4. Highway 1

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 Consuelo 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.

"Fuckfuckfuc _k!_ " 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?