in his sleep. Derek looked tired, too, shadowed and worn out by what they'd done and endured, even though he would never complain. The least Stiles could do was shut up for once. 

They ate canned food and sipped warm water that tasted of the iodine tablets Stiles used to purify it before Stiles set up his wards again and they curled together on the sleeping bag. At first they were just on their backs beside each other, shoulders and elbows knocking together when one or the other shifted. Stiles hoarded each bit of contact and the thrill it gave him, memorizing how sweet it felt to just be with Derek for once. 

The now nightly light show started before the pale lemon light had faded from the horizon, sheets of purple and green and electric blue rippling across the twilight sky and overhead as the stars sparked behind them. Stiles gaped at the display. "Can you believe that?" he muttered.

"Lydia said something about magnetism and solar flares," Derek murmured. His arm brushed against Stiles' arm; neither of them moved. Stiles' heart thumped a little harder in his chest, though. He had to swallow before he could speak again.

"It's beautiful."

"I can feel it, like the moon."

Stiles turned his head and took in Derek's profile. "Dude, really? Does it make you want to shift?"

"No. It's just … there."

"So, could the others feel it too?"

Derek side-eyed him, then sighed in frustration. "I don't know." It was a thing they had in common; they both hated not knowing. It made Derek reticent and angry, while Stiles reacted by researching everything to death. Underneath, they both just wanted to be in control, were haunted by things that had happened when they weren't.

"We have to ask. Lydia – " Stiles rolled onto his side clumsily and had to stop himself falling onto Derek with a hand on Derek's chest. Derek's face, bathed in blue light slowly shifting to green, was clear enough to make out, and he could see Derek's gaze dart down to his hand. Derek didn't say anything. Which was pretty par for the course for Derek, though it sometimes made Stiles want to yell at him. He pushed his irritation to the side and asked, "Did she know what happened?" 

Derek shook his head. "Theories. Something close to an EMP, but not an attack," he added. "The effect wasn't strong enough and too widespread … " He frowned slightly. "Not everything failed. It's not just old vehicles that run and not every computer fried." 

"Just most," Stiles said. He pressed his palm flat to Derek's sternum. He could feel the warmth of him through the fabric of the tight t-shirt, the rise and fall as he breathed, and the thump of his heart. He kept his hand there, since Derek hadn't made a move to have him shift it. "Coronal mass ejection?" 

Derek sighed and said, "I don't know. I don't think anyone does. Does it matter?" 

Stiles leaned in closer, drawn by how soft and uncertain Derek sounded in the moment, how wide and human his eyes were. Green for go, he told himself. 

"Some things should," he said. 

He held himself above Derek until Derek's arms folded around him and they were pressed together front to front. The night before he'd had his arms around Derek and it made him brave. 

"Hey," he whispered against the stubble at the corner of Derek's mouth. It had grown long enough to be more soft than spiky. Stiles wanted to stroke his fingers along the line of Derek's jaw, following the way his beard grew with a grain. Derek tensed, fractionally, but didn't draw away, and then … Derek turned toward Stiles. 

"Yes?" Stiles asked. He wanted to hold his breath. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to fall into Derek's pale eyes. Eyes that were still faintly wary. 

"Is this an end of the world thing?" Derek asked. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever heard Derek sound so uncertain. Derek was always confident, even arrogant, on the surface, even when he was wrong, so very, very wrong. Which he wasn't so often anymore and maybe hadn't been back when either. It had taken Scott being a stubborn, Allison-obsessed ass once too often to make Stiles see events from Derek's side, but once he had, he'd never been able to consider Derek an enemy again. Even before he figured out what Kate Argent did to him. Knowing that, Stiles thought Derek did pretty well to tolerate being around humans at all. Once burned, twice shy and, Jesus, that was just a little too damn accurate after the Hale fire. But Derek was looking at him now, waiting with quiet patience for Stiles' answer.

Waiting for Stiles to choose, because Derek was all about consent. Too much had been done to him without his.

"Stiles?" 

Stiles ventured a chaste kiss before answering. Just lips against lips, barely moving, dry enough to catch if they pressed any harder, but sweet for all of that. Derek let Stiles lead and lean back eventually, reluctance communicated by the way his mouth followed Stiles' for a half breath. 

"Like, if you were the last man on earth … ? No. Holy God, no. Firstly, I'm not that desperate, it hasn't been that long, and there's still lots of people out there, even if some of them seem more interested in killing me than fucking me." He wished his lips weren't chapped from biting at them nervously for the last three days. He kept his mouth against Derek's as he spoke anyway, scared to look and see Derek's expression if he was going to reject him. 

"Like that's new," Derek gibed, but Stiles felt the twitch of a smile lift the corner of his mouth. Derek's beard prickled against Stiles' lips and he liked that, the intimacy of it, the way he was so close to Derek.

"Not really, but you should know about that too," Stiles sniped back. Kali had certainly done her best to eviscerate Derek when the whole Alpha pack fiasco hit the fan. "I want you. I want you to be as into me as I am into you." He paused and almost snorted. "Though, we should probably take turns, unless we sixty-nine … " The feel of Derek chuckling beneath him and the little, moist puff of air across Stile's lips demanded he kiss Derek again. 

This time, Derek kissed him in return, slick and hot and eager. They were doing this. After four years of knowing each other, saving each other's asses, anger and irritation and distrust had morphed into a confidence in each other and a friendship Stiles counted for more than with any other, even Scott, they were doing this. Four years of wanting Derek and then loving him and Derek deliberately refusing to admit he was even aware of Stiles' feelings, never mind had any toward Stiles beyond friendship. Finally, Derek was on the same page as Stiles, even as he surprised him again.

Stiles wanted to know why, but he wanted this more. He could annoy it out of Derek later. Derek kissed urgently at first, then slowed, letting Stiles take the lead. He kept eyes open, tracking Stiles' reactions with every sense, assuredly seeing more than Stiles could and no doubt listening to the trip-hammer of his heart, the whisper of an inhale, the slick wet flick of tongue to tongue after grazing their lips together. Derek's lips were softer than they looked, not like Stiles' windburned ones, and his mouth felt gentler than it had any right to be when it was so often drawn into a tight, thin line. He kissed like velvet, luxurious, like he was memorizing Stiles' mouth once given the invitation to partake. It amazed Stiles, who when he thought – fantasized more than a few times – about it, thought Derek would be assured, intense, and probably bossy. Alpha. And it wasn't that Derek didn't know what he was doing, it was that he was so careful.

It was really just horribly perfect, because Derek's kiss promised more than hot sex and that just melted any ability Stiles had had to pretend this could be a buddies with benefits, fucking at the end of the world scenario, that he wasn't all in and totally gone over Derek. Not that he'd even entertained that thought, but he would have gone along with if that was how Derek wanted to play it. Derek clearly didn't. Derek's kiss didn't just make every cell in Stiles' body hum, it made it clear it was safe to feel like that.

There was careful, something the werewolves tried to be with anyone outside the pack, and there was caring. Derek was giving him both, and Stiles felt almost confused by the former. 

"Is this because I'm human?" Stiles asked, when Derek paused and they simply leaned into each other, temples pressed together and hearts beating fast. Derek was hardwired to take care of the pack and even more protective of the humans in the pack. "Why are you holding back?" 

Derek had a low, soft voice. Growing up a werewolf among other wolves, with their heightened senses, there had been no reason to speak up. Stiles had a bet with himself that Derek had been quiet anyway, but there was no one who knew left alive to settle that bet. Stiles could barely make out his whisper this time. Only the silence of the Baja night made it possible. "It's because you're important." 

His hands stroked along Stiles' face, down the sides of his neck, and then up again, molded palm to jaw, fingers tangled into the hair behind Stiles' ears. It felt like Derek was repeating, with emphasis, what he'd just said, mapping his touch into Stiles' skin so he'd know it was true. 

"You are," Stiles said. "You are too." He exhaled a deep breath. "Also, I really want to get naked with you now."

"I can do that."

It was stupid to strip down in the middle of nowhere after a day that proved danger was everywhere even without supernatural things coming after them, but Stiles had the wards in place and he wanted Derek bare and spread out for him like something made from the night and moonlight. He needed to touch as if otherwise Derek might dissolve into a dream. 

Derek grinned, white teeth gleaming and completely human, then pushed Stiles off him. Stiles squawked indignantly, before freezing and watching, mouth open, as Derek's hands went to his belt buckle first, arched from shoulders to heels to push his jeans down, and then sat up to shuck out of the tight t-shirt Stiles had given him. 

Stiles reached over and tucked his fingertips under the waistband of Derek's dark boxerjocks. Fucking Under Armor. Of course Derek wore Under Armor. Derek stilled and dropped his gaze to Stiles' hands. The underwear clung to Derek like a second skin. Derek let out a harsh breath and Stiles stopped breathing altogether as Derek's abdomen flexed. "Oh, wow," he mumbled. He delicately began peeling the underwear down. He had to lift them away from the erection pressing the fabric taut in front. Derek's cock, wet and hard and just as elegant as the rest of him made Stiles swallow with an audible click. 

Derek leaned in and nosed at the crook of Stiles' neck, then up along his jaw and behind his ear. It almost tickled and Stiles shuddered between wanting to press closer and tear himself away. He did neither as Derek's hand wound in the hem of his shirt and Derek said softly, 

"I want you naked too." 

"Yeah. Okay. I can, yes, that's something I can do," Stiles babbled and grabbed at his shirt. Even with Derek's hands sliding up his chest he managed to get it over his head and away without tangling himself in it. Stiles counted this a major victory over his left over high school clumsiness, when he could trip over his own feet sometimes. He did hope he hadn't thrown it too far away in his enthusiasm or it would be a bitch to find in the morning, though. 

He stopped worrying about his clothes when Derek got his pants off and mouthed Stiles' cock through the cotton of his boxers. Worrying about anything except coming embarrassingly fast became impossible when Derek eased the boxers off entirely and gave Stiles the best blowjob of his life to date, even if he didn't swallow. 

Once his bones coalesced, Stiles spread Derek out on the sleeping bag and did his utmost to wreck him under the aurora shine and the too bright stars. Maybe it was an end of the world thing. He wanted Derek to have something good. He wanted to watch Derek's eyelids flutter shut and his lips part on a stuttering breath and the perpetual frown between his brows smooth out. He wanted to make that incredible body bow up in ecstasy and sprawl, sated and limp, and he wanted Derek to smile without wincing first. 

He didn't know if he or anyone could ever achieve that last goal, but he managed one and two pretty well. 

"So, just to be clear," Stiles said when Derek blinked his eyes open, "this is not a one-off, right?" He knew it wasn't casual for either of them. Stiles had indulged in plenty of casual sex since hitting college, because he saw no reason to be celibate while he was stuck on someone who kept him at a distance that was obviously deliberate. Lydia had told him to make a move on Derek, but Stiles knew Derek and the odds had been if he did, he'd have only messed up the pretty good friendship they had going. He'd honestly figured the status quo was the best scenario. He didn't want to lose Derek and more importantly he didn't want Derek to lose him – Derek had lost enough already. So he'd fucked around casually while carefully making it clear none of his liaisons were as important as his place in the pack and none of them were about to be introduced to the pack as more than Stiles' circle of friends.

"Fuck. Did I just mess this up?" Stiles blurted. 

"You're the one who likes no strings sex," Derek said. Stiles would have been pissed, except it proved Derek had been paying attention, even if he was being evasive now. Then Derek asked, "Did you think it could ever be casual for me?" 

Stiles considered the question in the quiet. Derek hadn't exactly had a string of relationships or even any one-night stands as far as Stiles knew and Stiles knew what the pack knew, which with werewolf noses meant all the gossip. Derek had had some kind of thing with one of the Alpha pack, whether it had been them wooing Derek to join or Derek seducing the other alpha for information and time. Other than that, there'd just been one of the betas from Hester's pack for about two months back when they all moved to LA. 

Stiles propped himself on his elbows. "Uh, Marnie?" 

"Wasn't casual." Derek sighed. "Just not … " 

"Magic?" Stiles offered. "Your one and only true werewolf love?" 

"Practical," Derek said. 

"You're such a romantic, it makes my heart go pitter-pat." 

Derek and Marnie had made Stiles' heart clench, because she was tall and gorgeous and had one brown and one green eye and he could imagine their kids and being crazy Uncle Stiles. Well, weird but cool Uncle Stiles, because Peter would now and forever win the Crazy Uncle sweepstakes. He knew what Derek meant though: Marnie hadn't wanted to leave Hester's pack and Derek would never bare his neck to another alpha. Not to mention Marnie had a few years on Derek and that had to have tripped some of Derek's triggers. The two had drifted apart to Stiles' shameful relief and Derek hadn't shown any interest in anyone since, content it seemed with the companionship of the pack. 

"That's the Adderall." 

"Asshole."

"I don't want to talk about other people we've slept with," Derek muttered. He'd begun petting along Stiles sides, so absently Stiles couldn't guess if it was conscious or not. He liked it either way.

"Okay, but just so you know, I'm clean and have always been safe."

"Me too."

"Yeah?" Stiles was interested. With the way werewolves healed so fast, he just assumed they had hyper-strong immune systems too. Of course, Derek might have just worried about an unwanted pregnancy. That made Stiles wonder if werewolf sperm was extra fertile, which led to wondering if Allison used birth control in addition to insisting Scott always use a condom, because those two hadn't had any pregnancy scares. He felt sure Scott would have called or glommed onto Stiles if there had been even a possibility of an Argent-McCall baby at any time over the last four years.

"Werewolves catch the same stuff humans do."

"I've never seen you sick."

"We get better faster."

"Well, I don't, so we'll definitely be using condoms."

"Fine with me," Derek agreed. "Less of a mess."

"A true romantic, like I said," Stiles teased.

Derek smiled at him while rubbing his foot down the back of Stiles' calf. "I always liked Tybalt and Mercutio better."

"Mmm, think they had hate sex?"

"Or they were bitter exes."

Stiles let out a snort of laughter. "I always tell the others you have a sense of humor. No one believes me."

Amusement colored Derek's voice. "I know."

"Oh, I will get you for that someday." Stiles leaned in and ghosted his lips along Derek's clavicle, then bit gently into his trapezius when Derek didn't push him away. He figured he'd wait until they were somewhere safer before trying to set even his blunt human teeth to Derek's neck so he wouldn't be going against Derek's instincts on two fronts. Derek shuddered beneath him and Stiles wanted to grin, because Derek was so responsive, something he'd wondered about, because Derek kept himself so closely controlled at all times. When he began licking at the spot he'd just bit and Derek tossed his head back and moaned, Stiles decided that his new favorite thing about werewolves was their refraction time. They really were going to have to find some condoms though or they would have to get a new sleeping bag. 

He mourned his Jeep again. He'd had condoms in it. What? They were definitely part of any good emergency kit. He'd had tampons in there too. Chocolate bars as well, because Erica wasn't the only one who was scary as fuck once a month. 

And lube, he thought dreamily when he wrapped himself around Derek, they'd need to get lube too, for when they progressed beyond – the totally awesome – realm of hands and mouths and frottage and intercrural … God, he wanted to try everything with Derek. Stiles let his hands wander all over Derek, tracing over all the places there should have been scars, if Derek had been human. Instead, Derek was warm, so warm, and smooth, soft skin covering hard muscle and bone. His body felt so solid under Stiles hand it should be impossible that he could be anything but this shape.

Derek mouthed at Stiles in return, licking lines that seemed random, until Stiles figured out Derek was connecting the dots with his moles. More than once, it tickled and Stiles squirmed, but Derek rolled and pinned him – just enough to still him, never enough to stop Stiles getting away if he really wanted to free himself – and went on.

This time was slower – Stiles was human, after all – and more intense, transmuted beyond desire, or maybe illuminated, because the physical attraction had existed between them since the first time Derek and he really looked at each other. Lust was easy, but this wasn't just lust, it was more, something dense and shatterproof as a diamond instead of the coal that they could have burned away before. They could have cut each other open before, but now Stiles knew all the places Derek was broken and Derek knew all the ways Stiles was fragile and they both knew how to support instead of batter down. They could warm each other without burning themselves.

It made it worth the wait.

And Derek was beautiful under the aurora light, stunned, lips parted and eyelids fluttering shut when he came.

~*~

Holy God.

Stiles snapped awake from a nightmare of being trapped in his Jeep, the seat belt holding him inside as flames licked up the sides of the doors. The two men he'd shot were standing outside, just watching him, still bleeding from the holes in their chests.

He wasn't about to burn. He wasn't trapped. The gray light before dawn showed him their camp remained undisturbed. The weight holding him down was Derek's heavy arm.

He had to piss.

He was naked, crusty in spots, chilled where Derek wasn't in contact with him, his heart still wanted to beat its way out of his chest from left over dream adrenaline, and his bladder was lodging formal complaints with the International Advisory Committee on Bladder Civil Rights. At least his nightmare had taken care of any morning wood problems.

Stiles wiggled his way free of Derek so he could crouch at the corner of the sleeping bag and look around for his discarded clothes. He found Derek's underwear at the foot of the sleeping bag first and then his own pants, but not his boxers or his shirt. He settled for going commando for the moment, because pants were always better than no pants in case of emergency, and then put on his more conscientiously stowed shoes – after making sure they were scorpion free.

The morning chill had him wrapping his arms around himself and shivering as he picked his way to a semi-private spot over a small rise from the campsite. He stumbled his way to tumble of rocks next to a sagueso cactus and proceeded to unzip and water it. Not as private a spot as he'd have liked it turned out, since halfway through he spotted a rattlesnake uncoiling at the base of the cactus that was definitely not into water sports. Stiles screeched while trying re-aim his stream and dance back from the fast-moving snake. He'd managed to achieve the latter without breaking his dick when Derek came over the rise half wolfed-out and completely naked.

It would have scared the piss out of Stiles if he hadn't already taken care of that.

Derek skidded to a stop so close to the snake sand kicked onto it. Before it could coil to strike, one clawed hand slashed through the air, caught the snake and tossed it half the length of a football field. Stiles winced at the whip crack that had to have killed the snake. When he looked back from where the carcass landed, Derek had returned to his human appearance.

"Dude, not that that wasn't impressive and creepily effective and all, but I'm kind of – " Still clutching his dick, Stiles realized, and his face went splotchy red. He tucked himself into his pants and zipped up as fast as he could, while not looking at Derek's junk. Okay, he looked, but Stiles would challenge anyone not to appreciate Derek on a purely aesthetic level. Even pissed off, Derek was smoldering hot. Michelangelo would have had vapors.

"You screamed," Derek said.

"Uh, dude, I did not scream," Stiles contradicted him. "I may have shouted in surprise – "

"Screamed."

"Possibly, some people might characterize it as a squawk – "

"Screamed," Derek repeated, the smug bastard.

"Screeched," Stiles admitted.

Derek chuckled and then squeezed Stiles' arm, holding on longer than he ever had before. Stiles tamped down his elation at Derek making any affectionate move. That let his mouth open again without input from his brain, though.

"Hey, that is not the kind of snake I want to get up close and personal with, you know."

The first incandescent edge of the sun traced the horizon and the light caught on Derek's teeth as he grinned. The grin didn't last. He tipped his head and his eyebrows drew together on his next breath. Stiles would have looked behind him for a threat if Derek's gaze hadn't been locked on him. It made Stiles shudder again and go goose-pimpled, so he folded his arms and rubbed at his biceps.

Derek moved fast. He caught Stiles' hands and lifted them away so he could frown at Stiles' chest. "You're bruised. Did I do that?"

Stiles glanced down at his chest and arms. "What?" Greenish-purple bruises marked him. "Huh. No." He shivered again as Derek stroked his fingertips over the bruises. "Those are from the Jeep flipping. Good thing I always use the seat belt, right? I mean, Dad wouldn't exactly be proud, but he'd be happy I remembered since he taught me to drive and everything."

"Do they hurt?" Derek sounded honestly curious and maybe he was. Derek had never been human, so he had no memories for comparison. Werewolves healed too fast to really bruise. Mostly they either got better or they got dead, no aching stiff muscles and bruises to make the day after miserable.

"Not so I've noticed yet." Stiles words dried up on him and he just stood there until Derek set his hands on Stiles' hips and drew them together. He went with it and hugged Derek back until they mutually stepped away and Stiles had to say, "Jaybird Snake’s definitely a good look on you, but you're the one who said we needed to get back to Tijuana before the border closes and I don't think you want to ride that way."

A chuff of laughter escaped Derek. "No."

Stiles scratched at his belly. He glanced down and grimaced as dried come flaked away. "A little clean up would be a good idea too."

Derek made a face in agreement.

~*~

Molding himself to Derek's back after they'd packed up and set the campsite to rights felt natural and easy. While he couldn't exactly take a nap while riding pillion on a motorcycle, Stiles did let himself zone out a little, his usually racing mind slipped into neutral while reflex kept his body in sync with Derek's movements.

The land emptied into desert as they approached Cataviña and the back of Stiles' throat dried out. He squinted against the bright light, a heat headache building behind his eyes. There were more abandoned vehicles, including semis, many of them standing in the road thanks to the lack of shoulders. Derek slowed out of rifle range of each and cocked his head, listening for the sounds of anyone waiting in ambush. A dog rushed out from the shade under a fifth-wheel travel trailer once, barking in fear, but it didn't follow them when Derek pushed the motorcycle back up to speed.

The graffitied boulders near Cataviña offered more ambush cover and Derek's back tensed at every one of them they passed. Stiles started wishing something would happen, just to break the ominous sense of hovering danger, that feeling of someone watching.

Highway 1 dipped through a creek bed, shallow and dry though blue palms grew along it. Half a mile on, a dirt road turned out to the left, leading to the rancho where Stiles had camped on his drive down to Baja Sur and Consuelo's village.

Derek idled through Cataviña without stopping, just looking, despite Stiles' worries about water and whether the motorcycle had enough gas left to make to the next Pemex station in El Rosario. Stiles' skin crawled and the hair at the back of his neck stood up. Unlike Guerrero Negro, there were no people visible. No stranded and befuddled tourists huddled together in the meager shade of a market, no one lounging with a cerveza on the porch in front of a cantina and no vehicles at the La Pinta tourist hotel.

There were no people visible, but Stiles felt the weight of being watched, the primordial awareness of a threat lifting the hairs at the back of his neck that spread until his skin crawled with it. The sound of the bike's engine only made the silence heavier. He leaned close in to speak into Derek's ear. "There're people here, right?" Even in the heat of the day, there should have been someone outside.

"Yes," Derek replied. Either he heard them or could smell them.

The feeling of something wrong crept up Stiles' spine and shuddered down his arms, so he found himself clutching Derek tighter. Derek didn't object. Something was deeply, deeply wrong in this place.

"Don't stop."

"Wasn't going to." Derek opened up the throttle and they wove their way out of the town. He didn't slow down again for fifty miles.

Derek didn't even slow down at the next village He crouched lower on the bike with Stiles plastered to his back and they blew through and if anyone had ill intentions for travelers there, they had no time to act on them.

North again an optical illusion made the highway disappear into a jumble of rocks ahead, while the table mesa of the high desert loomed what seemed an impossible distance beyond. The afternoon glare bleached the sky bone-gray along the horizon.

When the gas gauge ticked past half a tank, they stopped at the next abandoned car and siphoned gas from it rather than chance making El Rosario and trying for fuel there. Just that stop made Stiles feel like they both had targets painted on their backs.

They emptied a water bottle in measured gulps between them before starting up.

"There haven't been any checkpoints," Stiles commented.

Derek gave him a look. "You think the Mexican military, if they have working vehicles, is worried about smugglers or tourists?"

"Yeah, you're right," Stiles said. He sucked down another mouthful of water and passed the bottle to Derek. Just to be sure, he watched Derek drink, focusing almost uncomfortably on the way Derek's throat worked, and checking the bottle's contents actually lowered. Derek cocked an amused eyebrow at Stiles. "What? I'm sure werewolves, even great and mighty alphas, get dehydrated too."

"Finish the damned water, Stiles," Derek told him. "I want to make Tecate by nightfall. If we have to get across on foot, we'll be better off doing it in the dark."

"You will. Human with crap night-vision and slow two-legs here, remember?"

A hint of lupine fang accompanied Derek's grin. "You'll just have to trust me and keep up."

Stiles groaned.

~*~

The border had been closed without explanation; no one was being allowed through, American or not. It meant they had to slip through using a coyote crossing instead, but at least there were no patrols or air cover in place. Stiles missed the motorcycle more than he could have imagined, but even as maneuverable as it was, it couldn't have handled the route Derek chose. They left it stashed in a blind ravine, camouflaged under Stiles' ground cloth, dirt and brush, in case they might find a chance to come back for it someday.

Derek's four-footed form dealt with the cross-country border run through the rough and unwelcoming country northeast of Tecate better than Stiles' two booted feet did. A hole had rubbed through one of his socks and despite stopping to pack gauze where the boot rubbed his heel, he had a blister the size of a nickel that stuck and burned with each step. It wasn't agony, didn't come near keeping him from moving along and staying with Derek, but it nagged at his always iffy concentration. They weren't following any trails either, instead going up and down with the land, far from any road that might be monitored, reliant on Derek's instincts and senses.

Not that Stiles couldn't do this on his own, but magic took more energy from him than Derek's natural abilities, so as long as he could, he'd let Derek keep up the heavy-lifting as it were.

He kept his head down, just watching where he was walking, because he didn't need a sprain or a broken bone on top of everything else and Derek would see or hear or smell anything before Stiles did anyway. The half-moon overhead provided a surprising amount of light when there was no light pollution to wreck his night sight.

He kept his mouth shut and did his best to keep up, trying not to show how he was dragging by the time the sun came up and they reached the outskirts of a flyspeck cluster of houses and a gas station mini-mart. It resolved out of the dawn light like an oasis to Stiles' eyes, even if there were no lights on inside. He stumbled forward without any thought of danger, not waiting for Derek, stupid tired and not even thinking about anything but sitting down for a while, not even when he spotted three men next to a classic maroon Monte Carlo with silver flames painted on the side. They had the caps off the openings to the underground gas tanks and were siphoning the contents into a line of five-gallon, red and yellow plastic gasoline cans.

All three of them had a truly large number of really bad tattoos and even without a werewolf nose, Stiles could smell them from where he stopped.

"Hey – " Stiles blurted and lifted his hands to show he was no threat and that whatever they were doing, it was none of his business, he was just passing through, and did not judge –

"You said no one was here!" the one with Madonna on his biceps yelled at the tallest man.

"Yeah, fuck this," Tall Guy said. He drew a chrome-plated .45 from the back of his jeans. Stiles had time to think, no wonder the waist band was sagging, before Tall Guy fired the gun at him. He didn't have time to scream, because Derek had tackled him and he hit the concrete in a painful sprawl of limbs. Derek basically threw Stiles toward the debatable cover of the gas pumps and Tall Guy fired again; the sound of the .45 stunningly loud in the morning quiet. There were no other noises: no electrical hum, no cars, not even the little sounds made by bugs and birds, all were startled into silence by the first bullet.

The second bullet careened off the concrete curb, sending up a spray of chips and leaving a white scar dug into it.

Stiles skidded on his hands and knees. The oil-stained pavement scraped his palms raw and his pants tore at one knee. He ignored the burn and scrambled the rest of behind the diesel pump.

Derek grunted when a third bullet hit him. Then he snarled and one of the three men shrieked, high and terrified, so Stiles knew he'd shifted. He heard one man running away and two bodies hitting the ground, so Stiles risked peeking around the pump.

Derek had Tall Guy on the ground. The man with the Madonna tat had bolted away. Stiles didn't see the third, weedy guy, the one who had been doing the siphoning. Where the hell was he? A flicker of movement reflected in the plastic front of the gas pump alerted Stiles and he threw himself to the side, landing on his back again. Weedy's knife skidded across the red and yellow plastic instead of sinking into Stiles' back.

The morning sun, tainted orange from smog or smoke, glanced off the car's angel hood ornament and blinded Stiles for a second. Stiles scrabbled backward, banging his elbow against the pavement, pushing with his heels and feeling that stupid blister, but he couldn't move fast enough.

Weedy pounced on him and the knife sunk in this time. The pain came as pressure first, the force of Weedy pushing the blade through Stiles' layers of shirts and piercing the skin with all his weight. Stiles screamed as it cut into him. His next inhalation brought him a lungful of Weedy's BO. He heard Derek roar, but only distantly, the agony as Weedy shoved metal into his side taking over his whole consciousness.

The knife coming out felt almost as awful as it had going in. The sucking, squelch of sound horrified Stiles. That was his flesh clinging to the metal. His blood pulsing warm and wet across flank. He'd been hurt before, but he hated it each and every time.

Weedy was going to stab him again. This time in the gut. Stiles twisted through the agony and his fingers found the hilt of Consuelo's bone knife, the one carved from the femur of something big enough to be human. She'd said he'd need it. Stiles had assumed she meant for some kind of magic ritual.

The bone knife slid free and fitted his palm naturally, as naturally as the moves he'd learned play wrestling with the rest of the pack, and he lodged it into Weedy's throat in a single move. The point drove through cartilage and into the jugular the way Isaac had once shown him it would.

Weedy reared back with a gurgle. His eyes bugged out in panic and his mouth stretched wide in a wordless shout. He dropped his knife to paw at the one in his throat. Blood spurted in an arterial arc when he jerked it out. It splattered across the gas pump and the concrete before Weedy's knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

Derek tore around the pumps and fell down on hands and knees beside Stiles. His eyes were still lambent crimson and fangs slurred his words as he demanded, "How bad?" while slicing Stiles' shirts away with razor claws.

Stiles batted stupidly at his hands and gasped out, "Not as bad as it feels? I hope." He craned his head to look down. His skin was slick with his blood; it smeared down his side and soaked into the waist band of his pants and he whimpered. The wound itself was about two centimeters and looked shallow at first but deepened at the top. It angled outward though like the knife had been a needle taking a giant stitch through his side. Derek, claws gone and fingers human, palpated the skin beside it. "Ow, ow, owwww – shit!"

"I'm trying to see how deep it is – "

"Deep e – fucking – nough, you asshole!"

"We need to get it clean at least."

"Yeah, well, if we had the emergency kit from my Jeep, we'd have antiseptic," Stiles sulked out. "Betadine. And pain killers. It was a really good kit. I miss my Jeep."

"I know." Derek pulled off his shirt and wadded it into place. "Stay here and keep pressure on," he ordered as he placed Stiles' hands on the denim.

"That's not sanitary!" Stiles snapped. "Do you know where that shirt's been?"

"Mexico," Derek answered, deadpan, as he stood. He stalked away from Stiles to the gas station's door. Stiles watched him bust the glass doors casually and barge his way in. Glass showered down and crunched under Derek's boots. The concrete underneath Stiles felt cold and slightly damp, but he could feel the heat of the summer day coming in the air. A thick ache spread along his side where he pressed the sodden denim to it, punctuated with a sharper jolt that matched his pulse and exploded when he tried to move. He decided to do what Derek said and stay still.

The birds were singing again. The smell of blood hung in the air, overwhelming the indefinable, ephemeral scent of dawn.

He didn't believe he was going to bleed out and die lying on the concrete on a summer's morning, because it would be a kind of ridiculously ironic ending for someone who had survived and beat werewolves, kanimas, psychotic geriatric hunters, and all the other ghosts and ghoulies they'd faced off with in the last four years. On the other hand, Fate really liked rubbing his nose in irony.

Derek strode back out with a package of clean car rags, a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a giant roll of duct tape. Stiles whimpered just looking at the alcohol.

"I'm sorry," Derek told Stiles as he knelt beside him again. "There's nothing in the way of medical stuff in there."

"So rude. Courteous criminals stab you outside the Emergency Room, not at butthole nowhere gas stations."

Derek glanced up under his eyebrows. "Keep it up, Stiles."

"I do," Stiles joked back, trying to ignore the sensation of cold as Derek cleaned around the wound, because it made him imagine how much it was going to suck when the alcohol hit raw flesh instead of skin. "In bed."

That sally didn't even earn Stiles a twitch at the corner of Derek's mouth. It was stretched in a thin, narrow line – the one Stiles had figured out was as much fear as anger after the first year of knowing Derek.

Derek angled the bottle over the wound and tipped it so a thin stream poured into the deepest part of the wound.

"Fuckfuckfuck!" Stiles screamed. It hurt more than he'd anticipated and he bowed up, fingernails digging into the gritty pavement, kicking his heels against it, because the alcohol burned and boiled and a goddamned cauterization couldn't have been worse. Derek's free hand shot out and clamped onto his shoulder to keep him in place. "I hate you, you sonovabitch."

Derek turned the bottle up and let it empty. "Don't talk about my mom like that."

"You stupid goddamn jackass," Stiles strangled out. Derek wiped away the excess alcohol with a rag, then folded a new one and pressed it over the wound before taping it down.

"Better?" Derek asked.

"Jesus," Stiles gasped. "Yes. No. It'd be better with morphine or some kind of magic healing spell, which believe me I have looked for."

"We're taking the car. Isaac can do more than I can – "

"Scott could do better than that and he works for a veterinarian!"

"Sorry," Derek muttered, his head ducked and eyes averted. The way his lashes laid shadows under his eyes made Stiles want to comfort him.

Stiles patted his shoulder awkwardly. "I'm just pissed because it hurts. It's okay."

"No. It isn't. I should have protected you."

"Hey, you did. You took a bullet for me."

"I heal," Derek pointed out.

"Hey, so do I. Just slower."

Derek didn't answer. Instead, he pulled Stiles close and lifted him, bridal-style. Stupid werewolf strength, Stiles grumbled in his head. "Thank God none of the pack are here to take pictures of this. I get enough damsel jokes as it is. No one is ever going to buy you as Prince Charming anyway."

That earned him a sardonic grunt, but Derek didn't drop him, instead carrying Stiles carefully over to the passenger side of the Monte Carlo and maneuvering so he could get the door open. He set Stiles down on the pristine white leather interior and smoothed his hand over the top of Stiles' head before circling round to the driver's side.

The keys were in the ignition, which made it easy, though Stiles could have coached Derek through hot-wiring the older vehicle. Growing up the sheriff's son, he'd picked up a lot of interesting criminal skills from various deputies, always with the caveat of 'now, you aren't going to use what I'm showing you, Stiles,' along with a wink and a nod. Besides hot-wiring a car, Stiles knew how to pick locks and the best times and methods to break in to a house, where and how to find and score drugs, and exactly how to negotiate turning a trick without getting caught in a police sting.

Most of those skills had come in handy as a human member of a werewolf pack, except the trick turning.

"Get my knife, would you?" he asked, realizing it was wherever it had fallen when Weedy pulled it from his throat – Holy God, he'd killed another person. It wasn't like pulling a trigger. He could still feel the way the bone knife had pushed and pierced and slid, the sensations transmitted up it and into his fingers. Blood magic. He understood now there was a power that came not just from stealing a life, but from the commitment of taking one. A dark rush of strength that could stain a soul if you accepted it.

He didn't. He refused to like it, the way Derek refused to give in to bloodlust or the desire for revenge.

Derek ducked out of the car while Stiles stared silently out the windshield and wrestled with the demons of being a killer. He came back with the knife wrapped in a bloodied cloth and handed it to Stiles wordlessly. He'd retrieved the .45 too.

"Thanks," Stiles said.

Derek started to put the .45 under the driver's seat.

"Hey, no, are you insane? Check the safety and – look, here, just give it to me, my Dad taught me gun safety, something werewolves obviously skip," Stiles exclaimed. Derek gave him the best bitch-face, and he'd probably already checked, because the bounty hunting gig came with guns, but he handed the big pistol over anyway. The damned thing was heavy; someone was compensating for a lack in the personal department. Once Stiles had checked the .45, he put it in the car's glove box. That involved pulling everything else out, including the registration.

"Nineteen-seventy. I guess that's why it's still running. No way this sweetheart belonged to those assholes."

Derek grunted. Stiles concentrated on the Monte Carlo's papers because his side hurt bad enough he wanted to cry, but that would just alarm Derek even more.

The big old 454 V8 engine turned over smoothly as soon as Derek turned the key. He nodded to himself then popped the trunk.

"Hey, what're you – "

Derek left the car and loaded the filled gas cans into the trunk. "We may need it," he commented as he got back in.

Stiles nodded. Gas would be at a premium very quickly. The refineries would all be sidelined and no tankers would be bringing crude from across the globe any time soon or he missed his guess. The only thing that would stop everyone going all Road Warrior would be the lack of functional vehicles to fuel.

He shivered hard. Crude oil wouldn't be the only thing not being delivered. No gas, no vehicles meant no food coming into the stores. No parts being delivered so that equipment could be fixed.

No electricity could be lived with for a while – a long while – but when the food ran out, everything would go to hell as fast as the first time someone decided to take what someone else had with a gun, fist or knife.

He placed his palm over Derek's makeshift bandage.

It had already started, hadn't it?

Slouched sideways on the Monte Carlo's bench seat, Stiles distracted himself from the misery in his side by playing with his emergency radio. It was that or pass out, but the time for that had passed. If he lost consciousness now, he'd scare Derek. He'd checked through the frequencies each night and found nothing and expected nothing again, but it occupied his hands. If he didn't do something with them, they kept starting to shake.

He almost rolled the dial past the wavering, staticky announcement. It was just a droning recording looping endlessly, telling anyone within fifty miles of San Luis Obispo to evacuate and everyone else to stay away.

It took Stiles longer than usual to figure out what wasn't being said. "Well, fuck us," he blurted when the pieces fit themselves together.

Derek side-eyed him from the driver's seat.

"Diablo Canyon."

Derek's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Damn it."

"I think you can get a little more creative there, Lobo, that definitely is a fuck piece of fucking news," Stiles snapped. He hadn't used to curse so much. Between high school teachers and his dad, he'd tried to keep his language mostly clean. He still tried, though two years of college and driving on LA's freeways had put some major dents in that intention. But even if he'd still been a good boy in that respect, figuring out that the state's sole remaining functioning nuclear power plant was melting down deserved every obscenity in his vocabulary.

Derek growled. That worked too.

"So, just for shits and giggles, how do werewolves deal with radiation poisoning?" Stiles asked. His wound fucking hurt, with a hot throbbing stab that flooded his mouth with nauseated saliva. Being pissed off over the next level of disaster afflicting them helped distract him. The nuclear power station had melted down. It must have. He wondered if the people running it had stuck around or bugged out as soon as the electronics controlling the plant died. He wondered how many locals were dying slowly, burned and blistered inside and out, puking and weak, some of them not even recognizing what had happened to them. "I guess no one's done study on that."

"We'll stay inland when we head home," Derek said. He made it sound like no big thing. Small apocalypses were just a minor inconvenience, nothing to remark on, move along, nothing to see here, pay no attention to the massive bazillion car crash of their entire freaking civilization. Never mind he'd killed another man and he really didn't know why that had had to happen. He hadn't given a fuck about the gasoline; neither had Derek. Stiles stuffed his hands under his arm pits and bit his lip to stifle a whimper when the movement pulled at the wound in his side. It felt wet again.

Derek's nostrils flared delicately, but he didn't say he'd smelled Stiles bleeding again.

Stiles could play it cool too. No need to mention that the dominoes were still collapsing. Or that Derek obviously intended that they would go on to Beacon Hills. Los Angeles had always been just a temporary territory. Stiles was fine with that: the only way he could keep from worrying about his Dad being alone there was blocking out every thought of him.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to get stabbed and end up sprouting a second, glow-in-the-dark head. Also, we start seeing any giant ants, you are on your own. The Stiles is not up to fighting mutants."

Dry as the Baja desert they'd left behind, Derek repeated, "The Stiles?"

"Yeah, the Stiles. Every alpha needs one."

"They just don't know it."

"Not all alphas are as lucky as you," Stiles said.

"Oh, I know."

"Leave the sarcasm to me." He dropped into an uneasy doze, slumped down in the passenger side, neck kinked and knees jammed against the dash, and swaying with the car as Derek wove it among the cars that hadn't been pushed out of the way, sometimes bumping up onto a sidewalk, cutting through a parking lot, or crossing a divider to take advantage of a clear stretch of roadway. Once, Derek steered their ride over a sharp embankment to get around another multiple car smash up and mom-armed Stiles to keep him from falling face forward into the dash.

Derek drove through the night, headlights off and brake lights knocked out, relying on the enhanced night vision that came with being a werewolf. Stiles woke on and off, feverish and freaked out by the endless darkness and then by how bright the half-full moon reflected off the car's chrome and its mirrors.

It was Derek's second night with no sleep and Stiles stirred himself guiltily. "We should stop. You need to rest."

"When we get to the house," Derek said.

"Fine. Be that way. Just don't drive us into a telephone pole."

"I haven't yet."

"That's not as reassuring as you think it is."

Stiles shivered despite the muddy heat inside the car and swallowed a whimper. He knew if he asked Derek would stop and do the werewolf trick where he absorbed Stiles' pain, but it would just slow them down, exhaust Derek, and good as it would be not to hurt, the wound wouldn't be healed any more than it was now. He closed his eyes instead and crept his hand under his shirt, to the bandage Derek had wrapped around him using the duct tape and roll of gauze scrounged from a mostly looted mini-mart north of El Cajon. It was a stab wound; he probably needed stitches, if only to prevent an ugly ass scar, but he thought he'd live without them until they got back to the rest of the pack. At least he didn't feel fresh blood seeping through it. As long as they got to LA soon, Isaac could fix him up using his mad pre-med skills and Stiles would be fine. He knew that was why Derek was pushing so hard to get there.

He slept eventually, grateful for the escape from the throb of pain, and didn't wake until after sun up. Derek's jacket was spread over him and his cheek and nose were smooshed against the white leather interior. Stiles blinked at the maroon stitching and wondered if whoever chose it had been thinking of how blood could be wiped off white leather, but inevitably would stain the stitching if it was white too.

Weedy, Tall, and Madonna Tattoo guys hadn't stuck him as that foresightful, but then again, he was still convinced that the car hadn't been their vehicle. The shiny chrome custom hubcaps and the silver flames painted on the car's sides, as well as how clean the interior was, just didn't fit. Those three shitheads seemed like the kind of guys who drove whatever their skeevy girlfriends owned, made their nut stealing copper wire and pipes to sell as salvage, and used it buy and smoke meth. (They didn't strike him as the sorts to cook meth; he figured their cooking skills probably stopped at opening a bag of Doritos.) No, Stiles had decided the Monte Carlo had obviously been owned by a moderately successful gangbanger or a traveling polyester salesman going through a midlife crisis.

He didn't let himself think about where whoever owned it was now.

The sun flashed off the excessive chrome – the angel hood ornament was large enough it probably cost a mile per gallon – bright enough to give Stiles a headache. He levered himself a little more upright with a pained groan.

"Two hours," Derek said.

Stiles tried to figure out where they were. It was a back road, not one of the highways. Derek had given up on those the afternoon before. Traffic gridlock had resulted in too many blockages. Stiles hadn't commented on the way there were still some cars burning. The stinking smoke boiled upward at intervals, blurring into a dirty overcast that had nothing to do with rain.

He could smell smoke as well as see it. The umber-tinted horizon made Stiles uneasy and worried, though he told himself he had no reason. Fire didn't hunt just werewolves and werewolves were better equipped to survive most other threats. But the mountains and canyons north and east of Los Angeles were burning, had been dotted with wildfires all season, their tinder dry brush fanned on the hot Santa Ana winds, and now there was nothing and no one to stop the flames. Chunks of the city had caught fire too, adding to ochre pall over the entire Los Angeles basin.

The wildfires scared Stiles, but it was worse for Derek. Not many things got to Derek, not so that he let it show, but fire was one of them. Now, they were headed toward them and not away.

Fire season was always bad for Derek. The pack had learned to not comment on his nightmares when the Santa Anas blew and flames were all over the evening news, the compulsive way he checked exit routes and fire extinguishers and snarled at anyone with a cigarette, or the way he'd stop sleeping for days if the fires came too close and they could smell smoke. It was just Derek. Fire was one of his demons. They put away the barbeque grill and put fresh batteries in all the smoke detectors instead.

It seemed to be enough for Derek if not for his uncle. Peter took a vacation every year during fire season. Stiles didn't blame him.

Derek's shoulders tightened under the plaid shirt he'd appropriated from the mini-mart along with gauze and antibiotic cream. Of course, Derek was a pessimist, but Stiles felt the same sense of apprehension in his own gut. The fucking mess at the gas station should have been the twist at the end of the story, the cliffhanger before the happy arrival at their destination, but reality never stopped with one kick once it had anyone down.

"Not long," Derek said, but that was the last out of him, as he took them through a series of county roads beyond the limits of the urban sprawl and the endless suburbs.

They detoured once, around a bedroom community reduced to blackened wreckage, embers still glowing in the ash, the streets melted into tarry goo. Stiles stared and thought it looked like a bomb had gone off or a war had been fought there. It wasn't like Cataviña, with its pressing sense of malevolence or the desert that had stretched so empty it felt like they might dissolve into the empty dome of the sky. There were people out, even the occasional moving vehicle, but somehow that didn't help at all. The black smoke coiling lazily up from spots hinted not just at destruction. There had been deaths, there had to have been, and Stiles tried not to think of why a shift of the breeze brought a scent almost like barbeque on the wind.

He had to breathe carefully and swallow a lot, even after the Monte Carlo took them out of sight. His gut hurt. A steady, subvocal growl rumbled from Derek, the slip in his control marking how upset he was. Their route changed and they took Mulholland, rolling to a stop at the top before the pavement took its twisting way down to Hollywood.

The taste of ash settled on Stiles' tongue. White dust and black grit settled into the car's crannies and on his sweaty skin, a gray grime that coated him everywhere so that he wanted to scrub it all off: cinder and skin. In some ways, Los Angeles looked the same: red tile roofs tucked among greenery, multi-lane freeways filled with shining cars, a handful of skyscrapers looming downtown. But it wasn't. The cars weren't moving and the skyscrapers were burning, one crumpled half way up. A ceiling of filthy smoke tainted the sun so that anything in the distance took on the colors of a sepia photograph.

The entire city appeared curled up and eaten away, blackened along the edges.

Maybe it was good they saw that though, because it warned them of what they might find... what they did find when Derek took the turn off into Nichols Canyon. Smoke hung so heavy in the air Stiles could see it inside the car, despite having the windows up and the air conditioner running on high. It hazed the vista before them as the car rounded the curve and Nichols Canyon was revealed.

The brakes squealed in protest when Derek jammed them down and they skidded a foot to the side, nearly scraping the mirror off a Mercedes.

Nichols Canyon had been scorched down to the earth. Skeletal trees and a few seared telephone poles poked upward from the ashen earth where expensive homes had stood before. Stiles picked out the remains of several houses. He found the huge old live oak that had shaded the front of the seven bedroom mansion. Heat had split it down the middle. The leaves were gone and the bare limbs clawed arthritically at the air.

The only thing left of the house was the foundation and the wreckage of some major appliances. A claw-foot bathtub, the one Lydia liked so well, lay on its side, filthy with soot. Several cars were burnt out, with their frames twisted by the heat of the fire that had raged through the neighborhood.

Stiles hadn't finished gaping when Derek banged his door open and bolted out. He vaulted over the twisted remains of the front gate and cut straight toward the remains of the house. Stiles winced his way through getting out and following him, clutching his arm to his side.

Derek had come to a stop just on the side of the pool. Filthy water scummed with leaves and ash and unidentifiable detritus still filled it. He stared across the expanse of water to the space where the pack's favorite room had been. Unlike the old Hale House, where firefighters had tried their best to save something and much of the frame had remained, the Nichols Canyon house had been destroyed. There was nothing left.

Derek crouched over, his hands braced on his knees, and keened. Stiles cursed the wound in his side keeping him from speeding closer.

Once he reached Derek, he wrapped the arm from his good side around Derek's side and pulled him in. "Listen, listen to me. Our pack, they aren't stupid – okay, they can act stupid, but they're not, and they didn't stay here. They got away. Derek, you know they got away, there were no hunters, they weren't trapped, they've headed home."

Derek whined at the back of his throat. He was shuddering beneath Stiles' touch and swayed, much of his weight falling into Stiles'. It hurt to brace himself and hold on, but Stiles did, coughing through the jolt of pain, and keeping up a steady patter of comfort and hopeful explanations for the disappearance of their pack, trying to believe in them, knowing Derek would hear a lie.

He did believe they were alive at least. The pack should have been able to survive almost anything. Doubt crept along the edges of Stiles' certainty though: the Hale Pack had been strong too, bigger, older, and more experienced, and fire had destroyed them too. He told himself their pack had learned though. They were okay somewhere. They were headed home too. They had to be.

Eventually, Derek hid his face against Stiles neck, breathing wetly while Stiles rubbed his back. When the silent sobs died away, Stiles led him back to the Monte Carlo. He let Stiles tell him what to do until Stiles started to get behind the wheel, then wordlessly pushed him across the seat and took the driver's place. He didn't do anything else until Stiles instructed him to start the car and take them down the road.

Concentrating on doing something probably helped, but Stiles saw Derek shudder periodically, especially when a stronger blast of the stench of burning hit them. Each time, Stiles turned himself on the seat and squeezed Derek's shoulder, reminding him where they were and that he wasn't alone.

He just hoped that would be enough. Coming home to another pack gone in a fire might be the blow that broke Derek. Not if Stiles could help it, but he wasn't arrogant enough to think he could be enough all by himself to keep Derek together. He could help, but Derek would have to be the one find the strength inside.

Derek drove. He let Stiles tell him where. The smell of smoke, the stench of burned bodies from earlier, and the blackened skeleton of the house had battered down his mental walls. He shuddered physically until Stiles' hand on his shoulder drew him out of the replay of what they'd found in Nichols Canyon.

"They weren't there," Stiles said. His heartbeat didn't pick up beyond normal, his voice didn't contain any micro-quavers, and his scent, strong in the confines of the car after days without bathing, didn't spike with stress hormone byproducts. "They left. Um. Obviously."

"I know," Derek made himself reply, but he sounded weak. He would have smelled if anyone had been in the wreckage... but he'd thrown himself out of the car and run for the house anyway, somewhere in his head thinking it was his family's house, that they were in there. It had been Stiles catching up to him, holding him back, and not Laura, though. Kate burned his family ten years ago. A wildfire burned an empty house this time. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't lost, he wasn't alone, he would have felt the pack bonds, even stretched thin with distance, snapping if any of his wolves had died. He remembered the agony searing through him before and he hadn't been an alpha then.

It helped having Stiles next to him. Stiles' voice kept him tethered in the present. Stiles' gasp of pain when Derek tried to pull away from him snapped him back to the reality that Stiles was wounded and Derek needed to take care of him. He might have shifted and howled and run as far as he could otherwise. Or curled into a ball of misery, reliving old horror, and whining while he dug his claws into his own flesh, the way he'd done for months until Laura caught him at it. Laura had taken Derek's hands in hers and barely winced when his claws sank in. He couldn't chance ever doing that to Stiles. So he had to hold it together. He had to anyway, because an out of control alpha... could be worse than Peter had been.

Derek took a breath and meant to marshal his control to push back the shift, but he hadn't shifted. Stiles' presence had kept him human.

Stiles had anchored Derek, without even trying, without Derek even realizing.

He let Stiles tug him around and walk him back to the car. He took the driver's seat automatically, noticing he hadn't taken the keys out, hell, hadn't turned the ignition off. He couldn't be sure he'd been the one to shift the car into park; Stiles might have done it.

Derek concentrated on shifting the car and steering down the road. The pavement was destroyed in places: the tar had burned out of it. The car bumped over it and the feel of pieces breaking under its tires transmitted through the frame and into the steering wheel under his hands.

"Left here," Stiles said when they reached the third turn off. It took them onto pavement that hadn't burned, smoothing out the ride, and Stiles let out a breath of what sounded like relief. Derek risked a glance at him. Stiles was pale except for fevered patches high on his cheek bones. Fever had his lips chapped and his eyes glassy. Derek sniffed, but the reek of burning and bitumen had permeated the car's interior to the point he couldn't separate out any stink of infection. Stiles turned his head and caught Derek watching. "Eyes on the road, wolfman."

Derek obeyed.

"Take a right up ahead, past that green convertible," Stiles told him miles later. "Into that motel lot."

Derek swung the car and let it roll through the Canyon Inn parking lot slowly, scanning for threats, until they were behind a second building that would hide the car from casual notice from the street. Once he'd dropped it into park, he simply sat, both hands resting on the steering wheel. The air outside had a gray-yellow cast. Derek tried to breathe as shallowly as he could.

Stiles sat quietly beside him, not offering stupid false comfort, just waiting with that surprising patience he had for anyone he cared about. There were better options to sitting in a car, though, and Stiles needed rest. Derek set his hand on the door handle, then faced Stiles. Stiles looked back, concern shining through his expression. His lips were reddened where he'd been biting them nervously. Derek wanted to trace his fingers over them.

It definitely wasn't the time for that.

"Stay here until I check it out," Derek said.

Stiles rolled his eyes at him.

Of course, Stiles got out and followed after him. Derek gave him The Look, but Stiles had always had a distressing immunity to Derek's attempts at intimidation, even the few times in the beginning when Derek had let it get physical.

The hotel block was empty. The front office had been broken into and the kitchen had been looted, but it appeared everything else had been left alone. Maybe no one had figured out how to open the key card locks with the electricity off. Derek forced the lock on a Number 16, a corner, ground floor room's door. Stiles claimed one of the two queen beds by virtue of flopping down on the green and beige duvet on the nearest one.

"Heaven!" The injudicious move made him moan and slap his hands to the wound in his side.

The only light came through the thin privacy curtains drawn across the room's single window. A heavier set of green drapes that matched the duvet were pulled back. The air trapped in the room had heated and turned thick and stuffy; on the other hand, it didn't smell like smoke.

Derek moved past the beds and tried the faucet in the bathroom. The pressure was non-existent, but a steady trickle of clean, cool water rewarded his effort. His face was a pale, bruised blur in the mirror over the sink until he shifted his vision and then all he could see was the crimson reflection of his eyes.

He stripped off his undershirt and indulged in the hotel soap and the towel, cleaning up as much as he could, rinsing out the grimy cotton undershirt and hanging it up over the shower curtain rod. The soap smelled awful to him, all chemical fake floral perfume, but it had washed the reek of smoke from his nostrils, rinsed the dust from his hair and the sweat and blood from his skin. Just that was enough to make him groan in gratitude, though he swallowed the noise down.

Stiles rolled his head to the side and raised his eyebrows as Derek left the bathroom. "My turn?"

"Please," Derek told him. Stiles still had on his blood-crusted shirt and undershirt. Dark stains were sunk under his fingernails and the lines of his palms. Grease clumped his hair to his skull and stubble grew in uneven patches along his jaw and upper lip.

"Hey, you don't exactly smell like fresh flowers either – " Stiles levered himself up with another wince and sniffed dramatically. " – Huh, nope, you still don't. What's that supposed to be, eau de whorehouse?"

Derek cracked a smile despite himself. He remembered his uncle telling Laura her lilac-scented lip gloss smelled like a French brothel once. He took Stiles' extended hand and helped him to his feet. "Could be."

"You look a little better," Stiles offered.

Derek raised an eyebrow, wondering if Stiles meant it literally or in comparison to his near fugue state back at the house.

"Go enjoy the water while it lasts."

"Jawohl, Herr Werewolf." Stiles did a half-assed mock salute and ambled into the bathroom. "Gah, it's dark in here. Isn't there some kind of building code that says bathrooms need to have windows?"

Once the door closed behind Stiles, Derek dropped on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. Shudders ran through him now that Stiles wasn't looking and he had to muffle a keen in his palm. Everything had burned and his pack was gone, he didn't know where, and he couldn't smell or hear them, they were too far away. He could only sense they weren't dead, no more, and it wasn't enough, he was lost the way he'd been when his family died.

Stiles returned quietly and sat down beside Derek. He slipped an arm around Derek's waist and rested his head against Derek's shoulder. "Lie down with me," he murmured. Clean, still damp skin pressed against Derek, the contact sweet and needed. He sighed under his breath and relaxed.

Derek sniffed and let Stiles direct him where he wanted him. He didn't even care how many people had been on the duvet before them. He was too tired. He lay still as Stiles unlaced his boots and then slid off his socks and even smiled at the exaggerated gagging over the smell. He arched his hips to help Stiles drag his jeans off next and only barely registered the direction Stiles tossed them.

Stiles ran his palm up Derek's bare leg in an absentminded caress that Derek soaked in the way the desert drank the rain. "Better?"

He managed a nod and rolled onto his side to watch Stiles laboriously take off his own shoes and socks and then his pants. He knew he should help him, because Stiles was hurt, but he couldn't make himself move.

Stiles crawled onto the bed and wiggled into Derek's space until they were fitted together face to face on their sides, as much skin in contact as possible. Derek shuddered and drew in lungfuls of Stiles' clean scent, ignoring the soap smell because it was all over him too, his instincts pleased their scents were shared and mingling.

Stiles' breath wasn't entirely horrible, so he'd used the running water to at least finger brush and rinse out his mouth. Derek leaned in and placed his lips against Stiles, just a mouth closed touch of appreciation. Stiles stroked his fingers through the hair at the back of Derek's skull in a soothing motion. His hand trailed down, firm enough not to surprise or tickle, to Derek's neck and then between his shoulder blades to spread wide and flat over his tattoo.

Derek responded by hesitantly hooking his leg behind Stiles' knee so they slotted together. Stiles hummed softly, happily, and nosed Derek's jaw. Derek slipped his arm around Stiles, mindful to keep it away from the makeshift bandage. He wanted to clutch Stiles to him tightly, but made himself keep his touch easy.

"Go to sleep," Stiles told Derek. "You're usually quiet, but generally you'll grunt or growl or at least frown at me, so I know you're ready to drop, and so'm I."

"We should find a first aid kit and put a real bandage on," he said. He tensed, meaning to sit up. "I can go out – "

"It's okay for now," Stiles assured him. "Just – just rest here with me a little while. Please."

Derek stared into Stiles eyes. With the curtains on the room's windows pulled closed, the brown appeared dark as walnut. The quiet outside the hotel room ate at Derek's nerves, but he focused on Stiles' breathing and his restless heartbeat until everything else fell away.

"We'll figure out our next move when we wake up." Stiles kept petting Derek and it slowly relaxed him enough to close his eyes. He didn't mean to sleep, not when anything could happen and the only door between him and the world had a broken lock, and Stiles didn't have the energy to put up any wards, but exhaustion sank his bones into the bed and he melted into it anyway.

~*~

His betas were chained to the trees, hung like sides of beef, crying out for help. All except Stiles, who lay crumpled in two pieces on the ground, bisected by a massive sword that shone silver where it lay between the upper and lower halves of his body. Beyond Stiles, Derek's family were charred specters pressed to a line of mountain ash, unable to cross it, their mouths stretched in silent screams. Derek couldn't move. Kate was holding him, stronger than any human should be, and he was weak, because he couldn't tear his way free without hurting her. Gerard Argent chuckled as he doused Scott with gasoline first, then Boyd and Isaac and Danny. Jackson, once more in kanima form, prowled at the end of a chain, heavy-scaled tale swinging back and forth as Gerard pulled him along, but his eyes weren't the kanima's; they were beta blue and horrified, begging Derek to help him. Derek howled his shame and horror as Gerard forced his hand to strike a match and toss it into the pool of gasoline. His betas screamed and burned and it was all his fault, but Kate wouldn't let him throw himself into flames cresting over them –

Kate wouldn't let him –

Stiles wouldn't let him –

Stiles was holding him –

Stiles was holding onto Derek as Derek reared awake, yelling, "Nightmare, Derek, nightmare, it's over."

Derek drew in a harsh, shaking breath, terrified he'd shifted and the damage he could have done to Stiles without knowing it. Stiles had his hands on Derek's biceps, his weight contending with Derek's, but it could never be enough against an alpha werewolf. Derek could have thrown him through a wall. He panted for breath and turned his face away from Stiles.

His fingers were still human, Derek realized, and his teeth were still blunt in his mouth. His vision hadn't shifted to the monochrome shades that went with his eyes changing colors. Stiles scent surrounded him, calming his heartbeat and his emotions.

"You with me now?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah," Derek rasped out.

Stiles rubbed his hand down Derek's sternum and it loosed something too tight in Derek's lungs. He collapsed back on the bed, limp and feeling more exhausted than when he'd foolishly fallen asleep. He closed his eyes only to snap them open again. Flames still licked at the edges of his mind's eye.

He imagined he could taste ash and swallowed repeatedly though he knew it never really went away. It was all in his head. Stiles climbed off him, moving with jerky little flinches.

"You want me to use the other bed?" Derek asked. He didn't want to. Even if Stiles didn't want to curl close again, being in the same bed felt better than lying alone. His body knew someone was there with him. Derek was a tactile person, even in human form, though he'd forced himself to ignore those needs with everyone but Laura. The last four years with the pack had been a long lesson in letting himself need again. He'd let himself reach out to comfort and they'd casually tamed him into leaning into their touches too, the way pack mates should.

"Nope," Stiles said. "I like my werewolf body pillow. I'm just …. not at my best."

"How bad is the pain?"

"Not so bad – "

Derek set his hand on Stiles flank and pulled, absorbing a wave of fever hot pain that snaked its way into him in a fan of poison-black veins before his system beat it back. He gritted his teeth and cursed Stiles in his head for pretending it wasn't as bad as it was.

"Hey, don't do – Oooh." Stiles groaned in relief. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?" Derek asked. It didn't hurt him for long. "I don't want you to hurt, even if I couldn't keep you from being hurt." He hesitated and added quietly, "It's something I can do."

Stiles' gaze searched Derek's face until he nodded. "Okay." He guided Derek's hand closer to the wound. "Go ahead with the werewolf mojo. Let no one say Stiles Stilinski is a masochist."

"Thank you," Derek told him seriously and began leeching the pain again.

~*~

The winds died overnight.

Stiles didn't argue when Derek decided to scavenge for supplies without him the next morning. The fever blotches on his cheeks were brighter and he'd already lost weight. Derek sat beside him after dressing and extorted a promise that he would stay in the room and rest, drinking as much water as he could. He left the Monte Carlo's keys with him, though, in case of fire or other threat drove him out. Stiles promised to head for the beach if that happened, since Derek could always work his way along it to find him. A set rendezvous point would have been nice, but they both realized LA had devolved too far already to count on reaching any particular place.

Derek had a list of things they needed, beginning with food and medicine. He wanted a shotgun for Stiles, because Stiles would be safer dealing with any attacks from a distance. That meant ammo. He wanted more for the .45 too. Clothes that weren't caked with and reeking of old blood were in the top five too.

Antibiotics for Stiles first, though. He'd begun coughing during the night. Irritation from the smoke and dust in the air, Derek hoped. Antibiotics, clean bandages, tape, a doctor if Derek could find one, a suture kit at least if he couldn't. He'd been counting on Isaac's expertise. Derek didn't know enough to say whether Stiles needed stitches or not. The slow healing and constant pain Stiles felt bothered him more than ever. He wanted to offer Stiles the Bite again, to give him a werewolf's strength, but bit his own tongue instead. Stiles didn't want it.

He headed out at an easy, but ground-covering human lope. If he found a clinic or hospital taking patients, he would go back and get Stiles, but he wasn't forcing him out in the filthy air until then.

He ignored the creep of hunger in his own gut.

Sunset Boulevard ended in a warren of charred and still smoking buildings.

Children's Hospital had burnt. Derek never even approached it. The sign with its brightly colored logo, previously mounted high on the building, had broken away and dangled, the lower portion sooty and half melted. He could see enough from the distance. The buildings around it were gutted, steel beams melted in a fire storm, concrete toppled inward, twisted metal groping upwards. He could see people in the midst of the rubble, picking through it, and cringed. The idea of going closer hurt places inside him Derek thought had gone long numb, stirring memories of the first time he was confronted by the burnt remnants of his childhood home. Derek turned east and headed downtown instead.

He'd begun to worry when he hadn't seen anyone, but more and more people were out here. Many of them were dirty and all were tired, bruised around the eyes, huddling into groups who eyed Derek with suspicion and fear. Old instincts were waking up. They recognized a predator. He paid them the same attention a predator would too, evaluating and dismissing each of them as he passed along the streets with their eerily still cars. The cars had been pushed out of the streets in the days since the Crash. Trash littered the gutters though, in bursting bags the smell of which made Derek's eyes water. Garbage pick-up had become a thing of the past. Sewage had backed up in places too, spreading oil-slicked brown puddles from the curbs into the street, adding to the reek. He spotted at least two bodies, wrapped in opaque plastic like a shroud in one case, bloated and naked in the other.

The drone of the fat, black blowflies filled the air like the voice of Legion.

It made Derek wonder how many suicides were locked inside their homes with the curtains drawn, waiting for the fires if they weren't ever found.

A kid with a plastic yard trailer hitched to his bike peddled slowly down the center lane, selling bottles of water from it. A second, older boy paced alongside him, a .22 rifle with a sling balanced against his shoulder, dark eyes ceaselessly tracking every movement. His gaze stopped on Derek for a moment, but moved on just as Derek did.

Fresh drinking water that wasn't contaminated was already a commodity. Derek wondered if the money the kid was taking for his refilled bottles would have any value soon, though.

He listened to the squeak of the plastic wheels protesting under the weight of the water for a moment before turning down a different street.

Ahead, he heard the chugging grumble of generators and as he approached he smelled the diesel fueling them. A turn of the corner and Derek came to a startled stop.

The street leading to the hospital he'd picked as his next destination had been blocked off, strung with chain-link and coils of razor-wire, a single gate in the middle guarded by men in Army National Guard uniforms. A pair of M35 deuce-and-a-half cargo trucks, canvas stretched over the beds to shade them, were parked behind the fence. A line of people were waiting for a chance at the gate.

As he watched, a woman with two children and another in her arms was turned away by the guards. She clutched at her hair for a minute before cursing them in a beautiful mish-mash of Korean and Mexican. Listening in gave Derek the rest of the story: the hospital was under protection of the military, its personnel and supplies confiscated for the use of the authorities. A state of emergency had been declared three days before when a riot swept through Cedars Sinai, leaving it useless and many patients still being cared for by the staff there dead. Security on the hospitals and the seats of government still being used had been set up since. Only those with clearance were being admitted.

Clearance, Derek picked up, cost money or trade goods.

He turned away without trying to get inside. If they wouldn't let in a baby or kids, they wouldn't open the gate for a healthy looking man, especially one wearing someone else's blood. He needed to find another source of medical supplies.

The first five pharmacies he found had all been looted. Derek picked up several backpacks from a bin of cheap back-to-school supplies and filled them with useful items that had been left. He even found a box of energy bars kicked under a display.

He added packages of cheap underwear and socks, along with several t-shirts from a sale rack and an extra-large, purple hoodie left in a trashed break room. Being picky about clothes had never been one of Derek's flaws and, other than being partial to plaid, Stiles gave absolutely no fucks about fashion either. Not that Derek thought anyone was going to have that luxury for a long time to come.

Toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap that didn't smell worse than being dirty. Derek smiled slightly as he tucked that item away. Razor blades were useful for more than stubble and didn't take much room or weigh heavily. Derek tore the packaging off of everything to save space, before moving on.

The prescription drugs were wiped out in each of the pharmacies he found. The fourth one yielded several bottles of betadine and tubes of over the counter antibiotic/analgesic creams. He grabbed every one he could find, along with boxes of gauze and medical tape.

He looped the packs over his shoulder as he walked out of the fifth pharmacy. He'd spent over half the day already, using yellow pages ripped from a phone book taken from looted grocery market's office to find the pharmacies. The market had been picked bare as well, anything not taken broken and smashed.

Across the street, a branch bank stood with all its glass broken out, dark inside. The heat pressed down so the air felt too heavy to breathe. The flags at the top of the pole outside the bank hung dead and motionless. Beyond the bank, Robert Pattinson's face leered from a giant billboard advertising a summer movie no one would ever see.

He watched a line of people walking past the nearest intersection and wondered where they were going or if they had any destination. Their faces were blank and drawn. They looked at him and looked past, as if they hadn't even registered him. It made Derek's hackles rise.

Footsteps shuffling from the sidewalk to his left made Derek turn.

An older man with an empty plastic milk jug and a canvas re-usable grocery bag nodded to him, then stepped out into the road, heading toward the line.

"Where are you going?" Derek asked. The back of Derek's throat ached, raw and dry, desiccated though he hadn't spoken to anyone since leaving Stiles.

"Ration station," the man said. "They ran out yesterday, but they might have something today." He limped onward, though his voice had held no optimism at all. Derek stared after him.

Derek pulled the yellow pages out of his pocket and tried to figure out the next closest place to try. He worried about Stiles, worried he wouldn't stay at the hotel, or would have to leave, or worse, would be so sick he couldn't leave. He turned left and broke into a lope, because even summer days drew down into darkness eventually.

A dog chased after him when he cut through a residential neighborhood, letting out a few barks before it just followed him. It wasn't defending or attacking, just confused and lonely. Derek felt bad for it.

He paused under a tattered, tired palm tree's meager shade to re-settle the backpacks and the dog, a half-Shepherd half-Collie mix bounded up to him, only to sneeze and back off. Derek's smell confused and frightened it a little, but he looked human in shape. After a moment, it crept close again, with a low whine.

A good quality collar had tags hanging from it and a small plate with a name: JoJo. Derek scratched his fingers behind the dog's head and told him, "Shitty name." JoJo was thinner than he should have been, his coat turning ragged and his paw pads showed he'd been running on pavement for more than a day or two. His tangled fur needed grooming.

JoJo leaned into Derek's leg. His tail swished back and forth.

"Go home," Derek ordered without any hope the dog would do it.

JoJo panted and looked up to him.

Derek knew he should growl and scare the dog off. He couldn't bring it back to Stiles or they'd never be rid of it. Stiles wouldn't be able to abandon it and Derek wouldn't be able to endure the way Stiles would look at him if he forced the issue.

"Shit," he muttered. He fumbled at the collar and checked the tags, looking for an address where he could return JoJo. Maybe the dog had just gotten loose and in the chaos of the city JoJo's owner couldn't find him.

Derek didn't believe it for a moment.

The license and vaccination tags weren't useful, but a third tag hung with them. It had a phone number and an address on one side. Derek huffed unhappily. The address was down the street he'd just passed through. There had been no one left in any of the houses. He flipped the tag over absently and noticed a second name and phone number for a veterinary clinic.

He felt like slapping himself. He should have thought of that before. How often had he and the others taken advantage of Deaton's supplies and knowledge back in Beacon Hills? Scott had every intention of buying a partnership in Deaton's veterinary practice once he finished school. Isaac had formed his interest in medicine working part time for the always enigmatic vet.

Derek straightened his back and turned away from his previous route. He snapped his fingers as he set out. "Come on, JoJo. We're going to the vet."

The veterinarian clinic listed on JoJo's tag had been emptied out too, but it was a large operation set up to look like a hospital. JoJo stayed behind, too hungry to abandon a torn open bag of dog kibble for a stranger. Derek was relieved. He found another phone book to vandalize in the offices and struck gold on the next practice, a small one that operated from a converted house in a neighborhood that mixed commercial and residential.

The clinic only served small animals and had been closed up and locked, it looked like since the Day Everything Crashed – as Stiles had dubbed it. There were no animals inside and blinds had been pulled down over the windows. Window boxes in front of them held wilted, dying flowers.

Derek circled behind the building. He listened for the sound of anyone near enough to watching. It wasn't worry over being caught breaking in. He simply didn't want to share what he'd find inside with any enterprising scavengers.

The door lock and interior bolt yielded to werewolf strength and he slipped inside, wrinkling his nose slightly at the stale, hot air inside when had the door closed behind him again. His boots scuffed over worn but clean linoleum and he waited a beat for his eyesight to adapt to the darkness inside. Enough light diffused around the edges of the blinds that he could make things out without shifting his eyes. He picked up an empty cat carrier and set it in front of the door, then balanced a stainless steel bowl on its edge. If the door opened, the noise of it falling would alert him, even if he was distracted.

Derek prowled through the storage room and the room set aside for keeping animals over-night, then the single exam room. The drugs cabinet was there and untouched. A locking refrigerator sat next to the cabinet.

It was the work of a second to pry the doors open on both and reveal a cornucopia of medications.

"You're kidding me," Derek muttered to himself. He had only the faintest idea of what medications did what to humans, mostly what he'd picked up from the media or listening to Isaac, never mind other animals. He'd never cared to find out when his family had been alive, despite the Hales having humans in the pack, because he'd been a self-absorbed little shit back then. Afterward, it hadn't occurred to him.

He decided to winnow out everything he recognized as not useful, take everything he did recognize as useful, and take one each of things he thought might be. Amoxicillin, Doxycycline, Cephalexin, Codeine and Morphine sulfate – those were both gold – Erythromycin, Fentanyl patches, Hycodan and Tussigan – Derek remembered Scott and Isaac saying those last two were both actually hydrocodone – he went on looting everything that even looked like an antibiotic or a painkiller. They'd toss anything that wasn't.

As he packed the drugs into the backpacks, Derek remembered paging through one of Deaton's books while hiding in his office once. It had been a drug handbook for veterinarians. Scott had complained over the price of buying one too. He detoured into the small private office and grinned as he found a nearly new edition of the same book. He carried it back to the drug cabinet and used it to check out everything he had a question about and then, despite its size, stuffed it in another pack.

If they made one for vets, then one for medical professionals had to exist too. He'd give odds most bookstores hadn't been looted yet. He'd try to find one on the way back to Stiles and scavenge as many useful books as he could. Something that said what some of the drugs he was snagging did to humans, for example.

Derek looted sealed suture sets, sterile gloves, hypodermic needles, and anything else that he could carry and hoped would be useful. He had two packs filled when he exited the clinic. He left through the front door, set to lock again behind him, after blocking the back door with the broken lock. It wouldn't stop anyone looking to get in, but it didn't look broken.

He didn't have a watch that worked, but he judged it to be early evening. Stiles would be freaking out.

The skyline to the north was beautiful as Derek turned his feet back to the hotel where he'd left Stiles. A thin orange haze washed everything, dirtier than the amber of a summer's evening. Smoke billowed black and gray and white as clouds, dyed scarlet beneath from the fires that ran even without any wind. To the west, the sun fell down toward the endless water, lighting it on fire too.

~*~

Stiles told Derek what to do for the wound with the supplies he brought back and they figured out doses of the antibiotics from the books Derek stole from a library.

They dined on cans of sardines, stale crackers and peanut butter from the snack machine in the hotel's hallway, warm cans of cola, and the power bars Derek had brought back.

Stiles clutched the toothbrush and paste and grinned. "I'd kiss you for thinking of this, but it'd be so much nicer if I used it first."

"Food tomorrow," Derek promised.

"And pants."

He wrinkled his nose at the jeans he was wearing and agreed.

Derek knew it was a good sign that Stiles ate and tried not to worry when Stiles fell asleep within minutes of taking a codeine tablet. It took him a long time to fall asleep himself, though.

He woke in the pre-dawn gray with Stiles curled comma shape in his arms, his breathing steady, heartbeat no faster than ever. The grumble of a diesel engine filtered into the hotel room. Derek breathed and frowned. That would have been enough to wake him. He thought there had been something else.

An amplified announcement started up and Derek guessed he'd woken to the tail end of it. He tightened his arms around Stiles and listened. Given what he'd seen of the National Guard the day before, Derek felt disinclined to trust anything coming from them or their masters.

Stiles grumbled in his sleep, but was in no danger of waking up.

"Due to fire danger and the continuing state of emergency, all citizens are advised to report to their nearest evacuation point for transportation to temporary aid stations where you will be provided with food, water, shelter and necessary medical care until normal services are restored. Army National Guard patrols will be instituted to maintain order and prevent looting. They are authorized to take lethal measures in their defense. Evacuation points have been established at the intersections of – "

Derek stopped paying attention even before the truck rumbled out of earshot. He doubted he'd have any trouble avoiding any patrols, but the prospect convinced him he needed to get himself and Stiles out of LA within the next day, whether he was any better or not. Temporary aid stations … he called bullshit, the authorities were setting up refugee camps to corral the overwhelming numbers of people from the cities before any more of them poured into the rural areas and swamped their abilities to support themselves.

"Stiles," he murmured while he reluctantly pulled away. "Stiles, wake up."

"Mmmph," Stiles mumbled. He rolled onto his back. It must have hurt, because his eyes blinked open and he snapped all the way awake much faster than normal for him. "Aw, shit, shit, what the hell?" Stiles blinked and focused on Derek. "Hey."

"We need to check the wound again," Derek said.

"And a hearty good morning to you too."

"It's a crap morning." Everything still smelled like smoke and death to him. His stomach gurgled unhappily. Werewolf metabolisms demanded a lot of food and he'd been skimping for days. Shifting took an incredible amount of energy. Lydia had speculated that the bloodlust they experienced when they shifted resulted directly from needing to replenish that energy. Eating heavily before the full moon had always been a Hale family tradition – it turned out there was a reason. All the wolves in Derek's pack found keeping control easier when they did. But Derek had been controlling his shifts and his instincts since childhood and he could handle it if necessary.

"God, eat a power bar or something," Stiles told him. "It's not like you can take a romp through the forest and eat a bunny or three."

"It's fine."

Stiles made a face at him before working his way out of bed like an arthritic old man and stumbling toward the bathroom. "Whatever."

Derek cracked open the drapes enough to bring in some light and reminded himself to grab batteries and flashlights. They'd been reduced to reading the books he'd brought back by the light of a single butane cigarette lighter the night before. He flipped open the book on emergency medical care without access to hospitals or doctors. What he'd read the night before made it seem like letting the wound to heal without trying to stitch it up would work better than any fumble fingered effort he could make at suturing Stiles' side up. The knife had sliced through Stiles external abdominal oblique muscle high on his side but below the ribs. It would leave an ugly scar, but nothing bad enough to impede movement, and that was what would matter in the future.

They were going to have a future. Derek would do just about anything to ensure that.

"Breakfast?" Stiles asked when he came out of the bathroom, looking much more awake and refreshed. He grimaced when he saw the supplies Derek had spread out on the second bed. "Do we have to?"

"I could bite you," Derek replied. Stiles had never wavered from his choice to remain a human member of the pack. Having someone who could handle Mountain Ash and wolfsbane and practice magic trumped extra strength, enhanced senses and healing when the pack already had people who had that. Which Derek freely admitted, but it wouldn't have kept him from making Stiles a wolf if Stiles had wanted that. It was Stiles' choice, though, always, as far as Derek was concerned. He'd never turned anyone who didn't know and agree to it and never intended otherwise.

He told himself that, but Derek thought that if it was Stiles' life on the line, he'd take the chance of turning him even if Stiles told him no.

"Sadly, you don't mean that in the sexy way, so I think I'll pass."

"Then you let me do this, eat something, take a painkiller and stay here while I go out and get whatever else we need."

"Fine, but don't let all this obedience go to your head."

Derek huffed and tried not to smile. If it weren't the end of the world already, he'd say an obedient Stiles was a sign of its impending doom. "I'll try not to."

Stiles settled on the edge of the bed with a put upon sigh. "Physician, heal me."

Cleaning and bandaging the wound made Derek wince almost as much as Stiles. He thought the wound looked better than it had the day before. He cleaned around it a second time, removing the last remnants of glue goo from the makeshift duct tape butterfly bandages and dabbed antibiotic cream on before covering the wound with clean gauze and tape. When he'd finished, he rested his fingers on the bare skin of Stiles' side and leached as much pain as he could.

"Softy," Stiles teased.

Derek didn't tell him he'd wanted to judge if Stiles' pain had gotten worse or better since the last time he did it. He felt slightly better though, because the pain was lessening, even without the codeine he'd brought back from the veterinary clinic.

He did eat a power bar and another can of sardines. The oil from the sardines glistened on his lips and the heavy scent filled Derek's senses. "Protein!" Stiles exclaimed then made a face as Derek thoughtlessly leaned in to lick at the corner of his mouth. "Dude, cat breath. No kissing."

"Cat breath, really?" Derek snagged a sardine and ate it in one bite. "Now we match."

Stiles pushed Derek's face away. "Nope. You brought toothpaste, man. Use it."

"Use it yourself," Derek told him. He couldn't decide whether to be offended or not. Sometimes he didn't get the way humans acted about scent and taste. It might just be Stiles being weird too. He brushed his teeth anyway before feeding Stiles a painkiller and leaving. He took the emptied backpacks with him, not wanting to count on finding anything better.

Smoke hung in the streets, obscuring anything at even a short distance. The big deuce-and-a-halfs with their multi-fuel engines that predated most advanced electronics were working their ways up and down the residential streets mostly, but others were stationed at intersections in the commercial districts. It made movement harder, but not impossible. LA was just too sprawling for the soldiers to set up checkpoints within sight of each other, even without the smoke.

He watched from a block away as a squad of Guardsmen chivvied people out of a school where a generator had been set up to operate a kitchen for everyone. The soldiers were asking each person a set of the same questions geared toward finding out if anyone had had contact with someone from outside Los Angeles in the last week, was sick, or acting abnormally.

Everyone answered in the negative and they were directed to one of the evacuation points and promised transport from there.

Derek trailed after the squad of Guardsmen, staying out of sight and using his hearing more than his sight. He'd managed to pick up a pack full of food stuffs, and found heavy jeans, work shirts, socks, flashlights, a LED battery lantern, and jerky at a feed and ranch supply. He filled his third pack with the jerky and stuffed candy bars in on top. He should have headed back to the Canyon Inn, but something told him he needed to know more about what was happening and the National Guard seemed to be operating on information no one else had.

His caution proved merited soon enough.

The squad he was following began moving through a residential neighborhood, knocking on doors, asking their rote questions and then directing the residents to pack only what they could carry and head for the evacuation point. They were in a working class neighborhood, two bedroom houses with matchbook lawns, straggly trees and struggling flower patches and attached garages used mostly for storage, everything dry and yellowing without water to irrigate.

The first four houses followed the same pattern. A family from the first one had already begun their trek away, the oldest woman locking the front door behind her in a combination of hope and habit, Derek supposed. The bolt of melancholy seeing that sent through him distracted him from the soldiers enough he missed the first questions they were asking a slim woman at a house with a dark green door.

The sudden wash of adrenaline-spiked fear scent snapped Derek's attention back. Sweat crawled down his back and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose. He fought back a growl.

" – my husband's been sick, I'm not sure he can walk that far."

"Sick with what?" the lieutenant leading the squad demanded. He took a step back and raised his weapon. The men with him followed his action.

The woman clutched at the door jamb and stuttered. "A cold or, or, flu. He's just tired and achy. Running a fever. He's lying down."

"Has he been anywhere outside the city or in contact with anyone from outside Los Angeles?"

Fear made the woman stutter. "N-n-no... "

"Ma'am, where does your husband work?"

"He-he d-drives a d-delivery t-truck."

"Ma'am, has he been outside the Los Angeles area in the last week?" the lieutenant questioned.

Derek crouched lower and changed his vantage point to where he could see all the soldiers as well as the woman and the doorway at an angle behind her. He could hear someone large, likely a man, moving inside the house: heavy, jerky movements. A visceral sense of danger pushed him close to the shift. He slid the packs off his shoulders and settled them silently on ground next to him; he wanted to be able to move without being slowed down. He let his heartbeat speed slightly and claws form at the tips of his fingers. A glaze of red tinted his vision, obscuring the sepia taint hanging in the air.

The lieutenant kept his voice low and spoke in aside to the sergeant beside him. "Get on the radio. We may have an incident."

"I'll try, sir, but you know they're effed half the time since the Crash."

"Then send a runner for one of the trucks. – Ma'am, if you'd just answer my question." The lieutenant's voice had gone hard, but there was a vibrato of fear beneath his words.

The sergeant backed away from the house, leaving the yard to stand on the curb. He kept oriented to the house while he fumbled with the radio he carried.

"Ma'am – "

"James was in Pleasanton, okay? He took a bicycle, he left money for it! And he biked back here, he just got home yesterday, he's tired – "

Everything escalated from there.

"Shit, that's damn close to Livermore," one of the soldiers muttered and hefted his weapon higher.

"Ma'am, I have to ask you to step back inside and stay inside until a medical team can check – "

"What's going on – "

"Ma'am, step back inside now – " The lieutenant sounded stressed but still in control. The soldier next to him tried to emphasize the order by waving the muzzle of his assault rifle at her.

The other occupant of the house moved forward, a shadow looming behind the woman in the doorway. The faint, sour scent that had been prickling at Derek's awareness intensified, something sicker than the unwashed and sweaty body odor he'd already become accustomed to.

"Huh, you-you huh don't wave unh-no guns at my, my, my, huh, Darlene!" the man slurred loudly. He pushed Darlene aside and she fell inside the house as he lurched forward, reaching for the rifle. His hand closed on the rifle barrel; he pulled it toward him, muttering, "Fuckers huh goddamn huh show bastards – " He kept yanking at the rifle and instead of trying to pull him off, the lieutenant and the rest of the solders scrambled back away from him.

" – kill you – huh huh huh – " Derek could pick out the semi-coherent words through the breathless panting. The cloying smell of blood itched at his nose. Like the National Guardsmen, he wanted to get away, animal instinct insisting the man was sick and anything sick should be avoided. The human part of him counseled staying still and learning as much as he could before he ran.

The rattling report of an assault rifle being fired on full auto filled the quiet residential street, echoing off the pavement and the walls of the houses, and making Derek flinch in pain from the noise.

The sick man fell backward to lie supine halfway through the open doorway as Darlene began screaming. Blood spattered over the door and her face and onto the hands and face of the soldier that had shot him.

"Shit, shit, shit," the lieutenant chanted under his breath. "Pearson, god damn it."

Pearson turned toward his squad mates, who all stared at him in horror. "You got blood on your face, man," one of them told him. "Was he bleeding – "

All of them began talking over each other so their words overlapped. "Who the fuck can tell after Pearson shot him up – "

"They said to look for bruises and at the fingernails and eyes. I can't tell, though, everybody looks bad."

"It's on her too – "

"Sorry, Pearson," the lieutenant said. The other soldiers fell silent. They shuffled further away from Pearson.

Pearson's eyes widened in the mask of blood. He fumbled to reload his rifle, releasing the empty clip, but couldn't respond fast enough. The lieutenant fire a single shot into his chest. The empty clip clattered to the ground. Pearson dropped next to the man he'd killed.

The lieutenant made a half step turn and fired again, killing Darlene.

"Everyone stay back," the lieutenant ordered his other men. "Kelso. We need a burn team." He glanced down the street where the first family the Guardsmen had talked to were standing frozen in the street. "We've got no way of knowing who this guy was in contact with since he got here. Sonovabitch. Get those people back in that house and everyone else stays inside. We need to quarantine the entire neighborhood until we can torch it."

"You know they're gonna quarantine us too, LT, if we report this. Can't we just burn them all?"

Derek didn't wait for the answer. He scooped up the packs and backtracked away from the murder – or was it an execution? – scene at a fast walk, keeping out of sight lines while he tried to make sense of what he'd witnessed.

He needed to tell Stiles what he'd seen. They could figure it out together, though Derek had his suspicions. Right or wrong, they'd both be better off out of LA as soon as possible. He'd load what he'd found as well as everything from the day before into the Monte Carlo and they would move out as soon as night fell. Stiles could rest in the back seat while Derek drove.

They'd stick to the country roads and work up their way up the valley avoiding the main arteries. And stay far away from the Bay Area.

~*~

Stiles found a radio signal and a looping announcement that expanded on the instructions the National Guard kept repeating over their loudspeakers. Derek rolled the Monte Carlo through the commuter suburbs, weaving between stalled vehicles and they both listened to the spotty news. The announcer gave out assurances that the Crash had been a natural phenomenon that wouldn't repeat and measures were being taken to recover from the devastation. Stiles punctuated that with a signature skeptical pfft between pursed lips.

Derek didn't bother commenting, preferring to concentrate on driving. The trunk was heavy with cans of gas and bottles of water and they'd stuffed the backseat with stolen blankets, pillows and towels from the hotel, along with everything else he'd scavenged. The weight made the car ride low on its shocks and scrape the undercarriage against pavement on sharp dips.

Stiles kept spinning through the radio dial until he found a wavering pirate station talking about a virus, the Bleed, the thing the National Guardsmen had been trying to quarantine.

It began with aching joints, nausea and fever, then spontaneous bruising, petechiae, nose bleeds and blood under the finger and toe nails. Terminal symptoms were delirium, aggression, red sclera, and hemorrhaging. Reports of pets and farm animals contracting it were unsubstantiated.

The infected could be asymptomatic for up to a week.

They were already burning the dead in the Bay Area.

"Gotta cut the signal now," the weary voice stated, "move on out before I get shut down, but I'll be back with more news tomorrow, same time, same frequency, with all the news they don't want you to know. Pirate Pete, signing off."

Derek told Stiles what he'd seen. Stiles looked better, but his face turned grim as soon as Derek described the killing.

"Livermore," Stiles muttered once they were on the road, from where he'd ensconced himself on the passenger's side. "Two things, then, as I see it."

"How's that?" Derek asked. He steered around a yellow plastic tricycle lying in the middle of a street. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, smoke hung black over Los Angeles, not all of it from the wildfires. People back there were burning in their houses and only some of them would really be infected. His imagination provided him with the phantom reek of flesh burning. Thinking about it made him nauseous, so he refused to dwell any longer, and kept his eyes on the road ahead.

"Well, my first thought is Lawrence Livermore – the labs," Stiles said. "I mean, sure it's mostly associated with nuclear research shit, but they have Sequioa there, nanobiotechnology, physics, chemistry, and who knows what else – "

"Sequoia?" Derek didn't think Stiles was talking about some transplanted redwood. He didn't risk looking at him. The dusk light lingering with sundown strained even werewolf eyes. Full dark would be easier, even with the moon just beginning to wax toward full again. He didn't intend to risk using the headlights, since his vision was meant for the night.

"Yeah, I should have known you wouldn't know about that, it's a supercomputer, 16.32 petaflops, and my whole point was who knows what else the government had them poking around. It's not that big a jump from nuclear weapons R&D to bioweapon R&D." Stiles gusted out a dramatic sigh. The painkillers made him a little sleepy, his eyelids drooping, but didn't slow down his mouth. Derek was mostly grateful – quiet Stiles made him worry even if he did appreciate silence.

Silence wasn't going to be as precious as it used to be.

"Aren't there treaties forbidding that kind of thing?"

"Yeah," Stiles drawled, extra sarcasm stretching it into two syllables, "sure." He sank down in the seat and turned his face toward Derek. "Come on, dude, don't tell me you think anyone was doing anything but keeping it secret because of those treaties. Besides, all anyone had to say is they were researching defenses against someone else using them."

"You think this thing came from there."

Stiles shrugged and winced. His hand moved unconsciously to his side, telling Derek it still hurt. He had never been able to accept how slow humans, especially humans in his pack, healed, how long they hurt; he always wanted to make it better, but there was almost nothing he could do if Stiles didn't want the Bite. "Maybe, maybe not. If this were a zombie movie, patient zero could have flown from anywhere in the world. Remember that movie, Contagion? It could have gone like that, except there's the Crash instead, so no planes, but I was just saying it could have nothing to do with Lawrence Livermore, that could just be some place this thing's showed up at. Like LA."

Stiles glanced at Derek.

"You never saw that movie, did you?"

"I hate movie theaters. They stink."

"You hate the world," Stiles sniped back, then fell silent, looking out at a world that had abruptly become too still, too empty, too dark and too dangerous. "This blows."

Derek didn't add anything, just kept the car at a steady sixty miles an hour, despite wanting to go faster. They needed to conserve gas and sixty allowed him enough time to respond to anything ahead. "Put your seat belt on."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue and protest, but obviously realized how pointless that would be. His seat belt had saved him Baja. Derek had felt like he couldn't breathe before he let rage push him into shifting into full wolf form when he saw the Jeep go off that highway. Sometimes he felt like the burned ruin of the Hale house, like all it would take would be losing one more support and he'd collapse. Losing Stiles would be it. He had never said that to Stiles, though he knew he should. There had just been no good moment since the Crash. Stiles saved him trying now by pulling the seat belt into place and fastening it.

"You said the National Guard guys were asking the same set of questions?" Stiles asked eventually.

"Yeah."

"So, someone knows something. The military or someone is trying to take care of it."

"That really helps." Derek didn't filter the sarcasm from his voice.

"No, it does. Sort of." Stiles sat forward a little. "They didn't flip until the guy kind of attacked, right? And then the officer shot his own guy and the lady. So, okay, yeah, the infected guy's wife was in the house with him and probably got whatever this was too, but the soldier – "

"Had infected blood on him."

"What part of him?"

Derek scowled. "Hands, uniform. Face."

"So, they weren't wearing hazmat suits or even face masks and gloves," Stiles said. "They weren't worrying about getting infected breathing the same air. It could be more like Ebola or HIV, you know, it needs to be spread by body fluids and get into like an open cut or mucus membranes. Seriously, your face is like open door central for getting infected with stuff, with your mouth and nose and eyes."

Derek decided he'd find big sunglasses or goggles, some kind of eye protection, for Stiles and they'd both wrap bandanas over their faces. He didn't worry too much for himself, but Stiles was already weak from the stab wound. He'd taken gloves from the veterinary clinic. They'd use those if necessary, but he'd scrounge rubber kitchen gloves too.

The list of things they needed kept getting longer, while the odds of finding them were narrowing. If this disease jumped to other animals, though, they were well and truly screwed.

"You know what?" Stiles asked.

It startled Derek out of his bleak reflections. He shrugged. "No."

"No, you don't know, or no, just no, to anything I'm going to say?"

"Both."

"Grumpy."

Derek didn't roll his eyes or sigh. Stiles made him do that for two years and Derek had grown inured. He did give in and ask, "What?"

"Well, actually, I need to pee, so could you stop some place, and secondly, why are you driving on county roads instead of I5 or at least 99?"

Derek began looking for a pull off. "Because both of those will still be blocked with dead cars and wrecks and everyone else trying to get out of the cities will be trying to use them." He spotted a wide stretch of between the pavement and a ditch, flat enough to even change a tire, and steered over. Gravel crackled under the tires. Foot on the brake, he looked over at Stiles, making out not much more than a pale blur and dark eyes, a glistening reflection off the sclera of those eyes. After a second of consideration, he put the car in park, but left it running.

"I don't need a nurse maid to take a piss," Stiles complained as Derek got out first. Stiles pushed his door open with his foot, leaving a footprint on the pristine white leather, rather than push with his arm. He bit it back, but a small groan escaped him as he levered himself out, and Derek caught it.

The nearest house looked to be about a quarter of a mile down the road. No lights, not even the flicker of a candle from behind a curtain. Derek stretched and listened for any threat close enough to be a real danger. He tuned out as Stiles unzipped and let go.

"Don't watch."

"I'm not into watersports," Derek gibed.

"I'm relieved," Stiles declared with a happy sigh as he zipped back up. "Literally and mentally. The whole marking your territory thing can be taken way, way too far."

"Stiles... Get back in the car."

"Naw, I thought I'd stay out here, make sure you don't piss on the tires." That tone of voice always went with a shit-eating grin.

"I'm not pissing while you watch," Derek snapped.

"What, you're pee shy? You watched me."

Derek growled low in the back of his throat. "No I didn't. If you're staying out, keep a look out, don't – "

"Ogle. Don't worry, it's too dark," Stiles admitted, ignoring the threat in Derek's non-verbal response.

Derek stalked around the car out of habit, though his senses told him no one except Stiles was anywhere near to be scandalized. A memory of Laura's annoyance with the entire male gender quirked his mouth up. Given a chance, she'd shift into wolf form to find a place to go. She'd have bitch-slapped Stiles for the dog jokes after the third one too – she'd had a temper Derek remembered as well as her good side.

Thinking of Laura reminded him she'd died too far away for him to even sense through their pack bond, just the way his pack was out of reach now.

He got back into the car and waited while Stiles did so too, a hum of impatience vibrating under his skin. They needed to keep moving. He suddenly felt angry, without any obvious trigger, and knew he was radiating it. The only thing Derek could do when he felt like this was bite back any words, because they were always wrong, always made things worse. The way he always made things worse, so that everything good around him ended up destroyed. He'd finally got his shit together and become a decent alpha to the pack, become a power dangerous enough most supernatural threats gave them a pass, so the entire world had to crash to a bleeding halt instead. He'd been an idiot to think he'd could chance being with someone, everyone around him always got hurt. Stiles had been forced to kill people and been stabbed, all thanks to Derek screwing up and failing him. His pack was gone, because Derek hadn't been there, because he'd gone after Stiles, put Stiles ahead of his responsibilities to them. He wanted to howl and tear something apart and all he could do was swallow it all down and try not to spew the poison inside back at Stiles.

"I'd ask you if I pissed you off somehow... but that would be too easy and too obvious," Stiles said as Derek peeled the car out, throwing up gravel behind them the instant Stiles' door clunked closed. Stiles fastened his seat belt without prompting this time. He scrunched down in his seat, gave up on that and reached into the back, pulling a stolen pillow and the duvet up front, ending up in a blanket burrito, the pillow between the window glass and his temple. Even wrapped like a mummy, his body language conveyed his ire. "Wake me when you aren't being an asshole."

Derek waited for it.

"Or when it's my turn to drive, because you may never stop being an asshole."

~*~

Dawn crested as Derek kept the car rolling through the San Joaquin valley, sticking to the nearly empty farm roads that stretched ruler straight between planted fields. The gray light concealed how the crops were withering under the weight of drought and neglect. He let Stiles sleep until he woke naturally and the anger that had been plaguing him faded into weariness. When Stiles did thrash himself awake, neither of them mentioned the tension that had spiked between them.

"Do you need another pain killer?" Derek asked as a quiet peace offering.

Stiles sighed theatrically. "No." He shuffled around on the seat, making himself comfortable, sighed again and muttered, "It's okay to get weirded out sometimes. I do all the time." By which Derek knew he'd been forgiven for his bitch fit.

Stiles found another amateur radio broadcast broadcasting a signal that faded in and out and they listened silently. Between talking about the Bleed and playing religious hymns, a preacher went on and on about the end of days. Stiles wiggled across the bench seat and leaned against Derek's side, head on his shoulder.

" … the unnatural are abominations before the eyes of the Lord and will not be tolerated – "

Stiles reached forward and spun the radio dial away, filling the car with a blast of static. "Well, I guess we know where we stand. This dude's got it in for gays and pretty much every flavor of sex. So we're both unnatural and I figure between me using magic and your werewolfiness, we're both abominations in his book … "

"You're not," Derek snapped.

"Damn straight," Stiles agreed, but he slid away from Derek and stared out the window rather than looking at Derek. "You never did anything with a guy before," he muttered eventually, "did you?"

"So?"

"No, uh, second thoughts?"

"Shit," Derek mumbled under his breath, too low for Stiles to hear. Whatever second thoughts he had had nothing to do with being gay, but he was crap at talking, so he'd have to show Stiles.

Derek tightened his hands on the steering wheel, then turned right onto a dirt farm road, keeping the speed down so they didn't throw up a rooster tail of dust, before wheeling gently into the shade of a massive, open-sided structure sheltering walls of baled hay, a collection of harvesters, and a lowboy trailer with one flat tire. The car rolled into the cool corridor between stacks of hay and the scent of sweet alfalfa tickled his nose as soon as he parked.

No one could see them from the road, there was nothing else in sight, and the farm road continued on the other side of the barn all the way to the next, parallel county road. It was as good a place to catch some sleep as they'd find. The gas gauge had ticked below a quarter of a tank too – Derek wanted to refill it before they passed the next town. He'd start looking for vehicles to siphon from after that too.

He had, however, something else he wanted to do first.

The seat belt clicked open and then the seat slid back. The automatic transmission meant no stick to get in the way as Derek pushed Stiles into the position he wanted and went to his knees on the floorboards. Stiles' breath hitched as Derek opened his jeans and pulled them and his underwear down. The concentrated scent of Stiles that that released went to Derek's head and he had to swallow hard.

Derek made himself check with Stiles before he went any further. "Say no now if you're going to." His fingers were resting on Stiles' hipbones, the skin hot and sweat damp and smooth. He'd stop if Stiles told him to, he'd stop any time if Stiles told him to, but he needed Stiles to know how much he did want this now.

"Do I look crazy to you?" Stiles breathed out, his voice gone pitchy and high. Derek looked up through his eyelashes. Stiles looked intent, pupils blown huge and dark, mouth open, wet and pink as the tongue that darted out over his lips. "I'll never want to say no to you."

Looking down, he saw Stiles was already filling out. His hips shifted minutely under Derek's fingers.

Derek bent and took the tip in his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked, and Stiles groaned so loud that Derek peered up to make sure he hadn't hurt him somehow.

Stiles had an expression that was almost the one which he'd saved only for Scott and his father before, all affection and love and exasperation, deep and true emotion, but filled with heat and desire too. Derek suspected Stiles had never looked at anyone like that before. It made him want to squirm, to hide his eyes, because it was everything he'd wanted and needed from Stiles for so long. He swallowed instead and took Stiles as deep as he could, almost choking, and Stiles made a sound like it had been punched out of him and then muttered, "God, God, you look, Derek, Jesus, you're perfect, you're so good, you, you're – you're – "

All Derek could smell, all he could hear and feel and taste was Stiles. Stiles' hands holding his head, fingers tangled in Derek's hair, petting him, tracing the edges of his ears so Derek shivered at the sensation and moaned around Stiles' cock. Stiles' pre-come slick on his tongue. Stiles' voice in his ears, nearly chanting, interspersed with little, shuddering whimpers that went to Derek's cock and had him hard and straining against his jeans. Stiles stroked his fingers over Derek's temples, along his jawline, around his lips where they stretched around him, and down over his throat to press the pad of one thumb over Derek's Adam’s apple as he swallowed, making Stiles' shout.

Stiles kept talking, a stream of consciousness rant of filth and praise that had Derek reaching between his own legs to palm himself, then opening his jeans and pushing one hand inside to work himself while he brought Stiles to the edge.

"Derek – "

He scraped blunt teeth delicately along the underside of Stiles' cock, drawing back, then took him as deep as he could once more.

Stiles jerked. His hand tightened around Derek's throat and the other grabbed onto Derek's shoulder as he came. He did it silently, his lungs locked up, eyes squeezed tight shut, in three long pulses.

Derek jerked himself desperately and came to the look on Stiles' face, his climax so hard everything dimmed at the edges.

Panting and sweaty, he finally let go of Stiles with a last, gentle lick and straightened his back. His knees hurt where they'd ground into the hump of the transmission. His hand was sticky with his own come and he kept swallowing, chasing the taste of Stiles' in his mouth. It lasted longer than the ache in his jaw.

Stiles ran a caressing hand along Derek's cheek. Derek let his eyes flutter shut and leaned into his palm for a breath. "Derek," Stiles rasped, sounding as utterly wrecked as Derek felt. "Oh. My. God. That was – you're amazing. You have no idea." A huge smile split his face when Derek opened his eyes.

Derek turned his head enough to kiss Stiles' palm, because he never could find the right words.

"Perfect," Stiles said.

His ears were probably turning pink, Derek knew. He ducked his head again and began tucking Stiles back into his underwear one-handed. Stiles batted at his hands dramatically. "Hey, I can get that, I can, I want to do you too – "

Derek's face heated further. "Uh, I already took care of – " His voice sounded hoarse and sex-soaked and not even like himself. He coughed to clear his throat. "You don't need to."

"Well, I want to and next time I get to," Stiles declared, as indignant as if Derek had denied him curly fries and the internet.

Neither of which Derek could offer him any longer, so he guessed he'd have to man up and let Stiles give him a blow job next time.

Stiles squirmed around and then offered Derek a paper napkin from somewhere. Derek used it to wipe his come from his hand. "By the way, who knows when we'll find more napkins," Stiles commented brightly, "so we should conserve them. Next time, I get to blow you. No clean up. I swallow."

Derek leaned his head back and laughed from his belly. "That's your argument?"

"That's my argument," Stiles confirmed.

"Only you," Derek said, unable to repress the affection he felt and knowing Stiles would hear it and not caring, though he'd always tried to hide those feelings before. He'd hidden how he felt because he'd sworn he wouldn't let himself feel again. It had taken years to progress from the first time Derek saw Stiles in the woods and found him annoying to respecting his good qualities to finally trusting him. He didn't even remember when he started wanting Stiles too. After Peter but before the Alpha pack, and he'd fought it, but Stiles had found his way through all of Derek's armor. Derek didn't even mind any longer, no matter how that scared him sometimes.

He wanted close his eyes and nap, but opened the driver's door instead. The gas gauge had been shivering right on the quarter tank mark when he shut the car off.

"Hey, what, I thought – "

"I want to fill the tank first, then I'll sleep."

"Uh, okay. You want me to keep watch?"

"Can you ward around the car?" Derek asked.

Stiles bobbed his head. "I need to stretch my legs anyway."

"Good." He'd sleep better knowing Stiles' wards were keeping them safe. The wards didn't work well in built-up areas where there were very many people, but out in the wilderness or a field or a barn, the wards would protect and alert them before anyone came too close.

"I could take over and drive while you sleep," Stiles offered.

"Safer to wait until dark again," Derek said quietly in the hope that for once Stiles wouldn't argue.

Stiles smiled at him, though, and nodded. Derek popped the trunk to get to the gas cans. He opened the tank cap and started emptying the first can, gas gurgling through the funnel, sharp smelling, almost clean, reassuringly normal, while Stiles ambled down to the other end of the barn, where he crouched and traced the first warding rune in the dirt, just where sun and shadow met, gold glinting in his brown hair as he bent his neck.

~*~

Derek slept through the afternoon, waking around dusk, sweaty and still tired. He agreed when Stiles suggested they stay through the night and sleep again after eating. Stiles needed the rest to recuperate. Derek could push himself harder than he had so far, but it seemed stupid when it wasn't necessary.

Not, the dark voice of experience whispered, when it might be necessary later. Better to rest and sleep while he could. The wolf's instincts agreed.

Something woke Derek in the night. Stiles had moved to the backseat after an argument over cuddling versus the space two grown men required to sleep together. Derek won, if sleeping alone on the front bench seat counted as winning. Stiles seemed to think so; Derek begged to differ. He wanted to sleep with his legs tangled in Stiles', his arm looped around Stiles' waist, the sweat sour scent at the back of Stiles' neck in his nose. He wanted to kiss Stiles' patchy stubbled jaw in the morning and rub his own against Stiles' neck until Stiles' squawked and complained.

What he did not want: to wake up at ass o'clock in the night, his neck kinked and his back possibly broken, to crack his shin against the steering wheel, while wondering what the hell had woken him.

The distance-Dopplered wail of a train whistle sounded, eerily audible in the quiet darkness, far enough away even Derek's ears wouldn't have heard it normally. He identified it and relaxed, then sat up and listened more closely, wondering who and how they had trains running.

Though he couldn't assume more than one train, Derek supposed. He tried to picture the road atlas in his head and trace the black crosshatched train tracks, wondering where the train was coming from. He wondered sleepily if the whistle was automated or if people had been following the tracks on foot, if most people would even realize the whistle was a warning. A decrepit lumber mill still loomed on the far side of Beacon Hills from the Preserve; trains had once hauled car after car of fresh cut lumber from there to Eureka. It had closed in the nineties, the towering stacks of cut logs, bark dark under the sprinklers that kept them damp to avoid fires, all gone, the mill's expanses reduced to empty, weed-choked lots behind miles of chain link fence. The sharp clean scent of cut pine lingered long after the last runnel of sawdust soaked into the ground. Trains still rolled through Beacon Hills after that, but irregularly, never stopping. The old depot had become a restaurant and then a bar and then another restaurant before closing and sitting empty. The new depot had never been finished and stood abandoned for decades before Derek had used it as a pack lair that first terrible year as alpha.

He remembered lying in bed as a boy, listening, only vaguely curious where the trains had been or were going, satisfied to be right where he was. He'd never wanted to leave Beacon Hills, until all he could think of was to get away from the stench of fire and betrayal, but before that, he had been... happy. Laura had been the one with the wanderlust, the dream of going to college in New York, building her own pack. Derek would have been fine being her beta his whole life or so he'd thought until Kate. Until the Worm Moon. Until the fire.

New York had been far enough away from Beacon Hills and somehow Laura had managed to piece him together enough during their six years there that he'd stopped actively wanting to die, but after Peter killed her and he'd killed Peter, he'd spent the next year taking risks and making reckless choices that should have got him killed. That would have seen him dead if it hadn't been for Stiles.

Too restless to sleep again, Derek slid out of the Monte Carlo. He left the keys in the ignition and locked the door, then slipped off his clothes and left them on the hood before shifting into the wolf.

The world flooded through his senses, thousands of times sharper than his senses were when he appeared human. There was so much of it, processing took up much, much more of his mind. It left little room for wallowing in memories and old guilt. He knew if he'd been able to take the wolf form ten years ago, he would have never shifted back. Now he had Stiles and the pack to care for and who cared for him, a better anchor than anger or even his loyalty to Laura had been, and maybe that was why even few alphas could take the shape of their namesakes.

He lifted his muzzle and inhaled everything the night had to tell him, then trotted out of the barn and out into the field, loping easily, tracking a sleepy opossum, water rats and rustling mice and a scrawny house cat far from its home. He circled the fields surrounding the barn and ranged farther, finding the farm house the cat came from and sniffing around the foundations. No dog, no other animals, no one in the house, but he caught the scent trail of humans. They'd left on foot, walking to the road and turning north.

The scent was several days old, only distinguishable because nothing else had obscured it and the days were dry and hot.

Derek returned to the house, a post-Gold Rush Victorian that had seen better days. Mortar crumpled out from between the bricks of the foundation and paint peeled off the warping wood of the front steps. It smelled of the same people, of the decade on decade of those people living and growing old there, their family scent sunk into the old wood. The house had been a home for a long time. Empty, it settled and groaned like it ached, and would collapse in on itself all too soon.

He leaped past the stairs onto the porch and trotted over the worn, loose boards, toe nails clicking against the wood. It took an effort for the human part of Derek to work its way forward enough to read the name on the placard on the door, but once he read it he would remember when he shifted back.

Instinct told him dawn approached. Time to return to his pack mate. Derek jumped off the porch with a yip that terrified the rat he could smell down in the basement.

On his way back, he caught a jackrabbit and carried it back with him as a proud trophy for Stiles.

The absence of another body breathing in the confines of the car bothered Stiles, though there were many reasons Derek could have got out. A trickle of the spark that always lived under his breast bone let him test the wards he'd put up. Nothing had disturbed them. That didn't mean Derek was inside the wards, because Stiles' wards ignored Derek even when he tried to key them solely to himself. The only thing that ever kept Derek away from Stiles was a solid line of mountain ash and that had to be unbroken and reinforced with the sort of brute power magic Stiles tried to avoid.

He succeeded in tangling his legs in his blanket and pushing his pillow onto the floor before fighting his way free and lifting his head far enough to peer over the edge of the door window.

"Gaaaaaa!" Stiles lurched back before his brain computed that he knew who was watching him from the other side of the glass.

Crimson eyes gleamed back at him from a hulking black shadow just outside, close enough Derek could lick the glass and then give him a tongue-lolling, wolfy smirk.

"You – you jerk!" Stiles shouted. "Holy God, I think I lost a year off my life expectancy." Derek had left the keys in the ignition, so he was locked out, and Stiles vindictively decided he wouldn't let him back in for his clothes, until he noticed Derek had left his clothes folded on the hood. "Asshole."

Derek padded around the car and picked up something from in front while Stiles scrambled his way into the front seat, only bumping his head against the roof and pulling on his wound once. He had to gasp through the pain that caused, but it eased away much faster than before. The antibiotics, pain killers and rest he'd had in the last days had made a major difference.

Outside the car, Derek whined and then stood against the door, scratching at the window with one massive paw to get Stiles' attention again. The car rocked under his weight. Stiles had already begun blurting, "I do not need to see – " when he realized Derek had something in his razor-toothed maw. Stiles had to squint to make anything out, because as far as his definition went, it wasn't morning until the freaking sun made it all the way above the horizon, and said sun had not initiated even the first edging peep, but he thought it was something furry and limp.

Possibly bloody.

Stiles yelped and scooted back in disgust. "Dude, did you kill Thumper? Not cool, so not cool… " He unlocked the door and got out anyway, the interior light from car proving that Derek had brought back a very dead rabbit.

His body language, all perked ears and pride, tail high and waving, said, Look, look, look what I brought back for you! Stiles was probably lucky Derek hadn't dragged back an entire cow, but…

"I'm not eating that," Stiles told him. For one thing, it was raw. "I'm not Frodo! Or Sam! There will be no stew making. And you didn't bring back any po-tay-toes … " Stiles drifted to the same places Samwise's did. He wanted curly fries.

Derek backed away, with his ears pinned back and his tail drooping. Stiles refused to be sorry or charmed and crossed his arms over his chest, shivering a little in the pre-dawn chill. "No. Bad werewolf."

Derek eyed him, then straightened and padded away, his body radiating a clear fuck you in Stiles' direction. He dropped to the dirt, pinned the carcass to the ground with one paw and bit into it hungrily. The bones crushed under the pressure from his jaws with a squelching crackle that sent a shiver of disgust and sensible fear up Stiles' spine.

"Don't think I'm kissing that mouth again until you've brushed and gargled, either," Stiles declaimed, unwilling to let Derek have the last word or crunch in any argument between them. He muttered under his breath, knowing Derek would still hear him, "You just ruined BJs for me forever." Watching Derek eat in wolf form gave new meaning to 'watch the teeth'.

Derek lifted his head, one sad floppy ear dangling from his mouth, and gave Stiles a flat-eyed stare that said any kissing or other making out would not be happening any time soon.

Stiles stomach growled and he made a face at the prospect of eating more sardines. Especially the nasty ones packed in tomato sauce, because he had strong opinions on herring and what should and should not go with it, that being saltine crackers and nothing else. He wasn't sure he could stomach them again anyway, thinking about how they had all the little bones still inside them.

That would sort of make him a hypocrite too, eating whole fish when he objected to Derek chowing down on Bugs Bunny.

He settled for a bag of gummy bears, seated in the Monte Carlo with his legs hanging out, and listening to the birds waking up outside. He fished out a stolen hotel wash cloth, half a piece of soap and a bottle of water for when Derek finished and shifted back.

Pale fingers of sunlight broke through the stacks of hay. Particles hung in them, bright and golden as fairy dust. Derek's midnight fur gleamed a deep red-ebony before marble pale, smooth skin replaced it. The muscles under that skin rippled as he straightened up. The black triskele tattooed between Derek's shoulder blades looked stark and sharp as fresh ink.

Maybe it was fresh ink. Maybe the wolfsbane that must have been mixed with it to make the tattoo take on a werewolf kept it from ever really healing.

What if it hurt all the time?

It would have been just like Derek to do something that would never, ever stop hurting him as a reminder to never forgive himself.

The question of whether the tattoo still hurt preoccupied Stiles to the point he almost didn't stop to appreciate what Derek looked like as he cleaned himself up, wiping blood out of the dark stubble that was more a scruffy beard at this point. The blood didn't bother Derek, but then, Derek never tried to hide that he was pure predator; he'd never apologized or been sorry he was a wolf.

And Derek was. Derek was a wolf who could look like a man, not like Scott and the other bitten werewolves, who were all humans who sometimes looked like wolves… werewolves anyway.

Derek had never been human.

Stiles watched Derek's throat work as he took a swallow of water from the bottle. A trickle escaped the corner of his mouth and slid down Derek's throat to his collar bone in a glistening silver trail. He stood naked and unashamed, silhouetted against the brightness at the other end of the barn and framed in shadow. He poured the rest of the water over his hair and then full-body shook. Water sprayed in a diamond bright mist around him.

Stiles's throat went dry. Derek wasn't human and Stiles was fine with that. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking, and scooted forward to the edge of the seat, hoping to create a little more room in his pants. Derek hadn't even looked at him and Stiles felt turned on, but who wouldn't be? Derek was objectively beautiful, his broad shoulders and lean waist and dense muscle fitted to some Golden Mean of proportion and perfection in a male body. Isaac was taller than Derek, Boyd was taller and built like freight train, and even Stiles had caught up that last inch between his height and Derek's the last year of high school, but he made them all look insubstantial by comparison, as if being alpha or just his intense personality added mass that could be sensed.

His stomach gurgled and turned queasy when he stuffed another handful of candy in his mouth. He wasn't fine with being hungry.

"I want breakfast," Stiles announced.

"I brought you breakfast," Derek replied after he'd pulled his jeans on. He shoved his feet in his shoes and walked over to stand between Stiles' sprawled legs. Stiles eyed the happy trail of dark hair that disappeared under the low waistband of Derek's pants. "You didn't want it."

Stiles contorted his face at the idea of eating uncooked bunny. He didn't even want rabbit fricassee. He was totally a supermarket predator. He liked to think all meat was really grown in magic vats somewhere and appeared wrapped in plastic and Styrofoam without any bloody butchering and death involved. He'd gone through most of his life in that happy state of denial and wasn't ready to abandon it until it was absolutely necessary.

The light caught in Derek's pale eyes, inky black lashes making them look even lighter, sage green and a center starburst of amber, flicked with gray and blue that fascinated Stiles every time.

He hooked his fingers under Derek's waistband, letting his knuckles press against Derek's navel and grinning when Derek sucked in his breath, abs flexing unconsciously.

"I want pancakes."

"Do I look like a short order cook?"

Stiles rubbed the back of his fingers along Derek's happy trail. "No," he admitted. He looked up at Derek through his eyelashes. Derek's eyes looked darker, his pupils taking up more of the iris. Stiles let himself look down again. God, Derek was cut, muscles taut under baby fine, unscarred skin.

"Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Is it working?" He wasn't, he just wanted to touch, wanted Derek to know that nothing he'd seen meant he didn't.

"Better than it should." Derek sounded hoarse and rocked forward restlessly, shoes scuffing the dirt, all leashed power held back by determination. Derek always had superb control of anything physical. Stiles ran his free hand up one denim-clad thigh, thinking of all the ways he wanted to take his time and work Derek right to brink and beyond. Derek breathed out harshly and stepped back, reluctance visible in his body language and the way he bit his lip. "Let's go."

"What!?"

What the hell? Stiles had thought he was going to reciprocate the blow job from the day before. Now Derek was stalking to the driver's side of the car.

Stiles settled back in his seat and sulked. "Do you enjoy blue balls or something?"

"No," Derek said through gritted teeth. He started the Monte Carlo and backed out. "But you're still recovering, so you need more to eat. Sex can wait."

Stiles put his seat belt on then pushed his lip out in a pout. "Yeah, yeah, that's what everyone told me all through high school. It sucked then and it sucks now, and by the way, I was ready to suck too."

Derek pushed his foot down on the gas and they fishtailed out onto the road in a cloud of dust.

"Discreet, Lon Chaney, really discreet," Stiles remarked.

Derek side-eyed him and pushed the Monte Carlo up to eighty. Stiles pulled the seat belt tight, reminded of how insanely fast Derek liked to drive his Camaro. They passed one intersection and then another and then Derek turned the car into a long driveway leading to a lonely house and barn surrounded by cotton fields.

"What if someone's here?"

Derek slowed the car and let it roll to a stop in the shade of a single orange tree.

"I scouted it."

The engine died with a turn of the key and the quiet was back, the quiet that wormed under Stiles' skin and left him tense and waiting for something to attack. He glanced at Derek, wondering if it got to him or if it was an amazing relief after a life of being bombarded by noise pollution. Derek stared through the windshield. His face gave little away until he rolled his shoulders before turning toward Stiles. "The people living here were old. There were two of them. They left on foot days ago."

"You don't think they'll be back?"

Derek tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally, he answered, "I think they were going to turn back they already would be here."

Stiles decided he didn't want to ask any more questions when he could hear the real answers in the spaces between what Derek did say. "Okay."

Derek forced the back door with a shoulder push and werewolf strength. Stiles hooked the creaky screen door behind them out of habit. Breaking and entering, a not so new crime on his rap sheet if he'd had one, Stiles noted. Sometimes he wondered how he and the others hadn't been convicted of at least some of the crimes they'd committed in the last four years. With the exception of Derek's one arrest thanks to Stiles and Scott and the restraining order Jackson's parents had had taken out against Stiles after the whole kidnapping and keeping him in a police transport thing, they'd been incredibly lucky. No one in the pack had ever been convicted of anything.

It still felt wrong to walk into a stranger's house the way they were. At the same time, the place had an abandoned feel. He doubted the people it belonged to would ever know someone had been there after them. The dark rooms, with only light coming through the edges of the pulled curtains, added to the effect.

The screened in porch opened into a long room that served as laundry, a washer and dryer that looked like they dated from the nineteen-fifties sitting against one wall. Stiles gaped when he realized a hand pump proved water for the deep, cast iron sinks next to them.

"Wow," he blurted and then pointed, "Dude, you think it works?"

Derek eyed the pump before taking the long handle in one hand a lifting it. The pipes groaned. He worked the pump until abruptly, water gushed into the sink. Rust discolored the stream briefly, then the water cleared and ran clean.

Stiles did a little jig. "That is awesome!" The way Derek's biceps looked as he pumped the water had been awesome too.

The water stopped and Stiles realized he was staring, because when he raised his gaze to Derek's face, a smile tipped up the corner of Derek's mouth. Derek only said, "It'll work easier next time, now it's been primed."

Stiles' stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly.

They padded into the kitchen, which had been modernized in places, but the old wiring was still on the outside of the walls, the refrigerator was that terrible, pebble textured avocado green from the seventies, and there was a wood stove.

Two months ago, Stiles would not have had a clue how to fire that monster up. He grinned, because after living with Consuelo, he not only knew how to get a fire going in a wood stove, that baby was going to cook up some food that would blow Derek's mind. . As far Consuelo had been concerned, teaching Stiles had meant that he was her kitchen slave. She'd made him cook for her every day.

"All right," he said and cracked his knuckles. "I've got this."

"You're sure?" Derek looked deeply skeptical, but Stiles was serious. He'd handle the stove and that would keep Derek from having to deal with lighting anything on fire. He hadn't forgotten how badly the burned pack house had affected Derek. Derek always made himself do what had to be done, but he didn't have to do this.

"I am the king of cooking on wood stoves. At least between the two of us, I am. Now, find me stuff to cook," Stiles declared.

Derek opened doors until he found the pantry. Stiles opened the stove, checking it was in working order and not just sitting there like a giant piece of floor art. "Hey," he called, "did you see any firewood around here?"

"Outside the door there," Derek said, pointing to the other end of the kitchen.

"Got it."

By the time Stiles had the stove lit and heating, Derek had found ingredients for a meal, including the pancakes Stiles wanted, though made from box mix and powdered milk. There were no eggs or anything fresh, but Derek brought out three dusty cans of Spam and a jar of strawberry jam. After turning up his nose at the rabbit, Stiles knew better than to comment on the less than healthy aspects of the Spam. Exploring the kitchen also provided a heavy cast iron pan, cured black and better than Teflon. Once it was sizzling hot, Stiles started making pancakes on it.

Derek surprised him by crowding close behind Stiles and hooking his chin over Stiles' shoulder as he flipped a pancake. His hands came to rest on Stiles' hips. "You really do know how to cook on that thing."

"You doubted me?" Stiles tried to place his hand over his heart in mock sorrow and managed to slap himself with the spatula he'd forgotten he still held. He scowled at the spatula and then at Derek. "You could have stopped me from doing that."

The smug look Derek gave him was familiar. "You're such a jerk."

Derek plucked the spatula from Stiles' fingers and neatly flipped the latest pancake onto a plate.

"Oh, ho, if you're that good at it, you can finish the rest of the batter while I feast on my delicious, hot, wonderful pancakes," Stiles declared. He reached for the plate with the pancakes and snagged several, hissing when his fingertips overheated. Derek huffed out a breath against his neck and caught the pancakes before they hit the floor. He placed them on another plate without even wincing.

"Don't forget the Spam," Derek said and deftly poured batter onto the center of the pan while Stiles blew on his fingertips.

"Flip it when the bubbles come through," Stiles told him.

"I've got it. Eat before your stomach crawls out on its own and – "

"Ugh. Like something from a horror movie or, ooops, there's this Theodore Sturgeon story – "

Derek interrupted him, "Please don't tell me it." He paused. "Crap. I remember that one."

"You read Sturgeon." Stiles stopped everything and stared at Derek, taking in the black and gray Metallica t-shirt stretched over his broad should shoulders and chest, the beard that couldn't blur the sharpness of his jawline, the way his black hair, though a little greasy now, was normally so silky that without gel it clung to his head and had a wave. He was as guilty as anyone else of missing that there was a person inside the spectacular packaging, a quirky bastard with a dark, dry sense of humor and penchant for reading books and surprising Stiles with the odd things he knew. But that guy, the one who read classic science fiction, that guy was even sexier than the growling creature of the night male model Stiles had once pegged Derek as. The guy that was both? He made Stiles toes curl. "Dude. Duuuuude. If I didn't love you already, I would fall in love with you for that."

Derek tensed visibly.

Shit, Stiles thought weakly, maybe he shouldn't have come out with it like that. Maybe he shouldn't have said it at all. Derek was spooky as any abused animal and the word love coming from a human's mouth had meant nothing but pain and loss for him before.

Derek flipped the pancake, perfectly golden brown, out of the pan and set the spatula down. His shoulders hunched slightly and he looked like he wanted to brace himself against the stove, but couldn't because it was too hot.

Stiles could have said Derek didn't need to say it back or feel the same, but he had learned some tact, and that sometimes silence, especially around Derek, worked best.

Derek plucked the plate in Stiles' hand away and crowded close enough Stiles could feel the swift beat of his heart through his chest. Before he could think of anything to say, Derek had his arms around Stiles. He tipped his head and their foreheads pressed together. Derek's breath heated Stiles' lips and Stiles gulped hard.

"Stiles."

"Yeah?" So his voice sounded a little higher and breathier than normal. A shudder, half terror and half arousal, ran down his spine and Derek's hands seemed to chase after it, smoothing down Stiles' back in a soothing movement.

They'd already kissed, back in Baja, under the borealis. Stiles knew to angle his head just enough their noses didn't collide. Knew Derek's breath would be sweet because he'd brushed his teeth and he found out now his lips tasted of the strawberry jam. Blunt human teeth caught at his lower lip and tugged, no more than that, when Stiles licked at Derek's mouth. The second kiss turned fierce, their teeth clicked and Stiles bit back, harder than Derek did. He laughed a little, low and turned on, when Derek drew back, but Derek had gone tense as one of Allison's bow-strings.

"I do not love you when you call me dude," Derek said. If he held onto Stiles any harder, Stiles would start worrying about his ribs. Werewolves could really give rib cracking hugs, though what Stiles really had to watch out for are the we-almost-died-again hugs that succeeded in breaking already cracked ribs... and his brain was officially trying to run in five different directions at the same time, something it still did once in a while, though he had mostly aged out of the ADHD and hadn't had an Adderall script for two years.

Derek closed his eyes and whispered, "I do, though. I do."

"Do… ?"

Every wandering thought was dismissed and Stiles predator-focused on Derek and Derek's words.

"That thing you said." Derek's eyes stayed closed, like it was barely possible to force the words out, but not looking made it fractionally easier. He tended to speak softly, but his voice didn't usually crack into nothingness. The sound of him swallowing once he'd spoken seemed louder than his voice had been.

"Oooooh."

Stiles swallowed too, joy and a sympathetic ache blooming inside him. He couldn't say how hard it had been for Derek to say that much, but he knew it had been, and he always ached when he thought how much damage Derek had endured. He loved the Derek he knew now, the man Derek had become, the alpha and the wolf, but he'd always ache for the kid Kate Argent had done her best to destroy.

"I just can't say it."

"That's okay," Stiles said and it was. It was more than okay. He pecked a kiss to the thin, straight line of Derek's unhappy mouth. "I'm smart. I can infer and deduce. Tell me what it isn't and I can tell you what it is." He kissed Derek again and got his hands down far enough to suggestively squeeze Derek's ass through his jeans. "Though I prefer to seduce."

A log in the stove crackled and spit loudly and Derek jolted under Stiles' hands. The hands on his back curled into fists.

"Later, though," Stiles said as a distraction. "Not here, though, that would feel too weird. I know, why's cooking in here okay, but sex isn't, but it just isn't, it's like if someone burglarized my house, them eating the food could be because they're just that hungry, but if they had sex there, that would just be freaky. So, uh, food now, and then we'll hit the road, and I swear there's car sex in your very near future. Okay?"

Derek let him go and went back to the stove. Stiles made himself retrieve his plate and the Spam and a jar of jam and made pancake roll-ups that oozed and dripped and made Derek watch him with a sort of fascinated nausea as he ate.

"Mmmm," Stiles moaned happily and stuffed the roll-up deeper in his mouth. "Meat and sweet."

"That's not as hot as you think it is," Derek said.

"Whatever, dude, you're the one who is burning the food cause you can't look away."

The blackened, rigid pancake went into the garbage. "It's like a train wreck."

"That's your life. Hah. Go ahead, keep telling yourself that, but you know you want this."

"I'm re-evaluating my life."

Stiles bobbed his head and spoke with a mouth full of half-chewed pancake. He wiggled his entire body as lasciviously as he could and did a Vanna White hand gesture to himself. "I know, you're wondering why you haven't been tapping this since it was legal, right?" He made another roll-up. The Spam was not half-bad that way.

"Jesus," Derek muttered and turned his back. He made quick work of cooking the rest of the pancakes and Stiles alternated between gorging himself and feeding sticky-sweet pieces to Derek with his fingers. The first offering took Derek by surprise, but he licked Stiles' fingers clean with the sort of eyelid fluttering pleasure on his face that meant Stiles would be having inappropriate boners over strawberry jam the rest of his life. Derek leaned into him, pliant and tactile and grateful. Great waves of affection crested through Stiles and he had to kiss away any little jam smears on Derek's lips.

Derek made a choked off noise in the back of his throat and then sighed against Stiles' mouth before ending the kiss.

They cleaned up the kitchen and put out the fire in the stove without discussion. Derek filled paper bags with canned goods from the pantry, but left more than they took.

Before they left, Derek filled a bucket of water and poured it into a trough outside, then took a bag of cat food outside and cut it open. Stiles didn't comment, because Derek still didn't like it when anyone noticed his gentle side. Like he was still fooling anyone in the pack. Not even Scott bought the heartless hard ass facade any more.

Fifty miles up the road, Stiles made Derek pull off behind a shutdown cannery that smelled of tomatoes and they fucked in the backseat, in the shade, because they were going to go through a town soon. Detours would eat up their gas too quick otherwise. An hour later they were back on the road and Stiles was reading road signs and trying to figure out how it would take them to get back to Beacon Hills. He missed cell phones and talking to his Dad. He wanted to know his Dad was okay. He read one declaring they were closing in on Los Banos and declared, "I've got a bad feeling."

"About?"

"Town."

Derek nodded. "We can avoid Los Banos."

"I'm not psychic," Stiles said. He didn't know if it was Los Banos that was the problem or just any town or just him.

Derek turned the car north onto Route 59. The uneasy feeling in Stiles' gut didn't ease at all. He probably shouldn't have had sex after eating so much, it was probably like swimming, you could give yourself cramps… It totally had nothing to do with the prospect of meeting people, just because the last stranger Stiles met had stabbed him and Stiles had killed him.

Holy God, he didn't want to think about that any more. How did Derek stand it, feeling like anyone could be after him? No wonder Derek isolated himself so much. He risked a glance at Derek, who looked grim. He wasn't looking forward to seeing new people either. Of course, Derek had distrusted people on principle even before this, even without witnessing soldiers shooting civilians.

It didn't take a cynic to guess anyone in any town wouldn't be happy to see strangers from the south since the broadcasts about the Bleed, either.

Stiles noted the sign announcing they were coming up on El Nido and reached for the .45 in the glove box.

Derek saw and said nothing.

So much for the afterglow.

~*~

Around an hour before sundown, maybe around seven – neither Stiles nor Derek had a working watch at the moment – Derek slowed the car abruptly, needle falling back toward zero steadily, and Stiles realized Derek had taken his foot of the gas. His heartbeat steadied from the jolt of oh shit panic. Derek could see farther than him, so Stiles focused forward. It took him a minute to figure out what he was seeing, but by then the brakes were engaging.

Ahead, he saw raw, red-brown earth embankments. They were new, built up and compacted and still incomplete in places. A faded yellow Caterpillar tractor chugged at work on one of them, front loader tipping to dump a load of dirt in place. Black exhaust belched from its smokestack. Stiles stared in disbelief and amazement. Further out, a backhoe thirty years older than Stiles operated too, excavating trenches like something from World War I. The dirt was going straight to the walls.

Derek said, "Shit."

Stiles‛ heartbeat hurried back up.

They were close enough now that he could make out more than the new embankments. The sun glinted off hastily erected chain-link fencing at the top, all of it topped with rusty old barbed wire. The fencing was different enough, some of it threaded through with green slats for privacy, that it must have been scavenged from more than one location. Route 59 headed straight toward the earth walls and a makeshift but solid looking gate. Anything outside the walls had been knocked down and scraped down to bare earth starting just beyond a road sign saying Welcome to Historic El Nido. It looked like Stiles imagined a brand new mine field would look or a … a killing ground.

"Holy God," Stiles breathed. Someone had moved fast. Someone paranoid and smart and charismatic enough that he or she had people acting on a plan.

Someone in El Nido was dangerous and on the way to becoming a warlord. Probably some nasty old fucker like Gerard Argent, ready to pull strings and shit on anyone in his way, innocent or not. Just the thought made Stiles grit his teeth. The people in El Nido might like to think they were saving themselves, but it wasn't worth it to live under the thumb of someone like that. Stiles picked out sentries carrying rifles on top of the wall. A glint off glass proved some of them had seen the car too. They were being watched.

"Check behind us," Derek ordered in a tight voice.

Stiles tore his gaze away from the fortifications and looked back along the road. He sighed in relief. "Empty." So they hadn't rolled into another ambush.

Derek exhaled in a rush. "Okay. Keep watching."

Just weeks ago this had been a half forgotten wide spot on the road with only a couple hundred people still living there who had to drive north to Merced just to gas up their cars.

"I thought the damn road was too clear," Derek commented. The V8 gave an uneven hiccup as it idled, running rough on unleaded gas even with a bottle of additive poured in the tank to smooth it out. Derek's left hand tightened on the steering wheel. His right rested on the automatic's shift gear. Stiles could see him calculating their situation. The gas tank was over half full and they still had two cans of gas in the trunk.

"Huh. You're right. The only cars we saw were on the siding." He'd bet they wouldn't find any gas in their tanks if they stopped to check. "Derek, it's not worth it."

Derek glanced over to him, a mulish set to his eyebrows, but his expression softened immediately. "Yeah," he agreed. He shifted into reverse.

The bullet punched through the driver's side of the windshield and into Derek's chest. His body snapped back with the impact and he slumped over. The car lurched backward with a throaty roar a Derek's foot pushed down on the gas pedal.

"Der – crap, crap, Derek, Derek – " Stiles shouted. The car was rolling back crazily, more bullets punching through the glass, and Derek was – he couldn't tell if Derek was breathing. He was just limp, with blood spreading through his t-shirt, turning it wet and shiny black. Derek's body jolted as he took two more hits and his head lolled sickeningly to the side.

Stiles ducked down, shoved Derek's knee so his foot hit the gas again and steered from the side, while cursing the assholes shooting at them and the world and Derek and praying in a panicked rush of words that made no sense even to him. The car wove from side to side, slowing and speeding whenever Stiles lost his grip on the wheel or Derek's knee. Bullet holes starred the windshield, the crazed cracks intersecting so that nothing could be seen through it. The rear window suffered nearly as badly and tufts of stuffing bulged through holes in the rear seat back.

Stiles used the side mirror and had to keep blinking over and over. He was half lying over Derek's lap, trying to keep his own head under the dash, and the smell of blood threatened to make him puke on his self it was so thick.

"Please, please, please, c'mon, Derek, snap out of it, you're the fucking alpha, you eat bullets for breakfast … " Stiles pleaded. "Wake up, c'mon, you've got to – "

There were no more bullets hitting the car. Stiles didn't know if they were out of range or the rifle shooter had run out of ammo. He didn't care. He just took the chance to drop the car into neutral and pull Derek's body out of the driver's seat and take it himself. They were nearly in the ditch, still rolling with momentum, when Stiles slammed his foot on the brake, shifted into drive with a screeching protest from the transmission, turned the car around and sent it screaming down the road they'd rolled up less than fifteen minutes before. The heat gauge climbed steadily and steam billowed from under the perforated hood when he stuck his head out the window to see. A racketing noise from the engine warned that they wouldn't be going much farther, while the steering and ride got steadily worse, telling him one of the tires was losing air fast too.

The stupid chrome angel hood ornament had been blown off.

"Shit, shit, shit, fuck," Stiles muttered to himself. "Fucking douchenozzle asswipe bastard shit stain fuckers, what the fuck is wrong with them, we didn't do anything – " He had no idea if they'd started shooting because the car sat there too long or because when Derek shifted they thought it was going to come onward or because they wanted to kill anyone inside before they could get away. "If Derek dies I'm going to come back and make sure you all end up infected and sorry!" he screamed out the window uselessly. "And I'm going to curse you with genital warts, Consuelo taught me how, and then I'm going to fucking zombie animate Derek and he'll kill you again!"

"I think Peter's the only zombie werewolf we need," Derek said, rough and sardonic and then, disbelieving, "Genital warts?"

Stiles yelped and nearly put them in the ditch. "Fucker!" Derek didn't respond, which proved he was still hurting like a bastard, because Derek never missed an opportunity to mock Stiles' driving.

Instead, Derek got the passenger window down while coughing brutally, then hung his head out and vomited black and bloody bile, so it flew behind them. Stiles didn't see why he bothered, since the interior of the car was soaked in his blood already anyway. He doubted puke could make it any worse.

Stiles spotted the intersection where they'd left the east-west highway to go north. He barely slowed to make a hard right, rocking Derek hard enough he cursed, because his instincts had been all wrong already. That put the sun directly in his eyes, the glare fracturing through the ruined windshield with crazy brilliance.

"I don't know if we'll make it as far as Los Banos," Stiles announced.

"Try." Derek collapsed back into the car. Stiles risked a side glance at him because he was desperate for reassurance. Derek didn't look particularly reassuring, but his eyes were open in his pale face, and he was scowling.

"Well," Stiles blurted since Derek wasn't saying anything, "at least they weren't wolfsbane bullets, right?"

Derek struggled to sit up enough to level a real glare at Stiles, but his eyes didn't flash red, so it rolled right off. Not that the whole 'I'm the alpha now, hear me growl' thing had ever intimidated him much either. He'd figured out early that Derek didn't actually get off on scaring people, so he wouldn't bother threatening anyone he actually meant to hurt.

"I mean really, it's not exactly fair. I get stabbed days ago and I'm still hurting and you just got shot like three times and I think your heart may have stopped – by the way, I think mine did too – and I'd bet if you took off that shirt, you wouldn't even have a scar or bruise to show for it now."

"Are you okay?" Derek asked. He didn't even hide the concern anymore.

"Not a scratch," Stiles replied with manic cheer. He clutched at the steering wheel. He thought if he didn't, his hands would shake right off his wrists.

Derek plucked at the fabric still clinging wetly to his chest in distaste, then skinned it off and threw it out of the car. Only three dimpled pink spots marked where the bullets hit him but his pecs and belly were smeared red. Stiles made a noise like a dying cat.

~*~

Los Banos was empty.

The town sat squarely between the parallel north-south routes of Interstate 5 and Highway 99. It made for a natural place to stop for gas or convenience store snacks.

The Monte Carlo died on the outskirts outside the city limits. Stiles was no gearhead, but he felt bad over what happened to it, almost as bad as he'd felt over the Jeep. Even Derek gave it a regretful look.

The swollen sun dyed them red as Stiles and Derek hurriedly made up packs of what they worried most about replacing before starting out on foot. Derek wanted to find another vehicle so they could get back on the road to Beacon Hills, but Stiles knew he wasn't counting on just 'finding' one no one else wanted. The question was how far would they go to get what they wanted. Stiles wanted to find a place he could sit down and have hysterics for at least five minutes. He also foresaw a lot of walking in his future. Derek wasn't cold enough to off anyone for their wheels any more than Stiles was.

He had the .45 shoved down the front of his pants and a shirt tail over it, though, because plenty of people were plenty cold enough to kill for the pain killers in the heavy pack pulling on his shoulders and his aching side, even before the world went to shit.

The last light lingering after the sun slipped away let Stiles keep walking fast enough to keep up with Derek. It let him see Derek getting tenser and tenser as they skirted along the graveled edge of the tarmac too. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

"I can't hear anything," Derek admitted.

Stiles made an effort to keep his voice down. "You mean, the 'it's quiet, too quiet' kind of can't hear or did you go deaf, because, dude, you're hearing me fine, right?" He knew he was being an annoying asshole, but he was also on the fine edge of freaking out and the fact that Derek didn't look much better made that worse. Sarcasm would always be his first line of defense.

Derek stopped and caught Stiles' arm. "I mean I can't hear anyone. There's supposed to be over thirty-six thousand people there according to the sign we just walked by and I should be able to hear voices and movement by now, even if I'm not close enough to pick up heartbeats. Even the smell isn't right, I don't think anything's fresher than three days ago."

A shudder rolled through Stiles. Derek wordlessly maneuvered them close enough to press together. Stiles leaned into him hard, feeling cold despite the heat and the lingering stench of blood. They were losing the last of the light, but neither of them moved until the sky turned the deepest indigo and the first stars appeared beyond it. He needed the moment to pull himself together and it was both comforting and alarming that Derek seemed to need it just as bad.

The scuff of their shoes made Stiles wince when they started walking again. A piece of gravel skidded under his heel and he flailed to keep his balance until Derek caught his elbow and steadied him. Derek left his hand wrapped around Stiles' elbow afterward and they walked parallel.

The chill running through Stiles reminded him of all the blood Derek had lost and that he couldn't be feeling his best. Magic werewolf mojo healing took energy and the breakfast bunny, plus Spam and pancakes, had been a long time ago. There were things Stiles could do that Derek couldn't, too; things he should have already thought of doing. Why had he been studying magic with Consuelo after all?

Stiles began chanting a protection mantra under his breath, building power so his fingers tingled and Derek twitched. He reviewed several fast acting curses he could throw, though curses were dangerous weapons. They could ricochet.

"I can feel that and so can other things," Derek warned. "You're waving a magical flashlight around in the dark." Magic attracted the supernatural like blood attracted sharks or gunshots attracted cops or money attracted gold diggers … Stiles made himself stop muttering. Derek was right and he was letting fear make him paint an illuminated, phosphorescent target on his back. He let the magic dissolve back into the nature he'd drawn it from. The land gave a sleepy hum. At least it wasn't sick.

"You think something's here?" Something not natural, Stiles meant, and wanted to slap himself because what else would Derek mean?

"I don't know." Derek sounded pissed with the whole sucktastic blackhole of a situation.

The city made Stiles' skin crawl as they walked further toward downtown. There were no cars. Not just no traffic, but no vehicles stalled and abandoned or even rolled to the gutter that they'd seen elsewhere. Without discussing it, they moved to the sidewalks once they appeared, because the main street left them completely exposed.

The street lights were out. Neon unlit. Signs dark. No blue-tinted flicker of fluorescent light shone in the gas station bays. No headlights or tail lights, no bright glare of braking, no swish of wheels, no squeal from dusty brake drums, no bass thump from someone playing the radio too loud inside their car. No smell of exhaust mingling with fryer grease from the fast food place. Just the pervasive taint of wildfire smoke no matter which way the wind gusted.

When Stiles looked up, the aurora borealis had begun twisting across the sky again, one color spilling and morphing into another in a mesmerizing display. His mouth hung open for a moment before he shook it off. He didn't even consider it pretty anymore.

Store faces with their expanses of window glass were dark mirrors reflecting the dancing colors in the sky. Anything could be behind them.

Curious, Stiles tried the door to hair salon. It opened, unlocked. He locked eyes with Derek. Neither of them stepped inside. The door to the antique store beside the salon was propped open.

Derek tried the next door. It, too, opened like an invitation.

"Keep moving?" Stiles whispered.

Fallen leaves and an empty plastic bag skittered on the rising breeze and a wind chime in front of a furniture outlet sounded, glassy high and lonely. It stopped them both, but no other noise followed, nothing had moved it but the air.

"Keep moving," Derek confirmed softly.

Absently he read the street sign and put it together. Main Street and Mercy Springs Road, aka Highways 152 and 165 intersected a block ahead. That would be the center of town. It seemed like if there were going to be answers, they'd find them there, but Stiles already knew they wouldn't.

They picked up their pace. A sudden stench as they approached the center of town made them both stop. "Can you smell that?" Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. Dead men could smell that, but Derek never had a good grasp on what humans could and couldn't smell or why some things made them want to barf. He didn't process most odors as good and bad. Like a dog … Thinking of dogs … Stiles murmured, "You know what else is wrong here?"

"You're going to tell me."

"Interrogative inflection, dude. Never mind. Just – No people, no dogs, no cats, no birds or rats or pet iguanas – Don't tell me everyone took their animals with them. People suck even when they aren't running away from something. Someone forgot Fluffy and Mr. Muffins and Grandpa Stan's heart medicine and the pictures from Aunt Ethel's cruise." Stiles took a deep breath and wished he hadn't. No one had taken away the garbage since the Crash. "Tell me you can sense something left alive here."

"Yes," Derek replied and looked freaked out.

"What?" Stiles thought he might not want to know, if it could freak Derek out.

"Fluffy and Mr. Muffins," Derek said and pointed ahead.

The dog pack should have been as funny as the names Stiles had thrown out there. The black giant poodle was still groomed into poofy powder-puff shapes after all. He picked out a couple of Labradors, a Dalmatian and some kind of setter. The rest were good-sized mixed breeds, except for the two Dobermans. They were all dirty, fur beginning to mat, with ribs beginning to show.

"Ha. Ha." Stiles swallowed. "You get points for making a funny, but I'm going to have to deduct them all, because this is not funny. At all."

The Dobermans would have been frightening even before they were abandoned to starve and went feral. The poodle though … Stiles got why Derek was freaked out. It looked meaner than the rest of them. Monsieur Maurice, man's best friend, should not look murderous.

"They look more like they ate Fluffy and Mr. Muffins," Stiles added. He rested his hand on the .45's butt. The dog pack stalked closer. Stiles didn't think any of them wanted a good ear scratch. "Actually, they look like they want to eat us."

Stiles could hear toe nails clicking against the tarmac as the dogs slunk down the street, eyes reflecting the aurora overhead, heads sunk lower than their shoulders, all hackled up and hungry.

Stiles had been appreciating the way the little breeze blowing had relieved some of the ripe garbage smell, if nothing else, despite the way it chilled the sweat at his back and under his arms. His skull prickled though when it picked up enough to make the metal street signs flex and bang like a shot, while the wind chimes tinkled madly. He nearly leaped out of his shoes. His heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of his chest before something could jump out and rip it out first. The dogs snarled and edged closer, lips peeling back from their teeth, radiating fear and savagery.

He reminded himself he was a bad ass now. Or at least not utterly useless in a fight. And if he wasn't exactly Sam Winchester – that guy was a moose – he still had Derek and no one would ever argue Derek wasn't the baddest of bad ass alpha werewolves. He'd, like, leveled up three times when they took out the Alpha pack, so the betas wouldn't have to actually kill. Stiles and Allison and the high school guidance counselor – he'd never get over that – had taken out the other alphas.

Derek rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, shifting just enough to flash alpha eyes, long canines, and let out his claws. A deep, threatening growl rumbled out of his chest.

The giant poodle held its ground and growled.

"I thought poodles were supposed to be smart."

"It smells blood. Thinks I'm wounded."

"You were," Stiles pointed out.

"I'm not now." Derek shrugged off his pack and his jacket.

"Great, next comes the – " Yep, there came the shirt off. Stiles couldn't exactly blame Derek. He'd already had one shirt wrecked today. Derek's growl grew louder as he finished the shift into beta form. The setter yelped and backed away, but the other dogs weren't ready to back down.

"I'm really sorry about this, guys," Stiles said, because he was. It wasn't the dogs' fault they'd been left to revert to old instinct as they fended for themselves. "You've got so many reasons to be pissed with humans, but Derek here? He isn't human and, me, I already passed on the Bite, and I'm so not interested in being your chow du jour. Or nuit. Whatever." He tugged the .45 free and aimed it at the poodle, because it was clearly the most aggressive dog there. "Warning shot?" he asked Derek.

"Don't waste ammo," Derek slurred around his fangs.

Stiles took a deep breath, braced his stance the way his dad had taught him long ago, squinted in the low light, and fired at the poodle. The impact threw the dog off its feet to the pavement. Several of the mutts yelped and tore away, but the Labs must have belonged to actual hunters. The gunshot didn't terrify them.

The Dobermans bolted toward Stiles and Derek like they'd been trained to attack anyone shooting a gun.

They moved much too fast for Stiles to take a safe shot at either and Derek was leaping forward to meet them. Stiles put his back to the plate glass in front of an insurance office, raised the .45 and took a shot at the Dalmatian, since its mostly white coat made it easy to spot even in the darkness. It shrieked as the bullet hit, a rotten shot, and Stiles could taste vomit, this was horrible, he didn't feel this guilty over Weedy Guy, for fuck's sake –

He got over it, because the rest of the feral dogs rushed forward, some going for Derek along with the Dobermans, some pouring past to come at Stiles and if he didn’t keep shooting, they were going to tear into him.

Derek sliced open the first Doberman's throat, so fast it kept moving several steps before it bled out in a spray of arterial blood. The second one leaped for Derek's throat. He didn't react the way a human would, though: Derek ducked his head down and sank his teeth into the dog's muzzle instead of recoiling to protect his face. It howled in surprise followed by pain as Derek grabbed it with a clawed hand and threw the dog across the street and through another plate glass window.

The glass exploded with the impact. Stiles noted it distantly as he shot the yellow Lab scrambling toward him, lips peeled back from its teeth and snarling. Derek waded into the pack and it turned into a whirling dervish of growls and howls and yelps, more dogs flying through the air to hit walls or the pavement with bone crushing force and lie where they fell or try to crawl away, while Stiles carefully shot the animals too cowardly to attack Derek directly.

His ears rang painfully and his wrists hurt from the .45's recoil when Derek dropped the last dog, a collie mix that had probably slept in the house every night before its owner disappeared.

Derek's arms were running with blood from multiple bites. His pants were torn too. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his wrist and spat, repeatedly, onto the street, before asking, his voice echoing and distant, "Are you okay, Stiles?" He was asking Stiles that a lot lately.

"Fine, fine and dandy, peachy in fact," Stiles replied though his voice shook. "But let's not ever do that again. Let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?" He wanted to say, I want to go home, like a little kid, sure somehow that once he saw his dad everything would be okay again. It wouldn't. It wouldn't and that made him shake.

"Okay," Derek said gently. He approached Stiles slowly, but didn't try to remove the .45 from Stiles' grip, didn't touch him. Stiles nodded to himself, pleased Derek believed he could handle it, and his lungs loosened up a little. Derek picked up his shirt and pulled it back on with a grimace. The dog bites were already healing up, but the blood and dirt didn't magically disappear.

Stiles stuffed the .45 back in his waistband, then jerked it back out with a hiss. The muzzle was still hot. So he carried it, while Derek jerked his jacket back on and grabbed up the other pack. His hands, if he'd sniffed them, had to reek of cordite.

He felt better with it in his hand anyway.

After a few steps, he pulled himself together a little more and dug the spare ammo out and reloaded.

~*~

They veered off the main drag onto a street that paralleled a set of train tracks, looking for a more industrial or agricultural part of town, where the odds of scavenging an older farm vehicle would be better. Walking through places where there wouldn't have been people at night anyway was less creepy too. Even the lack of lighting seemed less alarming; supernatural creatures tended to lair up in abandoned industrial parks and other empty places that were often vandalized and had no electricity. Empty warehouses wouldn't seem as alarming as an empty suburban neighborhood. It didn't smell as bad, either.

Stiles spotted a scrawny cat padding across an aurora-lit dirt lot behind a radio tower, a mouse in its jaws, and felt better just because. At least he wasn't the mouse.

They'd reached the edge of town – maybe passed the official city limits – and Stiles had resigned himself to walking all night, when Derek halted in his tracks. Stiles carefully, silently set his foot back down and stayed where he was, listening and looking himself for whatever Derek sensed. His hand tightened on the .45.

Wind soughed through the trees shading the far side of the railroad track and set the power and telephone lines sagging between poles creaking. Something – mouse, lizard, bug – rustled in the weeds edging the field beyond. The air smelled like night to him, earthy, cooling, damp. He couldn't imagine how much more it must hold for Derek's senses. He'd bet if werewolves had had their own secret language, it would have had a word for the scent of the night, and since they didn't they should invent one.

Stiles even had his mouth open when Derek reached to the side and caught his wrist. He tugged Stiles forward gently without speaking. Stiles obeyed the silent command to stay close and not speak as they began walking again, stopping periodically when Derek would concentrate on whatever he was smelling. He didn't explain.

Stiles had never missed the densely forested area around Beacon Hills so much. Anything might lurk in the trees, but standing on the gravel verge of a farm road with no cover anywhere blew big time. His shoulders were up around his neck from the feeling of exposure.

He scanned around him helplessly, unable to pick out any kind of detail in the darkness but trying anyway. Derek let him. Derek just breathed and then his hand tightened on Stiles' wrist, convulsively, at the same time the breeze freshened and Stiles got a whiff of something bad. He couldn't pick out all the elements, but it made him want to gag. He tugged back on his wrist and Derek loosened up a little, but tugged Stiles forward too.

Great, they were going to head for the bad smell. Stiles sulked a little. Hadn't he already had a shitty day and night? Did they have to find more trouble?

Of course they did. What else were they going to do, turn back to Los Banos and its psycho feral dogs and scary empty houses and unanswered questions, like: where the hell did all the people go? Stiles had strong feelings he would not like the answer, whatever it was, especially if it were to happen to him and Derek also.

They made their way up the grade steadily, passing two different intersections and turn offs into the odd business or farm house. They even crossed the railroad tracks to investigate an equipment yard, walking between harrows and harvesters, looking for any older vehicle that might run. The closest they came was a rusted out International sitting on blocks. They returned to the road, disappointed, and Stiles could feel himself dragging, exhaustion weighing his limbs heavier with every step.

When Derek stopped again, looking at the dark outline of a house and barn just off the road, Stiles walked into his back and just leaned his face and his weight into Derek. "Sorry," he slurred. "Tired." The knife wound might be healing, but it had wrecked his endurance. He was hungry again, too.

Derek turned enough to snake an arm under the backpack and around Stiles' waist and really take up some of his weight. Stiles didn't even care that he smelled like dog and blood. Derek nosed at his temple, warm bad breath and prickling stubble comforting to Stiles' pack-adjusted instincts.

"I want to try in there. You want me to carry you?" he asked quietly with a nod toward the house.

Stiles shook his head. He could keep going. He would.

"You can rest while I search it."

He should have objected but it sounded pretty good to him. He shrugged off Derek's arm and started forward again.

The front door was off the hinges. The interior had been picked through and offered nothing useful except a bottle of Windex Derek used to scrub off some blood, while Stiles sat on a kitchen chair and stared at the broken refrigerator lying on its side, doors hanging open. He set the .45 on the table before him.

Why break it, he wondered, what did anyone gain from that?

Derek squeezed his shoulder as he headed for the back door. "I'm going to check the barn. Just stay here."

Stiles sighed and declined to argue, choosing to poke into every drawer and cabinet, working by feel in the dark. His eyes had adapted enough eventually that he could make out large print by the starlight coming through the windows. His efforts yielded exactly one can of coconut milk and a half bag of blue corn tortilla chips. He took his bounty back to the table and began munching on the chips until Derek returned.

Honestly, he didn't need light to see to know Derek's eyebrows went up. Stiles just held out the open bag. Without comment, Derek helped himself to a handful, then pulled out one of their – apparently precious – cans of Spam and opened it. A drawer full of silverware had been ignored, so they ate with forks and knives. He opened the coconut milk too and they shared the can back and forth, easily, without discussing it.

It was without doubt one of the worst combinations Stiles had ever consumed, but his stomach didn't mind at all.

"Nothing in the barn," Derek mentioned. He stirred his fingers through the powdery bits left at the bottom of the chip bag, making the plastic crinkle loudly. "You think you can go any farther?"

Stiles patted his stomach. "I am fueled up and ready to roll."

A little snort of amusement escaped Derek. "We could camp here – "

"Ugh, no." Stiles did not want to try sleeping in this already violated house. He tossed the Spam can into the garbage can that had escaped upending somehow. Derek crumpled the chip bag and lofted it after, over his shoulder, and it went in too.

"Show off," Stiles grumbled.

"If we don't find a car or something," Derek said, "I want to pick out a place before dawn where we can rest through the day."

"We should look for water tomorrow too."

"I can find something," Derek assured him.

Stiles gave him an approving smile. Of course he could. "Werewolf nose. I knew you were good for something."

A little shoulder shrug was Derek's almost embarrassed response. "If I catch another rabbit, I'm not sharing."

"Dick. You're going to be on the Easter Bunny's blacklist."

"I don't like chocolate anyway."

"That – that is just not natural." Stiles paused and then grinned, because he'd just thought of the perfect gibe. It was almost too good to use. "Nevermind, I just remembered: chocolate's no good for dogs."

Derek's resulting growl put a perk in Stiles' step for the next mile.

~*~

Two more houses and the office of a scrap yard and they finally ended up sleeping in the back of a lean-to fruit stand. It smelled of strawberries and tomatoes, all gone, but they found a crate of corn overturned in the back and an old cooler, filled with melted water and canned sodas. Neither of them wanted to drink it, but the water worked for washing up and they toasted each other with Dr. Pepper and Slice afterward.

Better yet, a beat to hell, rusting VW bus was parked behind fruit stand.

By noon, the sun beating down on the tin roof heated the lean-to too much for sleep, so Stiles wandered out to the van and spent half an hour cleaning the spark plugs and the battery connections, while Derek shifted into wolf form and loped off to do wolfy shit. He came back about the time Stiles ducked his head under the dash and took a stab at hotwiring the van. He stretched out a little way from the van, head on his paws, and watched, ear twitching with annoyance when a fly buzzed near his eyes. The weight of his gaze reminded Stiles of a firm hand on his shoulder.

The spark snapping between the two wires he'd stripped and brought together startled Stiles enough he almost jerked them apart. A second later, the van's engine turned over, coughed, caught, backfired, and caught again, settling into an uneven idle.

Stiles leaped out of the van and danced around Derek. Derek sat up with ears pricked forward, tongue lolling from the heat, tail sweeping across the dirt.

"C'mon, c'mon, look at that, Mr. Alpha Hotpants, look at that!" Stiles declared gleefully. He did a fist pump to the air and had to clutch at his wound immediately, but that didn't slow him down. "I am the Man! I am the freaking Master Man!"

Derek sort of whuffed at that but joined in the jumping and spastic dancing, tearing around Stiles and nearly knocking him over, until they both collapsed down on the dirt and grass, panting and overheated. Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder and absently threaded his fingers through Derek's sun-warmed coat. "I like you like this," he said.

Derek slapped his tail against the earth once.

Stiles sat up. "But!" He looked at Derek directly. "I like when you are your other sexy self too, and you should shift your ass back so you can tell me just how awesome I am, while we drive the fuck away thanks to my amazing mechanical and automotive skills."

He hopped to his feet and headed for the van again. "We're taking that corn, right? We can cook it or if we have to we can eat it raw, I think. Seriously, gas is wasting, day light's burning, and I want to hit the road."

Derek got up and gave himself a lazy shake, then ambled over to the van and jumped inside, still in wolf form.

"Asshole," Stiles griped. "If you don't shift back, I'm not picking up your stuff, including your clothes."

Derek leaped out through the passenger side window and disappeared into the lean-to. He emerged dressed again and carrying his and Stiles' packs in one hand, the crate of corn balanced on his other shoulder.

Stiles climbed into the driver's seat while Derek loaded the van with their pathetic belongings. The interior was stripped back to the metal and it took a length of wire twisted through a hasp to hold the back doors shut. Stiles patted the dashboard as Derek squeezed himself into the front.

"Which way?"

"North."

Stiles peered through the windshield, trying to orient himself. Derek sighed, put upon. "Turn right, Stiles."

"Right. Right."

He bounced the van onto the road, shifted, and built up a little speed. Derek settled back in his seat, moved restlessly and settled again to a chorus of protests from the worn out springs beneath him. He let his eyes fall half shut. "Just keep the sun on your left in the afternoon."

Derek didn't really sleep, Stiles knew, but managed something like resting while Stiles steered the van north, sticking with the road they were already on, even as it narrowed and turned patched and rough, far out from anywhere. It still took them north and that's all he cared about for the moment.

They rolled through Gustine and later Newman, Derek wide awake and holding the .45, watching for any threat, but both little towns were as quiet and closed up as Cataviña had been. Stiles got the same feeling of being watched, so they didn't stop to look for fuel or anything else.

The van was running on fumes by the time they reached Crow's Landing, though.

Instead of driving into town, Stiles parked along the road verge, well shaded thanks to the orchards growing on both sides of the road he'd picked for their approach.

Dust floated golden in the air. He thought he could hear bees humming. The afternoon felt nearly peaceful.

"I'll – " Derek started.

"We'll," Stiles corrected him. Derek met his glare with narrowed eyes.

" – go in after dark. I can find a diesel truck to siphon from. I'll need something to carry it, though. Food will be harder."

"Then we won't want to dillydally."

Derek folded his arms and glared back at Stiles.

"I'm not sitting here waiting. I'll ward the van, no one will be able to come near it. Two people can carry more."

"Fine."

"Fine," Stiles echoed. Derek was all gilt and stubble and sulking gorgeousness. He just wanted to keep Stiles safe, though he had to go about it in the most infuriating way. Stiles felt the same way about him, though, and he knew Derek wasn't invincible. They were better together and had been from the beginning, even when all they could do was piss each other off.

He waited until Derek looked at him again to say, "How about I ward the van right now and then we can make out until dark?"

The way Derek's eyes widened and his pupils expanded was reward enough for not escalating the bickering into a real fight.

Derek found a big rig in the lot of a gravel quarry and Stiles figured out there would some kind of tool shed and repair bay that yielded them several five gallon containers. They siphoned diesel from the truck and after debating it, went back for the van and drove it to the quarry, where they filled its tank and loaded the extra diesel in the back.

The quarry had proved disappointingly free of anything edible, so they'd ranged back through Crow's Landing. They were still people in the small town: candles and oil lamps flickered behind the windows of many houses.

Derek had used his ears and his nose to pick out places that were empty, but Crow's Landing seemed to have survived the Crash nearly intact. He'd begun to think it would be better to drive on, out into farm country again, and shift. He knew he could find another rabbit or two. Stiles would eat them if Derek got his shit together and made a fire to cook them on.

Stiles hadn't said much since they began their search, so when he stopped, Derek immediately went on alert. It didn't matter that Derek had better senses, he had to filter data and Stiles could easily register something he dismissed. He'd learned to pay attention to Stiles years before they found themselves here.

"So," Stiles said, "that thing you said."

"What thing?" He said things. More than one thing. He wasn't some monosyllabic Clint Eastwood clone, no matter how the pack teased. He wished the pack was with them or they were with the pack. Just having one pack member with him wasn't enough.

"Uhm, well, the flashlight thing."

It took Derek a beat to connect the dots and then he cursed silently. Stiles had attracted the attention of something supernatural or at least magic using – Derek still couldn't sense anything.

"Crap. I told you – "

"I know, okay," Stiles protested and held up his hands up, "I know." He cocked his head. "For what it's worth, I don't think this is someone bad. I just have this … tug … it's an invitation, I guess."

"Where?" Derek demanded.

Stiles pointed. "Thataway." He took a step in the same direction and nodded. "Yeah. C'mon."

Derek wanted to protest, but bit it back. He had to trust Stiles about this, the way Stiles needed to trust Derek when claws and fangs came out. "Wait," he blurted.

Stiles turned and raised both eyebrows at him.

"I'm going to shift."

Magic had less effect on the wolf shape and he could move faster.

Stiles rolled his eyes as Derek stripped and handed him his clothes. "You're really getting way too fond of going full wolf, I swear."

Derek hesitated, wondering if Stiles wasn't right, if this wasn't slipping out of his control, if there wasn't a reason alphas and other werewolves avoided complete shifts. The change had already started, though, and fighting it would only result in pain. He let it sweep over him and human thought blinked out with the sensation, awareness only returning once he was four-footed.

He leaned into Stiles affectionately, because it came so easy when he didn't need to put how he felt into words that never were exactly right. Maybe Stiles was right, maybe werwolves needed their own language, but then they never seemed to need it with themselves, only in trying to make humans understand.

Until Stiles, Derek had forgotten that there were humans he'd want to understand him.

Stiles rocked on his feet and made a complaining sound that didn't match the pleased way he moved and smelled in response to Derek. He zipped his otherwise empty pack closed over Derek's clothes and said, "What are you waiting for – oh, okay, so, just follow me."

Derek padded beside Stiles, lifting his lip once to snarl at a dog barking from backyard, intimidating it into silence. He hadn't forgotten the dogs in Los Banos, though this dog remained loyal to its masters – because its masters hadn't broken faith with it; Derek could hear the dog's good health and full belly in its voice.

His own belly felt hollower than he liked. He pushed back the instinct to hunt. He needed to stay with his pack mate. They were passing through territory not their own and might need to fight.

They ended up before the doors to a simple, single story office building, brick and cinderblock with oleanders and plum trees planted around it. A small car lot sat empty behind it. The soft flicker of a kerosene lamp lit the shallow, wide concrete steps up to the door. Three heartbeats sounded inside, steady and healthy.

Stiles stopped on the sidewalk. "Hello inside?" he called out, loud enough Derek winced.

A tall woman in a denim dress opened the glass door and stepped out. Her iron gray hair was cut short and she wore no makeup. Her eyebrows shot up when she spotted Derek standing beside Stiles and stayed up as she studied both of them.

"Well, you're no child and not in need, are you?" she said when she'd finished looking them both over in a three-pack a day cigarette voice.

"No, I'm not," Stiles replied.

"I'm Gladys. You and your friend?"

"Just passing through."

"Like you were just passing through Los Banos last night?" she asked.

"Just like that," Stiles said. "We like to keep moving."

A snort of laughter ending in a harsh cough escaped her. She gestured to the door. "Well, come in and have a bite – "

Stiles snickered and Gladys laughed again too.

" – to eat with us. I've got a pot of mulligan going."

"Who else is inside?" Stiles asked. Derek could feel magic tingling through Stiles fingers where he'd tangled them in the fur between Derek's shoulders. It pulsed into him and pulsed back stronger. Stiles was tracing the triskele and it had created a loop of building power. It made Derek stronger and gave Stiles more magic to fuel any spells he wanted to use. They'd done something similar fighting the Alpha pack, but it had been jerky and uncertain, the power fluctuating thanks to Stiles' inexperience and Derek's lack of trust. Now Derek let Stiles' magic fill him and let Stiles draw on his own without stint. It felt almost addictive.

"My sister Irene and her daughter Eleanor. There's no one else in our coven."

So Gladys was a witch. Derek had thought so.

Gladys sighed in exasperation. "Boy, I'm hardly going to poison you. If I did, that Alpha standing next to you would rip me to pieces." She switched her gaze to Derek. "Wouldn't you?"

Derek flared his eyes scarlet and bright. In the darkness, with only the dim light from a single lamp inside silhouetting her, his eyes were bright enough to reflect red off Gladys. She held her ground, but he heard her heart rate tick up.

"You are a big one."

"He is," Stiles agreed and added amiably, "try to fuck with him and I'll sear you to ashes. Now, you'll excuse us, but it's never a smart idea to eat or drink anything a witch offers."

"You'll want to move on before morning, then, won't you?" Gladys promptly replied, sweet as sugar and cyanide. "Crow's Landing Road will take you straight on up to Ceres and Modesto, if you're being smart and staying away from I-5."

"Thank you for the advice." Stiles and Derek stayed on the sidewalk while Gladys went back inside before heading back to the gravel quarry.

"I honestly don't know if she was a threat or not," Stiles muttered at one point. "Is that weird? That's weird. I kind of worried that she wanted to add us to the mulligan. There are an awful lot of fairytales with witches eating a succulent and nubile youngster like myself, after all, and while a lot of stuff gets twisted up, there's always that grain of truth at the center. You know?"

Derek grumbled because he hadn't been able to tell either. Witches were hard to read. Also, he needed to shift back, because rolling his eyes at Stiles just felt strange in wolf form. Play nipping at him might serve the same function for another were, but he thought Stiles might yelp or zap him with all that magic he was still hoarding if Derek tried it.

He dressed as soon as they reached the van. Then they opened the last can of Spam and shared it after getting back to the road.

Crow's Landing did take them out of town and northward toward Modesto according to the road signs.

It also took them by an LDS church.

At least the Mormons started shooting immediately. They just wanted whoever was in the dusty white VW to keep on keeping on away the fuck from them. The bullets never hit anything but dirt, sending up puffs of it following the crack of the bullets.

Stiles started chanting a protective spell, something that stopped anything inorganic from passing through it. It was one of the first Derek remembered him using. He used it to block wolfsbane bullets from hunters. It cost more energy than Stiles could afford to maintain it for long and stood out like a flare in the dark to anything with supernatural senses. Using it was always a last resort.

Derek shoved the gas pedal down and pushed the old van to its maximum, bone rattling, engine moaning speed. He almost sympathized with the Mormons; after years of being mocked for tithing and keeping stores of goods, suddenly they were the only people who still had food. They'd likely quickly become targets, not just of strangers but of their neighbors.

He was heartily sick of being shot at, however, and they were lucky he was driving. Otherwise he might have let his control slip and given them a bloody object lesson on why it wasn't wise to be that trigger happy.

Long past the church and out of range, Stiles blurted, "That bitch."

"We'd have likely taken this road anyway," Derek said.

"Yeah, but she knew. Seriously, there's obviously a reason witch and bitch rhyme, it's because the former is always the latter. Look at Consuelo. That old woman is pure mean if you get on her wrong side. But this Gladys. Jeez. I am so glad I didn't give her our names. She'd probably have cursed us." Stiles sat back and made a series of unhappy, pissed off faces. "I should curse her."

"With what?" Derek asked. "Genital warts again?"

"Hey, would you want – "

"No, no."

"Besides, it's more like a pox," Stiles went on. "Like lesions and seeping and – "

"Stop." The sun streaming through the trees lining the road on the east glared off the dirty windshield, the flash and shadow half blinding Derek. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion and his bones ached thanks to shifting with too little interval between. He didn't need Stiles giving him an in-depth description of the effects of cursing someone with warts or pox. "Please."

"It's actually historically – "

"No."

"You're boring."

"Terribly," Derek agreed.

Stiles yawned widely and slumped down. "So, you figure we're going to find something awful in Modesto? Since Gladys mentioned going there?"

Derek flexed his hands on the steering wheel. He did. "Yeah."

"Me too."

They still weren't prepared for the field.

Stiles had the little emergency radio out again, searching the dial for anything after cranking a charge into it again. When he thought about, it surprised Derek that the radio hadn't fried like most other electronics. Stiles must have had it stored someplace insulated against the magnetic pulse -- his spell box was lined in silver and lead – or maybe it had just survived. It had become increasingly apparent since leaving LA behind that more things had survived than had first been evident, even some newer vehicles.

Things that had failed were being fixed, but there was no organization to it. The information infrastructure had been wiped out and the grid was still down. A barter economy would rise up, probably in the next few weeks, if nothing else went wrong. But the longer the grid was down, the worse things got and the harder it became to fix anything.

It would have been nice to think that once they made it to Beacon Hills the pack would be there and various family members and all they'd need to do was hold out and get along, take care of each other and the town, until everything returned to something like normal.

Nice things didn't happen to Derek and that was just too much of a pie in the sky dream even for someone with better luck than him.

What he'd seen in LA had been just the beginning. The ambush in Baja, the thugs that stabbed Stiles, even the lunatics at El Nido, they were threats to individuals, but not to civilization. Even a nuclear meltdown at Diablo Canyon would only wreck a chunk of the state, poison an area of the ocean. The Bleed, though, would be the end if it wasn't stopped.

Everything else could be fixed in time, but not a plague that seeded itself and waited to catch a new host and spread again.

The Bleed made a nuclear meltdown look simple and safe. Hunters thought werewolves were monsters? Derek curled his lip, thinking about it.

A harsh blurp of sound, a voice, cut through the white noise. Stiles sucked in a loud breath and then delicately tuned the radio in on the transmission.

" … dated list of Quarantine Zones, no travel zones, and mandatory fire evacuations areas on repeat. Benecia, Fairfield, Lake Tahoe, Martinez, Monterey, Oakland, Palm Springs, Salinas, San Jose, Reno, Santa Cruz, Santa Monica, Santa Barbara … "

"Down the coast highways," Stiles muttered.

"Folks, I can‛t tell which of those places have the Bleed and which are just burning, but if you can hunker down, stay where you are, and if you can‛t, then good luck and steer clear is all I can tell you."

"East too," Derek pointed out. Infected had made it to Tahoe and Reno. Running for false safety in vacation towns that could never support an influx of population – even aside from the disease – without constant supplies from outside. Of course, he didn't know if those two had been shut down because of the Bleed or out of control fires or as stop points in an attempt to keep anything or anyone from moving east.

"You think Beacon Hills is okay?" The ghost of the boy Stiles had been when Derek met him echoed in his voice, the worry he'd always hidden under babble and sarcasm, but that had defined him – still defined him – from the day his mother died.

Derek didn't know. He was shit at lying, not to mention Stiles could see through even his best efforts. He rolled his shoulders in an uneasy shrug. "Should be. It's isolated, pretty far from anywhere, and there are easier routes to follow north or east … "

"Or south or west," Stiles finished. Beacon County sat sort of catty-corner to Lassen and Modoc Counties and didn't have a single other major population besides Beacon Hills or any recreational attractions beyond the Preserve and the nearby national forests. It had no remarkable history to draw tourists. Rock falls and washouts regularly took out sections of the two lane highway that wound its way back to the town. The high school kids had bemoaned that nothing ever happened there and they had to drive south to Redding or all the way to Chico to find anything approaching excitement unless they headed up to Klamath Falls.

It wasn't the sort of place anyone ever heard of who didn't live there. That had been one of the reasons the Hale Pack had established themselves there when it was no more than a logging camp.

He tuned back into the radio litany when Stiles didn't say anything more.

" … thousands of acres still burning in Butte, Calaveras, El Dorado, Glenn, Humboldt, Lake, Lassen, Mendecino, Placer, Plumas, San Benito, San Bernardino, Shasta, Tehama, and Tuollumne Counties according to radio reports on military frequencies and amateur radio operators in the affected areas. All information is unconfirmed."

A shudder ran down his back. Would anyone be fighting the wildfires, beyond whatever personal effort people caught in their paths would attempt? He could smell the smoke, see it hanging like a dirty stain on every horizon, and his instincts matched old trauma, whispering of firestorms and no escape. He would rather be shot with wolfsbane than trapped by a fire.

"Beacon County's okay."

"As far as one guy with a transmitter knows," Derek said.

"Way to make me feel better, dude."

" … no way to predict deaths due to the fires, with little or no warning of fire movement and the majority of people still without reliable transportation … "

"I'll turn it off," Stiles blurted.

"Leave it, any information is better than none." He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and when he'd managed that, he cranked the driver's side window down.

"Containment burns are also being used in the Los Angeles Basin and Bay Area in an attempt to limit contamination after reports of infected animals escaping the quarantine zones. National Guard and Army units admitted yesterday that they have been authorized to take lethal measures against anyone trying to leave a quarantine or no-travel zone. Anyone inside is advised to remain in their home and avoid contact or confrontation with possible infected. Evacuation and relocation efforts are ongoing … "

"Yeah, sure," Stiles drawled. "Stay home and starve, go out and get sick, try to get away and get shot. Stellar fucking advice."

The smell hit Derek first, thick and choking and he swerved the van across the center line, eyes watering blind as he coughed and gagged on it. Stiles reached over and caught the wheel, straightening them out as he demanded, "What is it – Oh, holy God, Jesus on a pogo stick, that's – what died!?"

Derek let his foot off the gas, allowing the van to coast, spat out the window, and got his sense of smell under control. Stiles had his right hand clamped over his mouth and nose. He still had his left hand locked onto the steering wheel.

Rolling up the window didn't make any improvement. Derek considered reversing until they could take a cross road and try to detour around whatever reeked up ahead, but they needed to know what it was. It was the same scent he'd caught in Los Banos, napalm and nidor, but worse, fetid and decomposing and roasted.

They came around a curve, past a line of native oaks, and it was there: a field of blackened bodies.

The sound that ripped out of Stiles throat combined horror and fury.

The dead lay in wavering pattern. Bodies piled on bodies in an uneven row, then a stretch of barren ground with only scattered forms collapsed in places, and then the center, where charred black limbs and torsos were tangled and knotted together in a scene from hell, an endless, silent scream, burned and melted into each other.

"I'm not going to puke," Stiles mumbled, "I'm not going to puke, I'm not – Derek, get us out of here. What – why – what did this?"

Derek shut down. He couldn't muster the strength to speak, though he could parse the scene well enough. The people had been gathered in the field, coaxed or coerced, and then the guns had come out. They'd been surrounded, jammed together, fighting to take cover behind each other, beneath the dying. The bravest or most desperate had tried to run beyond the firing line. Others had gathered enough courage and tried to storm forward en masse. They were the people lying in a thick border.

It was possible some had made it through, but Derek doubted it. The field had been leveled and prepared for a rice crop. Winding dikes had provided the shooters an easy vantage and the plowed up dirt would have made for terrible footing. There was no cover for anyone moving.

The ones who had been shot were luckier than anyone who had tried hiding under the dead. They hadn't been alive to burn.

The gas pedal sank under his boot and the van lurched forward. Over the whining of the engine he caught the deeper note of another vehicle approaching.

"Stiles, get down," Derek snapped. He shifted gears and wished for his Camaro, left behind in Beacon Hills, for the big SUV that died in the desert, or even the wrecked Monte Carlo with its V8. The van had never been meant for speed even when it first came off the assembly line.

"What – crap on cracker, are those the bastards that did this?"

"How the hell would I know?" Derek replied as he shifted one more time and had the van pushed to its shuddering, hard to steer limits and straddling the center line. He might have tried to swerve from side to side, but the van's narrow frame, poor steering and worn rubber made that a bad idea. He settled for trying to miss any bad pot holes out of fear they'd blow a tire. "You want to stop and ask them?"

Stiles ducked down below the line of the window. "Oh, hell no!"

Derek dared a glance in the rear view mirror. An older farm truck bumped and rattled behind them, the cargo area in back filled with armed men in uniform. At least one tried to shoot at them, but between the two vehicles moving and the patched and rough road, the odds of a hit on a tire were damned low. The odds of Derek wrecking them if he attempted any evasive driving were much higher. He gripped the wheel hard and kept his foot down on the gas. The speedometer needle jiggled and jerked spasmodically, offering no clear idea of their real speed.

Stiles laughed almost hysterically, "Dude, it's like the worst car chase ever. You're barely hitting seventy – "

Derek didn't think the van was reaching seventy. He worried more that if he kept shifting, the transmission was going to finally crap out.

" – and the assholes behind us still can't catch up! This would be hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic, really."

"Shit," Derek remarked with a calm he didn't entirely feel. Two more trucks were parked in a blockade across the road ahead of them. He really wasn't that afraid of men with guns – he could fight his way through them before they could set him on fire unless someone managed a very, very lucky shot to his spine – but Stiles couldn't. He'd stand and fight for Stiles and that would end badly for both of them. "Brace yourself." He found what he'd hoped for on the left side of the road: a wide dirt siding where semis pulled off to have their trailers loaded during harvest.

And there, just beyond, was an irrigation pump and the dirt road turning off from it and leading out into a field that had been plowed up but not planted yet. A tractor with a wide cultivator still hitched to it sat in the middle of the field, the harrowing only half finished.

Stiles slid down even further in his seat while holding onto the door handle with both hands.

Derek shifted down, turned the wheel and plunged the van off the road onto the dirt at an angle that cut the corner the irrigation pump and power pole occupied, nearly losing control despite avoiding the right angle turn as the shocks couldn't compensate for the rough going. A wall of dirt flew into the air behind the van. His head grazed the roof of the van at least once, but he kept his foot down and shifted back up the instant the wheels were on the dirt road. It took more strength than human to keep control of the steering as the van skidded sideways. Derek compensated, spinning the steering wheel left then right then left again to straighten the wheels while building up speed. Stiles screamed and then whooped out loud.

Behind them, the truck in pursuit failed to turn fast enough and slammed into the pump, sheering it off and then t-boning into the power pole. The pole snapped and came down on the truck's cab as water boiled out of the broken off connection to the pump tank.

"That was awesome!" Stiles yelled. He turned around in his seat and stuck his head out the window just to see the disaster they'd left behind them. "Amazing! I take it back, dude, that was the best car chase action ever ever!"

Derek shot out his right hand, grabbed the waist of Stiles' pants and yanked him back inside the van. They were throwing up so much dust that when he checked the rear view mirror, he couldn't make out if they had gathered any other pursuers through it.

"Do something useful and ward this thing so they can't find us," Derek snapped.

"Buzzkiller, dude," Stiles complained, but an instant later his hands were moving, tracing runes onto the van's dash while he chanted under his breath. The skin crawling tingle of magic filled the van and Derek risked relaxing enough to pull in a deep breath or two.

Stiles raised his voice a little and ended with, "And motherfucking Gladys, she knew we'd drive right into that, so 'may you get as you give, bitch'." His hands shaped a rune in the air that glowed poisonous green before it dissolved. "Take that," Stiles added.

"What did you do?"

"Rebound magic," Stiles explained. "It won't even hurt her until she tries to screw someone else and then she's going to find out exactly why everyone says karma's a bitch."

Derek snorted but didn't object. Witches were always bad news and he didn't mind one of them learning a lesson a la Stiles. He tried to hide it, but once they were away, a series of shudders ran through him, hard enough the van's steering picked it up. He could still smell it, thought he would always smell it, the burning meat, the death and pain and betrayal. He gasped for air despite himself, wondering if he could keep driving like this and knowing they couldn't afford to stop.

Stiles dropped his hand onto the back of Derek's neck, warm palm on bare skin, and he had such big hands, all long fingers and they reached around with his thumb and squeezed gently. His hand was enough to absorb the shakes so Derek could breathe again. It wasn't magic, just Stiles and Stiles understanding and accepting that it had got to Derek, silently telling him with his touch that that was okay.

Stiles talked all the time, except when he didn't, because he knew when Derek needed quiet and when he needed company and gave him both. Taut muscles in his neck and shoulders released and he managed a deep breath that didn't choke him with memories.

"Thanks," he muttered, because he hated acknowledging that he'd needed something, even something from Stiles, but Stiles just squeezed his neck again.

"Any time, big guy," Stiles said. He left his hand on Derek's neck. Derek leaned back into it, just a little, just enough to let him know he wanted it there.

~*~

They skirted Modesto and every large population center after it, driving miles out of the direct route, sleeping during the long sweltering days and chugging through the humid, short nights. Stiles complained steadily, but the creeping sense of danger set between Derek's shoulder blades wouldn't go away and he refused to take any more risks if they weren't necessary. More than once, Derek parked the van behind some cover and watched military patrols roll along a road they'd been on earlier, with Stiles snuffling in his sleep inside.

Playing with the radio got them another broadcast from Pirate Pete. The virus had a name now, the Bleed, and more details had leaked out past the quarantines on LA and the Bay Area. It spread through mucus membranes, open wounds, and infected blood and no one was immune. No one got over the Bleed either – some people just died slower.

Derek cringed when Pete added his own thoughts.

"Listen, folks, don't think you can suit up with some gloves and a bandana over your nose and take care of someone with this thing. The infected, they're gone, and, and if you've been in the same house or car as them... well, if you didn't breathe it in from their breath, you likely touched something it settled on. And then you touched your face, your mouth, your eyes... Of course, if you've done that, you probably aren't in any shape to be listening to this broadcast. So remember and stay safe, stay away from anywhere anyone with it has been.

"This thing, the Bleed, it stays. God knows how long it stays. Until it's burnt up along with whatever it's on. Now, I don't know everything, but I know enough to figure out what the authorities aren't saying and it's bad: bioweapon bad. This thing didn't pop up now by accident. Someone made it and so far no one's come up with a way to stop it. Maybe the wildfires aren't such a bad thing. Maybe they aren't all accidents, either."

A trip that should have taken a day, two at the most if they dawdled, kept slowing down. They could only move after dark and every other night, they had to stop and forage for food and try to find more diesel for the van. Conveniently abandoned vehicles with full tanks were becoming scarcer.

The pirate radio station they'd picked up on Stiles' emergency radio kept filling them in with ever more bad news, reports of new fires and quarantine zones, outbreaks of the Bleed on the East Coast, along the Mississippi, and in other countries. It cut out one afternoon while they were sweating and drowsing, waiting for nightfall, with the van hidden among hundreds of other vehicles in a vehicle scrapyard east of Stockton. Their stomachs were half way full with snacks from a vending machine in the office break room.

Stiles had taken the old, brown corduroy couch while Derek chose to spread himself out on the floor where it felt marginally cooler. He was drifting, dozing, and contemplating if Stiles' dangling foot kicking at his was irritating enough to warrant moving out of range.

Stiles sat up from the couch he'd stretched out on when Pirate Pete stopped in the middle of a sentence about black helicopters and the new capitol. The transmission didn't turn to static, instead there was just the hum of silence on the other end, followed by a loud bang, gun fire, and command voice ordering, "Shut that thing down."

Another bang, loud even through the tiny speakers on the radio, terminated in blaring static.

Derek got to his feet. Stiles stared at him, big brown eyes wide and dark with alarm. "Did they – they just offed Pirate Pete, didn't they?"

That was what it had sounded like. Derek forced himself to nod. Pirate Pete's broadcasts hadn't had much hard information, but they'd been comforting in their way, a reminder of before. The abrupt, violent silence pointed to a clamp down on any information dispersal outside official channels. It meant things were getting worse.

"I liked him," Stiles said. He waved his hand, still clutching the little radio, "I mean, he was crazier than a shithouse rat, but he was out there and he was trying … Damn."

"I know."

He sat down next to Stiles, lining up their hips and thighs and leaning in close. He meant to comfort Stiles, but the contact helped him too, despite the sticky heat. He listened to Stiles' heartbeat jackrabbit fast with his spinning thoughts. They both kept moving uncomfortably until Stiles swung himself over Derek's lap and Derek twisted and fell backward under him. Some flailing and grabbing at the back of the couch resulted, but they didn't tumble off.

"This is too hot," Stiles commented, but didn't move from blanketing Derek with his body.

"Okay."

Neither of them moved.

Derek settled his arms around Stiles and stroked idly at the small of his back, insinuating his fingers under his t-shirt and his waist, soothing himself with the smooth skin, the sweaty, healthy smell of him overwhelming all the odors lingering in the couch's cushions. Stiles mouthed at the side of Derek's neck, but it was lazy and aimless. Derek tipped his head back anyway, luxuriating in the way he could trust Stiles at his throat. He liked the contact even when it wasn't going to lead to sex.

His hand stopped between Stiles' shoulder blades as he caught the distant thwop-thrum of a helicopter. It dopplered in and out, distant, then went loud as it approached, the heavy bass blade sounds rumbling into Derek's bones. Stiles heard it too and scrambled off him, heading for the door.

Derek bolted after him, nearly upending the couch and caught the back of Stiles' belt just before he made it out the door.

"That's a helicopter!" Stiles was delighted, excited, buzzing himself. "It's – "

"Military," Derek yelled as the noise rattled the windows. "They're not our friends!"

Stiles stopped trying to pull away.

"Who do you think shut down Pirate Pete?" Derek asked softly as the helicopter moved into the distance.

The late afternoon light, spearing between dusty Venetian blinds, caught in Stiles' eyes, reflected in the irises like amber, almost as bright as a bitten beta. His mouth was open, lips chapped again, and he'd gone long enough he needed a shave for his patchy beard. He blinked and pulled an angry face. "Okay, yeah, your paranoia may have a point for once," he said at last, speaking slowly as he detached Derek's hands from his waist – Derek hadn't realized he was still clutching at him. "But it's still this great big sign that maybe everything will be okay. Someone somewhere is getting things working again. Sure, it's the military first, but it'll be cars and stuff soon. Once the electricity is back on, things'll get better."

"I hope so." Derek did. He just didn't believe it would work that way. Instead of saying so and enduring a Stiles' lecture on looking on the bright side, Derek reeled Stiles closer and tucked his nose behind his ear, breathing in the scent of him, the wiry strength in his limbs, the way they were so close in height and fit together. He could make himself believe everything would be okay while he had Stiles in his arms.

"Things are going to get better," Stiles insisted, hugging him tightly.

~*~

Derek heard a helicopter next that night. They were in the open, a flat stretch of road headed north, fields on both sides of them and the waxing moon bright enough even human eyes could see the white van. The windows were down and Stiles had his arm stretched out, palm catching the wind of the passage. Derek had been waiting for him to stick his head out instead, ready to pop a dog joke of his own for once.

The distant buzz-whap of a helicopter reached him sooner than it would have a human, but his subconscious didn't register it as a threat. The Beacon County Police Department didn't have its own helicopter, so he'd never been hunted from the air. His instincts were tuned to land threats, even though he'd been the one to warn Stiles against showing themselves the day before.

It was only as it grew louder that Derek remembered they were driving through what was probably another no-travel zone and even if they weren't, a moving vehicle drew attention now. One operating without head or brake lights would definitely look suspicious.

"Shit."

He slammed the brakes on and only remembered to grab Stiles before he went face first into the dashboard at the last second.

"Some warning next time, dude!" Stiles yelled indignantly.

Derek went for the emergency brake and killed the engine. Without its sound, even Stiles heard what he'd picked up.

The helicopter was approaching fast now, alerting Derek the van had been spotted. If they had night vision they might be okay. If they were looking for heat sources, though, the van's engine would stand out like a fire. He almost cursed that they weren't driving through a burned area, where hot spots would make it impossible to pick out the heat from an engine.

Derek didn't bother growling at Stiles to stop calling him dude. If he ever did, Derek knew that he'd actually miss it, no matter how annoying it was.

"Out of the van, Stiles," he shouted instead. "Now!"

Unwilling to wait for Stiles to move – or more likely demand an explanation before he moved – Derek grabbed him by the back of the neck at the same time he pushed the driver's door open. He jumped out of the van while pulling Stiles, resulting in tangled legs and cursing, but then they were both on the pavement.

"This isn't better, Derek," Stiles protested. "At least they can't see us in the van – "

"They don't have to see us in the van," Derek gritted out as he pulled Stiles into a stumbling run across the verge on the far side of the road, up the weed grown side of an earthen berm, and over. They plunged into the irrigation ditch, crashing through wild mustard, shoulder high cattails and nameless greens, down into the algae thick muck and mud and into the slimy, waist deep water.

"Oh my God, this is disgusting," Stiles exclaimed.

The helicopter was almost on top of them. The tough stems of the cattails and water weeds whipped into their faces and arms. The muck caught at Derek's boots, sucking them deeper and throwing off his balance with every stride. He heard Stiles inhale hard and smelled blood, guessed something had caught tender skin and cut it, and cursed under his breath. They couldn't move fast enough and the shifting cattails would give them away.

The realization brought Derek to a stop. He rocked as Stiles plowed into him from behind, foul smelling water sloshing up and under his shirt. It felt warm and gritty and stank from weeks of standing stagnant.

"We need to get down in the water and be still and quiet," he said. He had to lean close for Stiles to hear him, the helicopter had come to a hovering stop over the van. The wind from the blades whipped the cattails down toward the water, diminishing their cover.

"You're crazy, you know that? They're not going to do anything to us. They worst they'll do is stick us in a holding camp – we can get out easy enough and it might even be one farther north," Stiles argued.

Stiles opened his mouth then snapped it shut. He'd grown up the son of the county sheriff, in and out of the sheriff's station in Beacon Hills, and he had a bone deep belief and trust in law enforcement and, by extension, in the good intentions of other authorities. His brain made him cynical, but at heart, Stiles still trusted. Derek had been raised to trust no one outside his family and had the lesson burned into his soul when he broke that rule. It was as easy for him to expect the worst as it was hard for Stiles. He had to remind himself of that sometimes, when Stiles made him furious by not thinking, despite how smart he was.

"You saw what they did in Ceres." Derek didn't think he needed any more argument than that. There was no room for debate. Stiles needed to stop being contrary and do what Derek told him to do. Not that he would …

"But – "

"Just because they aren't hunting us because I'm a werewolf doesn't mean they aren't hunting," Derek snarled. Derek set his hands on Stiles' shoulders and shoved. He wouldn’t hear the end of it for days, but he could take that.

Stiles went down into the rank water with a muffled shriek. Derek dropped too, all the way to his chin, and kept hold of Stiles to keep him down. Some part of his brain chuckled that they were in an inverse of the time Stiles held him up in a pool with Derek holding Stiles down in the water this time. Especially after he wrestled Stiles around and wrapped his arms around him to keep him from splashing and giving them away.

The noise from the helicopter assaulted Derek's ears so close and reeked of kerosene – fuel – as it settled downward onto the pavement ahead of the van. Derek sank himself and Stiles down until only their noses and eyes were above the water line. He couldn't see anything from there and the combined odors of fuel and vegetative rot overwhelmed his nose, so all he had left to tell him what was happening was his hearing. The spooling whoop of the idling blades and the engines and turbines overwhelmed all the small cues that he'd normally pick up.

Stiles twined one of his hands over Derek's and stopped fighting to get loose.

He didn't hear the steps or heartbeats of men exiting the helicopter. Their voices, just over the berm and echoing off the side of the van startled Derek and Stiles. They both jerked, sending the scummy water sloshing.

"It's a piece of shit, but it's still warm. Someone was in it."

"Yeah, well, good fucking luck finding them in the dark. They de-assed the vehicle and who knows where they are now."

"We could check the ditches."

"In the fucking dark. You want to hump through the mud until you run into a Bleeder, in the fucking dark, be my fucking guest. Me, I'm heading back to base. 'Sides, anyone that's still got the brains to hide from us is probably okay."

"Yeah, fine, okay, but this is still a no-travel zone." The firecracker pop of auto gunfire made Stiles and Derek jerk and huddle deeper in the muddy water. It wasn't aimed at them; whoever was shooting was shooting up the van. When it stopped, he declared, "That bitch ain't going anywhere now."

"Yeah, real impressive, Jameson, now get your ass back on the helo or the pilot's leaving you to hump back to base on foot."

Stiles squeezed Derek's fingers where they rested over his sternum. They listened and waited as the helicopter spooled back up and took off. They kept waiting, listening for any sign of anyone left behind to ambush them or the helicopter returning. All they heard were the slowly returning sounds of the night, insects and birds, a plop in the water Derek knew was a water rat, and the rustling of field mice out in the field.

When Derek was satisfied, they clawed and scrambled their way up the side of the ditch. Mud clung in clumps to the shoes and water weighed their clothes down.

"Yeah," Stiles muttered, "that little dip is going to do great things for the still healing hole in my side."

Derek cursed because he'd forgotten.

"We've still got the supplies in the van, we'll disinfect it," he said, but as they crested the ditch's berm, it became clear that they didn't have anything left in the van. Everything inside had been shredded by gunfire. Diesel from the last can leaked over everything.

Stiles peered past Derek's shoulder. "Well, crap. I guess that's proof it really is much harder to shoot up a vehicle and make it explode than the movies make out. I'm disillusioned and disappointed."

Derek let himself growl to vent a little of his rage. Somehow, over the years of being hunted, he'd come to hate it when the hunters turned vandal on anything he owned more than when they shot or cut or caught and tortured him. He'd tried to stop accumulating things – it made running easier – but once he'd established the pack, they'd begun nesting no matter what shithole he picked as a den and he'd given in to it over the years. Now, everything was burned and abandoned again, and all he and Stiles had had been inside that van. The petty vindictiveness of it bothered and bewildered Derek. He'd never understand it; the wolf might crave blood and death, but not destruction. That gained no one anything.

"I know, I know, I feel like I've been lied to all of these years," Stiles babbled. "The next thing you know, someone will tell me you can't shoot down a helicopter with a handgun or that green M&Ms aren't an aphrodisiac. And then my whole world view will be just shattered – "

"We need to go. Now."

Stiles sighed theatrically. "Yes, I know, I just wanted you to calm down. You were getting louder than the helicopter, I swear. Man, walking in wet shoes and socks is going to suck so bad." He made a whimpering noise. "Will you carry me when I have blisters? Puhleeeeeeze? Pretty please with sprinkles and those cinnamon red hot candies you not-secretly like on it?"

Derek made a grumbling noise. It utterly embarrassed him, but he would carry Stiles and he wouldn't wait for him to get blisters either. He hated to admit it, though. "Can we just get moving? We need to get to cover for the day and preferably beyond any search perimeter they might come back and check."

"Ugh. Okay. Fine. Walking. Walking now." Stiles started down the center of the road.

"Stiles."

"What?" He managed to sound like Derek had put the entire weight of the world on him.

"We're going north."

"What? I'm totally – going south. Like that's not embarrassing." Stiles spun on his heel and began marching, passing Derek with a haughty little shoulder check that didn't even rock Derek. "So? What are you waiting for?"

Derek caught up to him in three steps.

~*~

They slept in a barn through the day and ate boiled barley and oats that had been meant for someone's horses.

Derek's shoes came apart the next night and he shifted to wolf form. Keeping his pace to Stiles' slower one nearly drove him crazy, so he scouted ahead and to the sides in circles that were always within shout and run distance. He found something useful, though it took a minute to register through the haze of wolf thoughts: mouse in the grass, owl overhead, bats, squeaking irritating bats he wanted to leap and snap at, king snake … one less mouse, dead cow up wind, mud, coyote piss, rubber metal glass gas … car. There were still plenty of vehicles abandoned on or beside the roads. He ignored them unless he smelled food inside. This one had something else. He cocked his head at the car and the thing tied onto the roof.

Bicycle.

Derek loped back to Stiles and nudged him eagerly.

"What is it, Lassie?" Stiles joked, but he sounded too tired for it to annoy Derek.

Derek nudged him again.

Stiles ruffled his hand behind Derek's ears. "Something good?"

Derek licked Stiles' hand and waved his tail.

"I worry that I'm increasingly able to understand your wolfy body language without resorting to any canis lupus study cheatsheets," Stiles remarked but lengthened his stride to follow Derek. It took an hour to reach the car in question and Stiles would have just tiredly stumbled past it if Derek didn't stop in front of him.

Stiles' knee nudged into his ribs.

"Dude, you make a great road block."

Derek sat and looked over at the car. Dawn was on its way, lightening the horizon to the east, so the world looked to be made of gray, uncertain shadows. The spokes of the bicycle's wheels gleamed dimly.

Stiles peered at the car and shrugged. He glanced down at Derek then back to the car. "Do you have some magical way of knowing it runs? If it does, why'd it get left here – Oh. Oh. Bike. The bike, of course, hey, good idea, Fang, you'll have to work to keep up with me on this baby."

The bike turned out to be the best idea ever in Stiles admittedly biased opinion. No more fucking about to find fuel. Derek stuck to four feet and loped along beside Stiles effortlessly. They even raced a few times. It was like some werewolf Norman Rockwell boy and his dog scene. The bike threaded through spaces even a motorcycle wouldn't fit and Stiles carried it over his shoulder a couple of times.

Stiles cut back on the complaints about not being able to see where he was peddling too, after Derek gave in and they rode (well, Derek loped) through one incredibly, horribly, long hot day. The sunburn on Stiles' nape and arms hurt worse than the knife wound, he swore. Derek did the pain suck thing three times during the night and Stiles still wanted to whimper the next day. He decided that the sun was a huge, evil, cruel thing that should be avoided, much like poison oak and skunks.

When he told Derek this, Derek grunted in vague agreement, reminding Stiles of the time the pack ran afoul of a skunk while running in the Preserve. Scott – of course it was Scott – got sprayed in the face. Derek leapt up into a tree and the others ran, but Scott howled and clawed at his eyes and ran blindly, tearing through brush and bouncing off trees. It was pretty horrible really and only Stiles and Derek had been able to stomach getting near enough to help him. Though stomach was not quite the word; Stiles had puked up everything he'd had all day and Derek kept throwing up long after he had nothing to come up. The up side had been that they'd taken Scott to Deaton's clinic in the Jeep and none of the werewolves would get inside it again for over a year.

Yeah, that had been a plus, but Stiles still felt a little nauseous just remembering the way Scott smelled and from Derek's faintly green face he did too.

So, skunks, poison oak – he was never talking about camp and the places he got it, he never even told Scott that story – and the sun, that fucker, because if he lived to die of cancer he'd know exactly when he got it. He felt relatively sure he'd sweated out his body weight that day too. And it was getting harder to find fresh water. Unlike Derek, he would not drink out of a drainage ditch.

"You're going to get sick from that," he pointed out sourly and pulled out the last generic cola can they'd scrounged out of the back of a blue Taurus left by the road near Walnut Grove.

Derek lolled his tongue out at him.

They'd taken to looking for camp trailers, which were often stocked with some canned goods and bottled water and had beds. The last one had been a fifth-wheel monster with a gas stove and clothes that fit them. It had been caught in the freeway crash and the back end was caved in and most of the glass had broken out, but they'd still considered it a find.

Stiles had even found condoms in a cracked up Mustang nearby. They'd spent a long day in the full-sized bed at the front of the trailer. It had full water tanks, so they'd bathed and Derek had tenderly spread sunburn crème from the well-stocked emergency kit over Stiles' reddened skin. Then he'd licked and touched every inch of Stiles that wasn't burnt before they'd gotten around to the sex and then Derek had finally pushed inside him the way Stiles had wanted and Derek had been too worried about the stab wound to try before. The heat had been bad, even with the broken out windows allowing some fresher air inside – along with an array of unpleasant scents they'd both learned to ignore – but the sweat just let them slide against each other easier. It stretched out forever, as they wrested and then teased climaxes from each other, until the light was honey heavy and their mingled scents hung thick in the air, suspended in the languorous, lazy end of the day, one last orgasm rolling them under like a warm wave.

That, though, had been two days ago. Stiles was sweaty and tired and thirsty as he sucked down carbonated corn syrup and Derek hadn't switched back to human since then. He felt lonely and had begun to worry, because Derek spent more and more time in the wolf form. It scared him when he contemplated the idea Derek could get lost in it, just lose being human, and forget.

He'd always known that that was Derek's weakness, that he carried so much pain and guilt that something that offered a way to erase it would tempt him. If drugs or alcohol worked at all on werewolves, Derek might have lost himself in them. Or he might not have, because Derek's self-loathing ran so deep he didn't think he deserved to escape it. It – Derek – was better the last few years, but Stiles worried that being the wolf, just the wolf, might be the one thing Derek couldn't deny himself, because it was himself.

He swallowed back all the words though, because he didn't get to decide for Derek, didn't want to add to the hurt if he was wrong or if he was right, and he couldn't judge, he didn't think anyone wouldn't at least think about it if they had the option to never hurt again.

Even if it meant forgetting who they had been.

He remembered wanting to disappear or be someone else after his mother died.

Derek whined and nudged the empty curl of Stiles fingers with his nose. "You just want me to pet you," Stiles told him and did. Derek leaned into him, dense and warm and radiating affection.

Maybe Stiles was wrong. Derek was still Derek in the wolf form. He wasn't forgetting Stiles; he actually showed more emotion toward him this way, without words getting in the way.

"I'm making mountains out of molehills again," Stiles remarked, "that's what my dad would say. I exaggerate little things into giant problems. That's my problem."

Derek licked Stiles' hand and made a rumbling noise that wasn't a growl or a laugh, but something closer to a purr. It was a good sound, Stiles decided, one he liked.

"Okay, it's about an hour until dawn, think we can find some place to hang out for the day before then?"

They were closing in on Sacramento, which meant more places to crash, but also more people. The radio had been silent since the night Pirate Pete went off the air, but they'd heard and seen repeated helicopter fly-bys. Moving vehicles, already rare, had virtually disappeared. Stiles kept thinking of it as this landmark in their journey home. Sac wasn't just the capitol, it was north state, even if it was still in the valley, and it was the last really big city before Oregon. After Sacramento, they'd be climbing steadily, and once they passed Redding, they'd be high enough they'd start escaping the worst of the August heat. He just felt like once they got through Sacramento, they'd be on the home stretch.

Closer to home than not.

They'd come this far all the way from Baja. They'd make it.

He should have known that would jinx it. Thinking like that, he knew better, that was like being the good looking, dumb and sex-positive girl in a horror movie and wandering off by yourself. He made no apologies for making that comparison either, because horror movies were full of heteronormative, misogynistic crap meant to reinforce conservative paranoia. The whole message was keep your panties on and don't stick your nose where it isn't supposed to go, stay home and be little worker drones and the thing under the bed (or in your closet, ha) won't rip your life into shreds.

The chain on the bike broke just south of the city limits, well within the urban build up, on the west side of the river. Stiles ended up with road rash on his elbow, and when he checked out the bike, the rear wheel had a visible bend from his weight coming down on it and a curb.

"Shit," Stiles said with a groan. He didn't bother getting up, just shuffled to the side and sat on the curb, cradling his elbow. Derek sniffed the air a couple of times and cocked his head to listen, then shifted back into his human shape. He was kind of pale and amazing looking in the darkness and Stiles made no bones about watching as he snagged his clothes from the pack strapped to the now ruined bike and dressed.

Derek bent the wheel back as well as he could, but it was still torqued out of true and the chain remained broken. It would be easier to find another than find a way to fix it. Stiles resolutely did not make a list in his head of the various avenue of transport he and Derek had done in so far on their trip. If he did, he'd have to conclude they needed to hop a train or hijack a plane. They'd already explored the variations of two wheels and four wheels and two feet and four feet. He supposed they could steal a couple of horses, except he didn't know how to ride and horses didn't react well to werewolves.

Cats were fine with werewolves. Horses, cows, goats, sheep, they all freaked out. Stiles supposed it made sense. Cats had a lot in common with Lydia: they were arrogant enough to think they'd never be prey.

He explained this theory to Derek while they walked.

"Tell that to a coyote," Derek replied with a snort of laughter. Which, ouch, yeah, everyone in LA knew the coyotes considered cats and purse dogs to be free, fresh, fast food.

If they'd had any sense at all, they'd have veered west toward Davis, but Stiles' dad had a couple of friends, an ex-deputy that moved south when his wife picked up a job at American River College, and they lived in North Highlands. Mooney Garrison had been a fixture in the Stilinski house when Stiles was little. Leila, his wife, had been Stiles' mom's best friend, even after they moved. He wanted to be able to tell his dad he'd checked on them. He kind of hoped they'd have room and some real, cooked food too, though he wasn't counting on it – he actually thought Derek might go hunting and they'd offer some rabbits to grill in exchange for a place to crash. Mooney had been a grill master; he could do something with rabbit besides burn it the way Stiles did.

He carefully did not think about whether they would find the Mooneys in their little suburban development house. Stiles knew that the odds weren't particularly good. He just preferred to keep an upbeat outlook. It kept him from imagining having to tell his Dad they were dead. It kept him from wondering if his Dad would still be in Beacon Hills and all right to hear about the Mooneys when Stiles and Derek got there. He couldn't deal with that: it was unbearable. Unacceptable.

They were going to be fine. Everyone was going to be fine. His Dad, the pack, the Mooneys … all of them. Stiles was feeling better every day. He'd have a bad ass scar to show off and that was it. And Derek was pretty much invincible.

They'd be fine.

They just needed a plan for the rest of the trip.

"So, look," Stiles said as they walked side by side, winding their way toward the River Walk, trying to ignore that there weren't any people out in the streets, "if we spend the night in North Highlands, or the day, okay, whatever, we can head straight north out of there, parallel El Centro and head up through Yuba and Marysville, steer clear of I-5 and even Redding. What do you think?"

"Maybe, if your dad's friends are there," Derek acceded. His shoulders were tense. "Would the two of us together bother them?"

Stiles blinked in shock. He hadn't even considered that question and now that he did, he had exactly no fucks to give over what Mooney and Leila thought about him and Derek. He and Derek were together and anyone that didn't like it could kindly remove themselves from his life. "Uh. They're not homophobes. They might not want us fucking in the guest room, but other than that, it's none of their business, is it?"

"But you'd tell them?"

"Hell, yes, I'll tell them. I'm going to tell anyone who ever looks remotely curious that I've bagged the guy I've been crazy about for years."

He loved that little half-hidden smile that lifted Derek's lips and the way he ducked his head just a little, because it might hide the blush on Derek's face, but it just highlighted the way his ears pinked up.

"You have the most adorable ears on Earth," Stiles declared. He had to laugh when those ears just got redder.

"You're insane."

Derek's step hitched and he cocked his head.

"You hear something? Like, you know, people?"

"Yes."

"Don't sound so thrilled."

Derek rolled his shoulders, heavy muscle rippling under a tight, somewhat grimy t-shirt, and said, "There are a lot of people. A lot of them in the buildings. I don't know. Hiding." He hesitated and added, "And there are Bleeders." He tensed, head swiveling away from Stiles to focus on a scent, and then grabbed Stiles' arm. "Come on. They're coming."

"Coming from where?" Stiles blurted like an idiot. If Derek was dragging him in one direction, the threat was pretty obviously coming from the opposite one.

"Everywhere." Derek skidded and scrambled to redirect them, but momentum nearly tore Stiles' arm out of the socket. Stiles back pedaled madly, because there were Bleeders out in the street ahead of them. He'd never seen any of them up close, just heard the descriptions over Pirate Pete's transmissions and Derek's report about the man in Los Angeles, who might or might not have been infected.

The people ahead of them and, when Stiles dares a glance back the way they'd come, behind them, were definitely Bleeders. He didn't need to be close enough to see the telltale bloodshot sclera or the fingernails gone purple with the blood bruising under them: their faces were half-masks of blood from their tears and their noses. It splotched on their clothes and in some cases dripped from them to the ground.

The thing was this wasn't a scene from 28 Days Later or some video game. The Bleeders weren't mindless with rage or shambling zombies wanting to munch on brains. Despite the blood, they were still aware, still human, in as much as any mob could be considered human. Stiles knew if he pulled out the .45 he still had and shot at them, he'd be killing people.

People who were pissed off and yelling and going to die anyway and intent on making sure he joined them, but still: human beings. He didn't know if he could pull the trigger. Not again. Everyone said killing got easier, that you became desensitized, but Stiles just felt bile boiling up from his stomach and fear sweat slicking his hands, the faces of the two men in Mexico and Weedy flickering through his mind's-eye.

Yelling, angry, sick human beings and more were coming out of … everywhere. Stiles knew that wasn't technically true, but he and Derek were running hard and he couldn't stop and figure out if they'd just been lying around waiting for someone new to hate or holed up in buildings. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs until it felt like inhaling powdered acid. Derek just kept dragging him along, dodging between stalled vehicles and sometimes vaulting onto the hoods or trunks.

Which was fine and very cinematic for Derek, but Stiles didn't have his supernatural athleticism or aerobic capacity and his shoes slipped and his knees hurt and his side felt like that knife had been stuck right back in him again. He didn't have any breath left to ask where the hell they were headed and no faith Derek had any real plan – not that Stiles did either, they'd both been incredibly stupid, just wandering through a major population center. They should have known the Bleed would have reached the capitol.

They sprinted for an empty off ramp leading up to a stretch of east-west highway. Stiles thought they'd make it. They were, after all, healthy and in good shape, while the Bleeders were sick and dying. He recognized where they were, the Tower Bridge, painted an ochre yellow that the sun turned golden, afternoon gilt as a Gold Rush dream where it spanned the Sacramento River and led back into the city center. Just to the north stood the unmistakable, pale Aztec ziggurat of the Money Store building. The glass was gone and the walls were pock marked like something from a war zone, stained black and browns and at the peak with soot. Bodies hung on ropes or cables, naked and bloated, over the sides of the giant steps.

It made for a new addition to Stiles' ever expanding mental 'too horrible to contemplate' file. It caused him to freeze and stare and then stumble when Derek jerked his arm.

"Stiles, damn it, move!"

He did and would have sworn there was nothing to trip on, but the unmistakable feeling of his foot twisting in his shoe and his ankle doing something unspeakably painful when the rest of him moved and the shoe didn't let his foot follow, told a different story. It had to be one of the unpatched cracks in the concrete highway. He didn't hear any bones snapping but it felt like it. It felt like someone took a golf club and swung for the hole-in-one using his ankle for the ball.

It punched a harsh grunt of pain out of him and sent him to his knees. Derek spun back to him, cursing and then there were three Bleeders on them, kicking at Stiles, yelling their own obscenities, staggering but still brutally smart enough to make a ring around Stiles so he couldn't scramble away.

He wanted to yell at Derek to go and leave him, but he didn't have the breath for it. Maybe he wouldn't have anyway; he didn't want to be left to die on the hot concrete between a wrecked truck and a green compact with all its tinted glass sparkling on the light gray pavement around it. He was so fucking afraid right then he couldn‛t marshal his magic to his defense, couldn't lift his arms from trying to shield himself to fight back, couldn't even breathe through it. He believed, the way he never had before, never, that he was going to die, and he didn't want to do it alone.

Not that Derek would have listened to him. Werewolves were stupidly loyal and unwilling to leave anyone behind. And Derek was the stupidest of them all, with his neurotic terror of losing anyone else from his life. Derek wasn't afraid of dying; Derek was afraid of anyone else dying.

The roar Derek gave out should have scared the Bleeders away, but these three were at the cusp between sanity and delirium. They yelled, all filth and fury, incoherent with it.

Another boot slammed into Stiles' shoulder and he curled up while trying to shield his head and his ribs. If he rolled away, the guy on the other side was going to get him. The one kicking him kept shouting, "Teach you, teach you, teach you, teach you, little bastard, teach you," over and over. The others made noises that made no sense, just loud, gut deep vocalizations.

The one kicking him screamed as Derek came at him, caught him from behind around the chest and threw him into the side of a jack-knifed semi three lanes away. Stiles squinted from under his elbow. Derek had half wolfed out, not quite in beta form, just claws and canines and burning eyes. He was kind of gorgeous that way, all deadly grace and strength.

The other two Bleeders were too far gone mentally to run. Instead, they attacked, throwing themselves on Derek, bearing him down with their combined weight. They punched and kicked and Derek drew his claws back in, but it didn't matter. They were Bleeders and it ran from their noses, splattered from their mouths in a froth of contaminated saliva, flew from their hands when the skin over their knuckles split.

Stiles staggered to his feet. Maybe he should have run – he knew he should run – but he tackled the shoulders of one of the Bleeders, a brawny man outweighing him by at least seventy pounds. Derek punched the third man in the jaw, hard enough Stiles heard bone break and a snap that silenced the grunting mishmash of obscenity. The one Stiles was trying to wrestle gave a rolling snap to his shoulders and reared up fast and hard enough to throw Stiles off.

He landed on the one Derek had just punched out, his elbow squishing into the guy's throat. Stiles hoped he was already dead – if he wasn't, Stiles had just killed him. A gout of blood blew out of his mouth, aspirated blood and saliva in a mist that settled on Stiles' cheek and ear and the corners of his mouth and eyes.

Cold. Cold when he was sweating and terrified. That mist of fluids felt cold as it settled onto his skin, onto his lips, the smell of it salty in his nostrils. He couldn't blink his eyes clear of it; his lashes were sticky with it. For just one second, it felt like ice and then Stiles' entire body flushed hot and sick, knowledge sinking in just as the infection did. Shock made his thoughts go thick and slow, so he just turned his head and watched Derek finish the last man.

Derek remembered not to use his claws, didn't even kill the last Bleeder, just threw him down hard enough he wouldn't get up. Snarls tore from his throat, a raw sound that trailed into something like a whine as he caught sight of Stiles.

Stiles might have whimpered himself. Derek had been exposed too. He stifled the urge to wipe his face clean, afraid he wouldn‛t stop with a swipe, that he'd claw himself raw and bloody if he didn't maintain the strange, insulated detachment that was letting him keep his composure.

Blood had splattered across Derek's face too, was smeared across his mouth and dripping from one eyebrow. Stiles watched a split in the skin on one cheek bone smooth over like nothing, but he couldn't guess how much of the blood was from Derek and how much from the Bleeder.

"We're … " Stiles had to catch his breath. He used the moment to crawl off the Bleeder under him. He didn't bother being careful what he touched. Didn't see the point of getting to his feet, either. Derek crouched an arm's length away and watched him from pale, human eyes, all the color bleached away. Stiles raised his chin and said it, "We're both contaminated." The only way he could handle this was pretending complete calm, like none of it touched – oh god, oh shit – him or Derek. It didn't matter. It didn't mean a damn thing.

They were … not going to be okay, but they'd do what they had to do, the way Derek always had and Stiles had learned. Just one more shitty hand, one last fuck you from the universe, and Stiles should break down screaming, but he couldn't do that to Derek.

Derek closed his eyes and nodded. His shoulders slumped and he let his head hang at the end of the nod. Perspiration glued the dark hair at his temples to his skin. Blood glued the hair on his bare forearms down, sweat keeping it wet and shining. He hadn't looked so bruised and gaunt and exhausted since they faced the Alpha pack. Stiles wanted to hug him. He wanted to hold onto Derek until everything went away and this wasn't happening to either of them. They didn't deserve this, Derek didn't deserve this, this wasn't the way it wasn't supposed to end for them. Stiles wanted to scream that it wasn't fair, but when had anything ever been fair?

He stared at his hands instead. They were bloody and his palms stung, abraded in places he hadn't noticed as it happened. Open wounds equaled exposure. He flexed his fingers open and then closed into fists. Blood to blood. One hundred percent. So screwed. His vision kept blurring out and Stiles realized he was crying.

"You think you'll get it?" he asked, voice cracking, before glancing up when Derek didn't say anything. Light speared off windshields and chrome and the air felt cooked and useless in his lungs. They both knew Stiles would get it. No one knew how small an exposure was enough to infect someone with the Bleed, but Stiles had had a big exposure.

"I told you werewolves catch the same stuff humans do," Derek said finally. He stared into the distance. A bead of sweat balanced on his collar bone. His throat worked when he swallowed. "We just heal faster. If we do." He looked horrible, a world of guilt bowing him down under its weight.

"Super immune systems."

"I don't know." Derek met Stiles' gaze. "But if I get it, it will show sooner than you, so we need to get to someplace I can be locked up." That horrible determination that had kept Derek going after losing everything, even Laura and Peter, stiffened his spine. Derek did what had to be done. He was expecting Stiles to do the same.

He straightened up and offered his hand to pull Stiles to his feet. Stiles' jeans stuck to him when he moved, binding over his thighs, sticky and stiff with dirt and blood where he'd absentmindedly wiped his hands. He was wearing infectious waste now.

Derek pulled his hand free once Stiles was standing again.

"And then what?" Stiles asked. His side throbbed and his ankle pulsed with pain, threatening to fail under his weight with each step. His head ached. He blamed that on the heat and the brightness. Stress and hypochondria. He couldn't feel the sickness yet. Might not for days. The roil in his stomach was because hadn't eaten anything today.

Derek started walking east over the bridge.

"Then what!?" Stiles shouted after him.

"Then you kill me."

Derek didn't turn around.

Eventually, Stiles stepped over the dead Bleeder and limped after him, ankle threatening to fail again with every step.

All those times Stiles had fought with Derek and demanded Derek trust him and when Derek finally did, it was to kill him.

~*~

He wasn't panicking. He didn't panic anymore. He distracted himself and kept on walking, doing whatever came next, and stubbornly not thinking about anything else. He didn't think about catching the Bleed, just how it must work, what the hell it must be. That was better. That let him function. He had to keep going because Derek needed him.

Stiles wondered if the Bleed manipulated its victims behavior the way some parasites did, amping its victims aggressive tendencies so they went out and fought and spread it to others. How sophisticated was the Bleed? Whoever engineered it had been a real supervillain in the annals of genetic fuckery. Maybe he'd taken a page from the book of toxoplasmosis gondii. There were fungi that did that kind of thing to flies. Took over their bodies and forced them to land at the highest points they could so when the fungi burst forth with its spores they would spread farther. Stiles might have doubted science had progressed that far if he hadn't already had his eyes opened to the supernatural. Plus he'd once read every Wikipedia link on mind-controlling parasites as the result of … well, he didn't remember what he'd originally been looking up, but the suicidal mice had been much more interesting.

Witness that he still remembered them.

He glanced off the side of the bridge, half considering whether the drop was enough to kill him, and grimaced. No. It wouldn't even work. Derek would dive in after him. The Sacramento was a calm river, placid jade green where it ran deep, true and constant, and without epic history. People regularly bobbed their way on inner tubes down stretches of it during the summer. It was still a river, though, powerful and secret, so people regularly drowned in it, but you had to work at the stupid or have bad luck to go that way. That was the river Stiles knew.

Like everything else, the river had been changed.

Bodies floated along the eddying edges, bloated and bleached, naked and clothed and trailing sheet shrouds.

The flecks of blood on his face dried and flaked off, dotting his shirt like tiny bugs. Stiles tried flicking them off, but that just smeared the blood into the shirt. He gave up and used the hem of his shirt to rub off as much of the blood from his face as he could.

"Any idea where you're going?" he asked Derek after they left the bridge and started northward again.

"No. Just someplace you can lock me up."

"Yeah, how's that going to work, alpha, my alpha?"

Derek's shoulders slumped. "I don't know, Stiles," he said. "How would I know?"

"So, I'm supposed to hope this fucking plague kills werewolves faster than humans, so you don't have a chance to go out on a rampage? Oh, and, be to the dubya, if you break out and bite a bunch of people, are they going to turn into werewolf Bleeders too?"

Derek wouldn't look at him. "That's why you have to shoot me if it looks like I'm going to do that."

"You know, aside from the whole not wanting to off the love of my fucking life, I've got three bullets left in the .45 and not one of them is dumdummed with wolfsbane. All I'm going to do is piss you off."

Derek stopped in his tracks, which meant Stiles ran right into him, because he was paying more attention to continuing his rant than where he was walking. He smushed his face right into the space between and just above Derek's shoulder blades. His nose caught on the neck of Derek's t-shirt and dragged it down. Derek shivered when Stiles snuffle-sneezed the cloth away from his nostrils.

His hands settled automatically on Derek's hips. "Hey."

Derek leaned back into him and he might have more muscle but he wasn't really taller or bigger than Stiles, so he fit, and it hurt, under Stiles' heart, the way he let Stiles hold him up. They'd taken so long to get to a place where Derek could trust him like this. The rest of forever wouldn't have been enough for Stiles to get tired of being with Derek. (They didn't belong to each other. Stiles hated that idea, that anyone could own someone else. They belonged with each other, they chose each other and to continue side by side and together and wasn't that better? Being someone's choice and not their owner, not their possession?) He wrapped his arms around Derek and hugged him as close as he could, so like and unlike the time at the high school pool – you don't trust me, I don't trust you – and held on.

"Love of your life?" Derek repeated, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah." His heartbeat steadily, averring the truth. "You are." Love of his life, even if it looked like that life wasn't going to be all that long. He'd have liked to have grown old with Derek. Woke up to gray in Derek's beard and griping over who forgot to buy milk and doing taxes and laundry and yelling at the pack when they got rowdy or stupid. He pressed his forehead against the back of Derek's neck. "I was just waiting. I wish I knew for what. I feel like I wasted everything."

"You didn't," Derek said. "You – "

Stiles gave him a smacking kiss where he'd been nuzzling a second before and stepped back. "I wish it would rain."

Derek side-eyed him but accepted the evasion, the easy out, and they started walking again. Stiles stifled a sob under some babble about how he always looked forward to the Pagoda building anytime he rode down to Sac for something with his dad, the way he'd divided the journey into stretches between landmarks that only meant something to him, and how over the years most of them had disappeared, billboards and businesses gone, but the Pagoda still tipped up the corners of its greenish roof, even if it was a bit lost and overwhelmed in the mid-town buildings now. Sacramento didn't have much in the way of skyscrapers, but what ones were there clustered downtown.

"The funny thing is, I have no idea what's in that building," Stiles finished, "not even now."

Derek caught his hand and held on as they walked between the dead cars on the multi-lane exchange, high enough up on the overpasses they could look and find some place to hole up.

"There, I guess," Stiles declared. He pointed to where the river looped around a train switching yard, a few blocks north of the Pagoda building.

An exit into downtown took them off the freeway, but despite the proximity to the capitol building, they neither saw nor heard anyone, just a lone plastic bag fluttering along a sidewalk and birds hopping along the pavement.

They walked on, hand in hand, and if Stiles' feet dragged, Derek kindly didn't comment.

The quiet bent around them, almost as palpable as the heat, something every step cleaved through that closed up behind them.

~*~

Derek ran hot compared to a human. Stiles knew that. Stiles had made dog jokes about that. But the hand in his began sweating and getting hotter than normal within hours. They walked through the rail yard, realizing big chunks of it were being redeveloped or preserved. There were wide stretches of barren ground too, dried brown weeds, and the train tracks, of course. The bleached blue sky overhead shaded to a stained, dirty hue to the west and the north. When the north wind gusted across the yard, it lifted the stench of garbage and death just enough even Stiles could smell the smoke.

He tugged Derek forward while hoping that despite his better senses, he wouldn't notice.

"Oh, this is where the first transcontinental railroad started from on this coast," Stiles said after they reached older buildings, trailing his fingers over one faded brick wall. He glanced around and thought he would have liked to explore it before. There was a museum. That would have been sweet.

Derek broke the lock on a door and they trailed inside, into a vaulting, empty space that must have once held train cars under repair. The opaque windows provided light, tinted an eerie greenish-purple, which made sense if the buildings dated back to the eighteen hundreds. The air inside was stagnant and even warmer than outside, with an underlying smell of fuel.

"We need to find an axe or a machete," Derek said.

"Are you hallucinating? Because, serious lack of offending vegetation in here." Stiles arched his brows at Derek's serious expression.

"So you can cut my head off after you shoot me."

"What the hell is it with you and wanting me to cut off parts of your anatomy!?" Stiles demanded, abruptly furious. "First with the arm back when I barely knew you and now your damned head! Are you crazy? Do you want to traumatize me for life?" He caught his breath and made himself walk away. Socking Derek wouldn't do any good. Stupid fucking werewolf. If the Bleed killed Derek, then there was no hope for a skinny fucking human, even one with a spark of magic. Derek was something supernatural, Derek was supposed be immune, but Derek didn't seem to think he was. Stiles thought that losing Derek now was going to kill him. He was going to sit down and let the infection do its thing, not that he'd have any choice, but he wouldn't care. Because anything that could take Derek down wasn't ever going to stop anyway. The world was screwed.

He wanted his Dad. His Dad would hug him and tell him things were going to be okay, because that‛s what dads did, even for their twenty-year-old sons. He wanted a 'kiddo' and a hug at least. He wanted to hear his Dad's voice. He wanted to tell his Dad how much he loved him. He‛d never told his Dad that enough. But he couldn't even do that. "Shit," he said, "I miss phones."

"I'm sorry – "

"Don't even say it. It's not your damn fault. It just … it sucks, you know it does, and it's a shitty thing to ask me to do."

"But you can do it, you will do it, because you have to," Derek said. Stiles spun around and glared, but Derek just looked raw and ready to break. "You're the only one I'd trust to do it."

"You manipulative fucker. I hate you so much right now."

Derek sank down to sit on the bare concrete. "I thought it was better than threatening to kill you, since I'm … " He swallowed. "I'm probably going to lose control."

"Yeah, I got that. Where am I going to find a machete or an axe anyway?" Stiles asked as he sat down too. His knee nudged Derek's. He felt too tired to maintain his anger. He didn't want to spend the last few days they had angry anyway.

"You can probably find a shovel in a maintenance shed. Square point. That would work. Just like a snake. Shoot me first, in the head."

"You're so romantic, I'm going to throw up." He knew what Derek meant, though. As Sheriff, Stiles' dad wasn't big on discharging firearms just to kill a rattlesnake. Hoes and shovels were much quieter, didn't go off accidentally, and didn't require filling out a report, so Stiles had learned the technique Derek was talking about. Snakes didn't show up in town that often, but you couldn't wander around the Preserve or the National Forest lands that made up most of Beacon County and not run into a rattlesnake sooner or later. Stiles had taken the head off one with sharp hoe once.

He really had gagged and nearly puked afterward too, when it was dead and the adrenaline crashed out of his system. That was before the werewolves though, before he found out how much more terrifying intent made danger. The idea of digging a shovel blade through Derek's beautiful neck made him remember the way the snake's body had writhed even while its head was pinned and Stiles' weight had shoved the less than sharp shovel down through it, the way the skin and flesh had compressed before finally tearing. He didn't think he could do it. It wasn't like shooting something or even using Consuelo's bone knife. Even if it was necessary, he didn't know that he had the resolve it would take. Derek thought he did, but Derek had to be pretty desperate right now. He swallowed hard and pushed away the thought as well as he could, afraid he really would vomit.

"Please don't," Derek murmured.

Stiles laughed a little, because why not? What would crying get him? He knee-walked closer, close enough to bend and kiss the ball of Derek's shoulder, to lick at the stubbled corner of his jaw, and nip at the edge of his ear. He kept his balance with one hand on the hard muscle of Derek's thigh. Derek sighed and shivered at the attention, but it wasn't the sweet little sound Stiles had already learned meant Derek was interested. He wasn't being pushed away, but he wasn't being pulled in, and when he checked Derek's crotch he didn't see any sign of arousal.

He leaned against Derek anyway and petted random bits of him he could reach, not trying to take it anywhere.

"Do you want to?" Derek asked.

"One last fuck?" Stiles asked. He could have got into it, just being with Derek got him going, but he didn't feel any urgency. "I could." He didn't believe Derek felt like it and that drained him of any real desire.

"Let's not."

Stiles rubbed Derek's back through his sweaty shirt. "Some other time." He rearranged his position so he was sitting on his ass instead of kneeling before slipping his arm around Derek. Sometimes that was better with Derek: just being with him, the part they'd already had before Baja. Derek and he had always been masters of pushing everyone away and protecting themselves, but even when they weren't friends yet, they'd been able to work together. They knew about cost and cutting your losses and that sometimes the only thing you could do was be as ruthless as possible.

Derek felt fever hot most of the time, but Stiles didn't have to touch him to feel the furnace heat radiating from his skin now. He was sweat slick. Stiles picked up Derek's closest wrist and took his pulse the way Scott's mom had taught them, frowning over the speed mad flutter he found. Derek's heart normally beat steady and remarkably slow, whether as a result of his emotional control, his obsession with keeping at peak fitness, or as a result of werewolf biology. He turned Derek's hand over when he finished and gasped.

The beds of Derek's fingernails were already red-purple.

"What?" Derek asked. His eyes were closed. They looked bruised and hollowed. Stiles lifted Derek's fingers to his lips and kissed each one. He could be sentimental; he was the king of sentimental.

"Nothing." He let go of Derek's hand before pushing himself back to his feet. Sitting, even for such a short period, had done nothing for his bruises and stiffening muscles. He ached inside and out and down in his bones. "I'm going to look around a little."

"I – "

"You should stay here."

He knew how sick Derek must already feel when Derek didn't object, didn't even protest again.

"I'll be right back."

"You're coming back?"

"Wild horses and whatevers, Rin Tin Tin." Stiles‛ heartbeat never stuttered. "Why don't you just lie down and rest. I can already see you're feeling bad."

"Dog names always make me feel so much better," Derek replied, but it was obviously an effort.

Stiles set his hand on Derek's shoulder and Derek let him urge him into reclining all the way. Stiles shoved his pack under Derek's head and his fear ratcheted higher as Derek didn't even open his eyes, just groaned and let Stiles move him around. He swept his palm over Derek's forehead, lifting sweat matted hair away, trying to judge just how hot Derek might be. Hot enough his brain would be cooking if he were human. Hot enough the temperature difference made Derek shudder and slit his eyes open briefly, before moaning and turning his face away from the light.

"Just go."

"Right back, Rover," Stiles swore.

A subvocal growl followed him as he bolted out.

~*~

He did find a shovel. He didn't look as hard as he could have, if he was truthful with himself, and for once he was. He found a fire ax along with an extinguisher too. He manfully repressed memories of Scott and that first shift in the locker room at BHHS, of using the fire extinguisher to stop Scott as he wolfed out, and left both where they were. Stiles also ate the package of cheese and crackers he found along with a candy bar in the same desk drawer hiding place his dad favored for illicit snack foods. He‛d become quite adept at searching for food stuffs in offices even before snack foods became worth more than their weight in gold. He ate on automatic, because he needed food and because the action was soothing, and then had to ignore the heavy feel of the food in his belly, unsure if it was bad or just his own body rebelling along with his thoughts.

Rust-pitted and blunt, round-nosed instead of a square point, the shovel wouldn't do the job, but Stiles had concluded while he was searching that he couldn't decapitate Derek anyway. Bringing it back was just a way to placate Derek. Stiles had decided to gamble on werewolf super healing beating out the Bleed. If he was wrong, well, he'd been wrong before, only this time he wouldn't be around long enough to see the consequences.

He'd never claimed he wasn't a selfish little shit.

Panic surged through him when he returned through the door with the broken lock. A pool of bloody, black bile-threaded vomit glistened next to his pack in the space where he'd left Derek. He hadn't heard a howl and definitely would have, so he hoped Derek hadn't staggered out, delirious and raging, bloodlust having broken his superb control.

Walking closer let Stiles see powdering white claw scars in the concrete. He followed them and splatters of blood with his gaze.

A moan from the shadows under the windows ended one worry, that Derek had gone, but did nothing for the rest. Stiles found Derek curled on his side, back shoved against the brick wall. Stiles dropped the shovel with a clang and the rest of his paltry booty with it. Derek moaned again when Stiles crouched at his head, but didn't register Stiles' presence. The moan morphed into convulsive coughing, scarlet blood that ran from his mouth and nose interspersed with spitting up thick, choking phlegm. He'd gone blue-tinted beneath a mask of blood, compromised lungs not able to supply his body with enough oxygen.

Besides the shovel, Stiles scavenged someone's puffy blue winter parka from a closet, a bottle of water from an otherwise empty mini-fridge in a break room and a horrendous crocheted Afghan blanket from the same.

The parka was too small for Derek or him, but it made a decent pillow to sit on. Stiles squirmed between Derek and the wall, then maneuvered Derek between his legs, sitting him up so he could breathe better. Derek's stubble rasped against Stiles' palm when he turned Derek's head so his cheek rested over his heart. He draped the blanket over Derek's shoulders one-handed and then leaned back.

He had to kick out with one leg to pull the water bottle close enough to grasp without moving Derek again. Derek let the water dribble from his mouth when Stiles got it open and tried to get him to drink.

He held on while Derek tipped to the side and vomited twice more and kept his freak out over the scarlet spew quiet. The foul black bile werewolves threw up when they were poisoned would have been a good sign, a sign Derek's body was getting rid of what had infiltrated it. The red blood showed the Bleed was ahead of the curve, beating Derek the same way it beat human immune systems.

He used the corner of the Afghan and a little of the water to wipe Derek's face and mouth afterward. His fingers left bruises under the pale skin of Derek's jaw. Werewolves bruised, but they healed so quick it nearly never showed – only another alpha would leave a mark for long. When Derek's eyes slitted open they were red. Not alpha crimson, glowing like lanterns in the night, but bloodshot, capillaries burst and leaking, turning the whites red, and they didn't track at all.

Derek whined off and on, when he had the breath between coughing, and his claws came out and dug into the concrete, but he didn't shift any further than that. Hours slid past, until Stiles' ass hurt from the concrete even through his makeshift cushion and his legs were asleep under Derek's weight, and he'd concluded in his head that for Derek the Bleed would bypass the aggressive, delirious phase.

The tension hardening Derek's muscled back alerted him that he'd been wrong again. Next came a rolling, gut deep rumble that escalated into a fanged snarl. Stiles couldn't move away from Derek with the wall at his back, but he released his arms and sprawled his legs wider to avoid any sense of entrapment.

Derek vaulted onto his feet and crossed the width of the empty room. The blanket caught and dragged until his claws swiped through it and it fell in shreds to the floor. Derek began pacing – no, stalking – back and forth, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck repeatedly, the way he did before he shifted. A bone-shaking growl picked up volume when Derek stopped and shook his head the way an animal shook away flies. He added mass and height and darkness as he shifted into something like the monstrous form Peter had taken as alpha. When his lips peeled back from his teeth, it wasn't just the sharp canines he sometimes dropped for effect, but the full-on muzzle full of long, needle-sharp rippers that weren't analogous with a wolf or any other predator. He snapped at the air. The clack of his teeth coming together triggered a visceral shudder up Stiles' spine.

Stiles got his feet under him despite the pins and needles and pushed himself up the wall.

"Derek," he called softly.

Derek's head swung but he didn't focus on Stiles. His jaw snapped again. His eyes were red lamps in the shadows, still weeping blood, murky with it despite the alpha glow. Reddened slaver hung in strings from his teeth.

"Derek."

He hadn't been really afraid of Derek in a long time. Years. At least since his third year of high school when everyone had begun working with each other instead of being at odds. Stiles was afraid now, though. The skin on Derek's shoulders and chest cracked and seeped serum, revealing muscle before it closed again. The air around him shimmered with the heat steaming off him.

Derek's huge head cocked and then his ears swiveled, searching for any sounds; he still couldn't see well, but he'd heard Stiles. Stiles froze and held his breath, though he knew his hammering heartbeat would give him away. Derek snarled and coughed up a blood-misted mess, then inhaled, trying to locate the noise maker by scent. Shit, Stiles repeated to himself silently, shit, shit, Derek had been right. He'd lost it and now, if Stiles didn't want to end up eviscerated or with his throat torn out, he'd have to shoot Derek.

He hated Derek so much for them ending in this situation, even if it wasn't Derek's fault, because Stiles needed to hate him. Needed to be angry enough that he could protect himself.

Stiles twisted his hand behind him slowly and found the butt of the .45 he'd shoved into the back of his belt. The only other thing he had was Consuelo's bone knife and it wasn't going to do jack shit against a full on alpha werewolf. He tried to think of a ward that would stop or slow Derek down, but ran into the same problem he'd always had: he had to believe for his magic to work and his heart had never believed Derek was a threat.

Everyone always told him he had a defective sense of self-preservation. Stiles guessed they'd been right, though he'd always argued he only did what he had to do.

Now, he had to lift the .45 and aim it at Derek's head. The gun felt too heavy and he braced it with his other hand, the way he'd learned at the gun range. He'd never had spectacular aim.

Derek coughed out more bloody sputum. Stiles blinked back sweat. It was hot, he was sick, and if there were tears leaking out the corners of his eyes, so the fuck what? He scrabbled for the safety, because he always kept the safety on, and the click zeroed Derek in on him.

Stiles lined up the gun sights on Derek's head, but his aim wavered. He tried to tighten his finger on the trigger and do it but he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

Derek roared and leaped toward him. Stiles jolted back against the wall, brick unforgiving against his shoulder blades, the muzzle of the .45 dropped, and his trigger finger spasmed closed.

The trigger pulled and the bullet hit Derek in the chest. Stiles pulled the trigger again and on the last bullet, spending the clip before throwing himself to the side as Derek plowed blindly into the wall. He swiped deep gouges into it as he howled in pain before crumpling to his knees.

Stiles half fell, half ran, whimpering to himself because there was nowhere to run an alpha werewolf couldn't follow. He lost the useless .45 along the way. He made it to the broken door and stopped, because there were no more roars, no more snarling, no claws scratching over concrete as Derek bounded after him.

He bowed his head, waiting for it, waiting for hot breath at the back of his neck to presage his death. It never came.

He turned around, held his breath, and only remembered to breathe when his lungs began burning.

Derek had crumpled onto all fours in a spreading pool of his own blood. No shock. But he was shifting further, beyond the alpha form, bones realigning, muscles rippling, body reshaping into the wolf. It looked far more painful than normal and Derek the wolf had to tear and chew his way free of the rags of his ruined clothes when it finished. A final bite at a circle of denim still clinging to one back paw freed him, though, and Derek sent it flying with a flick of his muzzle.

He turned his eyes toward Stiles and cocked his head, ears perked forward, almost the way he'd done only moments before, but without the rage. His tail hung low. His eyes were clear, that shade of sage green and honey and fog in the sun that Stiles had never managed to categorize. His pelt of thick fur gleamed blue-green-black in the odd light from the opaque windows, shining with health. Everything about him looked healed and right again.

Everything about Derek was the wolf and Stiles wondered if the bullet and the Bleed had beat them after all, if he'd lost Derek, if Derek had lost himself.

Stiles kept his back to the door and stayed still as Derek picked his finicky way across the floor, avoiding the blood and puke and bile spotted and spattered everywhere. He stopped to nose the lost .45 at one point. The closer he got, the lower he crouched to the floor, communicating sorry and submission with every line of him, until he stopped right at Stiles' feet, gave out a hiccupping whimper, and rubbed against him hard enough the door behind Stiles rattled in its loose frame.

Derek's coat, which was much too heavy for the heat, felt as silky as Stiles' remembered when he buried his fingers in it. He scritched behind Derek's ears and at his throat and Derek just leaned into him harder, giving himself over completely.

A little sobbing laugh slipped out before Stiles could stop it. "Derek," he choked out, stupid tears sliding down his cheeks, because Derek was still Derek, not trying to kill him, not dying, "you're okay, you're okay, shooting you must have jump-started your healing, thank you, thank you, thank you for not dying. I'm sorry I shot you, I'm so glad I shot you." His knees gave out and he ended up with his face hidden in the lush ruff around Derek's neck, letting it soak up more tears, arms wrapped around Derek's shoulders.

Derek endured the sob fest patiently for some minutes before turning his head and enthusiastically licking Stiles' face clean. Even in wolf form, his breath was surprisingly sweet. The werewolves didn't suffer tooth decay, so they seldom had bad breath unless they'd recently eaten something noxious. Stiles considered it another case of supernatural injustice, but it had its upsides when kissing one of them.

The licking finally became too much and Stiles batted Derek away, hugged him one more time, and then rocked back onto his heels. "Can you come back to human form, so we can talk?" he asked. His voice cracked and his throat still ached, but he ignored that, while still compulsively petting at Derek.

Derek waited for Stiles to actually let go of him before backing up a step or two. Not even out of reach, Stiles noticed, far closer than usual. Before, Derek had maintained a careful space between them and done it so subtly that Stiles, who thought he paid close attention to Derek even when he wasn't shifting, hadn't noticed until he didn't.

He watched the whole thing this time, noticing things he hadn't before. Derek's fur didn't withdraw into his body, for one thing: he shed it off and new hair of the human sort grew back to match the length it had been when he shifted, including his ridiculous stubble. Teeth and claws withdrew, though. It was amazing and fascinating to see so near and still so swift he knew he missed most of it.

The result, Derek kneeling naked and well again, without gunshot wounds or blood in his eyes, distracted Stiles from the questions that always popped into his head when any of the weres shifted. All that pale skin was unmarred, clean even, as if he'd shed any stain between forms. He had to stare or he'd pounce and try to touch all of Derek everywhere.

Except for the part where his head had begun to pound like someone was hammering dynamite and every pulse had a ball of sick threatening to implode in his stomach.

"Stiles?" Derek said, wrecked and unsure. He lifted one hand, but wasn't certain enough to actually touch Stiles.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just, you – you're unfairly gorgeous no matter what shape you're in and I may be babbling because I'm so relieved I think I'm going to be sick – " Stiles fit his actions to his words, tipped to the side and barfed up everything he'd eaten in the last two, maybe three years. Or so it felt like. His head pounded so hard by the end, he feared his brain was going squeeze out his eyes or his ears, and his sinuses were so thick with mucus he had to gasp for breath between dry gagging.

Somewhere in there, Derek had braced him with one hand holding Stiles' shoulder and the other supporting his forehead so he didn't crack it open on the concrete. He moaned in humiliation and discomfort. Every time he puked, it felt like he was a voodoo doll, with hat pins stuck through all his ribs. He'd never figured out the way that worked.

He could feel Derek leaching some of the pain from his head and might have cried – a little, a couple of manly tears, like Dean Winchester – in gratitude. He spat enough to clear his mouth and blurted, "It's okay, I'm fine, it's just stress, you know, adrenaline crash and low blood sugar and maybe that cheese I found was a little beyond the sell by date. I'm not sick. Not sick sick because I know I just barfed, but – "

"Stiles … " Derek sounded so regretful as he wiped his thumb through the wetness on Stiles' cheeks. He held his hand out where Stiles could see the reddish stain.

His breath sawed in and out of his lungs while Stiles fought to keep it steady and not hyperventilate or pass out. He chewed on his lower lip before he said, voice only quavering a little, "Well, it's not surprise, is it? If you could catch it, I was a sure bet. Right?"

Derek lifted Stiles' chin so their gazes met. When Stiles didn't say anything more, Derek nodded.

"I guess this is where I ask you to make sure I don't go off and infect anybody before I keel over. Also, tell my dad – tell my dad I love him. And, um, if you bury the body?" He had to stop and take in oxygen in deliberately slow breaths so the panic wouldn't overtake him. When he could, Stiles licked his lips and went on, "You won't even have to cut me in two since I'm still human and – "

"Take the Bite," Derek interrupted.

Stiles stopped with his mouth open. Derek's expression gave nothing away, but those pale eyes were locked on Stiles. He swore he could feel Derek willing him to say yes, the way he never had before. Derek … hadn't asked Stiles to take the Bite before. Had never pushed. After the Alpha pack, he'd said only that if Stiles ever wanted it, Derek would give him the Bite, but he was already pack, had been from the beginning and so Derek wasn't asking him to be anything else. There had genuinely been no pressure, not from Derek, not from the rest of the pack. Stiles had ignored the option so thoroughly over the years that it hadn't crossed his mind even when the Bleeders attacked.

He felt like a bit of an idiot, but Derek hadn't offered it either – Derek hadn't known it would help against the Bleed, but now they both knew it could.

Provided the Bite didn't kill him. Stiles was getting up there in the age bracket for successful bites. It had turned out Derek did have a good reason for biting teenagers: they survived and adapted better than adults. Teenagers accepted the revelation of a hidden world beside the normal one with fake casual shrugs and poorly hidden glee at being in on the secret. They had an easier time structuring their lives to take into account being werewolves. Mentally they were still plastic enough to integrate the wolf nature into their own and absorb the changes into their personalities without fracturing. Adults were usually horrified, angry sometimes even if they chose it, and had a hard time integrating the changes into their established lives or had to abandon those lives. Adults could and had gone into denial so deep they didn't remember changing at the full moon, especially if they were omegas. Adults could become monsters, because they thought they were.

Stiles wouldn't be an omega and he wouldn't be in denial or hate himself. He wouldn't think he was a monster. It probably didn't matter at this point, but his life was already structured around werewolves, he was already pack, already knew what that meant. He hadn't wanted to be a werewolf, but … he didn't want to die either.

"It could still kill you," Derek said. He kept the words careful, just offering a fact, still not pushing Stiles.

Stiles pulled a face. "Could kill me, could save me sounds way better than absolutely, positively will kill me dead. Which is my alternative. So." He scrubbed his palms over his face before dropping his hands down to his knees and clutching at them. "Do you want me to?"

Derek's eyes widened. His throat worked as he swallowed before he looked away. "I can't tell you to."

"But you want me to. You want me to take the Bite."

"I want you to live, but not if you ha – " He stopped. Hate yourself, hate me, flip of the coin which way he hadn't finished that. Stiles didn't have to hear it. "I don't want you to think I turned you into a monster."

"You're not a monster."

"I didn't say – "

"You think I think you're a monster."

"You didn't want the Bite."

"I figured out that I brought something more valuable than muscles and fast healing to the table. Every pack needs someone who can handle wolfsbane and mountain ash. Me staying human made you all stronger and safer. But none of that counts if I'm not here with you guys. With you." He surged forward awkwardly and pressed a closed mouth – because recently vomiting killed any romantic fantasies – kiss to the corner of Derek's mouth. Derek turned his head enough to rub his cheek against Stiles. Stiles nuzzled back, inhaling the petrichor and fur scent that always underlay Derek's scent as deep into his lungs as he could. "I want the Bite," he said. "I want it from you."

He closed his eyes and tried to relax as much as he could, tipping his head back to offer Derek his throat in traditional submission. Wanting it made a difference, according to the few other alphas Stiles had asked about the Bite. He'd told the truth, though: he only wanted the Bite from Derek, because he trusted Derek, because Derek was already his alpha.

The smooth slice of Derek's fangs into his shoulder made Stiles jolt. The pain only came with the next breath, but Derek kept his jaws locked into Stiles' flesh and kept Stiles' still with iron strong arms. Stiles blindly pawed at Derek's shoulders, his eyes tearing from the pain, until he got his fingers in Derek's hair and yanked on it. That only made Derek tear at his flesh before Derek tightened his neck muscles and Stiles couldn't move him at all.

The warm damp of Derek exhaling made his skin goose bump. Stiles concentrated on breathing and then on untensing. It made the obvious pain ease.

He wondered if it worked, would he feel different? Would he feel the difference between being a werewolf and human? Not the obvious shapeshifting and enhanced senses stuff, but would he be a different him? Scott had seemed to stay Scott … but he'd changed too and Stiles had never known if the changes were the product of time and the onslaught of trauma that hit them in their high school years or if the Bite had truly remade Scott in ways other than going fanged and furry on the full moon.

As much as he'd wanted the ups of being a werewolf – and he had, he didn't lie about that to himself – he'd been too scared of losing himself to ask for it. That had stopped him more than anything else, even worry about his Dad, or the chance he'd no longer be a spark.

It wasn't something Derek could tell him and he'd always been afraid to bring it up to Scott, afraid of hurting Scott's feelings just by the implication of the question.

Stiles trembled despite himself. He'd thought he wasn't afraid, but he was.

Derek smoothed a hand down Stiles' back and pulled him closer. Stiles knew he'd smelled the sudden burst of fear off him. "Stiles?" he murmured. "You need to let it happen. Don't fight it."

"I'm not," Stiles answered. He wasn't. Despite his worries and his doubts, he did want the chance, not just to survive but to share the other side of Derek, to experience being a wolf beside him. Derek hadn't said, but Stiles knew wanted someone who could share that with him.

So maybe he was going to lose something. He was going to gain too.

Stiles relaxed into Derek's hold and nuzzled against the skin of his neck. Derek tightened his arms around him in response. He was shaking too, Stiles realized, afraid too. He cared that much. Somehow that made it easier.

"It's going to be okay," Stiles told him.

The acid tingle of Derek's saliva and the – whatever you wanted to characterize it as: venom, infection, contamination, curse – turn spread from the Bite into Stiles' muscles and then in a fever hot rush along his veins. It spread through him until it hit his heart. His body arched into a bow involuntarily and he screamed until his breath locked in his lungs and unconscious came down like a black curtain.

Derek picked Stiles up and carried him out after he passed out. He followed Stiles’ scent trail back to an office and break room with a couch and arranged him on the cushions, before retrieving Stiles' pack and his own. The dirty jeans and white button down he pulled on were the last clothes he had. They'd need to scavenge more.

It had to be they, Derek thought, and not simply him.

They were several reasons, good reasons, Derek had never asked Stiles to take the Bite before this. They were all rationalizations, he understood now. Underneath the ethical stand that it had to be Stiles' choice – he'd learned that lesson too young too late – it was simply fear. He hadn't wanted to take the risk that the Bite would kill Stiles rather than turn him.

The air in the break room was stifling without AC. Derek propped the door open and broke out the single window set high on the back wall, but it didn't cause much improvement. He sank down on the floor next to the couch where he could reach up and thread his fingers into Stiles' right hand, while leaning his head back against the edge of the seat cushions. He didn't know it would make any difference, but an instinct stirred inside him, pushing him to keep in contact with Stiles.

It wouldn't hurt and Derek couldn't honestly say there were many things he'd ever done where he'd been sure of that.

Everyone turned at a different rate. If they turned. Derek closed his fingers tighter on Stiles' hand, reminding himself in time not to squeeze so much he broke bones. The fingers between his felt cool, the way humans always did.

He'd thought Kate's skin under his hands had been exotic, excitingly different from a werewolf's temperature. He'd felt so powerful as he only exerted a human's strength with her, and those memories had been another reason he'd held himself separate from Stiles for so long. There were long nights when he wondered if he wasn't a deviant for reasons other than the six year difference between them. He'd always tried to remind himself then, that there had been humans married into the pack who hadn't taken the Bite for whatever reason. It wasn't a fetish.

If this worked, Stiles wouldn't run cooler than him any longer.

Derek wanted that: a time when they could meet each other with the same strength and heat.

His stomach growled, a reminder that a metabolism that could heal what should be lethal wounds demanded energy. He ignored it, loathe to leave Stiles until he showed some sign of his fate. Instead he listened to Stiles' heartbeat, flinching at the unsteady speed and skip.

As the hours passed, Derek could chart the war in Stiles' body by the changes in his odor. The familiar scents of Stiles were already pungent, since they hadn't had clean clothes or much chance to bathe in days. The sour undertone of sickness had already begun to seep from Stiles' pores by the time Derek recovered from the Bleed. It got stronger as Stiles' temperature dropped and receded in waves when his fever spiked, only to come back an hour later. Stiles didn't wake, lost in a comatose sleep, and Derek didn't want him to die like that, but he guessed it would be kinder. He could do nothing but watch and keep on waiting.

Kinder for Stiles, nothing would soothe Derek's grief if it ended that way. A howl caught in his throat, choked back into a keen he wouldn't have wanted anyone, even his pack, to hear.

He tasted salt and realized his control had slipped far enough his fangs were out, slicing into his lip as he bit at it. Blood trailed down his chin to drip on the floor. When he looked down at it, he saw he'd gouged deep claw marks into the same floor. His fingers ached with the force he'd been putting into it.

When he couldn't bear it any longer and he knelt by the couch and delicately picked Stiles' shirt away from his shoulder so he could check the Bite wound.

He'd torn Stiles' flesh in addition to puncturing it, but the wound was closing itself. Slower than Derek thought was normal. Isaac, Erica and Boyd had all turned quickly and easily: he'd wanted them as his wolves and they'd wanted to be wolves. But the punctures themselves were scabbed dry, the skin around them only faintly bruised, a hint of reddened swelling surrounding them. Maybe if Stiles weren't already infected with the Bleed it would already have healed … but if Stiles hadn't been infected Derek wouldn't have bitten him.

Jackson had become the kanima instead of becoming a werewolf and Derek still blamed himself for that, because he hadn't wanted to turn Jackson, had half-hoped Jackson would be among those the Bite killed. He thought that had been as much the problem as Jackson's screwed up personality. He believed the Bite should be a gift and Jackson had extorted it from him. On some level Derek had hoped that it would turn around and – metaphorically not metamorphically as Stiles would have said – bite Jackson in the ass. Only it ended up getting him too and people died who wouldn't have otherwise. At least the kanima's victims hadn't been innocents.

It wasn't something he'd ever discussed with anyone.

He wanted Stiles to become a wolf, but Stiles … Stiles didn't really want it. He wanted to stay alive and the Bite was his only chance, but Derek wondered if his subconscious wasn't forcing his body or even his magic to fight it.

Derek wondered if somehow he wasn't fighting turning Stiles, because he hadn't wanted to bite Stiles, and felt guilty about wanting Stiles to take the Bite. He wanted the werewolf Stiles could be, but he was terrified that Stiles would hate it, would see himself as a monster, and would turn his gaze on Derek and finally see a monster too.

If Derek's doubts were interfering with the change, they weren't strong enough. Night fell, the thick dark that had become the new normal before the aurora started up, and Stiles' heart, always a quick step beat, slowed incrementally. The square of light cast on the far wall from the broken window morphed from green to blue to purple and rarer reds, dimmer than moonlight, brighter than starshine, and Derek grunted in amusement when he realized it reminded him of a screensaver. He rubbed his thumb over Stiles' forearm, smoothed the hair down, traced tendons, muscles, bone. He'd tell that to Stiles later; it would make him laugh and mock Derek.

Stiles was a font of aimless information gleaned from link-chasing nights on the computer and his endless curiosity, but nothing made him smile brighter than when Derek brought out some odd bit of knowledge he hadn't expected from him.

He imagined the lecture Stiles would fly into, the array of idiotic media references he'd come up with that only tangentially had anything to do with the aurora, and the no doubt ridiculous joke or pun he'd shoehorn into it and smiled to himself. He wasn't sure he'd ever forget the awful innuendo Stiles had once come with in regard to rosy-fingered Dawn feeling up Gaia. Wasn't sure he wanted to forget – though it was awful – because it still made him smile. Lydia had done her best to smother Stiles with a couch cushion as retaliation and Stiles had flailed with all four limbs until they both fell to the floor.

The only thing funnier than Stiles' outrage had been Lydia's wet cat attempt at retrieving her dignity with her hair caught in the ornately cut-out and carved leg of the coffee table she'd picked out for the house.

"Wake up, Stiles," he heard himself say, voice hoarse and unsteady. "I'll punch you in the face if you don't." Stiles had done it to him. "Turnabout, fair play, come on." He whined helplessly, restless and unable to do anything when he wanted to move, to snarl and rip the enemy's throat out, but he couldn't.

Fuck.

"If you won't talk, then I will," he said and did, pulling out everything he still remembered about aurora effects: atmosphere density, particle excitement, photons, oxygen and nitrogen atoms, how red hovered at the edge of the visual light spectrum, making it rarer in displays, altitude, speed and distance. The aurora was so bright and huge now, but it was still happening so far away, from sixty to two hundred miles above the Earth, it made Derek's breath catch when he considered it.

His voice cracked as he finished and he pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes.

"I need you," Derek whispered. He reached for his anchor, his anger, but it only responded sluggishly. He couldn't make himself angry with Stiles. He wanted to be angry with himself for giving in and caring, but that felt like betraying Stiles. A low, mindless growl rolled out his chest, but it died away into nothing and Derek was left emptier than before.

He leaned his forehead against the ball of Stiles' shoulder, not wanting to jostle him, and breathed with his eyes squeezed shut. He kept telling himself Stiles would turn. Just this once, luck would be with … not Derek, it never was with him, but Stiles had incredible luck. It would kick in and counter balance Derek's shitty karma.

He'd been knocked down so many times, he didn't know if he'd get back up this time. He didn't know if he still had the pack to care about, but worse, without Stiles Derek no longer felt like they were enough reason keep going. He was a crap alpha, he'd never been meant for it, he'd never even wanted it. Let Scott become alpha. Alpha, beta, omega. Anyone could rise, anyone could fall. Derek had feared becoming an omega once. Now it wouldn't matter to him, not without Stiles. That wound might stop bleeding, but it would never heal, nothing would ever fill that hollow space, any more than anything had ever filled the places in him where Laura and the rest of his family had been.

Like a road sign that had been shot up for target practice, that was more hole than sign after a while, just an outline of what it had been.

The wolf side of him whimpered, wanting to get away from the hurt, and Derek almost shifted, pain and power rippling up his back and down his arms. He hung his head and fought it down, aware that if he let go this time, he might not find his way back.

He wouldn't need to ever shift back to human: he could live out his life as a wolf and eventually everything that made him Derek would be gone. He could forget.

Only he knew what Stiles would call that.

Stiles' lungs sounded like skin rubbing over wet leather. Derek made wet, choked sounds of his own against the couch's upholstery.

He didn't make threats, didn't demand Stiles live for him or pray to God for Stiles to be spared. Derek knew no one was spared in the end. Life, like death, had no mercy. Whatever mercy anyone mustered was an individual act and ephemeral as morning fog. Precious and amazing but nothing that could be counted on nor even hoped for.

He watched the Bite heal and break open to bleed and knit itself over again as the night passed. Stiles' lean body lacked the energy reserves to fight off one infection, could not beat two, and the only question became which would win when he lost.

A trickle of blood from Stiles' nostril heralded the finish. The salt smell of it made Derek look up. The blood turned black as it slid down to the corner of Stiles' mouth then down to the hinge of his jaw. The smell changed too.

Derek inhaled as deep as he could, filling his lungs with the scent of Stiles, wolf, Stiles, rightness, Stiles, pack and beta and Stiles, and felt the tension binding his muscles in knots ease. The Bite had taken. He blinked back the blur in his eyes, hot tears itching at his cheeks, and leaned closer. For the moment, Stiles still looked the same, but his scent … Derek wanted to roll himself in that scent, even still tainted with sickness, because Stiles' wolf smelled perfect, like running and rutting and hunting and howling and home.

Reflex kept Derek from getting hit in the eye as Stiles' flailed abruptly, sitting up and then curling over to the side as he heaved bile. The bite sealed over, a neat pink scar ready to fade into nothing, and when he lifted his head, his eyes flared yellow and bitten-beta bright, but still bleeding red tears.

Derek felt the pack bond snap into place, connecting them at the back of his brain, too. His eyes flared crimson; a side effect as he marshaled the power of the alpha voice into one single command, pushing where normally he'd have let Stiles wait for the pull of the moon: "Shift."

Stiles snarled at him. Derek growled back then howled, the call to the alpha howl that demanded every werewolf turn and obey. He put all the force of his will, his anger and his need into it, and the window glass, along with the propped open door, both rattled in their frames.

Hair sprouted down Stiles' face and from his forearms, fangs fell into place, and his spine arched and curved as muscle and bone remade itself in a brutal rush. Derek had never forced a shift on any of his betas before, he'd taught them to accept and control it so it wouldn't hurt, and this was the antithesis. He hated taking away Stiles' choice despite knowing how necessary it was.

Stiles writhed and tore out of his clothes and reached the beta shape with a final crackle of bones. He glared at Derek. Derek glared back.

He thought that would be it, but Stiles crouched on all fours, panting, and the shift began once more. Stiles snapped at the air, fell forward, bones cracking, before the final ripple of remaking ran through his body and he became a wolf.

Derek's eyebrows went up before a smile stretched his face wide. Stiles never failed to surprise him, to go further for him, to be more, but this was beyond Derek's best dreams. His heartbeat picked up and had to struggle not to shift and pounce on Stiles. Nothing could make him stop smiling, relief and joy pumping through his veins, laughter bubbling out him like champagne. No words fit how he felt. All he could say was, "Stiles." He laughed again. "You don't have to prove anything, you know."

He wasn't as big as Derek in wolf form, didn't have the same weight of muscle, but he was bigger than a genuine wolf, leggy and lanky, with Stiles' long amber eyes. His coat was a dark, chocolate brown, with a hint of fawn at the shoulders and around his muzzle. He looked at Derek, almost wicked, then lifted his head and howled.

Before the echo could return from the distance, Stiles leaped past Derek and out the door. Shock slowed Derek. He should have known Stiles would do the unexpected. He hadn't anticipated Stiles becoming a full on wolf, though. It wasn't unknown for born werewolf betas to be able to do it, but never on the first shift.

Derek staggered to his feet and let himself breathe out the fear and in the lingering scent of Stiles' wolf self, completely cleansed of the sick odor of the Bleed. The shift had let Stiles recover from it just the way Derek had. The Bite had saved him.

Really, the Bite had saved them both, Derek knew.

He laughed to himself as he followed Stiles out into the barren rail yard and laughed harder as Stiles raced around, running and jumping and once even chasing his tail, sniffing at everything, ears swiveling for every sound. Stiles reminded him of the kids in his family, brimming with energy and the urge to explore everything their senses revealed to them.

Stiles did a pogo-stick jump into a thatch of weeds alongside a set of rails running north-south, coming down with his front paws together and pinning down a field mouse from the terrified squeak Derek caught. He shoved his nose down to the mouse only to rear back with a yelp. Derek registered the rustle of the mouse's escape as Stiles shook his head and then pawed woefully at his nose where the mouse had bit him out of fear. His reaction cracked Derek's composure and he began laughing, deep from his belly, at the mighty hunter.

Stiles' glare of disgust only made Derek laugh harder.

Some of it was sheer relief, though. Stiles was a werewolf now, safe from the Bleed, and had progressed right through the beta shift into a wolf form without losing control to the hunger and rage that characterized new werewolves. Some of it was just that Stiles being overwhelmed by a field mouse was simply hilarious.

His ribs were aching before Derek finally wound down. By then Stiles had calmed down a little and was sitting in front of him.

Derek took the opportunity to run his hands over Stiles' body, enjoying the feel of thick fur between his fingers, and picking up and learning his subtly changed scent. Stiles used the time to sniff him just as thoroughly, including nudging at Derek's crotch with a clear sort of laugh.

"I have never done that," Derek told him.

Stiles' let his tongue loll from the side of his mouth and huffed.

"Can you shift back on your own?" Derek asked him. "Do you need me to force it again?" He wasn't exactly sure how even an alpha could force a shift back to human, but he thought letting Stiles think he could would relax him.

Stiles trotted back into the building. He was shifting as soon as he went through the door and completely human when Derek pulled it closed.

"So," Stiles said, his eyes bright, "dude, that whole wolf thing is awesome! No wonder you're always going four footed – I can't believe everything I could hear and smell." He picked up his torn to shreds shirt, made a moué at its state and dropped it again, before snagging his pants.

"Yeah?" Derek hadn't realized his voice could get that husky.

Stiles sent another glance his way. "Yeah. I mean, I get it now, Scott might not have wanted it, but you're totally right. The bite is a gift. It's fan-fucking-tastic and I am so on board with being a werewolf now, holy God, am I on board."

"Yeah?" Derek repeated, letting his smile color the word. Stiles' reaction differed so much from Scott's, was so much better than Derek could have hoped, it made him shake a little. He caught hold of the door jamb and braced himself for an instant. He let himself start to believe Stiles wouldn't come to hate him or regret being turned. He felt dazed with the release from that worry.

Stiles pulled his pants on without fastening them, then padded over to Derek and wrapped his arms around Derek's waist. Derek let himself inhale along Stiles' neck and behind his ear, nosing at the soft skin there, taking in Stiles' scent and rubbing his cheek against Stiles' to mark him with his.

"Yeah," Stiles stated as he did the same to Derek.

"It's okay?" he asked.

Stiles tightened his arms around Derek. "Yeah, yeesh, did you think I'd have second thoughts – You did, didn't you?" He pulled back enough to meet Derek's gaze, expression serious, but without letting go of his hold on Derek. "I asked. I wanted it. I'm happy, get it?"

"I was afraid," Derek said simply.

"I know." Stiles pressed closer and kissed point of his chin, then up to Derek's mouth, little pecks of affection and exasperation that morphed into more when their lips met. "Trust me."

Derek relaxed at last. "Yeah."

"About time," Stiles complained with a smile before kissing him again.

Derek opened his mouth and let Stiles lead.

He'd made the right decision this time. He hadn't lost everything, hadn't cost a life, hadn't failed for once.

The Bite was a gift done right.

He'd done it right.

~*~

They crossed the river over a railroad bridge on foot. Despite having heard a few trains moving through the night at various points, Derek doubted any would be coming through Sacramento, not with the Bleed running rampant through the city. If the capitol wasn't already quarantined, it should have been, though he'd come to the dark conclusion that the disease had already spread too far too fast for quarantines to stop it.

Stiles remained in an upbeat mood, relieved that they were both alive, and delighting in his new werewolf senses, along with gloating that he'd made the full wolf transition.

"Yeah, I figure we're shapeshifters and we're really only constrained by how much energy and mass we have to use and our own beliefs. I saw you become a wolf, so I knew I could." He gestured emphatically as he spoke and punctuated his declaration with a gloating grin. His sneaker clad foot slipped off one creosote-black railroad tie, making him flail for his balance. Derek went to catch his arm per usual and steady Stiles until he had his feet under him again, but before he could close his fingers on Stiles' shoulder, Stiles had recovered himself.

"Reflexes like lightning!" Stiles exclaimed. He darted his fist toward Derek and socked him in the biceps. "Lightning. Who's the man? I am the man, wolf man, werewolf, oh yeah."

A smirk lifted Derek's mouth at Stiles' over the top reaction. He started to speak only to stop as his ears caught the sound of distant engines. His focus slipped to beyond Stiles and his smirk disappeared. The trestle bridge had them high enough to see the flat suburban sprawl spreading on either side of I-5 to the north. Derek's mouth dried and he had to swallow before he touched Stiles' shoulder and said, "Turn around."

"What – what did you see?" Stiles asked while turning. Derek kept his fingers on him, drifting over his back to settle on his opposite shoulder once Stiles had his back to him. "Oh. Oh, shit."

Where the cul-de-sacs and shopping centers gave way to farm land and the interstate drifted westward toward the international airport, a no man's land of bulldozed bare ground, glinting razor wire, and rumbling vehicles with mounted weapons patrolling had been established. Sharp werewolf eyes let Derek pick out the dead bodies dropped at the inner edge of the killing ground. The dark shapes around them were buzzards. He watched as one truck slowed and the distant crack of shot followed. One buzzard dropped and the rest flapped into the air, lazy and ungainly until they caught a thermal and joined the others circling high up in the unforgiving sky.

"There was nothing like that to the south when we walked in," Stiles said.

Now that they were both listening, they could hear the loudspeakers and the endless loop of warnings.

… city has been quarantined under authority of the acting governor. Lethal force will be used on anyone attempting to break quarantine. Do not move past the quarantine line. This city has been …

"It's been a week," Derek pointed out. They'd been stupid to linger so long, but Stiles had needed the time to adapt to being a werewolf. At least Derek had thought so and Stiles had been intent on scavenging new supplies once neither of them needed to worry about infection. None of the Bleeders they'd seen had shown any interest in them at all, any more than they were interested in each other. Stiles had pronounced it creepy but good. Derek kept his doubts to himself. Why would immunity repel the Bleeders, he wondered, even if infection did? Stiles smelled healthy to him and Derek felt fine, but what if they were still carrying it? They couldn't get their blood tested, not without revealing they were werewolves. And if they were immune now, did they have some obligation to find a way to turn that into a vaccine or an immunization?

Derek didn't know and it weighed on him. He insisted they take all the same precautions they had before and avoid even the smallest chance of exposure. They scrapped the plan to go through North Highlands too. Stiles wasn't sure enough of his control yet to be around anyone not already in the know about the supernatural.

The scavenging went badly: looting and vandalism had already swept through downtown after the food ran out.

They were walking out of town with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

"Long enough for this to be set up," Derek finished, rolling his shoulders, half to convey he didn't know, half to try to loosen some of the tension that had set in. At least it loosened the t-shirt sweat-glued to his back a little. "They might be trying to keep the infection from moving north if it hasn't yet."

"How are we going to get past that?" Stiles asked.

"After the sun goes down." Derek almost smiled because Stiles still hadn't really encompassed how he'd changed. He didn't take into account that they were both werewolves now. "Shifted."

Stiles facepalmed. "Dude. Why didn't I think of that?"

As they continued across the railroad bridge, Stiles glanced over at Derek. "That's why you didn't want packs or more supplies?"

"We can find something further on, if we need to," Derek agreed. "Shifted, it's hard to carry anything."

"In that case," Stiles said and stopped. Derek stopped too and raised his eyebrows. Stiles tugged the empty .45 from the waistband of his jeans and chucked it off the bridge to fall into the turgid river below. "I'm glad to get rid of that." He frowned and ducked down, pulling something from under the cuff of his jeans. He held it less like something he wanted to let go of than the gun and Derek realized it was the bone knife. "Won't be able to carry this either."

"Don't throw it away," Derek protested.

Stiles gave him a look though and crouched just long enough to wedge the tip of the blade beneath a rail and snap it in two. He tossed both pieces as soon as he stood up. "That wasn't for anyone but me. I probably should have burned it, but cold iron and moving water should do the job just as well."

"You should have kept it."

Stiles shook his head. "Not when there was a chance I could lose it." He dusted his hands together. "Besides, it wasn't much use any more."

It hit Derek then that Stiles had given up more than being human by becoming a werewolf.

"Your magic's gone."

"Sort of," Stiles said. "I still know stuff I can do, but in a sense I can't do magic because I am magic now, so yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's done. I like being a werewolf so far and I definitely like being alive, so lay off the guilt and self-loathing, even if it is your automatic reaction to everything. Just don't." Stiles voice grew tight and a little angry by the time he finished.

Derek couldn't find anything to say to that, so he stayed silent and knocked his shoulder against Stiles instead as they continued the rest of the way off the bridge.

Mid-morning, with the heat already beginning to press everything down, they lapped water from the edge of the river. Their paws sunk into the mud and it squished between their toes, cool and pleasant in the shade of scrubby trees.

Stiles couldn't make the full wolf shift without Derek calling him into it, but he figured it would get easier after his first full moon. He worried about that, that he'd flip like the other new wolves and want to hunt and kill, forcing Derek to restrain him somehow. Derek wasn't worried though, telling him that accepting what he was and having already shifted voluntarily, Stiles would have a better handle than the others had. They would get out somewhere and just run and Stiles would find his anchor. Stiles thought he might already know what his anchor would be: loyalty, to the pack, to his alpha, to himself.

He missed magic, but not as much as he might have thought. Being Were filled up the same spaces inside, the flood of information from his senses kept his scatterbrain constantly occupied so he felt more focused than not. Plus he just felt good. No more aches, no more sore muscles, no more sprained ankle, no more knife wound – everything had knitted together and was strong once more thanks to werewolf healing. Stiles loved that.

Four feet took them up the river in a ground eating lope and their dark coats hid them from the patrols watching the quarantine zone for escaping humans.

It did feel surreal to realize he wasn't one of the humans any longer, but he was still himself and that was what mattered.

Derek licked his muzzle and trotted ahead after they both drank. The rank smell of the water weeds and mud along the verge made Stiles wrinkle his muzzle and sneeze several times. Derek stopped at the top of the embankment, silhouetted against the night sky, ears pricked and eyes glinting. Stiles sneezed again before bouncing his way up to Derek's side.

On the west side of the river, they had followed it north until it crossed under the high arch of the Elkhorn Bridge, passing a roadhouse that stood in its concrete shadow. Withering cornfields stretched on the other side of the scatter of buildings. Stiles figured it must have catered to boaters because no one driving the freeway would have pulled off to find it if they didn't know about it. Despite its isolation, it had been thoroughly looted already and neither of them felt like cutting their feet up snooping through the bar where shattered bottles covered the floor in glass.

They caught a couple of rats among the cornrows instead and filled their bellies, though Stiles pretended they were really pork. It didn't work exactly, but luckily a wolf's palate found rat meat relatively tasty. Besides, Stiles would never ever forget or give up mocking Derek over the sight of him with a pink rat tail dangling from between his fangs. Comedy god damn gold and what cell phone cameras were invented for; Stiles missed technology so much already.

They followed a frontage road on under the bridge and when it turned west. It paralleled a causeway stretched across acres of rice fields. No one had cleared it yet and detritus of wrecked vehicles from the Crash blocked all the lanes except where the speeding cars and trucks had broken through the railings and nosedived down into the flooded fields. A red Kenworth … hauling chrome-sided refrigerated container trailers dangled half off, jack-knifed and pinned by two more semis painted with the Swift logo.

All was still in the muggy heat, though, and flocks of white egrets stalked through standing water and bright green rice shoots.

The tarmac of the frontage road was wicked hot under paw pads, so they loped along the verge between the ditch and the pavement and Stiles cursed shitheads who tossed out bottles to break, even though his feet healed within a couple of strides.

The road took them straight into Woodland, but they instinctively swerved north away from the town when they picked up the sounds of a military presence. Instead, they followed another county road through the fly-speck town of Knight's Landing, resting in the shade of a tree-filled cemetery on the outskirts through the worst of the afternoon heat before stretching their legs and running as far as Robbins, another tiny farm town. With every mile they traveled north, the scent of smoke became more noticeable. Robbins was flat and forlorn, but somehow better than Knight's Landing, which had given Stiles the heeby-jeebies as bad as Catavińa had, worse than Crow's Landing with its spiteful witches and pissed off Mormons.

Robbins didn't put Stiles hackles up at least, though they could only sense a few people still hanging on there. It proved worthwhile to shift back to human form and scrounge clothes and shoes, though, because they found an old Ford truck that yielded to Stiles' mad hot-wiring skills.

Despite Stiles being the one to get it running, Derek ended up driving as the sun started to lower in the west. The powdery, faded to flat, pale blue exterior took on a greenish cast in the dirty orange light as Derek steered them onto the main road. They both cranked the windows down despite the acrid hint of smoke hanging in the air.

It was startling to see a human figure in the backyard of an outlying house, someone wearing a floppy hat and watering a fenced garden. The person straightened up and watched the old pick-up as they rolled by and when they didn't slow, raised a hand and waved. Stiles leaned out the window and waved back enthusiastically, shouting, "Stay safe!" at the top of his lungs.

"You're insane," Derek remarked once Stiles had himself all the way back in the cab. He put his foot down and shifted into a higher gear, getting them up to sixty-seven miles an hour.

Stiles ignored him in favor of pulling things from under the seat.

"Ha!" He cackled in glee as his poking through the odds and ends yielded a box of cassette tapes for the antique player under the old AM/FM radio that the truck boasted. He pawed through the cassettes – he could totally use that pun all the time now, he owned it – mocking the owner's taste in music until he found the truest treasure of all. "Oh my God. Nothing, no, nothing could be better than this. Not even the Golden Earring tape. Not even the AC/DC."

Derek side-eyed him. "What are you babbling about?"

Stiles plucked the cassette out and shoved it into the player, just praying the thing still worked. "Wait for it," he commanded. He kept his hand closed around the yellowing plastic case so Derek couldn't read it and fast forwarded to the right track. Giggles kept bubbling from him.

"You're not high, so why do you sound so much like an idiot?" Derek shook his head. "At least stoners have an excuse."

"Fun sucker." Stiles let his finger up on the fast forward, caught a couple notes and pressed again. The song would be at the end of the tape. He'd forgotten – if he'd ever known – the annoyance of tapes. He tried it again and grinned as the second to last song ended in a hiss of magnetic static. Another giggle slipped out.

The guitar riff started up and Stiles cranked the volume as high as his newly sensitive ears could bear. Derek jerked and the truck swerved as he looked at Stiles, who just cackled and lalala-ed along with the song. He held up the cassette case with Best of Blue Öyster Cult on the cover. Derek muttered, "Jesus," punctuating it with a loud huff.

"Classic, dude, classic," Stiles declared. "Even if we got the Bleed instead of Captain Trips."

"Just so you know, we are not going to Kansas or Denver," Derek stated. A smile quirked up the corners of his lips, though.

"That's fine, as long as you don't start wanting to go to Vegas," Stiles agreed. "I think I'll take the Crash over Randall Flagg, too." He sprawled back on the bench seat and started singing along, picking at a patch of gray duct tape that had transferred itself from the split seat to his scavenged khakis. "She had become like they are … She had taken his hand."

Derek managed to surprise him when he began singing along too a moment later, harmonizing with Stiles through the chorus of Don't Fear (the Reaper).

Stiles reached over and took Derek's hand in his.

The shocks were shot. Derek rode each bump and jolt out and Stiles slumped down on the seat like someone had removed some of his vertebrae, like he'd melted into the seat while he hummed along with songs older than both of them. Which was amusing, because if there was anything Stiles wasn't, it was spineless.

The sun hovered, bloated and poisonous red in the orange sky to their left, the heat searing Derek's elbow and forearm where he'd braced it on the edge of the open door window. The days never seemed to end in summer, as exhausting as the endless heat. The air tasted acrid at the back of his throat. The horizon seemed close and empty, the smoke in the air from the wildfires hiding the mountains behind a thickening veil of sepia.

Earlier, Stiles had been fascinated by the custom knob on the truck's stick shift, a clear plastic ball with a scorpion and gold glitter suspended inside it. Age had yellowed the plastic, turned it milky beneath nicks and scratches. Stiles muttered about postmodern amber and speculated on where the scorpion had come from, if it was from the US or Mexico and what exact kind it was.

Derek just found it creepy, thinking about getting stung every time he closed his hand on it to shift.

A rattle of paper caused him to glance to the side. Stiles had the glove box open and was pulling things out of it. Becoming a werewolf hadn't changed his curiosity, just gave him new ways to snoop – Derek swallowed a giddy chuckle – including his enhanced sense of smell. He had a battered gas station map unfolded on his knees with a Zippo lighter lying on it and a tin of chewing tobacco, all salvaged from the glove box. A half used pack of cigarette papers joined the other items.

"Hey, did you know that cigarette papers are good for using in place of a styptic pencil if you cut yourself shaving?" Stiles asked. "I think that's weird. I mean, who thought of that and who did all the comparison testing and why?"

"You mean like why would you think I'd care?" Derek asked.

"Well, I thought maybe you avoided shaving all the time because you hated shaving cuts." Stiles blinked at him too innocently.

That made Derek chuckle. "Werewolf."

"Right, so you heal like immediately and get hairy when the moon is full, blah blah blah. Heard it all before. I guess the real explanation is you're just lazy."

That was part of it, of course. Derek let a little smug smile out. The other part was how one shave pretty much did in a razor blade and it got expensive replacing them all the time. Haircuts were a pain too.

He wrestled the truck to the side enough to miss a serious pothole. It probably wouldn't tear out the transmission like he'd have worried about with a lower slung vehicle, but he didn't think the tires were in great shape. He didn't want a blow out or the trouble of changing a flat. The lack of power steering didn't really bother Derek, between his strength and the big old steering wheel with its cracked plastic, the old pick-up did what he wanted it to do.

He worried most about the radiator, hoping it didn't leak, and kept an eye on the temperature gauge. The five gallon container of water sitting in the back bed next to a milk crate and the built in tool box pointed toward a problem. Sure enough, it hit the red line as the sun slipped away and Derek parked them by the side of the road.

Stiles hopped out immediately, calling, "Pop the hood."

"Like hell," Derek told him as soon as he'd got out too. He could hear the steam hissing out of a leak somewhere. "Damn it." He'd been hoping they could use the clean water for drinking. He grabbed Stiles and pulled him away from the front of the truck, worried the radiator cap might blow off. Werewolf healing or not, scalding steam burns were nothing he wanted Stiles to experience. "Let it cool down."

"Yeah, right. In this heat? It'll still be boiling an hour from now." Stiles stopped trying to get away from Derek and made a face. "Which means if I touch it now, I'm going to be cooked." He gave Derek a rueful look. "I'm not a moron, I just need to slow down and think sometimes."

"At least you can," Derek said.

Stiles swatted his arm. "Was that a compliment? Did Derek Hale just compliment me? The world must be end – " He choked off the words and walked away with his hands shoved in his pockets. Derek watched his back while Stiles stared northward where the sunset painted the smoke into fire too. The sight sent a ripple of unease down his back.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, Derek called out softly, "You want something to eat?" He knew he was avoiding talking about the important things, like how much they both were worried over what they'd find when they made it to Beacon Hills, but talking about it wouldn't help while they couldn't do anything. Stiles kept letting him get away with it too, but Stiles had always liked the 'ignore the problem until it goes away on its own' strategy, so Derek wasn't surprised.

Stiles was afraid for his father and the pack. Making him admit it wouldn't do him any favors. Derek knew it anyway. He knew the pack could likely take care of anything thrown at them, but he worried anyway. And he worried about the Sheriff, because Stiles did, and because John Stilinski was a good man, but a human one, who Derek knew would be out there, trying to take care of anyone who needed it, endangering himself.

Stiles turned around and grinned at him. "Always. What have we got?" Derek did him the courtesy of ignoring the poor quality of his mock delight. Stiles would always be lousy liar, his face gave him away every time, shifting through a dozen expressions in fewer minutes. His fake smiles were the worst, but he was trying.

Derek opened the tool box and brought out his finds from the house where they'd snagged the pick-up. He'd stashed the bag of goods there while Stiles was cursing the truck's wiring and battery so they'd be a surprise.

"Peaches, apricots," he juggled two more cans, showing off to keep Stiles smiling, "pickled beets," or make him make that hilarious face, "and a canned ham."

"Wow, you are the mighty alpha provider," Stiles teased. He snatched the ham and the apricots out of the air. Derek growled at him and then laughed under his breath as Stiles shifted his fingers into claws and tore open the cans.

"Save some for me."

Stiles carved out a chunk of ham and popped into his mouth before proffering the can back to Derek. Derek had never had a problem with eating with his hands or his claws, so with a shrug he snagged his own bite, before using Stiles' technique to open the other cans too.

They sat down on the open tailgate of the truck and shared out everything, even the beets, and though they weren't exactly sated when they finished, they both felt better, and the hiss of steam and ticking metal from the truck's engine had faded into stillness. The air filled with the high buzz of mosquitoes dive bombing them both, though they didn't try to bite either of them.

Derek refilled the radiator while Stiles buried their cans using a garden trowel from the tool box.

The truck restarted without protest and Derek set them on the road again, headlights off, pushing it as fast as he safely could. He wanted to get back to Beacon Hills as badly as Stiles did.

They rolled up the road silently, without the cassette player to Derek's relief, but eventually Stiles became too restless to sit still and he began spinning the dial knob to the AM/FM radio, the tinny speakers picking up nothing but varying types of static and odd ululations that dopplered in and out. He worked his way through the FM spectrum and switched to AM, giving each tick of the tuner knob time enough to pick up even a faint broadcast before moving. Derek found himself listening to the rising and falling whistles and hisses intently too, imagining he could hear voices behind the interference, though he knew it was wishful thinking. Brains fooled themselves and imposed patterns and meaning where none existed.

He jolted in surprise when the radio squealed and delivered a genuine voice.

" … meaning skies, skies, meaning when you are … "

Stiles glanced at him questioningly. His long fingers lingered on the knob. Derek shrugged. Stiles experimented to tune in on the broadcast as best the radio could, then cranked the volume up a notch or two.

" … touching … say, they say safety and peace, security … you don't understand what is being said, you are all unaware … "

It was a religious sermon, Derek thought. He'd never gone to church. The only sermons and teachings he was familiar with were played on late night television he had stared at blankly while sitting in hotel rooms on the way from Beacon Hills to New York with Laura after the fire. The fire and brimstone condemnations had made him recoil but he'd been too listless to ever turn them off. Laura had always done it.

" … no security, there is destruction, sudden destruction … at times, not peace. Peace. Peace. Peace … no one shall escape … but that destroyer comes in, the adversary of God, I'll read this to you … Daniel 8:25 … craft to prosper in his hand … and they shall not escape … shall magnify and find all … destroy … hunt them down … they shall say, but they appear … this territory and that territory and this zone and that zone … the beasts walk among us, with these rights and those rights, absolutely, you understand, but their intent is to … "

Static interrupted again, sharp and painfully loud, forcing Stiles to dial the volume down again. He worked the tuner again, finally picking up the fading station again, remarking as he did, "You gotta wonder what these beasts intent is, huh?"

"Everything breaks down, it is time … take up warfare … in other words, beyond bullets and bombs, you brethren, that day, that day is this day … "

"I don't think we're their brethren."

"… the lamb of … "

The broadcast disappeared into static again.

"I didn't like that," Stiles said. "That crazy people talk right there, I mean, even if we could have heard enough for it to make sense, I get the feeling it wouldn't make sense. Also that that guy might burn me as a witch."

"Not anymore," Derek commented. "They'd hunt you down for being a wolf, though."

Stiles laughed unhappily before scooting close enough to lean his cheek against Derek's shoulder. He didn't protest when Derek reached over and shut off the hissing radio. That left only the sound of the tires on tarmac and the wind through the opened windows, but it was still better. Derek let his hand drop from the shifter to Stiles' knee and kept it there.

He could hear Stiles breathe and when he chanced a glance, saw his face was nearly peaceful, lips parted on some yet unuttered word, eyes dark in the dusk.

He inhaled and something settled inside him. True dark had come down and the aurora was invisible behind the overcast of smoke, but the heat was breaking. The air coming in the pick-up felt moist and alive and fat-bodied night bugs were splatting against the front grill and onto the dirty windshield. Stiles' scent, sweaty and always slightly aroused but the same except with a new thread of wolf, mingled with the ingrained smells of diesel oil, cigarettes and fertilizer. He could even pick out hints of the peaches they'd eaten earlier, the ham, the mint toothpaste they'd found and both used given the opportunity.

The weight of Stiles' head on his shoulder felt welcome, the limp press of Stiles' body communicating trust, easing the last cold hard places inside Derek. It was selfish and he'd prefer not to admit it to Stiles, but Derek felt almost grateful for the Bleed, for the chance to have Stiles' beside him as a wolf. He felt guilty for how much he liked that.

Stiles snuffled and rearranged his limbs, bending at the waist and knees enough to kick his feet out the window.

Derek squeezed his knee before letting go. He needed both hands to steer. The dim shape of a possum on the road reminded him of that. Derek slowed and swerved to avoid hitting it.

Stiles made a sound of complaint. "Hey, trying to sleep here."

Derek smiled and said nothing.

They made it as far as Glenn County before another helicopter spotted the truck moving and they had to bail out and run. This time there was no landing, just the eardrum shattering chatter of a mini-gun chewing the old blue pick-up to pieces. Derek and Stiles ran full out and shifted partially into beta form and moving between two and four feet in their race for cover. Only werewolf speed allowed them to escape being shot up along with the Ford.

The soldiers shooting at them didn't need to be hunters or armed with wolfsbane and swords. A werewolf cut in two by mini-gun fire would be just as dead as one executed ritually with a sword.

As soon as they could, he and Stiles went full wolf. If they were seen from the air, there would be no reason to shoot at a couple of wild animals. Derek's ears were still ringing and he flattened them close to his head as he stretched and ran full out.

The helicopter throbbed closer, but he couldn't stop to find it against the blazing pale sky.

Stiles ran with his muzzle next to Derek's flank, toe nails click-scraping across gravel and pavement as they crossed a county road and hit the dry earth again, kicking up dust. The helicopter was closer; the leaves on the withered, failed corn crops in the field they were crossing fluttered and the stalks bent, wanting to flatten under the rotor wash. The dry cracked earth between each row kicked up under their paws and clouds of it rose as the helicopter swept down and closer still.

The burning fuel reek stung Derek's nostrils and the noise battered at his ears, but he still heard the laughter and a voice shouting, "Look at those bastards run!"

He swerved to the side, knocking his shoulder into Stiles' head and tumbling them both to the side before they sprang up again and ran in a different direction as shots rang out. The men on the helicopter were taking potshots at them for the fun of it. Derek's eyes flashed red, everything he saw draining to monochrome shades, as anger poured through him. The helicopter swept forward, unable or uninterested in quartering as tight as two panicked wolves, while more shots snapped from the open side door. Better than the mini-gun, but Derek wanted the damned thing to swoop low enough he could leap inside and savage the men shooting at him and Stiles.

They bolted out of the cornfield, across a narrow bridge over an irrigation ditch tall with cattails and brush and into a rice field, floundering into the flooded area and bogging down immediately. Weeds and rice plants tangled around Derek's legs. A stab of panic hit, but he shifted his dull wolf toenails into the razor sharp werewolf claws and cut his way free. Stiles was still struggling, half panicked, splashing sluggish, algae-green water up, only an arm's length away.

Derek reared onto his hind feet and slashed at the ropy vegetation that had caught Stiles. Stiles yelped in protest and pain when Derek's claws sliced into him too in his hurry, but Derek ignored that, knowing that even though they were an alpha's wounds, Stiles would heal in little more than a day, especially if he let Derek lick the cuts.

The helicopter was tacking back toward them, but a line of old trees and brush lined the edge of the rice field where another irrigation ditch bordered it that would offer them cover if they could reach it.

Derek growled at Stiles and nipped his shoulder, hard, drawing blood in an instinctive dominance move, sending him splashing and bounding through the water, taking great leaps instead of trying to run. Derek tore after him, mimicking his movement because it seemed to work this time. Their enhanced strength and speed served them well and they reached the first trees as new bullets smacked into the mud and water behind them.

They kept racing westward without plan, intent only on escaping the throb and roar of the helicopter. It disappeared soon, as Derek had hoped, constrained by whatever mission it had been on and fuel constraints.

Stiles and he stayed in wolf form, both of them matted almost fluorescent green with algae, and followed the irrigation ditch north as much as they could before forging across more rice fields to whatever cover they could find.

They were still on four feet when they crossed another county road and angled westward across an onion field. The only thing Derek heard was the heavy buzz of bees from a group of white painted hives set up off another frontage road. Steering clear of the hives took them back to the road where it intersected and Derek paused long enough to read the road sign so he could situate himself again.

Road Z stretched northward, so he padded along it. Stiles limped beside him, whining only once. They were both filthy and stinking and exhausted when Derek decided they needed to rest through the night. Most of the distant buildings he could see were devoted to farming. Grain silos and equipment storage sheds didn't offer much in the way of comfort for wolf or man, though. A sign for the Butte City Hunt Club, leaning toward the ruler straight road, next to a brown-rusted wheel half-sunk the ground with wild mustard growing through it promised better.

That told him which county they were in too. Not as far north as he'd hoped, but they could follow the Sacramento River north from here.

Derek paused and licked Stiles' ear. Stiles rubbed his muzzle against Derek's and licked the corners of his mouth in return, before trotting up the dirt road that ended in a group of farm buildings and beyond them, the Butte City Hunt Club, which included a main building, camper parking and a bunkhouse.

Derek could hear immediately that no one was there, just the calls of red-winged blackbirds and mourning doves and a few squeaking field mice, so he allowed himself to shift back to human before breaking the lock on a back door to get inside the main building. Stiles shifted back too and followed him in only to begin cackling.

Derek turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "What's funny?"

Stiles shook his head, pointed at Derek before glancing at himself and collapsing with laughter. He had to gasp out, "You – we – look like someone spray painted our fronts with neon green paint!"

Derek glanced down at the mucky algae still coating him and realized that it clung to the analogous portions of his bipedal body. And the algae was a lurid green, even in the dimness of the closed up club house. He tried to scrub off a bit clinging to his nipple but it stuck, plus now he was human again, his human brain interpreted what had been a strong smell as a disgusting reek.

Stiles got to his feet again and padded forward to methodically open every door and find out what was behind it. Besides the main room, he reported, "Office, office, storage, ooooh, kitchen, office, whoooo, Derek, there's a locker room with showers … "

Derek hurried after him in time to see Stiles turn a knob and moan with pornographic joy as water sprayed from the shower head.

The water was cold, but neither of them let that stop them. They crowded under a single shower head and scrubbed each other with dish soap they snagged from the kitchen. Both of them sniffed unhappily at the Mango Fresh scent, but it foamed up into a lather that cut the gunk off their skin. Getting clean made up for the smell.

Derek traced his hands over Stiles' skin, playing connect the dot with Stiles' moles until Stiles began tickling him and washing devolved into wrestling and nearly falling and braining one of them on the wet tile.

Stiles clutched at Derek's shoulders while Derek let go of the water control he'd grabbed onto when they both lost their balance. Water ran down into his eyes and clumped his lashes, so they were fuzzy dark shadows at the periphery of his vision. He bent his head and rested it against Stiles, foreheads touching, noses just missing each other. His breath came fast, in pace with Stiles' racing heartbeat. Sliding into a slow, easy kiss came naturally and he would have gone to his knees and blown Stiles right there and then, if Stiles hadn't grabbed a handful of Derek's wet hair and declared, "I want to fuck you."

He wasn't pulling Derek's hair, just holding it, holding Derek's head up so they could meet each other's eyes. Derek's mouth fell open and he gulped, but his dick twitched too, and once he'd swallowed his throat clear, he croaked, "Yeah. Let's. You do it."

He cleared his throat again and said, "I want it." He did. He wanted Stiles' mouth and Stiles' hands and all of Stiles' sarcastic, clever, unwaveringly loyal heart. Letting Stiles into his body, no matter he hadn't chanced that with anyone before, would be easy compared with learning to trust again.

At least, it was unlikely the act would mimic anything Kate had done closely enough to ruin it for him, he thought, and was startled that he could think of her so objectively.

"You like it," Derek said. He didn't see why he wouldn't.

"Yeah." Stiles gave him a brilliant smile. It morphed into something more mischievous, with a hint of evil that made Derek break a sweat, as Stiles rubbed his big hand together. "Okaaaaay."

He began to wonder if he should have stuck to what they'd already done.

"Hey," Stiles said, drawing Derek's attention back to him, the shower, and the cold water sluicing over them both. "Somewhere softer, I think, and less inclined to make my balls shrink up inside of my pelvis, because clean water is great, but it's ice fucking cold, and there's a disconnect currently between what my genitals are willing to do and what I want to do with them to you, thanks to the temperature."

Derek wondered why, out of everyone on the planet, it was Stiles who had made his way through all of his anger and fear and emotional armor, when he was such an idiot sometimes. But he was and he did, maybe because of that, and Derek had no desire to change him by one whit.

"Then let's get out of here," he said.

Stiles grinned at him.

"Couch or floor?"

"I regret my life every time you open your mouth."

~*~

Stiles was shattering him.

The hunt club had a bunk house. Derek was on the bunk and Stiles was between his legs. There were clean, if musty sheets. Those were going to be shredded; Derek kept clutching at them with human hands and inhuman strength. No claws had come out but he thought it might happen. Stiles had him panting and writhing, straining to push back for more, and at the edge of his control.

He hadn't been sure he'd like it, just that he'd like pleasing Stiles.

Stiles had found a jar of coconut oil in the kitchen. Derek would associate the distinct scent with Stiles' fingers tracing his rim until he cried out for the rest of his life.

That had been the beginning, before Stiles began using his mouth, before he worked one long finger inside Derek, a sensation that made Derek need to jerk away and press back for more at the same time, so he bit down on the pillow he was holding to his face and yelled.

When Stiles crooked his finger and rubbed the pad against something inside, Derek shuddered, sweat slicking his flanks and the insides of his thighs, behind his knees and at the inside of his elbows. Stiles worked another finger inside, impatiently, and it burned but Derek couldn't stop arching his back to push back for more, spreading his thighs wider, until the muscles inside ached, while he keened into the pillow, soaking the case with his spit.

The second finger worked inside him too, alternating over his prostate with the first in a pulsing rhythm that made Derek's cock throb in time, bouncing up to slap a wet streak against his belly. Pre-come slid down his erection to tickle against his balls and wet the hair at the base.

He whimpered into the pillow and Stiles twisted his fingers, muttering under his breath, "That's it, that's it, you can let go, that's perfect." Derek moaned in response, clenching down on Stiles fingers and then mewling when Stiles used his other hand to tease at his rim. He felt his face, his ears and his chest go hot with reaction when he felt himself flutter under Stiles' touch, trying to open more, to get more inside him.

Derek couldn't grasp enough words to urge Stiles for more, just groaned and pushed his ass back as enthusiastically as he could.

Stiles scissored his fingers inside in reward and murmured, "I didn't think you'd be verbal, but the vocal bit is great. Keep making those sounds."

Derek wanted to say he would if Stiles kept fingering him like that, that he was going to come from just the stimulus inside his ass, but instead he keened as Stiles added a third finger, spreading them inside, prying Derek open. The sheet under Derek was already wet from the pre-come as another blurt of it escaped his slit and his hips made little abortive jerks forward as he tried to find some kind of friction.

He couldn't breathe, not if it meant giving up even a second of this, and he didn't care about anything but getting off and it going on forever, couldn't grasp the dichotomy of those needs when Stiles leaned over him and bit the back of Derek's neck. He howled as the fingers inside him twisted again and he whited out helplessly, half afraid he'd already come.

The bite at his nape stung as it healed and Stiles licked at it, talking between strokes of his tongue, saying, "God, you liked that, I mean, I haven't even touched your dick yet, but I've got, I've got to get inside you now."

Derek let Stiles do all the work of arranging him, drawing his hips higher and pulling his cheeks apart before pushing his dick inside. It stung a little, because his body had tightened again as soon as Stiles' fingers were removed, but it was a hot, good sting that only made Derek want more. He rocked back instinctively, drawing a harsh gasp from Stiles. "Ke – eep doing that I'm not going to last long," Stiles muttered.

Stiles rolled his hips forward hard, drawing another long groan from Derek. Stiles repeated the move, harder, the sound of hot skin against skin shocking Derek, and again. The third thrust dragged over Derek's prostate and made Derek quiver and whine.

His hands were locked on Derek's hips, digging hard enough to be painful if Derek hadn't been so aroused. Instead, it felt wonderful, like nothing and no one had before, pushing these grunts out of him that embarrassed him but seemed to spur Stiles on.

Stiles found a rhythm after that, one that lit up every nerve ending in Derek's body and had him shaking apart, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that tears leaked from them, mouth open, choking out breathless noises. He pushed back, back, back, arching and rocking and anything to get more.

Through needy pleasure, Derek could hear Stiles' heartbeat, his quick breaths and half incoherent mutters, the sounds of their bodies against each other, the sheets rucking under them, the mattress springs squeaking and the bed frame stuttering over the floor. More than that, he was surrounded by their combined scents; Stiles' arousal twining with Derek's own, so thick in the hot air that he couldn't pick out anything else; he could taste it at the back of his tongue, filling his throat and his head. It made him want to lean his head back and to the side to bear his throat and give everything up, something he'd never done with anyone, even when he'd been a beta.

He needed a word, something sharper, purer, more urgent, more incapacitating than 'pleasure' to describe the feeling that shot through him each time Stiles pushed deeper. He couldn't gather himself together enough to say that to Stiles, wasn't sure he wanted to either, though Stiles would likely laugh or offer up a half dozen words from other languages that did.

Even that thought dissolved when Stiles lifted one hand from Derek's hip and reached around to his dick. Stiles' thrusts picked up speed and strength; they pushed Derek up the bunk until he wrapped his hands around the bed frame and braced himself.

The rhythm suspended them both, the need to come only coiling tighter and tighter, until Stiles scraped a thumbnail across Derek's slit. The stimulus pierced through him needle sharp and he came with a hard jerk, clenching down on Stiles. Stiles yelped in reaction but Derek barely heard him over his own gasp as his dick spurted come onto his abs and onto the tangled sheets.

He felt Stiles panting hot against his neck, his thrusts gone shallow and uneven, and mustered enough strength to roll his hips back and try to pull the orgasm out of him. A shuddering jolt of overstimulated pleasure rolled through him as Stiles growled loudly and ground inside him as deeply as possible while he came.

They folded down into the sweaty, wet, wrinkled sheets still stuck together and Derek breathed in the heavy odor and blinked moisture away from his eyes. He couldn't move any further than that. Stiles stayed draped over Derek's back, his nose nudged against Derek's nape, breath warm and fast and damp on his neck. Each time he breathed in, it pressed Derek deeper into the bed. He was making little noises, but they weren't words that Derek could make out. They sounded good though; happy and satisfied and approving.

The feel of Stiles' cock softening but still inside him couldn't be quantified, either. It felt good and uncomfortable at the same time. He didn't want Stiles to pull away, but his body sort of did. He’d gone too boneless to do anything about it anyway. He couldn't make himself say anything either, until Stiles reached up and pried Derek's fingers away from the bed frame then laced his fingers between Derek's.

"Holy God," Stiles rasped against Derek's neck.

Derek squeezed his fingers around Stiles because he still couldn't speak.

With a groan of his own, Stiles lifted himself off Derek, sliding free of him with a squelch and rolling onto his side carefully since the bunk bed wasn't really wide enough for the two of them. A trickle of come slipped out too and ran down Derek's perineum before his body tightened up again. He wiggled to the side, grimacing into the spit wet pillow as he stuck to the sheets for an instant. Stiles settled in next to him.

"So," Stiles said conversationally, "I think we can chalk that one up as a success. Yes? Because I thought it was … "

Derek made an approving sound without lifting his face from the pillow.

"Good, good, glad you agree," Stiles continued. He'd begun petting Derek's back and Derek felt like melting into the bed and drifting, not talking, so he just hummed again.

"And I think we should do it again. Often. And you should do me in the morning, if you don't want to do it right now, because … "

Derek hmmned his approval of those plans. Except for the right now part, because he wanted to savor the afterglow a while longer.

"Yeah, because." Stiles leaned in and kissed the ball of Derek's shoulder. "I'm kind of crazy about you."

Derek smiled into the pillow. "Same here," he muttered.

"So, I'm penciling morning sex on our schedule, if you think you'll be up for it."

Derek considered demanding what the hell Stiles meant by that, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. Stiles was just trying to get a rise out of him. "You do that," he said. "Now. Sleep."

Stiles rubbed his cheek against Derek's shoulder where he'd kissed it. "Wolfy wants a nap? Guess I wore you out."

"Sleep," Derek murmured, feeling a little grumpy. Stiles needed to cuddle up to him and let him enjoy being relaxed for a while. On the other hand, it was Stiles, and Derek enjoyed his pushy ways most of the time, except when Stiles was angry at him. He could throw him a bone … He snickered to himself, because he knew Stiles would have and the immature sense of humor turned out to be contagious. "Morning sex," he added.

Stiles sighed without a hint of unhappiness. "Okay. Sleep. Then more sex and food and maybe cleaning up … "

Derek let himself relax as Stiles went on.

~*~

Morning sex meant Derek fucking Stiles, since Stiles was too boneless, drowsy and lazy to do anything besides uncoordinatedly pat at Derek and mumble and moan encouragement. Derek took his time. The pale early morning light painted Stiles' skin in shades of ivory, his moles dots of chocolate. Derek let himself touch each of them, memorizing which were raised and which were smooth, indistinguishable to anything but the eye. He traced the strength in Stiles' shoulders and thighs and the corded muscles of his forearms before sucking gently on each long finger while watching Stiles' whiskey brown eyes fill with light before his pupils swallowed them, and then the flare to beta gold when Derek sank deep in him.

They lingered until the sun rose all the way, ate canned food scrounged from the single camper abandoned in the parking lot, and washed again. The turbine vibration of another helicopter noised close enough to make them flinch.

"Fuckers," Stiles commented with a narrow-eyed glare to the smoky sky.

"We should stay here today," Derek said.

"Yeah?" He could see the eagerness in the way Stiles held his body, the expressive curl of his mouth and the arch of his brows, and most of all in the way his hands reached out to Derek.

Derek arched his eyebrows back and said only, "Yes. They'll be less likely to take pot shots at animals in the dark."

Stiles eyed him then burst into laughter. "Maybe, but I think what you really want to do is try out a different position on every one of those bunks."

Derek cuffed the back of Stiles' head and ended with his fingers stroking through the silky clean strands of his hair. "We'll move faster as wolves."

"You just like being the wolf."

"You don't?" Derek asked, too fast, suddenly uncertain when he'd thought Stiles was accepting the Bite and the changes. Maybe it had been too easy …

Stiles squawked at him. "I love it, you moron. I'm not Scott and I chose this, don't start doubting everything. I just, I know you, and since you made the full shift down in Baja, you've taken every excuse you could to do it again. You love it."

Derek ducked his head, but knew the tips of his ears were pink and gave his embarrassment away. Especially when Stiles leaned in and nipped one.

They gathered the rest of the food into a cardboard box, retreated back into the bunkhouse, and sat on one of the clean bunks to eat and talk. Avoiding the 'I already miss' subjects should have been harder, but Derek had learned to do without things before and didn't find it too hard to let go again, while Stiles was still so fascinated with his new werewolf existence to think about it much. He spent the time peppering Derek with questions that Derek had always answered with a 'it's a werewolf thing, it doesn't translate' in the past. Which it still didn't, but Derek could draw the reactions out of Stiles the werewolf so that he understood without words now. He felt vindicated too: Stiles took to being were more smoothly than anyone Derek had ever met, excepting only Hester. But Hester was, in Stiles' words, some kind of ex super spy mastermind freaky goddess. They discussed whether Hester and her pack would have abandoned Los Angeles before or after the quarantine and fires came down and if they might make their way north to Beacon Hills if they did – Derek had told them of the territory there as part of their alliance; an offer of sanctuary if it ever became necessary.

Another helicopter buzzed over the area twice more before noon. They pretended to ignore it, the same way Derek didn't say anything about the smell of smoke that crept in everywhere and tinted the light orange.

Near dusk, they finished off a package of applesauce cups, since they wouldn't be able to carry any of it with them.

This time, Stiles made the shift through to complete wolf effortlessly. Derek took the opportunity to admire him and ruffle behind his ears before stripping and shifting himself.

With a yip, Stiles took off the instant Derek finished, and they headed northward.

href="https://db.tt/jklxBRzM">

Stiles had taken to being a werewolf gleefully. He'd worried about regrets – of course he had, he'd been human, would always have that side of him – but found himself happier than he'd anticipated. He appreciated the chance to keep up with Derek as they loped eastward through the Shasta Trinity National Forest. The toxic black cloud of smoke over Redding had been warning enough to stay away, but they'd already learned from experience and never meant to approach the city itself, rather scavenging in one of the little outlying towns to the southeast, before leaving them behind. Even when his paw pads grew worn and sore, it only took a few minutes pause for them to heal again. Being a werewolf turned out to be as awesome as he'd thought it sounded as a teenager. He wasn't as tuned in to his new senses as Derek was, however.

When Derek hackled up and stopped, head dipping lower than his massive shoulders as he growled, Stiles froze, ready to bolt or pounce snarling on the threat to his alpha. His ears pinned back and his lips peeled away from his own sharp canines, while he tried to identify whatever Derek had scented.

The smell of the ragged black bear – heavy musk, male, dirt, smoke, angry/afraid – crashing out of the dry brush a second later left Stiles nose deaf to anything else. He leaped almost straight into the air and had to twist to get himself out of the bear's path when it veered away from Derek. When Stiles landed in a crackle of old leaf litter and pine needles, all four legs splayed and his claws digging into the soil beneath, the bear had already disappeared.

Stiles snarled at its retreating form and shook his fur back into place.

Derek stayed where he'd been, a subvocal growl still vibrating from his throat, intent on something beyond the bear.

Stiles pranced close enough to duck his head and lick at Derek's ear. Derek flicked it back toward Stiles but ignored him otherwise.

A tiny shift in the wind opened Stiles' nose to what Derek had already identified: smoke. Not the distant, pleasant scent of barbeques or wood stoves in autumn or winter, but the gut-clenching, toxic stench of a whole forest burning. Stiles shuddered all over, human mind warring with wolf instinct that said turn and run, run faster than the bear, run faster than a deer, out run the fire. He whined into Derek's ear, remembering the bear's fear, feeling Derek's jolt of terror through the pack bond.

Derek turned his head and gave Stiles a quick, comforting lick, then shoulder-checked him and took off at a run, but not the way the bear had gone. The bear had been running from the wind, away from the direction it would push the fire. Derek headed away at an angle from the wind direction, running up hill. Stiles couldn't remember if you were supposed to do that or not, just that you should try to find water and mud for protection if a wildfire over ran you. Which should have meant running downhill … Why hadn't he researched this instead of learning how to curse people?

His Dad's only advise on wildfires had been, "Stiles, stay out of the damned Preserve.' Well, and 'if I catch you playing with matches there will be no Scott. Ever again,' which as a threat had dampened any incipient leanings toward arson on Stiles' part. Stiles would argue the wit and wisdom of the elder Stilinski, while usually awesome, constituted major fail in the keeping your kid alive stakes right now.

He bolted after Derek, tearing through brush and jumping everything from fallen logs to inconveniently placed boulders and even some bushes. Despite the circumstances, it was exhilarating to move with such speed and power, to see and hear and smell so much more of the world, and to keep up with the dark flag of Derek's tail ahead of him.

But he could smell the fire ahead of them and he knew that was a bad sign. If you could smell smoke, you were close enough to suffer from smoke inhalation. It didn't need to be so thick it blinded, not when carbon dioxide could take someone down and kill them before the fire itself licked over the body. He remembered overhearing Cal Fire fighters talking about fellows who had died like that in a coffee shop one fire season. It had pretty much put paid to any childish notions of growing up to be a firefighter for Stiles.

Derek was taking them up hill rather than down, which Stiles knew meant they were moving away from any watercourses.

If he'd been in human or even beta form, Stiles would have demanded Derek tell him his strategy, but as a wolf, he could only follow and hope Derek actually knew what he was doing and wasn't in a panic.

Derek led him up the ridge, through thinning digger pines into an area Stiles thought had been logged off at some point in the last twenty years. The only large, older trees left were split trunks and other distorted examples. Anything with a straight log had been taken down and even most of the non-useful trees had been clear cut to provide access. The brush that had grown up in the absence of the trees blocked any view and provided perfect fuel for fires. He started to believe he understood Derek's strategy however: he was trying to get them high enough to see where the fire was coming from and steer a course away from it, or to somewhere with little or no fuel for the fire, somewhere they could hold while the front swept past them. If they tried to simply outrun it with no clue which way it might spread, jump or turn they could easily end up trapped

They burst out of the brush into a clear area.

From the ridge top, Stiles could see the fire shooting high over the tops of the trees on the next ridge. The thick, gray-white smoke billowed before the wind, pushed at an angle away from where he stood at Derek's shoulder. The fire was spreading laterally too and if there was any kind of creek still running in the narrow valley between their ridge and the next, it wouldn't be enough keep the flames from jumping to the other side.

Stiles panted and shifted uneasily. Fire could move at least ten miles an hour with a good wind and they were much closer than ten miles to the fire line.

Derek whined and shuddered. A wave of heat rolled over them and Stiles whimpered at the idea of how hot it must be at the fire line. Derek actually backed up a step, telegraphing his sudden doubt. Stiles crowded as close as he could, trying to communicate his support, ending up actually supporting a little of Derek's weight.

They could hear the fire, a sound of rushing wind and the crack of wood and stone along with a steaming hiss audible beneath the louder roar.

Derek whined again, long and terrified, before moving. Stiles moved with him, staying in contact as much as he could.

Derek started down the slope of the ridge, angling away from the fire, taking them out of the scraggly tree cover and down toward a talus, where the winter's rain had eroded a section of ridge, sending it tumbling down in a mass of bare dirt, broken boulders and gravel. There was nothing there to act as fuel. Even though it was closer to the fire, they'd be safer than if they just ran.

Loose rocks and summer dry soil slipped and rolled under Stiles' paws as they picked their way toward the center of the unstable scree. Smoked whipped cinders into his eyes in the next second, blinding him and he stumbled and slipped.

Derek staggered but took Stiles' weight and kept them both from falling. The heat gained force, choking hot with every breath, the fire's noise amplified off the rocks, until Stiles felt like they were in a giant oven. The wind direction had changed. The air he struggled to bring into his lungs felt like it was cooking them.

Derek herded him into the high side lee of a massive boulder and began digging into the debris piled at its base.

After brief second of confusion, Stiles joined him, werewolf strength and sheer desperation deepening the hole fast. Three feet deep. He dug harder, tunneling deep, tearing the claws on his front feet and ignoring the blood seeping into the hard earth. Five feet. He couldn't smell fresh earth through the miasma of smoke that blocked out the sun above, dark as a storm overhead, even when they reached it. Six feet deep and Stiles refused to let himself think how much their hole resembled a grave. This was a den, a safe refuge. He just kept digging beside Derek until Derek twisted around in the den and squeezed past Stiles to crawl up and out of the tunnel.

Stiles scrabbled through the narrow passage, pulled himself out, paused and looked up.

Derek was gazing up. Sparks flowered from the tops of the trees that grew thicker and taller along the edges of the creek bed, spreading licking yellow and orange flames from the far side to theirs. The trees lit fast, sap exploding some like bombs, sending broken limbs spearing high, outlined black against the crimson wall behind them.

Derek let loose a raspy, pained howl, snapping Stiles' attention back to him. He had no chance to brace himself as Derek bowled into him, knocking Stiles into the tunnel they'd dug. Derek scrambled down after him, pushing Stiles ahead of him, until they were both in the den, and then began clawing bits of dirt and gravel and rocks into the only opening. After an instant of pure what-the-fuck, Stiles got it and joined in.

They ended huddled at the other end of the den, deep beneath an insulating layer of rock and soil, the tunnel loosely filled in. Derek lay on top of Stiles, both of them next to the still cool base of the boulder, noses pressed to the hollow of air between the earth and the stone to breathe. Stiles hoped the oxygen would hold out until the fire passed the den.

The deafening explosion of sound as the fire crested over the talus and swept past muffled Stiles' whimpers and everything else, but he could feel Derek shaking against him and the damp touch of his exhalations against his nose. He could feel the burn, different from Derek's body heat, and vibrations of Derek howling in agony when the flames shot down the tunnel and through the loose dirt blocking off the den before he ran out of breath and went limp above Stiles.

Stiles panted and whined and tried to twist his body to somehow shield Derek instead, intent on finding, feeling, some proof Derek was still breathing, that the tiny thread of thereness that still came through the pack bond meant Derek was alive. He found it as he felt Derek's chest move and sagged in relief. He didn't mean to shift back into human form, it was far more vulnerable than his wolf body, but the shiver of power swept through him and he found himself with his arms wrapped around Derek, fingers snatching away from the places Derek's fur had burned away. His skin blistered in sympathy.

The fire had moved past the top of the ridge, its deafening voice fading with distance, still noisy but Stiles could hear his voice as he repeated Derek's name over and over. He couldn't stop thinking that fire had killed Derek's family, that fire could kill werewolves, had scarred and driven Peter into madness: it could take the last Hale. He wanted to shake Derek and yell at him to wake up, but didn't, not when he knew Derek was hurt.

Smoke lingered and set Stiles coughing and thrashing despite himself. Derek's body slid off him and he found himself looking up at a circle of the gray-yellow overcast framed by blackened earth walls. Beside him, Derek jerked and made hurt sounds, shifting his head like he couldn't see Stiles. He seemed to lock onto Stiles for a second, but then he moved and whined, twisting his neck to snap in confusion at the bits of fur still smoldering on his hindquarters.

The burnt fur wasn't the worst though. Stiles could see areas on Derek's side and back where the fire had seared away fur and skin, blackening the bleeding flesh beneath. Derek tried to get to his feet and failed twice before sinking down and panting.

Stiles curled around him and tangled his fingers through a spot with unburnt fur to find skin. He could at least do the werewolf pain drain. Maybe that would help Derek heal faster.

His breath stopped in his lungs as the heavy lines of black ran up his hands and arms as soon as he made the connection. Stiles had had cooking burns, nothing more, and he hadn't had any clue how much Derek was hurt. He snatched his hand away out of instinctive self-preservation and immediately cursed himself as Derek mewled in renewed pain.

"Here, here, let me," Stiles muttered and pressed both hands to Derek's skin, bracing himself as he sucked up the pain. This time he didn't jerk away and as his body processed the pain (he supposed it was easier when he wasn't actually injured), Derek went slack with relief. Stiles couldn't see much from his position, but he could feel ripples running through Derek's flesh, and hoped it meant Derek's alpha healing had kicked in. He told himself Derek would be okay and focused all his belief, the belief that once went with his spark, on it.

It didn't do anything any longer and Stiles had a breathless instant of wishing for his magic back so he could try to heal Derek, but it dissolved with the knowledge that if he hadn't given it up to become a werewolf, he wouldn't be alive to use it. Wishing for what was did no good and he'd made the right call.

Since they were both still breathing, so had Derek.

He'd never had any luck with healing spells anyway, not on himself or anyone else. Deaton had said he just didn't have a healer's touch.

He pulled Derek closer and said, lips brushing against one furry ear, "You were right. You saved us."

Derek's ear twitched in response to Stile's breath and he twisted in Stiles' arms and then shifted, returning to human form. It left him sprawled over Stiles, heavy enough Stiles could feel his ribcage protest, but all that pale bare skin had healed, and Derek nosed against his neck and mumbled, "Hurt?"

"No, you were," Stiles told him. "I'm fine. You got us through. Safe and sound."

Derek tensed over him then lifted a little of his weight away, rearranging their limbs so they weren't elbowing or crushing each other. Then he went limp against Stiles, breathing hard, and Stiles pretended he didn't feel the hot wet of tears on his neck or hear the soft noises that weren't quite words yet.

"Fucking fire," Derek muttered.

Stiles patted him. "I know." He wanted to say 'you got it right this time,' but it felt cruel and unnecessary. Derek knew his own ghosts and demons. He didn't need Stiles to remind him, especially if this would allow him to let some of them go. Instead, he added, "You beat it."

Derek nodded, the movement grazing his hair against Stiles' jaw, tickling. His hand found Stiles' nearest and he threaded their fingers together. No calluses, never any calluses for either of them, and Stiles had to smile at that thought. People had commented on his hands and his fingers since he started college, but he loved Derek's hands, the dichotomy of how soft they were and how lethal they could be, when the strength and the claws came out.

"We're going to be okay," Derek said, his voice hoarse and shaky, tinged with what Stiles could only characterize as wonder.

"Yup," Stiles agreed. "You saved me this time."

Derek lifted his face and pressed a closed mouth kiss to Stiles' chin. "Was it my turn?"

Stiles shrugged, grimacing when his shoulder blade encountered a large rock underneath him. "Does it matter? It's what we do."

"We should stay down here a while longer, until things up there can cool down enough we won't burn ourselves on the rocks and embers," Derek said.

"Want to shift back?" Stiles asked. "I think we'd be more comfortable."

Derek pressed closer to him.

"In a little while," he murmured, "I like wolf you. I like this you too and we'll need to be in wolf form when we leave."

Stiles rubbed his nose against the top of Derek's head. A little pulse of relief ran through him. Derek might like being a wolf, but he wasn't abandoning humanity entirely. Not yet.

"Four feet later it is," he said.

Stiles stopped at Derek's side as they crested a ridge deep in one of the National Forests that surrounded the Preserve. He didn't have to look for the triskele carved deep into a boulder to know they were at the edge of the Hale Pack territory. He yipped his hilarity though as he caught a whiff that he never would have as a human. Those lying dogs – werewolves – they so did pee on stuff. Though it was old and faint enough Stiles could only identify it as Hale and pack, not Derek or Peter or any of their pack, so he wouldn't tease Derek over it, because it might date back to before Derek's family burned.

Wildfires lit the nights, scarily close, and since the burn-over, they'd had to detour twice and run with the rest of the animals once as a wall of flame engulfed a mountain side they were traversing. Stiles had learned to pay attention to even the smallest game, though it was the bigger animals that had the best chance of getting away. Derek was calmer now, but Stiles understood the deep fear he'd felt, not just through the pack bond, but from experience.

Behind them, if the trees had been a little thinner, he could have picked out an orange glow on the western horizon. Where once that would have been light pollution from a city, now it was fire on the mountain tops, burning unchecked higher and higher until it starved on the scree and last remnants of last winter's snow, where nothing lived or grew.

Stiles was glad for the night. The days were worse, with ramparts of smoke in every direction.

It felt like a miracle to breathe without coughing, never mind smell anything after the fire-choked country past Redding. There had been moments when the smoke blocked out everything in the sky, obscuring sun or stars, and only Derek's innate instinct had kept them on course for his territory. Stiles was convinced their fur would stink of burning until it all fell out. Seeing Derek coated in white ash as they picked their way through miles of blackened ground still hot enough to burn their paw pads wasn't anything Stiles wanted to experience again. Derek had curled next to Stiles when they slept, with his nose tucked into Stiles' fur, and wouldn't shift into human at all until they were clear of the worst fire zones.

Stiles suspected it was Derek's way of coping: the wolf lived more in the now, so he didn't dwell on horrific memories and losses in that shape. He would have worried more about it, if he hadn't been going through the days and nights the same way. Worry for the pack and his father were more distant while he was a wolf; he knew he was heading toward them, toward home territory, so all he had to think about was the journey and Derek.

He snorted to clear his nose and thought about catching a scent from the past: that he might be picking up traces of something close to a decade past. No wonder Derek had held onto the wreckage of the Hale House until the country condemned and seized it. Even ruined, it must have held so many memories locked in the scents of generations of Hales.

It wasn't the scent or sight that told Stiles they'd reached the border, though, nor Derek's weird mixture of relief and tension.

Stiles could feel it, the sense of home, and nearer, stronger the pack bond that had always been more mental and magic for him than the sudden visceral connection that flowed in to fill in his empty spaces with his pack mates.

Derek gave himself a shake, lifted his head to the stars and loosed a long, hopeful howl that echoed back from the ravines and hills that sloped down to the valley below Beacon Hills and the forested mountains beyond.

Stiles shoved his shoulder into Derek's as they waited for an answer. He could feel the quiver of fear and hope running through Derek's massive frame.

It came.

First one uncertain howl, calling to the moon, calling back to their alpha, and then another, until Stiles could pick out everyone of their pack, even Lydia, who refused to let a human throat stop her from joining in.

Derek howled again and Stiles added his voice to the wild, eerie chorus of the pack.

They broke into a run as the last howl died away, racing toward Beacon Hills and the pack that had found its way home before them. Derek bounded through the forest with all the knowledge of someone who grew up doing so right there. Stiles gloried in how easy it was to follow behind him. He was able to see despite the darkness, no clumsiness slowed him down, he was muscle and instinct and strength and it all came together with the sheer relief of knowing everyone else was out there. He could feel them, everyone he cared about except for his Dad and Mrs. McCall, through the pack bond. As they raced down into the valley, Stiles began to be able to hear the betas as they tore through the forest toward them, still confined to two feet, but shifted to beta form enough to go on four at least some of the time. He couldn't wait to prove to them that the full shift could be achieved by any werewolf that believed enough.

He could hear their breath and feel their hearts beating and another howl of excitement lifted from his throat when he heard Scott tearing toward them, yelling at the top of his voice, "Stiles! Stiles! Stiles!"

Stiles howled in response and Derek joined him, so their voices spiraled together until they trailed away and returned to running.

They were close now, so close Stiles could hear the leaf mulch and fallen pine needles crushing under the pack's feet and smell the burst of earth, damp, mold, pine sap and tannin bursting up with step and he could smell the pack: Scott, running ahead of everyone, kindness-musk-anise-male, followed by Isaac's sweet happy-sawdust-cherry scent, then the leather-celery-acetone scent that had to be Boyd if the plastic-ozone-green grass scent belonged to Danny. All of them carried wisps of other scents, of Allison's peach blossom gun oil and Lydia's sandalwood and poppies perfume.

Derek outstripped Stiles, bursting into the tiny open meadow in time to tackle and bowl Scott over and into Boyd, so they both went down. The rest of the betas reached the meadow as Stiles loped into the scene, golden eyes going wide at the sight of Derek in full wolf form, effortlessly dominating the betas on the ground and reasserting his control of the pack. Mouths fitted with long fangs dropped open as they caught sight of Stiles.

"Stiles?" Isaac questioned. "That you … ?"

Stiles let out a yip of laughter and pounced on him, knocking him down into the grass and licking his face.

"Holy crap, you're both really wolves," Scott said after Derek stepped off him and he'd rolled to his knees. Stiles abandoned Isaac to rush over to Scott and head butt him. Scott wrapped his arms around Stiles' neck and hugged him tight.

"I didn't know you could do that," Isaac said.

"Laura could," Scott mentioned. He gave Derek an apologetic look that Derek acknowledged with an ear flick. "But I thought it was only alphas." He hugged Stiles tighter. "Dude, I thought you didn't want the Bite?"

Stiles stepped away, gave himself a good shake to get his fur back in order, and looked Scott directly in the eyes. Of course, he wanted Scott to see he was serious and telling the truth, but it was also a dominance posture that he reinforced with a big, tooth-baring yawn. Not wanting the Bite was history. He'd taken it and found being a werewolf good; Derek was right, it was a gift.

After an instant, Scott looked away and dipped his head. If Stiles could have grinned – and he sort of could – he would have. He'd never admitted it, but he'd missed being on an equal basis with Scott. Being able to boss him around a bit would be fun, because he had just moved himself up the pack hierarchy over Scott.

All the other betas were looking at them too. Stiles glanced at Derek, who inclined his head. Shifting back still felt strange, but Stiles only needed to concentrate for a moment before the shift took over and he was in beta form, human enough to talk, wolf enough he wasn't embarrassed at having no clothes.

"I got the Bleed in Sac," he explained.

"They burned Sacramento last week," Boyd said.

Stiles nodded. "They were shooting anyone trying to get out when we left. It was already bad."

Scott looked conflicted. "So Derek bit you to save you?"

"Only after we found out shifting cured him." Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. "We thought … anyway, Derek went full wolf and healed so I asked him to give me the Bite. If we'd done it in Baja, we could have made it home a lot sooner and I wouldn't have ended up stabbed."

"You were stabbed!?"

"I'm fine now. Werewolf. Derek took care of me anyway."

Derek padded over and leaned against Stiles. Stiles absently played with one soft ear tip. Scott looked at them round-eyed. Scott wasn't always oblivious. "Oh," he said, then smiled at Stiles and Derek. "I'm glad for you. Both of you." And that was why Scott was his best bro and would always be.

Derek gave out a pleased rumble in response.

"Look, I want to get the rest of the way home," Stiles said. "And I'd like to see my Dad … " Anxiety lifted his voice. Derek nosed his hand, a warm, heavy presence beside him and through the pack bond.

"Your dad's good," Boyd assured him. "We've been looking out for him and patrolling the town as much as possible since we got here. Things are decent here. People are getting stuff back up and running. Your dad and the Mayor and Mr. Argent are keeping everything under control."

Stiles sucked in a deep breath and nodded his thanks to Boyd.

"Look, we'll tell you everything at the house, with Lydia and Allison and everyone there," Stiles said. "When we've cleaned up and eaten something besides raw jackrabbit and have some clothes on. Okay?"

Derek stood up, chuffed once deep in his throat, and headed back into the forest, toward the rebuilt Hale House and home. Stiles shifted back to his wolf form and followed. Wordless, the betas fell in behind them.

~*~

Derek didn't much like that he could smell Argent – gun oil, cordite, wolfsbane and spearmint – in his home when the pack flowed out of the woods around his restored house. His lip curled up over one fang, but he didn't snarl when he spotted Chris Argent standing on the rebuilt porch, a shotgun resting against his shoulder. Allison had already bounded down the steps to greet Scott before staring with wide dark eyes at Derek and Stiles' wolf forms.

Argent's mouth folded into something less than amazed, his expression tinted with disapproval, and his hand spasmed on the shotgun, but he said nothing, so Derek let out a huff of air and ignored him otherwise as he padded past Allison and him into the house. Behind him, Stiles was bouncing around, showing off for the rest of the pack.

Argent was still on the porch when Derek came back outside after shifting, washing and dressing in his own clothes. He leaned against the wall next to him and they watched Stiles rough house with the rest of the werewolves in the long, dry grass of the still overgrown yard.

"Allison wanted me here with the pack," Argent said eventually. His explanation managed to communicate the question of whether Derek, as alpha, would tolerate his presence.

"Okay," Derek said. Allison was pack. Allison's father was … not pack, but not an outsider either. Hunters and werewolves were both secretive and clannish, both lived on the other side of a veil most people never peered past. Argent had proved himself both ruthless and honorable in the past. He made a good ally and keeping him close would ease Allison's worries, if nothing else.

Argent lifted his brows a little so that Derek shrugged and nodded at Argent's shotgun. "Has the military come through town?"

"It's been quiet here."

Derek found another word, left it there for Argent to parse.

"Lucky."

Argent didn't comment, but sour odor of worry tainted his normal scent, making it even more stressful to be around. The air on the porch held enough pack scent, along with the lingering smell of the dark green paint they'd used for it, that Derek didn't wrinkle his nose. It changed with a shift of the breeze soughing through the pine needles. The relief of the moment when the night let go of the day's heat a release that untensed Derek's muscles. The smell of cool earth, damp and trees always gave him ease. He breathed deep.

Though if he inhaled deeply enough, he could still smell the smoke that hung thick in the valleys and roiled high into the skies even hundreds of miles from the fires. It didn't bother him as much as it would have only days before.

Argent moved, stretching so that something popped in his back. He needed a shave and gray glinted in the whiskers on his chin. The creases in his face were deeper than Derek remembered. The fan of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes hadn't disappeared, even though the man wasn't squinting through a target scope. Stress and age were catching up with Argent in the same cruel way they did every hunter when their human bodies began losing the fight with time.

Stiles knocked Scott's legs out from under him, pounced on his chest, and growled, lips peeled back from his teeth, until Scott went limp and rolled his head back to bare his throat in submission. Once Scott did, Stiles licked him from chin to forehead and left him to trot to the porch. He snuffled at Argent, butted Derek's leg, and then went in.

"Jesus," Argent muttered. He turned his head and waited, the question of why Derek had given Stiles the Bite after four years of Stiles having no interest in it between them. "Why now?"

Derek stared out at the forest that ran on into the Preserve and then the National Forest Lands, if not empty of threats, at least mostly empty of people, and wished he could still be running through it, with the moon a silver eye blinking between the dark lashes of the tree tops.

"The Bite beats the Bleed," Stiles said as he stepped out, now dressed in clothes that were his, but a little worn and tight after two years in storage. Of course he'd heard Argent's question, even inside: his hearing was as good as Derek's now.

Argent flicked a glance at Stiles, who had moved to lean against Derek's side, then looked back the yard. His gaze settled on Allison. Derek wrapped one arm around Stiles' waist. Argent glanced back at them both. "That's good news," he said, an oblique declaration that he'd rather see his daughter a werewolf than dead; a significant turnaround from when Argent had assisted his wife when Victoria chose suicide over turning.

Stiles tugged at Derek's belt loops. "Come on, I want see my Dad. We can have breakfast with him."

Derek hesitated and said carefully to Argent, "It's good you came out here. You should stay." The other werewolves were listening, so he didn't outright say he'd give Argent the Bite along with Allison if it came to that, but he hoped Argent would get it anyway.

Argent looked startled, before giving Derek a short little nod.

"Well, good, that's settled, can we get moving?" Stiles asked. He tugged Derek into motion only because Derek went along with it. "I'm thinking waffles and real bacon."

"For your Dad or you?" Derek asked. He wondered if Stiles' father would have any sort of supplies left and the state of the larder in the house behind him for that matter.

"For me, of course. Turkey bacon for Dad." Stiles tone gave away how little he thought that would be available, but then he grinned and Derek almost tripped on the last step as Stiles added, "And strawberry syrup for you."

~*~

Sheriff Stilinski answered his front door already in uniform, duty weapon in his hand, but without his equipment belt. Despite being cleaned up, shaved and ready to leave for the day, he looked exhausted, with puffy bags under his eyes and deep creases in his forehead.

He stared at Stiles standing in front of him and Derek just behind Stiles with something close to disbelief before smiling and folding his arms around Stiles so tightly Stiles squeaked. Derek plucked the pistol from the Sheriff's – he'd never managed to think of the man by his given name and certainly wouldn't think of calling him Dad the way Stiles did – hand. He checked the safety out of habit; the bounty hunting gig had left him more familiar with firearms than he'd ever imagined being.

"Christ, kiddo, I've been so worried about you," the Sheriff said once he finally loosened his hold on Stiles. Stiles clung to him a minute longer before taking a step back. Both of them kept their hands on each other's shoulder.

Derek ached a little, but at the same time seeing them together, along with the hum of joy through the pack bond, made him smile hard enough he had to look away in embarrassment.

"Not as much as I've been worrying about you and what you've been sneaking for breakfast," Stiles declared. He finally let go of his father but immediately patted the Sheriff's stomach right over his belt buckle. "Your metabolism is slowing down, you know. You just can't eat those heavy meals and fast food anymore." He stepped back, grinning wildly, and caught Derek's wrist with one flailing hand. "Which is why Derek and I are here. To have breakfast with you."

The Sheriff looked past Stiles and inspected Derek, a hint of emotion in his gaze that translated into a loosening of his shoulders that could only have come from concern. It made Derek duck his head, his face heating with that same achy happiness seeing the man with Stiles gave him. "Derek," the Sheriff said.

"Derek," Stiles declared. He pulled Derek closer and looked at his father until the Sheriff's eyebrows went up and he muttered, "Oh."

Derek felt his ears getting hot. "Sir."

Stiles just kept grinning and snaked an arm around Derek's middle to pull him close. Derek stiffened, but didn't draw away. He hadn't expected Stiles to be so obvious, though they were both physically affectionate in wolf form. Maybe they should have talked out how they were going to present themselves to the Sheriff. Maybe, knowing Stiles, Derek should have expected this. Besides, he liked Stiles' hands on him, liked the way Stiles had no intention of apologizing for anything. "We're together." Stiles kept smiling, wide and confident, as though the apprehension Derek felt thrumming through the bond with that declaration didn't exist. Derek didn't smile, but he met the Sheriff's gaze and nodded.

The Sheriff scrubbed his hand over his face and then stepped back, opening the passage into the house. "Get in here, both of you, and tell me everything that's happened." He paused before adding, "Because I can see there've been some changes."

Derek cringed a little because the Sheriff didn't know the half of it. He followed Stiles inside the familiar house and back to the kitchen, where Stiles released him and bee-lined for the stove while Derek handed the pistol back to the Sheriff. "Yes. Bet you're glad I persuaded you to switch to gas for the new stove now." A propane lantern hung hooked from the overhead light fixture, hissing gently, the flame turned down low but illuminating the homey kitchen well enough. On the stove, an enamel coffee pot sat over a small flame, coffee bubbling inside from the scent. Stiles retrieved a mug from a nearby dish cabinet and picked up the pot to pour for himself.

He winced and cussed under his breath immediately and sat the pot back down. His hand went to his mouth. "Oops."

"Damn it, Stiles, you never remember to use a mitt," the Sheriff exclaimed. "How bad is it this time – "

Stiles showed his hand to his father. "Look, Dad, no burns."

The Sheriff caught Stiles' hand in his own and examined it. Another frown wrinkled his forehead. He had to know that coffee pot was hot enough to sear skin. He'd seen Stiles holding it and reacting, but couldn't find even a hint of damage. Sharp blue eyes – Stiles' must have his mother's eyes – glanced from Stiles' hand up to his face and then over to Derek, still lingering the doorway to the kitchen.

"So, yeah, a lot of stuff to tell you, like me and Derek, and shit that's been going down in the Valley, and, well, a lot of the stuff that went on here before we all got our acts together – " Stiles blurted.

"You're not going to tell me you had anything to do with the Crash," the Sheriff stated.

"Uh, no?" Stiles answered, bewildered.

"Good." The Sheriff raised his eyebrows at Derek.

"Not that I'm aware of."

Stiles let out a snort of amusement. "And if he was, believe me, Lydia would have let us know about it."

The Sheriff sighed and pushed past Stiles. He pulled two more mugs from the cabinet, set them on the kitchen table, and went back for the coffee pot. He wrapped the handle with a tea towel and brought it over, filling all three cups. "Sit down then. You too, Derek. Stiles, you can begin explaining, but I reserve the right to have Derek take over if you start talking about comic book characters at any point."

Stiles sulked visibly. "But Dad, the Wolverine comparison is crit – "

"Stiles," Derek interrupted him. "Stop."

Stiles gave him a sulky look, but seemed to realize he was pushing Derek's patience and his father's to the limit. "Yeah, okay. We could skip the whole Miguel incident too."

"You think?" Derek wasn't looking forward to the Sheriff learning he'd hid out in his underage son's bedroom while he'd been wanted on suspicion of murder.

Stiles glanced at his father, swallowed hard, but then shook his head. "Naw. That's too good not to tell."

"Keep pushing," Derek warned him.

"You're still pissed," Stiles said. He snickered under his breath and added for his father's benefit, "You should have seen him. Derek was, like, the angriest stripper on the planet."

Derek glared at him.

"That!" Stiles pointed at Derek. "That's the face."

The Sheriff sighed and asked, "Why?" He rolled his eyes upward and Derek smirked.

Stiles face fell and he fiddled with his coffee cup. "I may have encouraged Derek to offer Danny some incentive to do some hacking by getting him to strip for him." The last bits were blurted fast.

Derek took a sip of his coffee. It was sort of funny in retrospect, but not at the time, not when he'd been wanted by the police – thanks to Stiles and Scott – and dependent on their reluctant aid. "The word would be used, not encouraged," he commented.

"This is completely not what we set out to talk about," Stiles said.

"True, oh evasive son of mine, but don't think we won't be discussing it later." The Sheriff fixed his gaze on Derek too. "So, perhaps you'd like to start this ball rolling, Derek? Stiles can start breakfast."

Derek suppressed a put upon sigh as Stiles popped to his feet in relief, saying, "I can do that. You have no idea how hungry I am for something that doesn't have fur – I mean – You know, I'm just going to start the bacon."

The Sheriff gave Derek a long-suffering look. Derek thought to himself, the rest of my life, but it didn't seem as bad as all that.

"Derek. Begin."

Derek lifted his hand away from the coffee mug, thinking it might have been smarter if he hadn't given the Sheriff his weapon back, and let his fingers grow razor sharp claws while his eyes flared scarlet bright. "Werewolves." He let his fangs come out and show as well.

The Sheriff's heart rate spiked briefly and he tensed, but he didn't move. Derek let the fangs go away because they made talking intelligibly difficult.

"Red eyes, fangs and claws," the Sheriff muttered. "Sounds more like vampires."

Derek curled his lips and Stiles blurted, "Nope, nope, vampires stink. I mean, really, even to normal noses, because of being basically re-animated corpses. They're like big, pasty ticks on two legs. Seriously, so not romantic. Rot-mantic, maybe."

"Vampires are real," the Sheriff said.

"Well, sort of. They're more like ghouls. No sparkles, some oozing."

"Tangent," Derek reminded Stiles before addressing the Sheriff, "The only vampires the pack ever ran across were in LA. They prefer dense, urban populations."

"The Pack?"

"Our pack, the Hale Pack," Stiles clarified. "There are others – "

"Our," the Sheriff repeated. The man knew his son well enough to pick out the important details buried in his deluge of words. He quizzed both Stiles and Derek, steering Stiles back on track and prompting more words out of Derek than anyone else ever had. Stiles snagged items from the cabinets and an ice chest that was stashed in the otherwise emptied refrigerator, expertly putting together the ingredients for pancakes and starting those first, while he interjected information between Derek's shorter answers. He let Stiles take over and answer everything about being a Spark and the magic he'd begun studying first with Deaton and then with other practitioners.

"I mean, it's all useful, adding to the Pack's knowledge base," Stiles said and he only sounded a little sad. His father missed it and Derek only heard because he knew Stiles had something to be sad about in regard to magic. "So much got lost in the fire when Derek's mom and the others all died. We were all playing catch up for years. We've kind of got it now, the basics at least, but every little thing helps."

Once the stack of pancakes were finished, Stiles started on a breakfast omelet. Derek winced at some of the things Stiles added to it, but the Sheriff seemed inured. Stiles shuffled the omelet pan over the flame and offered up a PG-rated version of his and Derek's first night together in Baja.

"You went to Mexico to get him?" the Sheriff asked Derek.

"Yes."

"Derek luuuuurves me," Stiles warbled and slid the first omelet from the pan onto a plate. More eggs went into the pan for a second one. The smell had Derek's stomach rumbling in anticipation.

Eventually the Sheriff held up his hand. "Okay, enough for now. Stiles, just tell me you wanted this."

Stiles glanced from him to Derek and then abandoned the stove to take Derek's hand, winding his long fingers through Derek's and holding on tight. "I've wanted Derek for years."

The Sheriff gave Derek an apologetic glance. "I was aware. You're not exactly subtle, son. But he's a werewolf. From what you've told me, there is a world of trouble that comes with that."

"Yeah, like there isn't a world of trouble anyway," Stiles replied. He squeezed Derek's hand. Nerves had his palm sweating.

"I don't like it," the Sheriff said slowly. "I wish you would stay out of it. The … uh, magic too. Couldn't you give it up?"

Stiles' hand tightened painfully on Derek's. His heartbeat picked up speed. Derek's did too. All the happiness Stiles had been feeling, the glee at explaining their hidden world of the supernatural, disappeared from the bond. Sharp claws dug into Derek's palm, but that was the only sign of an involuntary shift Stiles' displayed; pride in his control warred with Derek's own response. The desire to protect Stiles from the emotions running through him sent power shivering through his bones and muscles and he had to clamp down on the shift harder than he had since puberty.

"Dad. I did give it up," Stiles said. "I took the Bite." His eyes brightened from whiskey gold to beta bright.

The Sheriff jerked in his chair and stared at Stiles as if he didn't know him. He took in two fast, deep breaths. "You said he didn't pressure you, that you were part of this 'pack' while still being human!"

"He was," Derek snapped. He hated the hurt he could smell and feel coming from Stiles. It made him want to tear something or someone into pieces. Which didn't help, because Stiles picked up everything Derek used to be able to hide behind a stoic expression. He felt grateful they'd left the rest of the pack behind. The bond could feedback an alpha's emotions until they all spiraled out of control – it was how packs went bad sometimes. He breathed out hard through his nose and shut down as much of his own feelings as he could. This was Stiles' shock and Stiles' hurt and Derek wouldn't make things worse.

"Then why would you change him?" the Sheriff demanded of him. "He didn't want it!"

"I did, Dad."

"But – "

"I had good reasons to stay human, but the reasons stopped being good when staying human meant dying, okay?" Stiles leaned toward his father, reaching across the table for his shoulder, and flinched back when the Sheriff pulled away.

Derek snarled under his breath. Stiles was blinking, looking away from his father, and swallowing hard enough Derek could see his Adam's apple bob along the long line of his throat.

"So now you turn into an animal."

Stiles let out a loud puff of breath and shook his head. "Well, at least you didn't say monster."

The acrid stink of burning eggs filled the kitchen as the omelet burned in its pan.

"Hale, I want you out."

"Dad, please, please don't do this," Stiles actually begged. "Don't make this some kind of contest. I can't – I can't choose between – "

Derek pushed his chair back and stood. Without thinking about it, he pulled Stiles into his arms and hugged him, tucking his nose into the soft hair at Stiles' temple and breathing him, then rubbing his cheek against Stiles' to leave his scent close for comfort. He wanted Stiles to know it wasn't a choice. Stiles would always have him. The Sheriff didn't understand that: Stiles was pack, not because he was a werewolf, but because he was Stiles. Even if Stiles never ran with Derek again, never shifted again, Stiles would be pack as far as Derek was concerned. Stiles whined softly as Derek let go.

That didn't mean he would just walk away without saying anything. He wasn't giving Stiles up.

"Do you want me to wait?" he asked Stiles.

"There's no reason for you to wait, Hale – "

"No, there isn't," Stiles interrupted. His voice cracked. Moving without energy or grace, he went to the stove and turned off the flame before jerking the pan off it. "I'm going with him now. I'm – I need to be with the pack. With Derek. You – they're my family too." He walked to the back door, opened it, and stepped out. A gulp heralded the hitch of half-swallowed tears, tears Stiles didn't mean his father to see or hear. "I can't handle this. You're supposed to – you're my dad and you mean everything to me, but so does Derek."

"Stiles!"

Derek headed for the door while doing his best to ignore the Sheriff. It was the only way he could rein in the anger he felt toward him in that moment.

Stiles was already on the back porch. He'd begun stripping, shifting into beta form, his mole-speckled back a pale blur in the gray dawn light. His hands were shaking and his face was wet.

Derek didn't bother with the beta form. He shifted straight to his wolf and tore his way out of his clothes with teeth and claws. He padded over to Stiles, toenails clicking against worn wood that needed to be re-stained and sealed, before stopping beside him and staring a cold challenge at the Sheriff, who had followed them to the open doorway.

The deep, rolling growl coming from his throat probably didn't help matters, but Derek couldn't stop it, even when Stiles' clawed hand rested on his head.

"Shhhh, Derek," Stiles murmured. "Dad – "

"Jesus Christ." The Sheriff stared at them both, squinting with human eyes that couldn't see as well as Derek and Stiles did. "Jesus fucking Christ. He turned into a wolf. You – Stiles. This – is there some kind of cure? Some way to go back?"

"No, not that I would anyway," Stiles said. His voice broke a little. "Funny, I thought – I thought you'd be happy for me and Derek, happy that we got home alive."

"I – I am happy you're home." He looked at Derek and addressed him, "I'm grateful you brought Stiles back safe and he's here now, no matter what I feel about him being part of your 'pack' or the rest of it. But I can't be happy that my son is something not human anymore."

"I don't know if that's worse than nothing or not," Stiles whispered. It wasn't, Derek thought, because the Sheriff had talked to him, even though he was in wolf form. If he could see past that with Derek, it wouldn't take him long to accept Stiles. He loved his son, after all. That might not make it easy, but it made it inevitable, just as Stiles would forgive the Sheriff for his shocked first reaction.

"You're going."

"Yeah. I mean, for now, we're not leaving town. Phones are out, so you can't call me, but …"

Derek licked Stiles hand. Stiles drew his claws in and stroked Derek's ears, soothing both of them.

"The Hale house?"

"Yeah. You can come over and talk when you get your head out of your ass."

The Sheriff scrubbed at his hair, a gesture that reminded Derek of the way Stiles still did the same thing, years after giving up his buzz cut. "Just … son, tell me you didn't do this because you thought he wanted you to or so he'd be with you."

"What!? Wow, you really think I'm that stupid or Derek's that manipulative?" Stiles exclaimed. He'd completely shifted back to human and should have been shivering, bare-chested and barefoot in the morning chill, but it didn't affect him any longer. "Derek and I got together in Mexico. I didn't take the Bite until we were in Sacramento. We got caught by Bleeders just before the city was quarantined."

"Quaran – you were in the hot zone. Damn it, Stiles, it's spreading north fast, the last radio reports had the infection as far north as Chico, what the hell were you doing – "

"Trying to get home! Sac was supposed to still be clean!"

Stiles' scent turned acrid with the memories of what they'd seen and escaped there and elsewhere along the way. They'd seen enough on their journey north to fuel years of new nightmares for them both. Derek whined softly. Sacramento hadn't even been the worst. Ceres and the charnel house reek of Redding tied for that place.

"How'd you keep from getting exposed?" the Sheriff asked softly.

"I didn't."

"But you're not infected."

"Not now, obviously." Stiles flashed his eyes at his father.

The flood of scent from the Sheriff – fear, worry, anger and frustration, rank as the black bear they'd encountered before the wildfire – made Derek wrinkle his nose and sneeze. It zeroed the Sheriff's attention to him for a second and, weirdly, Derek thought he saw the man's mouth twitch upward, as if the sneeze had made Derek less monster and more man, more acceptable. He hoped that meant the Sheriff would come around. Stiles' unhappiness made Derek's own temper fester.

"God. You're both – you're okay, though. Thank God."

"Just so you understand, Dad, Derek's never pushed for me to take the Bite, not even when I got stabbed. He never used the 'save my life' argument. We didn't know if it would. We didn't know if being a werewolf would keep him from catching the Bleed or if he'd survive it if he did," Stiles told his father. Quietly. Bitterly. "It did, but it was so close … the only thing that saved him was shifting. Becoming an animal. But, in case you still don't get it, he's still Derek. He's always Derek, the same way I'm always me. It's not Jekyll and Hyde. Please, don't start thinking like that."

"I'm sorry."

"We're going to go now," Stiles said. "I don't want to lose you, Dad. Please. Give me a chance."

"Son – "

Stiles brightened at the softened tone, the acknowledgment in just one word.

The Sheriff swallowed then spoke. "Son, it's a lot to take in. You need – I need some time. But you're still my kid. That doesn't change." He glanced at Derek. "No matter what else does."

"Okay," Stiles said in a small voice. He reached for the Sheriff again and this time his father pulled him in rather than away. They hugged, a little stiff on both their parts, before letting go.

"So, you can do that? Become a wolf?"

Stiles smiled. "Yeah. Betas aren't supposed to be able to, lots of alphas can't, but, yeah, I did it."

"In that case, I guess you better show me."

Stiles gave a little nod, then he slid his pants off and shifted all the way in one smooth ripple of movement and power, before leaping off the back porch. He stopped in the middle of the backyard and stood still, letting his father look at him as long as he needed. Derek rumbled approvingly before joining Stiles. The dew on the grass chilled his paw pads as they headed for the woods that surrounded the town. Nowhere in Beacon Hills was very far from the forest.

Finally, the Sheriff chuckled, the sound rusty and not quite comfortable. "Pretty impressive, kiddo."

Derek cocked his head and listened, but the Sheriff's heart rate had settled down to near normal.

He went still as the Sheriff approached Stiles, then reached out and touched the tip of one of Stiles' ears. "Jesus. Werewolves. I guess this is payback for never letting you have a dog, right?"

Stiles turned his head and licked at his father's hand.

The Sheriff sank down in the wet grass and stroked his hands through Stiles' fur, the dew staining the knees of his pants dark, talking softly.

Derek retreated to the tree line and kept watch, until the sun crested over the tops of the trees, and he could hear people stirring in the nearby houses. Stiles heard them too, his ears flicking, giving away a sudden restlessness Derek felt too. The Sheriff climbed to his feet and Stiles circled him once before trotting over to Derek's side. They waited while the Sheriff walked back to the back porch and turned to watch as Derek and Stiles faded into the wild.

The small fire, built from broken furniture and old books, in barren circle cleared in the middle of the dying lawn, crackled and hissed. The lacquered veneer on one chair's legs burned with green flames before the fire ate through to the old wood. The generators were dry, the solar collectors useless, and the electrical grid, briefly restored before the final fall, was dead again. True darkness, the darkness no one had known in generations before the Crash, reigned beyond the paltry light.

Stiles tossed another handful of pages from a medical textbook into the flames. Claws made tearing apart even hardbound books easy. The firelight painted the blood dried on his hands black. The sound of flames filled his ears, while the flickering light drew black silhouettes against the front porch of the house and reflected in his eyes.

He finished with the last book, dropping the broken cover boards into the fire, and finally looked to the side again.

He'd wrapped the body, after arranging it, in sheets from the house, the clean ones with the delicate embroidery that his mom had kept at the back of the linen closet, but the only cord he could find had been bright yellow, plastic twine.

Stiles wanted to say how sorry he was. He wanted to yell too, because he was still angry. Derek would have done it and they knew it worked, but his Dad had refused the Bite, even when his fingernails turned purple and his eyes wept red. He'd just stared into Stiles' eyes and said, "You're going to be okay, kiddo, but you've got to do this for me."

No matter how many times Stiles protested and whispered no, John Stilinski had persisted until there wasn't enough of him left to care and he'd staggered for the door, driven by anger and infection to spread the Bleed.

Stiles had sliced through his throat with one razor-tipped swipe. Because that wasn't his Dad anymore, that was what his Dad wanted them to stop. Derek would have done it for him, but Stiles couldn't put that weight on Derek's shoulders. He refused to take the chance that he could ruin what they had by twisting that around until he blamed Derek for his Dad dying. He couldn't let his Dad wander the town, contaminating it worse, maybe spreading the disease to someone else. No way his Dad wanted that. His Dad had wanted to end it himself. He would have, if Stiles hadn't snatched his service pistol away. That made it Stiles' responsibility.

At least he and Derek hadn't been the ones to bring the Bleed to Beacon Hills. Maybe the pack had, or Hester's survivors when they limped out of the forest a week after he and Derek made it home. It could have been one of the refugees who had fled north from the Bay Area when the Crash first happened, people who thought their isolated hometown would be safer. Someone had.

Or maybe it was airborne after all.

No one knew, just that one day the Mayor staggered into the town hall meeting with bloodshot eyes and a baseball bat and then it was too late.

"Fuck," Stiles whispered into the darkness, listening to the fire.

The sheriff's station had stronger radio receivers than the little emergency crank radio Stiles had carried in Baja, tuned to official frequencies the radios in the various vehicles he and Derek stole hadn't received, and Old Jimmy Hafner, the only Korean War vet from Beacon Hills to receive a Purple Heart despite being assigned as a radio operator, had a ham radio set that looked like a NSA antenna farm or something from SETI, so they knew more, but everything they heard just pointed to the end.

The military had burned Sacramento and let the wildfires take out Los Angeles. A radiation dead zone surrounded San Luis Obispo, just as Stiles had suspected, after Diablo melted down. The Air National Guard firebombed the Bay Area in a three week long campaign after they got an air wing operational, but the Bleed had already spread too far and was too stubborn.

They could have come back from the Crash. People were working on it. The world might not have been the same, but it would have gone on.

It still would, Stiles reflected, it just would go on without human civilization and, it looked like, without many humans.

Derek still moved silently, whether on two feet or four, but Stiles wasn't surprised when he settled on the grass next to him. He accepted the bottle of Jack Daniels Derek handed over without a word and they shared it back and forth, despite the way they burned off the alcohol too fast to get drunk. It just felt right. Jack had been his dad's drink, all the lonely nights his dad sat at the dining room table, drowning his loneliness in case files and booze.

The noise from the flames had grown louder, into a hungry roar punctuated by the bone-break sound of collapsing buildings. If Stiles looked up, he'd see the clouds between him and the moon painted red and orange.

"Lydia?" Stiles asked eventually.

Derek's eyes stayed on the little fire in front him, human and pale. "We built her a pyre at the center of town."

Immune to the Bite and all things supernatural hadn't stretched to immune to the Bleed for Lydia. All her intelligence hadn't been enough either. Stiles had heard the report of the gun she used all the way across town from the Martin house, though he'd been sitting beside his dad's bed at the time.

Stiles turned his head enough to take in the black smoke pouring upward from multiple points around Beacon Hills, the flames licking from roof tops into the night sky. The pack had given her the entire town as a pyre.

No one would step foot inside the town limits after this; anyone alive would know just what the charred remains meant.

Derek took the bottle and sipped, Adam's apple working, highlighting the heavy stubble where he hadn't shaved in a week, then handed it back. Stiles emptied it and tossed the bottle into the fire. He snorted mirthlessly when the glass failed to shatter and only threw up a small dusting of sparks. He turned again and hid his face against Derek's shoulder, bit into the faded gray Henley Derek had on, and let his tears soak through into Derek's skin. Derek rearranged them enough he could cup his hand on Stiles' head, but he said nothing.

Stiles appreciated that, because nothing anyone was going to say would make what had happened in the last twenty-four hours okay. Derek staying in human form, when Stiles knew all he wanted was to return to being a wolf and escape the grief strangling him, meant more than anything he could have said.

When he could breathe without sobbing, Stiles pulled back and got to his feet, bracing his hand on Derek's shoulder. The front door of his childhood home stood open but he could smell the kerosene and cooking oil he'd used to douse the interior.

Stiles fished a smoldering table leg from the fire, held it for a moment to see that the end had really lit, and then walked up the porch steps to the doorway.

He didn't step inside. All his goodbyes had already been made. A soft, underhand throw lobbed the makeshift torch inside. It landed on the old carpet and caught with a sound like an indrawn breath. Derek made a pained, inhuman sound behind him, but Stiles watched the fire creep toward the stairs and the living room until he knew it wouldn't die off, before he backed away.

Derek had stripped out of his clothes but was waiting to shift, the firelight dancing over his flanks and back and giving the illusion of rippling movement to his tattoo, as he looked to the northeast. He looked back over his shoulder as Stiles began stripping too. The flames reflected lambent in his eyes. Stiles watched his nostrils flare and his shoulders tense. Derek would never be at ease in the presence of fire. Watching it consume another home, even one that wasn't his, had to hurt him.

But he was there, waiting for Stiles, willing to stay in human form until the house was nothing but ashes if that was what Stiles needed.

Stiles wasn't going to do that to him. What was done was done and what was gone was already gone. He wanted to go.

"I'm ready," Stiles said.

"Good," Derek confirmed, less word than soft growl. The rest of the pack, grown through several desperate bites once they'd realized the Bleed had reached Beacon Hills, were waiting at the edge of the Preserve. Not all of them had made the full shift to wolf yet, but they would. Stiles had proved any werewolf could do it. He found it hilarious that Chris Argent had done it on the first try.

The hard part was coming back, but it wouldn't matter much when there was nothing to make any of them shift human again.

Stiles set his hands on Derek's shoulders and drew him in close enough to kiss softly, a reminder for both of them.

Or a good-bye.

Derek shifted and Stiles followed into his own wolf form. He held still as Derek licked at his face before he nipped lightly at Stiles' ear and loped away through the empty streets until they reached a deer trail that crossed the main road up into the Preserve. They left the pavement for hard packed earth that barely showed the prints of the rest of their pack and Hester's, following their scents through the trees until they reached the rocky look-out point that loomed above the town, where their pack waited for them.

Derek leaped to the top of the stone, black form outlined against the fire-lit smoke as he looked back down. He swung his head to look at the wolves and betas, Hester, and the two omegas she'd picked up on the journey north from LA, glowing crimson eyes surveying them all before he lifted his head and howled out the mourning they all felt. Hester's quavering warble added her pain to the mix. A chorus of sorrowful howls echoed off the rocks and down to the valley, until only Stiles was silent.

He scrambled up onto the rock with Derek and howled.

You grabbed my hand and we fell into it, like a day dream or a fever.
The Dead Flag Blues, God Bless You! Black Emperor

The End


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