Archive of Our Own ^beta

If there was one thing that the zombie movies got right, it was how much things sucked after the world went to shit as a whole.

Stiles isn't sure exactly how things went down. One day the CDC was telling everyone this infection was under control and not to worry, and it felt like the next Stiles was having to take down his dorm-mates with the pistol his dad gave him when he set off for college.

It's been months since then, or at least, Stiles can gauge that it is. Time really isn't easy to keep when the world is ending as you know it, and your main priority is surviving. All Stiles can tell is there is a nip in the air that wasn't there before, even with the added distance he picks up as he heads further west, towards California. And ultimately, to Beacon Hills.

Stiles isn't sure what he will find there. In some ways, he regrets deciding to not go to BHU like Scott chose to do, instead opting to go to college in New York which wasn't a big deal when the world wasn't getting overrun by zombies. It's like the difference between the east and west coast grew vast when the highways clogged up, and everyone began to panic or get taken out by the raging infection.

Stiles isn't exactly sure why he's running back to Beacon Hills. It was made clear by the news that California was hit hard. Almost as hard as New York was, even, but Stiles knows the chances... Knows that it's slim that he will get back to that small shit hole in Cali and see his dad and Scott alive and well and... well hopefully not craving brains.

He was homesick before the infection. But now it's worse. Worse because his nights are spent alone, hiding in the dark in the backseat of his shitty Jeep and hoping he isn't discovered and mauled the moment he closes his eyes. His shotgun still loaded just like his father's pistol on his hip and his bloodstained bat laying beside his head.

It's always then he thinks of his father and Scott. Of Melissa, too. The small family Stiles called his own, left to be determined. Stiles wonders if they were able to evacuate, or if his father went into military mode and gathered everyone up like the leader people knew him to be. It's better than wondering if they got taken by surprise or swarm. Easier to not imagine coming back to graves or rotting bodies to answer his question as to what happened.

In this world, answers are hard to come by, or they are hard to accept. Long gone are the days in which a cellphone could ease worries by a text or call. Mail wasn't a thing. Hell, electricity wasn't anymore. Most people will never know about what happened to those they care about. And Stiles? Well... wondering is all that keeps him going anymore.

If Scott or Melissa or his dad are gone? . . . Well. Stiles isn't sure what could keep him fighting.

All he knows is that he has to get back home. Just has to know so that his mind stops fretting. That his head stops tormenting him when it gets the chance.

It may be in the middle of a zombie fucking apocalypse, and the world may be ending... but Stiles Stilinski is just too stubborn to lay down and take it.

He's got a few states left to cross, with his ass sitting comfy near the eastern state line of Nebraska. Roscoe is holding on as best she can without a mechanic and with Stiles siphoning what little gas he manages to find. Twinkies and coke will fuel him when he can't find anything else to garble down.

He's coming back home, dammit. End of the world be damned.

-X-

Stiles isn't even sure why he chose to come to New York.

Maybe it's because he wanted to experience the world a little outside of Beacon Hills. After all, he was studying criminal justice. He planned on following in his father's footsteps of being involved in law enforcement— maybe not as a sheriff like his father, but maybe as something like a bureau agent or something.

He knows he's got it in him. Some spark, his dad says. Stiles was smart. Smarter than what most gave him credit for.

They told Stiles he had a bright future. That Stiles was going to be something pretty amazing one day.

He just didn't know they meant it like this.

He's hiding out in a subway station, holding onto his beloved metal Mets bat and the pistol his father gave him. The utility closet he called home sweet home for the night kept him sheltered from both the infected and the few humans that Stiles heard trying to work their way through the tunnels in an attempt to avoid the massive hordes outside.

It's been a few days since things went to shit on campus, and Stiles woke to his roommate trying to eat his fucking face off. Her blood still coats Stiles' hands. Tacky and dried and flaking off, having turned black on his skin. But it's not the only person's now. His poor bat has a slight dent in it from where he had to use it on Jacob's girlfriend across the hall, and then the history major himself.

It's seen a lot more use than Stiles thought it would when he brought it to his dorm two years ago.

Stiles will admit— he didn't think that the summer would start off with him having to slaughter fellow classmates and random people he's never known as he walked down the streets, but it's one hell of a way to spend his break.

It just... hurts though.

Because Stiles was meant to go home. Meant to get back to Beacon Hills and see his father and Scott and Melissa for the few months he was off.

He was looking forward to it. He had bought gifts for them all. Filled out postcards and wrapped everything in nice paper to top it all off.

But then the CDC canceled all flights. State-wide travel was banned. They were all ordered to stay inside while the military occupied the city in an attempt to control the outbreak.

And as Stiles creaks the door, seeing a zombie covered in military-grade gear as it shuffles across the concrete floor, he can tell you that worked out great for everyone.

It seems like the world as he knew it before was... well, it's gone.

The power went out a day ago. His cellphone is dead but even when he charges it in Roscoe, there's no service, either, making it pointless. But he holds onto it for the photos. For the texts to people he may never get to talk to again.

It's strange to think that even just a few days ago, things weren't like this. That there was maybe still some hope for the world and the poor bastards who were left in it. But that isn't the case anymore. They're fucked, no other way to put it.

Stiles can hear shouts down the tunnel, the sound of another survivor getting overrun by zombies, and so Stiles decides it's best to leave before he ends up the same way.

Don't be a hero, he tells himself, hearing what must be a small horde going to town on whoever just pulled the shortest straw of the day. The zombified soldier heads in the direction of the chaos, leaving Stiles with a clear shot to shoot from the stairs leading out to the streets above.

There's a few people running, and Stiles can hear shouts and smell smoke. Car alarms go off, and there's a probably several groups of a dozen infected or more huddling together like a pack of rabid dogs. They catch Stiles' movement and immediately start heading towards him as Stiles tries to get Roscoe's driver door open.

His hands are a bit shaky as he shoves his key into the lock, getting the door open just to be grabbed before he can get inside.

“Fuck!”

Stiles falls back against the asphalt, seeing some dude trying to steal his car right then.

“Hey!”

Stiles stops the door from shutting with his bat, and the guy curses while Stiles grabs him from the driver's seat. The zombies are getting uncomfortably close as the stranger trying to take his Jeep from him fights back.

“You little shit!” the guy hisses, “I'm not fuckin' dyin' because of you!”

“You're not takin' my car!” Stiles screams back at him.

The man has a shotgun looped over his shoulder, and he goes to grab it, making Stiles' eyes go wide.

He doesn't think. He simply grabs his bat and swings.

There's a sickening crunch, and Stiles feels fresh blood splatter over his face. His hands sting from the reverberation in the bat, leaving Stiles to let out a quick, broken breath as the man falls to the ground with a confused garble.

His mouth moves, open close — open close — like a fish out of water.

Stiles stares at him for a moment, oxygen catching like bile in his throat.

But it's with the closing proximity of the horde that Stiles forces himself into action. Leaning down, he grabs the guys shotgun that had fallen to the ground with him, and Stiles jumps into the driver seat and shuts Roscoe's door right as the first few zombies reach him.

The guy who had tried to carjack him makes some noise as the infected set it on him, using their dirtied and blackened nails to rip past his clothes and into his guts as Stiles slams on the accelerator as he reverses. Roscoe's tires squeal, and Stiles can smell the burned rubber from it as he shifts into drive, seeing how the infected effectively tear the man who had attacked him to pieces.

Sinew and pieces of muscle go flying like Roscoe does down the road.

Stiles doesn't look back.

It isn't until later in the day, when Stiles forces himself to stop, that he thinks about what happened.

And he cries. Cries because, although that man had forced his hand, Stiles killed him. Left him to die there on the asphalt in such a horrible way. To save himself, to ensure that Stiles can get back home to his family, if they're even alive at this point.

Stiles isn't sure this is what people meant when they said that he would become something great.

But all he knows is that he's changing, and he doesn't know if it's for the better.

-X-

He is in Wyoming a few days later.

He's emotional because the trek here hasn't been easy, filled with hordes of infected or groups of survivors who were less than friendly. All Stiles can say that humanity is a rarity these days, even in those who aren't infected.

He sits on the hood of Roscoe, letting the engine cool before it overheats and seizes. He knows the radiator has a small leak. It did before the apocalypse. Stiles is kind of kicking himself now for never trying to get it fixed.

Some might suggest stealing a new car. One with no issues that wouldn't be so troublesome. But sentiment is hard to break. Especially in a world where most things you've cared about are no longer around...

The Jeep was his mom's. But it was also something his dad gave to him once he turned sixteen. It's got so much family history that Stiles' hands shake from just the thought of abandoning it here— of losing her. So he has to calm himself down, edge away from a panic attack by assuring himself that when he returns to Beacon Hills, his dad will see him drive his mama's blue baby home.

It's one of the only comforts he can offer himself these days.

Still, despite being a little hindrance, it means that Stiles is in Yellowstone. The young man had to admit, he always wanted to see this place, and particularly under better circumstances. But it helps to have such pretty views as he eats his stale granola bar as he gives Roscoe her break.

Fall is definitely here, and Stiles can feel the sharp nip in the air. He's really hoping that he can beat the worst of the mid-west winter, because he really, really doesn't want to get caught up in that shit, let alone in Roscoe. While he's got some basic survival skills under his belt, especially now, he isn't exactly keen on freezing to death in Wyoming, no matter how pretty it is.

But for the moment, he can enjoy the view. Can take in the shades of oranges and yellows in the trees and can sigh a deep breath.

His leg bounces on the front bumper of his car as he goes to open up a stick of beef jerky, and he sniffs once as he pivots.

Thankfully, it seems that the park was left abandoned as the infection spread. Stiles knows this was partly due to the government shutting public spaces like this down. Both to limit infection but also because their efforts to control it needed the funding more. So Yellowstone has been left relatively untouched for at least a year now that the infection has a stronghold.

But that doesn't mean the animals have left.

As Stiles takes another bite of his jerky, he hears something snap. He looks over, immediately dropping his jerky so that it lands on Roscoe's hood in lieu of grabbing his gun. It's loaded and ready — it always has to be ready — and Stiles aims into some brush where the noise came from.

He doesn't call out. Maybe some idiots would. But while Stiles can be a dumbass, he isn't fucking stupid. You can't be in this world. If you are, you're already gone, or you're soon to be a zombie's dinner. He didn't make it this fucking far on happenstance or luck goddammit, and he isn't gonna start now.

Cocking his shotgun for emphasis, Stiles eyes lock onto the brush, trying to see what is hiding inside of it, be it a squirrel or something more dangerous as the wind blows at his back. It ruffles his short hair, just long enough now from Stiles' usual buzz cut, and the hold on Stiles' gun tightens.

A growl emits from the brush, and Stiles holds fast, slowly fixing his position as his heart picks up pace.

Definitely not a squirrel, then.

Before Stiles can truly react, something leaps out of the brush, pulling his down as he fires his shotgun once. The shot fires into the air uselessly, scaring birds as both Stiles and his shotgun fall onto the ground with a thump. Stiles gets pissed then, feeling this weight land atop him.

Of all the things to happen to him... he gets killed by a fucking wild animal in Yellowstone.

Stiles feels hot breath against his face, and he turns his gaze from where he landed in the mud to the creature before him. What he sees makes him go white.

It's a wolf.

Matter of fact, a massive, black wolf that almost towers above Stiles. It rumbles lowly, eyes set on Stiles as it huffs once.

Stiles swallows thickly, unsure of what to do next. And more importantly, as to why this wolf isn't tearing him apart yet.

“God, just get it fucking over with,” Stiles grits out, “You won. You got me, asshole. Just eat me and stop fucking staring.”

To his surprise, the wolf still doesn't do anything. It just keeps staring, its head tilted.

Stiles' brows furrow. He wonders if this wolf is accustomed to humans. It was a national park, crawling with tourists when the infection wasn't a thing. He's sure that, despite all the warnings put up, that people tried to interact and bond with the wildlife anyway. In fact, Stiles swears he can recall an article about a lady trying to do so with a buffalo before it messed her up and she awoke in the hospital. God. If only things were able to go back to that level of tragedy...

Still, maybe this wolf was slightly domesticated. Maybe it is used to people, be it rangers or tourists, and it is expecting something of Stiles.

Scowling, Stiles glances over. His shotgun is in reach, but so is the rest of his jerky stick. His brain wars at him about which to grab, and a few seconds pass for Stiles to consider his options. The wolf remains above him.

As his hand skirts towards his choice, the wolf notices his attempt, and growls quietly. The wolf doesn't do anything, not really, but its eyes track Stiles' hand, studying where it goes. As it gets near the gun, the wolf's anger ramps up. It growls, lowering its ears. But when Stiles moves his hand away and towards the jerky, Stiles can't ignore the way its tail gives an innocent swish of excitement.

Okay... so jerky it is.

Stiles grabs the remaining jerky, bringing it close. As he does, the wolf leans towards it, sniffing and swaying its tail. It's very interested.

Stiles wonders if the absence of humans meant that the ecosystem here went slightly out of balance. For all the rangers spoke of letting nature take its course, nature could never truly be on its own when humans were around and turning its business into a park. Stiles thinks that maybe the wolf was accustomed to getting fed instead of hunting, and with winter quickly approaching, it was as desperate to make it as Stiles is.

Taking the wrapper off, Stiles gives the last of the jerky to the wolf. It accepts it, taking it without biting Stiles' hand. It rumbles happily, chewing up the stick from the back corner of his mouth. It reminds Stiles of his dad's police dog, Ramsey. Ramsey used to do the same thing with the bones his dad would buy for him. He'd get his bed all gross with drool, but it was okay because it was the only time he wasn't a terrifying German Shepard that knew how to take you down with a simple command.

The memory sends a sad pang through Stiles, and the wolf steps away, whining slightly as Stiles takes the chance to sit up, eyeing the animal strangely.

It hesitates, unsure and lingering, but Stiles has had enough for the day.

“Go on,” he waves, hoping the wolf was used to being dismissed by people as easily as it was embraced by them, “Shoo. You got wolf business, and I got human business.”

The wolf stares.

“I get it. You miss people. Hell, I miss people. But things are what they used to be, sorry to inform,” Stiles states, and he cautiously gets to his feet, noting how the wolf doesn't try to jump him again, “It might be good for you, but... God, what am I saying? You can't understand me. You're just a wolf.”

The wolf huffs.

“I'm going to pretend that's happenstance and not attitude I'm hearing,” Stiles goes to grab his shotgun, but the wolf lifts its lip, snarling quietly, making Stiles lean back up and refrain from retrieving his gun, and the wolf settles on its haunches a bit, “Geez. Moody, are you?”

The wolf merely sits down and looks at him.

Sighing, Stiles glances back at his Jeep. There's probably an hour of sunlight left, and he needs to make sure he's good to go for leaving once the sun comes back up in the morning. With the seasons changing, he's got less light to work with, and he isn't happy about that, weird wolf watching him be damned.

“Maybe you're hungry?” Stiles thinks, and the wolf's tail swishes, “Alright... So uh, food I guess.”

Stiles opens the door to his Jeep slowly, the wolf allowing him to without complaint. The human goes to his stuffed hiking backpack, grabbing out another jerky stick and opening it. The wolf is immediately interested, getting to its feet and yipping softly at him.

Stiles snorts, removing the plastic to toss the trash into his Jeep and the beef stick to the wolf.

The wolf catches the jerky before it hits the ground, and Stiles huffs, leaning on his Jeep as the wolf gobbles it down.

“And here I thought you were supposed to hunt rabbits or something,” Stiles jests to himself, but the wolf is too busy eating to bother with him.

Stiles climbs into the driver seat of his Jeep, keeping an eye on his apparent guest while he takes care of his small checklist.

You see, there's a few things that Stiles has to do before he goes to sleep last night. Be it his unchecked ADHD or habits beaten into him now that the world is what it is, but Stiles has to go through his backpack every night and take stock of what he has. Even if Stiles knows he has enough rations, enough bullets, enough gas— Stiles can only settle to sleep when he knows he has enough to keep going.

It's a big fear of his. Running of ammo. Starving to death. Roscoe not having fuel.

The anxiety he feels can only be quelled whenever he sees that there is enough to keep him tiding till he takes the time to replenish his supplies. Thankfully he doesn't need much, and he stopped caring about grabbing non-necessity items a long time ago. Nearly losing his ass one day taught him essentials only.

No unnecessary baggage allowed.

However, there is one exception to his rule...

A small photo. Crumpled and worn, but loved all the same. It's one Stiles had done right before he left Beacon Hills two summers ago for college. Scott is on his side, grin as crooked as his jawline and his dad to his right. Melissa holds onto his father's side, with the McCall's on the outside and the Stilinski's in the middle. Together, he and Scott truly look like brothers. They all truly look like family.

Stiles' heart pangs, his eyes watering a bit before he forces himself to put the photo away as well as the emotions that come with them.

Glancing up at the wolf, Stiles sees that it is still staring at him.

The sky burns with the sun beginning to fall past the blue tops of the surrounding mountains, and Stiles sighs, putting his items back together. He clears his throat, glancing around where he parked his car by this abandoned site seeing area and ensuring the coast was clear. He places the homemade barricades he crafted for the Roscoe's windows, not only to help keep people from seeing him inside, but to help offer cover if things went to shit.

As he does so, grabbing them from the trunk, Stiles mutters, “Don't you have a cave to go back to or something?”

The wolf merely yawns and lays down.

Giving up, Stiles mutters, “Whatever...”

Once finished with his nightly preparations, Stiles looks back at the shotgun. The wolf is relaxed, head even turned away from Stiles as it rests its head onto his paws. Its breathing is languid and calm, almost as though its even sleeping.

Stiles guesses now is the best chance to retrieve his gun.

But as he does so, he must make noise, or the wolf is just too keen for Stiles' good, and it turns, lip prickling up in warning. The human curses lightly, because of course the wolf is going to not make this easy.

“I'm not gonna shoot you,” Stiles explains, slowly nearing the gun but hesitating all the same, “But there are things that need to be shot, and I can't... I can't leave my gun out here, okay?”

The wolf doesn't seem entirely mollified. It trains on Stiles, even getting to its feet once Stiles has the shotgun in his hands. Stiles doesn't aim it at the wolf, though, making sure to show he has no intent on firing like before.

Still, the wolf whines, distrusting as it begins to back away. Stiles' brow furrows, going to put the shotgun into the Jeep. As he does so, the wolf snarls, but instead of attacking Stiles, it leaps away, back into the brush and away from the human. Stiles lets out a breath, be it out of relief or even... disappointment, Stiles isn't sure.

The wolf is gone now, it seems, leaving Stiles alone.

It's not an unusual feeling, but... Stiles doesn't want at admit it kinda sucks, considering it's been months since he's gotten any sort of interaction from anything other than the undead, or assholes that wanted to kill him just the same.

Feeling a little bit more lonely than he usually does, Stiles gets into his Jeep, closing his door and locking it as he puts up the final barricade on the driver's side.

He crawls inside, going to where the back seat is laid down and to where Stiles has set up a small area in which he can sleep. It's not the best. It's cramped. It's not like his shitty mattress in his dorm, and it's sure as hell not his bed at home. But it's a bed. It's safety. And nowadays, you were lucky to get either.

Settling down, Stiles frowns, finding his CD player and headphones from where they were lying among his nest of blankets.

Music... it was a commodity these days. Mostly because, unless Stiles was driving, it was too much of a risk to go out with headphones on. It's not like when he could safely go wandering through the woods behind his house, not worrying for anything more than his father discovering that he snuck out again.

So, when he feels as safe as he can be, he can't help but listen to a little something before he goes to bed.

Even so, he only uses one headphone, keeping the player at half volume. It's not as immersive as Stiles wishes it were, but he will take what he can get...

(¯`*•.¸,¤°´✿.｡.:*

t̴͚̟̰̠̠̙́́͌̈́́̀̾̇͠ͅḩ̵̲͎͚̩̼͛͐̒̓͜͜ȩ̸͚̳̬̬̖̎́̚ ̴̢̨̛͙̙̭̗̳̒̍̀̈́̄̍́̉͆p̴̛̼͍̞o̸̡̙͈̖̜̪̪͓͝w̷̖̝̞͇̱̯̰̘͗ę̷̺̤̠̯̣̪̘̪̬̓̏̈́͊͐̈͘͝r̵̢̨̖͕̭̰̣͋͑́ͅ ̴͔̦̰̭͎̺̔̋̌͝o̵̮͓͕͉̘͋̆̂̈́̽̏̈́̆̚̕f̴̢̽̐̒̈́͘ ̶̥̘͈̙̩̺̬̓̈́͂̕C̷̩͋̅͛̅̌̊͑̕h̷͍̪̩͙̭̳̆ṙ̷̨̥̯̩̹̯̽͑̀̓̚͜͜i̴̧̩͒́̂͘s̸̢̱͉͖̘̏̕ͅţ̷̢̛̼̯̘͉̮͇͌͆̋̍͐ͅ ̷̲̻͍̰͍͉̊͐̈́͊c̶̛̞̼̹̹̦̰͓̻̏̃́̈̍̑̅ȍ̸̼͕̙̙̘̞̈̑͝m̸̛͖̪̜̬͕̿͊p̵͕͉͇̍͆͐̍̽̃̈́e̶̝͔̖̱̹̲̟̺̱̮̍͑̍̓͝ĺ̸̳͒̀͐̈́̆̓͌̊s̴̨̫̹͇̈́͒̚͠ ̷͇̰̟̞̲͈̣̩̬̐͝ÿ̶̨̡̧͉̝͓͉͎͍̳́̇̉̚o̴̺̼̩̙̯͋̈̓͘u̴̯̖͖͈̒͐͊̀̌͘ ̷̮͓̞͚͋̓̃͑̚✝️🐕

✝̵͉͈̲̝̊͛̾͌̆̅̅̐͑́️̴̨̛̒̓̃͗͂͠ *.:｡.✿`°¤,¸.•*´¯)

Stiles opens his shotgun up, replacing the bullet he had shot early and ensuring both barrels were not empty.

⎝⎝✧GͥOͣDͫ✧⎠⎠ 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲❗❗ ⎝⎝✧GͥOͣDͫ✧⎠⎠

The shotgun clicks together as a longing feeling in Stiles' chest pulls at him.

He grabs the small flask he keeps with him. And while he can't afford to get blasted like he used to be in college, a sip of whiskey is still not a foreign comfort to him.

·.¸¸.·♩♪♫ 🐹 🎀 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝑀𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓃, 𝐼 𝒸𝒶𝓃'𝓉 𝓈𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒, 𝐼 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓂💮𝓇𝓇𝒽❀𝒾𝒹𝓈 🎀 🐹 ♫♪♩·.¸¸.·

His throat burns, but so too do his eyes. He quickly closes his flask, setting his shotgun beside him, and his pistol beside that, and his bat, always at his head.

(☝◞‸◟)☞ "𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚗." - 𝚐𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢

As he pulls his stained duvet around his form, his body shivering in a way that isn't from the chill in the air.

꧁༒☬ 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓚𝓲𝓭𝔃 𝓑𝓸𝓹❗ ☬༒꧂

Stiles closes his eyes, hoping that tomorrow, he would be that much closer to coming home.

-X-

Stiles wakes, a bit groggy and uneasy, but he is awake.

While he is better than he used to be, Stiles was never quite a morning person. Before zombies roamed and other people were a threat just the same, Stiles was a notorious “hit the snooze button” type of guy. But, even though he longs for those kind of days, he's gotten into the habit of waking early and taking about five minutes to get up.

His brain is somewhat online. It takes him maybe another five minutes to truly get a hold of his faculties. He always stays in Roscoe for that time, ignoring his bladder for long enough to know that he won't give someone the jump on him because he's tired-stupid.

He yawns, rubbing at his short hair and grabbing his shotgun, checking it over once more. His pistol is also loaded, his bat nearby. All should be well this morning, even if some infected were outside.

Stiles tries to reassure himself that as he feels something shift on the hood. A decent weight, Stiles notices, as Roscoe moves a bit with whatever is on her, and Stiles' throat tightens.

It's not the first time he's gotten a rude wake up call, and he doubts it will be the last. Just sucks because he never sleeps well the following nights, afraid that it'll happen again and he won't be ready.

He opts to come out of the trunk, knowing that will give him enough time to deal with any infected behind his car, or to overall be on the opposite end of whatever is hanging around. If he's quick, he might be able to lead it away from Roscoe, get a clear shot without risk of hitting her with the resulting buckshot.

He lifts the barricades on his back window the check the area behind his Jeep. It's clear, and Stiles can tell that, at least from this end, no one else has quite joined him in his refuge in the park. Still, Stiles quietly unlocks the back door, light on his feet and making sure Roscoe doesn't shift terribly with his weight to give his advance away.

Once out, Stiles readies his weapon, aiming it and breathing hard. His breath can be seen with the early morning chill, pale and opaque as Stiles turns and readies his shotgun for whatever the hell it is on his car. So far, he doesn't see anything or anyone else around Roscoe, so what in the hell could it even—

What he finds shocks him.

“Y-You again?”

The black wolf is startled awake, taking note of Stiles shotgun and letting out a disapproving noise, but Stiles leans down, setting his shotgun beside him as he places his gun on the ground and his fingers run through his hair. The relief he feels doesn't do much for the way his nerves feel wrecked for what he thought was going on.

“It's— it's too early for this shit...” he breathes roughly.

Shit. This can't happen now. Not while he is out in the open. Sure, he didn't see any infected or any threat beside the familiar wolf that was asleep on the hood of his car, but Stiles has a rule about panic attacks, specifically number ten. He can't quite control them, but he always tells himself that he can't let them get to him once they start if he isn't in a safe place.

But here he is, out in the open in Yellowstone, a wolf on the hood of Roscoe, and his hands shaking that he's afraid he'd accidentally fire his shotgun if he were still holding it. His breath is quick, so quick that he doesn't quite get those clouds from his exhales like before. His lungs feel icy, sucking in the sharp air of the mountains while Stiles huddles on himself pathetically.

Sure, there's no danger now, but that doesn't make Stiles feel any differently. Doesn't mean he doesn't remember his close call in Michigan. Doesn't make him forget the day he woke in his dorm and his roommate tried to fucking maul him to death.

“Shit shit shit,” Stiles shakes, “Not again... N-Not again...”

Someone screams down the hall. The air smells like smoke and rust. Ashley gurgles, her usually pristine hair knotted and her lower chin covered in what Stiles prays is strawberry syrup or something as equally innocent.

Her nails are almost ripped from their beds as she grabs so harshly at Stiles, ripping his blanket as her teeth snap at him, one chipping in the process. The noises she makes are curdling, bloodied saliva dripping from her mouth towards Stiles as he struggles to get her off of him.

His left hand scrambles to his nightstand, slapping uselessly at the wood for a few moments before he grabs his lacrosse trophy. Sure, it was for participation, but Stiles still loved it. Thought it was hilarious.

But it wasn't funny when he used it to beat Ashley's skull in.

Hot blood covered his skin. His lips taste like rust and salt as he swallows.

The sound she made when she hit the ground made Stiles' heart jump into his mouth. Or maybe it was vomit. No, it's vomit, because he throws up right beside her.

Outside his dorm, he can hear the others. He's pretty sure that Jacob out there screaming and begging his girlfriend not to make him do this and—

Something wet touches Stiles' face, and he doesn't get it at first. Mostly because he's locked up. Always is during the height of his panic attacks, numbed to anything other than the sheer terror that holds him physically hostage.

But that wet feeling on his face continues, and Stiles' eyes open and he finds the wolf before him. It whines, unhappy as it presses into Stiles' space.

Stiles doesn't fight back against the wolf. Can't, really. He's so pliable after his panic attacks. It's a miracle nothing has gotten to him after one.

His body feels drained, despite Stiles having just woken. It's as though he didn't sleep. It's as though that night at college were just the day before, and he is still trying to adjust to what happened.

His cheeks are wet, but not entirely from the wolf's doing. He's crying, Stiles realizes belatedly. He's crying but he's not truly making a sound. Silent tears that crest his cheeks and leave Stiles feeling empty as the wolf headbutts him over and over.

My name is Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles paces his breaths. Try to regain control, remember?

I am from Beacon Hills, California.

He has to be in control. If he isn't... he won't make it back.

My father is the sheriff and his name is John.

Stiles slowly feels himself coming back, but it's always in pieces. Pieces that he must restructure together carefully and tediously.

While the attacks themselves were brief in the long run, the damage they did lasted Stiles a while.

The human closes his eyes, hearing the wolf whine once more.

“I-I'm fine,” Stiles breathes out, still shaky, but his hands aren't as bad as before— it's almost like he's drank too many Redbulls, trying to cram a study session in the night before his big test, “I'm okay.”

The wolf backs off just a bit, studying Stiles carefully. But Stiles opens his eyes and studies the wolf too.

The wolf... it's strange. Stiles cannot deny that now.

There is being a bit domesticated by tourists, but this— . . . Stiles isn't sure how to explain it.

“I thought you left last night,” Stiles murmurs, still too wrung out to speak above a whisper, “You... You ran off.”

The wolf sits from across Stiles, almost hanging its head out of guilt.

Stiles eyes it, trying to figure out what is wrong with the wolf.

But then he sees it.

Stiles normally prides himself on being attentive. Sure, untreated ADHD could be a bitch in an apocalypse, but Stiles was hyper-vigilant. He is paranoid. Little things don't often escape him.

But somehow, this small detail has. Because it's then that Stiles notices there is a small dog tag under the wolf's chin.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, and he doesn't quite think, leaning forward the grab at the tag, “You were someone's dog—“

That earns him a small growl, and the wolf — or dog? Stiles still doesn't think this thing looks like a dog — raises its lips. But Stiles knows better now. This mutt is all bark but no bite with him.

The tag doesn't say much, and even if it did, it's not like Stiles could help this animal return home. House calls are a thing of the past, but even so, the tag doesn't reveal much. There's no address or phone number, no past identification of an owner. There is only a singular name there, and Stiles guesses it must belong to this dog. Or wolf. Whatever.

“Derek,” Stiles reads aloud.

At the name, the wolf preens, and it headbutts into Stiles, almost grateful at the recognition.

“A-Alright, alright!” Stiles says midst the onslaught of licking and whining, “So your name is Derek and you're not a wild wolf... got it...”

The wolf backs up, eyeing Stiles carefully.

“I'm not even sure how you ended up here, but...” Stiles notes the few scars he can see across the wolf's body then, almost obscured by his thick, black fur, “God, you must've been through hell.”

The wolf — Derek — sits down, hanging his head some as he nods at Stiles.

It's almost his own way of saying you too.

“I... Well, I certainly don't want to leave you here... Yellowstone isn't exactly the best place to be if you're not a wild animal that's supposed to be here,” Stiles mutters, “But... I don't have much for you. I'd have to go on a supply run. See if I can get dog food and just—“

Looking at Derek, Stiles doesn't feel the usual stress such a task would bring him.

If anything, he feels... excited.

It's not like Stiles never had a dog. There was Ramsey, okay. Of course, he was his dad's work dog, so that meant he was at John's hip or on the job often. But it's not like Stiles hasn't played fetch in his yard, hasn't gotten to sneak scraps to the snout that nudged him from under the dinner table.

But this is... well, this would be Stiles first dog. Well, it will be his first anything. And it'll be the first thing he's gotten to keep in a while and...

The first company he will have since before the infection, and when he started his trek west for home.

Stiles can't stop the small noise that escapes him then. This greedy, grateful noise as his hand reaches out and buries itself into Derek's fur.

The wolf doesn't seem adverse to the touch. If anything, it seeks it, pressing back into Stiles with almost a matching desperation.

Stiles doesn't know how in the hell they managed to find each other... two lost souls in the middle of nowhere in a world that's gone to hell with no sign of getting better.

Stiles won't admit the relief he feels at not facing it alone is enough to give him the most hope he's had in a while. Enough to forget his worry about what waits for him once he finally reaches Beacon Hills. Something he's never been able to shake once the infection broke out.

“This breaks a rule,” Stiles mutters, “I don't try to take anything that isn't a necessity...”

He pulls back from the wolf, seeing how Derek's tail wags so happily at Stiles— almost grateful the human chose to allow him to come along, wherever it is he may be going. Such faith and trust bestowed in Stiles, despite so little between them.

“But... fuck the rules, just this once,” Stiles hisses, his eyes stinging, “Come on. Get your ass in the car before we lose anymore sunlight...”

Stiles doesn't have to say anything twice. Derek gets up, going to the back of Stiles' Jeep and jumps in. Stiles quietly gathers his shotgun, wondering how in the hell his day managed to shape up into this.

“Okay, but just know... I have rules. These rules are important. I'll tell you some more as we go along, but I'll go ahead and make one for you now...”

Derek tilts his head, ears pricking.

“Your first rule is that you can't be a hero. If there's over six infected, if I get fucked up, if things go wrong— you don't throw yourself into the fray to try and save me. I want you to run, got it?”

A small growl of disapproval meets Stiles' ears.

“Buddy, things go wrong far more than they go right here. If shit ends up going to hell on my end, the one thing I want is for you to keep goin',” Stiles reaches over, ruffling Derek's fur once more, “Don't... risk yourself over me. That would be the worst ending for both of us, I think...”

Despite his initial protest, Derek seems to get what Stiles says. Or at least, Stiles hopes he does. He headbutts Stiles' hand and gives it a singular lick, whining softly. It makes Stiles chuckle before he gets Roscoe ready to go back on the road.

Out of all that could've happened, he's managed to score himself a beast of a dog during the zombie apocalypse. It's strange. Strange enough that Stiles doesn't want to try and linger on it for too long.

As he goes to shut the back door to Roscoe, he tries not to think about how his hands have stopped shaking, too.

-X-

(人◕‿◕) 𝕞𝕪 𝕞𝕠𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕣𝕠𝕟 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕝𝕠𝕨, 𝕟𝕘𝕝 (•◡•)

Stiles sits outside of an abandoned gas station, holding a brand new road atlas that he takes one of his highlighters to as he plans his route.

ミミ◦❧◦°˚°◦.¸¸◦°´❤*•.¸♥ 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼 ♥¸.•*❤´°◦¸¸.◦°˚°◦☙◦彡彡

It's night, with his cellphone lightly aiding in giving Stiles some light to plot his trek back to California. Back to Beacon Hills.

Back home where his family has to be waiting for him.

◦•●❤♡ ï† ï§ ïllêgål ïñ †hê Ú§ £ðr ¥ðµr ß𧧠ðr êmþlð¥êr †ð §å¥ ¥ðµ ¢åññð† Ð梨µ§§ ¥ðµr wågê§ wï†h ð†hêr wðrkêr§ ♡❤●•◦

His home screen is a photo of him and his dad.

They're smiling outside in the backyard, by the grill. There's a plate with a burger that Stiles told his father he could eat only because he was visiting home.

Special occasions, you know.

★¸.•☆•.¸★ 🄸🄽🄶🅁🄴🄳🄸🄴🄽🅃🅂: 32🄾🅉 🅃🄷🄰🅆🄴🄳 🄷🄰🅂🄷🄱🅁🄾🅆🄽🅂, 1/2 🄲🅄🄿 🄼🄴🄻🅃🄴🄳 🄱🅄🅃🅃🄴🅁, 10.25 🄾🅉 🄲🄰🄽 🄲🅁🄴🄰🄼 🄾🄵 🄲🄷🄸🄲🄺🄴🄽 🅂🄾🅄🄿, 1 🄿🄸🄽🅃 🅂🄾🅄🅁 🄲🅁🄴🄰🄼, 1/2 🄲🅄🄿 🄵🄸🄽🄴🄻🅈 🄲🄷🄾🄿🄿🄴🄳 🄾🄽🄸🄾🄽, 2 🄲🅄🄿🅂 🄶🅁🄰🅃🄴🄳 🄲🄾🄻🄱🅈 🄹🄰🄲🄺 🄲🄷🄴🄴🅂🄴, 1/4 🅃🅂🄿 🄱🄻🄰🄲🄺 🄿🄴🄿🄿🄴🅁. ★⡀.•☆•.★

What a day it was— a picnic in the backyard. Stiles drank beer and talk sports with his dad. He played with his old lacrosse gear with Scott. He helped Melissa put what they couldn't eat into tupperware containers.

He was covered in mosquito bites and even got a sunburn, Stiles remembers.

But it's a fond memory of a simpler time.

Stiles misses it and the people it was formed with immensely.

“I'm comin' home,” Stiles murmurs to his phone, staring specifically at the pixels that form his dad's smile and the crow's feet around his eyes, “No matter what, I'm comin' home...”

·.★·.·´¯`·.·★ 🅳🅸🆁🅴🅲🆃🅸🅾🅽🆂: 🅿🆁🅴🅷🅴🅰🆃 🅾🆅🅴🅽 🆃🅾 350🅵. 🆄🆂🅴 9🆇13 🅿🅰🅽. 🆁🅴🆂🅴🆁🆅🅴 1/2 🅲🆄🅿 🅲🅷🅴🅴🆂🅴 🅵🅾🆁 🆃🅾🅿🅿🅸🅽🅶. 🅼🅸🆇 🅰🅻🅻 🅸🅽🅶🆁🅴🅳🅸🅴🅽🆃🆂 🅸🅽 🅰 🅱🅾🆆🅻. 🆃🅾🅿 🆆 🆂🅰🆅🅴🅳 🅲🅷🅴🅴🆂🅴. 🅲🅾🅾🅺 🅷🅰🆂🅷🅱🆁🅾🆆🅽 🅲🅰🆂🆂🅴🆁🅾🅻🅴 🅵🅾🆁 45-55🅼🅸🅽, 🅾🆁 🆄🅽🆃🅸🅻 🅶🅾🅻🅳🅴🅽 🅰🅽🅳 🅱🆄🅱🅱🅻🆈. (🅸 🆆🅾🆄🅻🅳 🅻🅸🅶🅷🆃🅻🆈 🆂🅰🅻🆃 🅸🆃 🅾🆄🆃 🅾🅵 🆃🅷🅴 🆂🆃🅾🆅🅴, 🅿🅾🆃🅰🆃🅾🅴🆂 🆃🅰🅺🅴 🆂🅰🅻🆃 🅱🅴🆂🆃 🆁🅸🅶🅷🆃 🅰🅵🆃🅴🆁 🆃🅷🅴🆈 🅰🆁🅴 🅲🅾🅾🅺🅴🅳!) ★·.·´¯`·.·★.·

-X-

They are back on the highway now, and Derek sits across from Stiles in the passenger seat. It's weird. Having something there.

Stiles is used to complete silence. Well, silence apart from his music or himself. But Derek pants. He occasionally yips when he catches a deer or something interesting through the trees. At one point, Stiles even lowers the window down, lets Derek stick his head out. Enjoy the little things dogs love.

It's nice. Having that void filled. It may not be another person. They may just have one-sided conversations. But Derek is there. He's real, and he's with Stiles. And god— it's more than Stiles has had in a long, long time.

There's only minor changes in Stiles' daily routine, which is also nice. Turns out that Derek is obedient, and understands Stiles' instructions. The human was a little worried at first— maybe something would go wrong, Derek would attract attention or do something stupid, and Stiles would be in hot shit for it. But the dog (wolf? Stiles seriously doesn't know still) listens and doesn't cause a huge fuss.

Still, the most he costs Stiles is a few stops throughout the day, letting Derek stretch his legs or relieve himself. It's nice. The tiny breaks. At one point, they even play fetch with a bone Stiles is pretty sure belonged to someone as their leg— but hey, toys are hard pickings in the apocalypse.

Stiles makes it a point to stop at a pet store though. It was some mom and pop shop, hidden away in a tiny outlet mall. He already siphoned two full cans of gas from the truck outside, and he's pushed through the broken glass doors, shotgun at the ready, to take something from what was left.

Thankfully or tragically, it seems that pets were not a huge concern during the apocalypse. Which, saddens Stiles a bit as he makes sure the store is clear. There was a girl down the hall in his dorm with a pet lizard. A leopard gecko, Stiles recalls. He thinks it was named Oscar, and it was chill as hell. He even got to hold it once classes were canceled and they were stuck inside. It was a cool little thing. Stiles liked it. It licked him.

It's kind of depressing to realize that it wouldn't have lasted long once things went to shit. Most animals that couldn't fend for themselves didn't really have a fighting chance. A lot of pets were probably long gone now, and... Stiles tries to focus on something else.

The shelves of the store are relatively untouched. There's been some rodent activity, that's for sure. Some moths have mad their home in some bags of dog food and bird seed, which is gross, but pretty tame for the shit Stiles has seen over the past couple of months. Still, it's easy to grab some nice bags of dog food loaded into Roscoe.

Derek sits in the front seat as Stiles told him to, but Stiles can see the longing look he gives the store. It makes the human furrow his brow, and he sighs, looking back at the store.

“You can go in, but on one condition,” Stiles informs Derek, and immediately the wolf is in his seat, tail wagging and tongue lolling, “You can only take a few things, alright? That's my second rule. Take only what is actually necessary.”

That's all Derek needs as Stiles opens his door, allowing the beast that is his apparent pet to come out. Derek bounds across, making Stiles wince because hey there's broken glass there! But Derek doesn't care. No. He immediately goes to a section of toys, trying to find his favorite one.

Stiles keeps watch outside, making sure Derek doesn't get too rowdy, or that any local infected haven't caught wind to their scents. You have to stay on guard, even when you think the coast is clear...

It only takes Derek a few minutes before he's coming back out. It's almost comical. He's got a little shopping basket, and he's filled it with a few items. A stuffed fox, a can of food, a travel bowl that can compress and clip onto Stiles' bag, what looks to be an antler chew and some other items Stiles isn't gonna fool with right now. He looks so proud of himself, tail wagging as he presents Stiles his items.

“God, you must've been a service dog or something before this,” Stiles thinks, because it's the only thing that can fucking make sense, “Is that what you were?”

Derek merely snorts, so Stiles just decides to accept that as a yes.

“Alright, well... Get that into the car, I guess,” Stiles watches as Derek just takes the basket with him, and he looks back at the store.

He sees some more items that he had passed over initially. There's a section with some harnesses and collars, and Stiles more importantly sees some reflective items there. While he thinks Derek's collar is okay, Stiles would like to be able to see Derek in the dark if things went bad. Avoiding the possibility of shooting him or running him over is something Stiles definitely wants, so he decides there's a few more things he needs to grab.

“Bark if you see anything,” he instructs.

Going inside, Stiles grabs a few more things. A reflective collar he's sure he can see through Derek's fur, some dog boots (he is not about to let Derek get glass in his paws), and a red vest that has some pockets on the side. He stuffs those with some dog first aid items, and some things he realizes might be necessary too, like nail clippers, soap, and a brush. Some of it feels stupid, but... Stiles isn't one for taking chances.

He's about to leave when he sees a small rack containing dog tags. They're blank, obviously meant to be engraved by a machine, but...

Stiles grabs one anyway.

His arms are a bit full as he comes back to the Jeep. It's a bit of a risk, but Stiles quickly dumps his mini haul and shuts Roscoe's door.

“If we need anything else, we'll grab it elsewhere and later,” Stiles tells Derek, “For now, this should do us...”

Stiles quickly puts Roscoe into drive, losing a bit of is building anxiety as his Jeep sets into motion. His free leg still bounces a bit though, because Stiles is always nervous when he isn't driving— just so much risk in being stationary. But Derek nudges his shoulder, almost in reassurance.

Stiles hums and he leans over, carefully grabbing his CD player and popping it open. They pass a few infected through the tiny town on the way out, but they are easily avoidable, paying the Jeep no mind as Stiles drives past.

Placing the CD into the player, Stiles relaxes the instant the soft guitar notes begin playing over his speakers.

At this, Derek tilts his head, looking intrigued as dogs do when something unusual happens. It makes Stiles smile, and he relaxes into his seat.

“I listen to music when I get really nervous. Helps me calm down, but... I can only do it when I drive. Rule three. Think you can figure why,” he states.

It's odd. How he can seemingly talk so easily at Derek. Maybe it's because Stiles was a chatterbox before the infection, but it's also because, well, talking to Derek is also easy.

p⋆u⋆t⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆r⋆ ⋆c⋆a⋆r⋆ ⋆i⋆n⋆ ⋆n⋆e⋆u⋆t⋆r⋆a⋆l⋆ ⋆w⋆h⋆e⋆n⋆e⋆v⋆e⋆r⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆ ⋆e⋆n⋆g⋆a⋆g⋆e⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆r⋆ ⋆p⋆a⋆r⋆k⋆i⋆n⋆g⋆ ⋆b⋆r⋆a⋆k⋆e⋆.⋆ ⋆a⋆l⋆w⋆a⋆y⋆s⋆ ⋆s⋆h⋆i⋆f⋆t⋆s⋆ ⋆g⋆e⋆a⋆r⋆s⋆ ⋆w⋆h⋆i⋆l⋆e⋆ ⋆f⋆u⋆l⋆l⋆y⋆ ⋆s⋆t⋆o⋆p⋆p⋆e⋆d⋆ ⋆a⋆n⋆d⋆ ⋆w⋆i⋆t⋆h⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆r⋆ ⋆f⋆o⋆o⋆t⋆ ⋆o⋆n⋆ ⋆t⋆h⋆e⋆ ⋆b⋆r⋆a⋆k⋆e⋆.⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆r⋆ ⋆t⋆r⋆a⋆n⋆s⋆m⋆i⋆s⋆s⋆i⋆o⋆n⋆ ⋆t⋆h⋆a⋆n⋆k⋆s⋆ ⋆y⋆o⋆u⋆.

It's not like he actually understands Stiles beyond basic commands. Sure, he's proven he's smart as shit and not like any dog that Stiles has ever been around or known of, but he's still a dog. Or wolf. Whatever— the point is that this is an animal, and he cannot have the same comprehension that Stiles posses. He's a living breathing thing, yes, but he doesn't understand why Stiles feels guilty. Why he feels so torn up all the time.

 .o0×X×0o. ᵢ ₐᗰ Gᵣₒₒ𝚝. ᵢ ₐᗰ Gᵣₒₒ𝚝. ᵢ.. ₐᗰ Gᵣₒₒ𝚝? .o0×X×0o.

He just knows Stiles feels bad, feels lonely, and just wants to make him feel better.

｡:.ﾟヽ(*´∀)ﾉﾟ𝓘'𝓿𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽: 𝓼𝓱*𝓭*𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱*𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓱*𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓻-- 𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮! 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓱𝓸𝓰 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓐𝓝𝓓 𝓗𝓔 𝓟𝓘𝓢𝓢𝓔𝓓 𝓞𝓝 𝓜𝓨 𝓕𝓤𝓒𝓚𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓦𝓘𝓕𝓔. 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓫𝓲𝓰, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓓𝓘𝓢𝓖𝓤𝓢𝓣𝓘𝓝𝓖. 𝓢𝓞 𝓘𝓜 𝓜𝓐𝓚𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓐 𝓒𝓐𝓛𝓛𝓞𝓤𝓣 𝓟𝓞𝓢𝓣 𝓞𝓝 𝓜𝓨 𝓣𝓦𝓔𝓔𝓣𝓔𝓡 𝓓𝓞𝓣 𝓒𝓞𝓜! 𝓼𝓱*𝓭*𝔀 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱*𝓭𝓰𝓮𝓱*𝓰 𝔂𝓸𝓾'𝓿𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓽 𝓪 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓴. 𝓲𝓽'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝔃𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓷𝓾𝓽, 𝓮𝔁𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓦𝓐𝓨𝓨𝓨𝓨𝓨 𝓼𝓶𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻! 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽? 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮! 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂! 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽, 𝓷𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓼, 𝓷𝓸 𝓹𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓼-- 𝓘𝓣 𝓛𝓞𝓞𝓚𝓢 𝓛𝓘𝓚𝓔 2 𝓑𝓐𝓛𝓛𝓢 𝓐𝓝𝓓 𝓐 𝓑𝓞𝓝𝓖!!! 𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮 𝓼𝓸 𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽, 𝓘'𝓶 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓯 𝓤𝓚 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱! 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓣𝓗𝓘𝓢 𝓘𝓢 𝓦𝓗𝓐𝓣 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓖𝓔𝓣, 𝓜𝓨 𝓢𝓤𝓟𝓔𝓡 𝓛𝓐𝓩𝓔𝓡 𝓟𝓘𝓢𝓢! ☄️ 𝓮𝔁𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓘'𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓹𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱, 𝓘'𝓶 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓰𝓸 𝓱𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓘𝓜 𝓟𝓘𝓢𝓢𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓞𝓝 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓜𝓞𝓞𝓝❗❗ 𝓗𝓞𝓦 𝓓𝓞 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓛𝓘𝓚𝓔 𝓣𝓗𝓐𝓣, 𝓞𝓑𝓐𝓜𝓐⁉️ 𝓘 𝓟𝓘𝓢𝓢𝓔𝓓 𝓞𝓝 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓜𝓞𝓞𝓝, 𝓤 𝓘𝓓𝓘𝓞𝓣! 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 23𝓱𝓻𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓓𝓡𝓞𝓟𝓐𝓗𝓛𝓔𝓔𝓔𝓔𝓣𝓢 𝓱𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱, 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓘 𝓹𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸𝓸..:｡ ﾟ

Derek doesn't get the horrors of all this. Sure. Maybe his owner died and he was stranded. Maybe he starved for a bit or fought things off. But he doesn't understand just how grueling things were. Just how horrible things have gotten.

What Stiles has done just to get this far.

٭⊹¤.•⨳•.*☆✬ ꌩꂦꀎ ꓄ꂦꂦꀘ ꂵꌩ ꅏꀤꎇꍟ ꍏꈤꀸ ꎇꀎꉓꀘꍟꀸ ꂵꌩ ꉓꋪꂦꉣꌗ ✬☆*.•⨳•.¤⊹٭

As the harmonica comes over the speakers, Stiles can still see that Derek is dumbfounded by what Stiles is listening to.

“Im not sure who this is,” he says, “For some legal reason I can't remember the copyrighted name, so I guess it's just static noise,” thinking, he adds, “Sorry if it isn't your taste.”

Stiles swears that Derek isn't able to understand him. That Derek shouldn't understand. But he sits down and opens his mouth, tongue lolling out as his almost grins at Stiles and wags his tail to say: it's just fine with me.

Stiles grins, the expression almost foreign to him now as he reaches over, petting Derek and leaving his hand nestled into the dark fur he finds there.

(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ яσα∂ ωσяк αнєα∂? уα, ι ѕυяє нσρє ιт ∂σєѕ! ٩(˘◡˘)۶

-X-

“If you're headin' all the way across the country, I want you to be safe.”

Stiles smirks as he packs one of the last boxes of his things into the back of Roscoe.

Turning, he makes a noise at the sight of his father holding out a pistol to him, and Stiles quickly takes it from his father, peering about the neighborhood, “Hey now, you don't wanna make it look like we're doin' somethin' weird.”

“Stiles. I'm the sheriff. I carry a gun all the time. This isn't new,” his dad deadpans.

“Yeah, but I don't,” Stiles points out like this is obvious because well it should be, “But seriously? Some parents get their kids something like a coffee maker or maybe even mace when they set off for college, and yet I get a pistol.”

“Hey. I'd rather you not need it,” he father concedes as he hands Stiles the pistol's case, crossing his arms over one another once Stiles grabs it, “But New York can be a scary place if you aren't careful. I'm just... worried for ya, kid.”

Stiles puts away the pistol, frowning softly, “It's not like I'm goin' to a war zone or anything, dad.”

“No. You're just going across the country to where I will be hours and hundreds of miles away... Have you seen the rates for crime in certain counties of New York?” his father scoffs, “Just last week there was a robbery near campus. You can't ever be too safe, kid.”

Stiles looks at his dad, their eyes locking, and he gets what his dad isn't saying.

It's hard. For his dad.

Mostly because he's had to be strong for a long while. Since Claudia died when Stiles was ten and left him a widow and a single father to a kid with ADHD and a tendency to get himself into all sorts of trouble.

He's sacrificed and dealt with a lot. Stiles isn't proud of some things— he knows he was hell to raise. But he's proud to say he's his dad's son, and he knows his father holds just as much pride in saying Stiles is his kid, too.

But his father doesn't say things like that. Because he's a sheriff and he's got a tough appearance to upkeep. A manly man, through and through.

In moments like these though, Stiles can see straight through the bravado and into what his dad is trying to really get across from behind the curtains he's drawn up.

“Nothin' is gonna happen to me, dad,” Stiles murmurs.

John kicks at the ground, huffing, “The world has a funny way of proving us wrong sometimes...”

Stiles sets his father's gifted pistol in the back of Roscoe, and he frowns softly.

“I'll call and text you for every state I go through. Hell, I'll even get you postcards.”

John snorts, “I... I'd like that.”

“So I can give you the pistol back, right—“

“No. You're taking it.”

Sighing, Stiles relents. He doubts it'll ever get any use, but if it makes his father feel better... well, Stiles can make an exception.

“You're lucky I love you enough to accept your over-protectiveness,” Stiles points a finger at his father as he shuts Roscoe's trunk.

His dad snorts, placing his hand in his pockets to occupy himself.

Going over his mental list multiple times, Stiles glances back at his house. This sad, two-story that is nearly identical to every other house in the neighborhood that he's called home since he was a kid. The one with the stair he always slipped on in the mornings. The one that has markings on his bedroom's door frame until he was ten to show how tall he'd grown.

“The house... it's gonna be pretty empty and quiet with you gone,” John whispers, staring at their home with his son.

“I know...”

“I'm... I'm gonna miss the smell of eggos in the morning,” his father comments quietly, “Or that muffled guitar music coming from your room.”

Stiles' eyes water a little, “Come on now... You don't have to make this emotional...”

“But it is,” his dad mutters back, his own eyes reddened and looking damningly teary from where Stiles stands, “You're leavin' me behind to start your life, kid.”

Stiles can't help it. He engulfs his dad in a tight hug, desperate and definitely one that makes his throat feel like it's getting squeezed as it burns.

He promised himself that he wouldn't let his departure be something hard. It was a struggle enough to think of New York and accept the scholarships he was offered there. But he knew if his dad cried — if his dad begged him to stay — there would be such a risk of Stiles to change his plans.

But he needed to this. He needed to step out of the nest and fly, eventually.

That's what this was all about, right?

“It's not for forever,” Stiles chokes out, “I'll c-come back for the summer. I'll be back once I graduate.”

“I know,” his dad says, certain but also hurting just as much as Stiles is, “You gotta go, kid. It may hurt to see you leave, but your old man will live.”

“Yeah, and you better stick to your diet,” Stiles says, pulling back and wiping quickly at his eyes and clumping lashes, “I'm gonna keep tabs with Melissa and Scott, so don't think you can cheat on me while I'm gone!”

“I wouldn't dream of it, kid,” his dad says with a fond, bittersweet smile.

“Good. 'Cause I'll get a flight back here just to kick your ass.”

John laughs, “Way to make a burger more tempting, Stiles.”

Together, they walk to the driver's side of Roscoe.

His dad pulls the door open, letting Stiles get into the seat, hesitating before shutting it while Stiles rolls the window down. They're quiet for a few moments while Stiles lingers, his hands on the steering wheel and a long trip ahead of him now.

“You better tell me how New York is once you get there,” John murmurs, sad but also happy at the same time — one of life's tragic and miraculous combinations.

“Of course I will,” Stiles says, and then he adds.

“Just... don't forget about this little small town,” he dad jokes.

But with a fierce sincerity, Stiles tells him, “Trust me, dad... I never could...”

“Good,” John places his hand briefly on the sill of Stiles' door before taking a step back, swallowing thickly, “Drive safe, kid.”

“I'll be back soon,” Stiles promises, “Fall break. I'll be here.”

“Already looking forward to it,” he dad says with his smile tight and eyes glistening.

Stiles puts Roscoe into reverse, pulling out onto the street. But before he drives away, he glances to see his father waving from the front yard.

The leaves already are turning golden the same way his father's hair is shifting to gray. It's almost picture-esque. Perfect and quaint and just all sorts of special to Stiles as he hesitates.

The sun offers a little warmth through the nip in the air, and Stiles waves back at his father.

Shifting and driving ahead is probably the hardest thing Stiles has ever done.

But he does it solely on the reminder that he'll come back.

No matter what, no matter how long.

He'll be back home again.

-X-

It doesn't take much longer to get out of Wyoming, but it still took a little longer than Stiles would've liked, taking almost two days to do so. Not necessarily because of grabbing Derek altogether and making stops, but because of a massive blockade on one of his routed highways.

It's a little sad, having just entered Utah and coming upon what is like a junkyard of cars on the interstate— all left by people trying to flee, but Stiles does take it as a small opportunity.

He's been running low on a few things. The last town he was in didn't have much, picked relatively clean for what little it had to begin with. The town before that was far too invested for him to bother.

But he can definitely top his gas cans and tank off, and he really hopes that he can find some food because he's been having to ration a little. Let's just say he's grateful he can feed Derek separate food and not worry about having to spare his own right now.

There's a few infected that mill about the cars, but Stiles is cautious. He uses his knife in these cases, knowing the infected would only be attracted to his shotgun or pistol. He still has them of course— they may not be ideal, but that doesn't mean Stiles may not have to use them. Remember, he isn't stupid. Just a dumbass. There's a stark difference.

Derek is told to stay in the car, but Stiles leaves his window open, not entirely wanting to trap him. But Stiles can tell Derek doesn't like them splitting up. If anything, he is vehemently against it. He even whined at Stiles the moment he stepped out of the car. Stiles shushed him, and thankfully Derek got it. The last thing Stiles needed was a dog barking fit here.

He needs to get some more items here before things truly get scarce. While the situation isn't ideal, Stiles isn't going to pass this opportunity up. Can't quite pick and choose these days.

“Rule four. Always make sure that you have enough stuff, even before you run out,” Stiles mutters, placing his worn hiking back over his shoulders, “I just need to get some stuff and I'll be back. Shouldn't take me long, alright?”

Derek huffs, his ears flattening.

“Hey, if I see anything you'd like, one-hundred percent I'm grabbin' it!”

It doesn't quite mollify the wolf, but he still lets Stiles go without much more fuss.

Despite most things seeming like easy pickings, the few infected here are easy to deal with. Stiles makes quick work of them with his knife, gashing their throats, ignoring the way his hands turn black with their blood and rot permeates the air. It isn't Stiles' favorite thing by far, but he's grown so accustomed to it now...

He gets some gas siphoned out of a few cars, and while their tanks fill up his own, Stiles rummages through the bags and items he can find. These people were on the run, obviously, which means there is a lot to go through. It kind of sucks in some ways, because Stiles can never truly disassociate with what he's doing.

He's going through people's things. He's going through what was left of their lives— what they were able to pack up in the hopes they could take with them.

While he does find a lot of necessary items — batteries, snack foods, antibiotics, ammo — he finds other things. Pictures. Diaries. Even someone's wedding dress.

The worst is a crib that is still in its packaging.

That one makes his stomach roll as he shuts that trunk, too disturbed to dig further.

He probably searches about ten cars, finding enough to fill his resources up and to where he feels okay enough with the take. It was almost a little too easy, but of course, that's when things go wrong.

Stiles has his head in one of the trunks, leaning over to grab a new gun he's discovered in the trunk. He isn't even sure how it happened, but he didn't even hear the infected that came upon him.

One second he's rummaging, and the next he's thrown to the ground, a rotten mouth snapping open and closed above him.

Some fluid drips on his face, making Stiles gasp as he pushes back against the zombie that tries to claw him open.

Its eyes are a pale white, its skin a sickly black color, wrinkled and drawn up. It smells like death, and flies swarm around them just the same, especially from where maggots grow in the opened cavity that was once its stomach, its rotting guts hanging out and slapping against Stiles and causing him to gag a bit.

Stiles thinks this is it as he tries to get his pistol from the holster on his thigh— he's about to eat shit because he was trunk or treating out in the middle of nowhere in Utah— but then something else unexpected happens.

Before Stiles can get his pistol free, a massive, dark form barrels into the infected atop him. He grunts, feeling the air around him shift with the impact as he scrambles to get up off the asphalt below. He readies his pistol, aiming to fire when he notices what is happening.

It's Derek — that stupid mutt is attacking the zombie, biting into its throat and shaking so violently that what ligaments and veins there rip away in tatters.

It's brutal, with Derek snarling as he even crunches through the bone of the zombie's neck, leaving it to gurgle one final time, its black blood pooling below it as its broken mouth is left gaping.

Stiles pants, his hands shaking as he takes Derek in.

The wolf winces as he licks his teeth, almost offended by the taste before he looks at Stiles and trots over. He whines, sniffing Stiles over and over to assure himself the human is okay while Stiles tries to process what just happened.

“I— I told you to stay in the car,” Stiles says like an idiot.

Derek huffs, looking annoyed with Stiles' statement, as if to say: and just let you get mauled to death in the middle of nowhere in Utah?

Stiles wipes at his face, and he decides to call it quits.

“Fuck the gun... let's go.”

Stiles walks back to Roscoe, and Derek dutifully follows.

Stiles is quick to drive away from the blocked highway, noting how more and more infected prop out of the woods as they leave. They either could scent them or they heard Derek and his struggle with their fallen brother in arms. Either way it makes Stiles grateful they are leaving.

Adrenaline fuels him. He drives a good fifty miles from where they were before he even considers slowing down, leaving them on a quiet, empty two-lane section of highway so that Stiles can regroup.

So.

That was a thing.

Stiles' grip on the steering wheel is harsh, but it's necessary. He mentally goes over what had happened, specifically before the infected snuck up on him. He swears — swears — that he didn't hear the thing shuffle up to him.

Normally he's good about this. Damn good.

But maybe... Maybe he is slipping.

He runs a hand over his face, and Derek whines.

Stiles sighs, lowering his chin, “I'm fine... Just not happy with what happened back there.”

He gets a clipped bark from Derek at that, and it makes the human huff.

“I'm obviously grateful you saved me. I'm not an asshole. Just... That usually doesn't happen. I didn't just get here because I lucked it out, alright?”

Derek is quiet. Stiles hates when he's quiet.

Picking up his atlas, Stiles studies it, trying to focus on what to do now that his route has been fucked six ways to Sunday.

“This will take a second to work around...”

Derek snorts, but curls up in the passenger seat.

It probably takes Stiles ten minutes, but he has an alternate route set. They're going to drive through a small park. There's even a river there.

It gives Stiles an idea.

“It'll be an hour and a half before we get there, I think... but it's not too cold for a swim, yeah?”

At that, Derek tilts his head.

“You'll see what I mean,” the human mutters, and shifts Roscoe into drive.

-X-

He misses showers.

Stiles also misses coffee. And pizza. And he really, really misses his Adderall.

He ran out of pills a few days ago after crossing into Pennsylvania, and he's currently suffering withdrawals. Stiles tried to taper, he really did. But it's hard to manage something like that in the middle of an apocalypse, so please cut him a little slack...

Still, he's sweaty. He's sore and shaking a bit and the bathroom smells like stale piss and maybe even vomit. Stiles doesn't know.

God. He just really, really wants to shower.

The only thing keeping him sane is the graffiti on the walls. Some things are funny, some things are sad. Some things are pointless but remind Stiles of a world that no longer exists.

I just want to go home.

Stiles relates to that the most. Whoever wrote that in purple Sharpie, they just make Stiles feel a little better.

Because withdrawal sucks. The zombie apocalypse sucks. The remaining distance between himself and home sucks the most.

He wants nothing more than to have his father bring him soup like when he got sick. Melissa would know how to help him. Scott would be the best bro and bring Stiles great movies to watch.

He misses them all as he suffers through the episodes of shaking.

Or when he sees Ashley's face from the corner of his eye.

Or when he thinks he can hear Jacob screaming at him outside.

Or when he swears that he can feel the stranger who tried to steal Roscoe check his forehead for a fever.

So yeah. Withdrawal sucks.

Because if anything, it reminds Stiles of things that hurt just as much as his body coming off of his meds.

Stiles thinks he loses part of his mind in that seven-eleven bathroom here in Pennsylvania.

But once he comes out, drained and a bit horrified at the whole experience — emerging as the sun comes over the treetops and warms his skin for the first time in days — Stiles knows one thing is for certain.

He's changed.

Maybe for the better. Maybe for the worst.

But the young man who closes his eyes and basks in the light is different than the one who had locked himself behind a graffiti-laden door just a few days ago.

And as Stiles' right hand trembles as he brings it up to his mouth, his eyes watering as he stares out into the sunrise before him, he hopes that it's just something he can live on with.

-X-

They have an hour before true nightfall, so Stiles decides they will stop here for the night.

The park isn't massive. Just a small nature preserve the city had set up. Definitely didn't acquire foot traffic like Yellowstone did.

Stiles still is on edge though. He will be for a couple of days, after what happened earlier.

Even now, despite coming so far, Stiles is still awestruck at how easily things can go to shit. No matter how skilled you were, how lucky— it can always go wrong. It could always be the end.

Thankfully enough, Derek is pretty distracting. While it's cool, maybe a little cooler than Stiles would like, the idea to rinse himself of the infected's blood and gunk is appealing to the wolf. He is the first to go into the water, tall wagging despite the chill.

Stiles heads in after him, in nothing but boxers (sure, he could go naked, but if he always made rule fourteen of never being nude just in case things went tits up). Stiles brought their toiletries along, and he washes the black blood from his skin and the built up grease and dirt from his hair. The water might be cold, but it is still great to feel all that shit get shirked off of himself.

Derek enjoys it too, letting Stiles thoroughly lather him up. He might have a black coat, but Stiles could tell Derek's picked up some dirt from his travels, and he is grateful that Stiles could rid him of it.

It doesn't take them long, with the cool temp and the dying sun, for them to get washed up and back out of the river.

Stiles is in his cleanest clothes, and he feels a bit more human now. Sure, it wasn't a hot shower, but by apocalypse standards, this still wasn't half bad. It sure as hell beat cleaning up with wet wipes.

And as he portions out Derek's food and then his own, he realizes that overall, by apocalypse standards, he isn't doing half bad. He's alive. He's got food and resources. He's even got his own damn dog which— much to his surprise, can also attack shit and kill it.

So Derek really is some kind of beast. It's... kind of awesome.

“Were you like, a scientist's pet? Some army experiment?” Stiles asks the wolf, getting only a small growl in response as Derek gnaws on his antler, “You're just an enigma.”

Derek continues chewing his antler, uncaring for Stiles' bewilderment.

Stiles gets them wrapped up before sundown, like always. He has rules dammit, and while he broke one to keep Derek, he sure as hell won't break them again. After his close call today, he won't run the risk of having his ass get lost like that.

The area is secured, the Jeep has its window barricades up, and Stiles lies in the back of Roscoe with Derek beside him. There's a small light that Stiles has turned on, just for the sake of looking at Derek.

He's fitted the wolf with his collar, but this time, with a new touch.

Stiles has been working on it, but slowly, with his knife, he was able to carve Derek's name into his tag. It wasn't much, and it definitely looked like shit compared to the actual engraved tag Derek had on before. But this was from Stiles. This was Stiles' way of saying: you're with me now, buddy.

The human has played a little with the tag since he attached it with a zip tie, and dare he say that Derek puffed his chest out with the new addition, like he was proud to wear it.

“You're strange,” Stiles tells him quietly, and he puts some of his blanket around Derek, noting how cold it's feeling now with nightfall, “It's like... sometimes, I swear, there's a person inside that head of yours.”

Derek tenses, but Stiles thinks that's because of Stiles scratching behind his ear as he stares into Derek's eyes.

Hazel.

How on earth can a dog have hazel eyes?

“But, I guess you would break rule seven, if I did...”

Derek lets out a light, curious yip, and Stiles grins faintly.

“Don't let someone new in,” Stiles mutters, “You can't get attached these days. Shit gets you killed...”

Stiles pulls out his CD player, grabbing his headphones and pausing a little. Before he hits play, he places one bud into his ear, and then sets the other by Derek's. The wolf looks confused, but accepts what Stiles does (just like he always accepts what Stiles does).

It's then that the human hits play, letting his music play softly between them.

╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋┏┓╋┏┓
╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋┃┃┏┛┗┓
┏━━┳━━┳━━┳┓╋┏┳━┳┳━━┫┗┻┓┏┛
┃┏━┫┏┓┃┏┓┃┃╋┃┃┏╋┫┏┓┃┏┓┃┃
┃┗━┫┗┛┃┗┛┃┗━┛┃┃┃┃┗┛┃┃┃┃┗┓
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╋╋╋╋╋╋┃┃╋┏━┛┃╋╋╋┏━┛┃
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╋╋╋╋┏━┓╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋┏┓
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┏┳━┳┛┗┳━┳┳━┓┏━━┳━━┳┓┏┳━━┳━╋┓┏┛
┣┫┏╋┓┏┫┏╋┫┏┓┫┏┓┃┃━┫┗┛┃┃━┫┏┓┫┃
┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┃┗┛┃┃━┫┃┃┃┃━┫┃┃┃┗┓
┗┻┛┗┻┛┗┛┗┻┛┗┻━┓┣━━┻┻┻┻━━┻┛┗┻━┛
╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋┏━┛┃
╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋╋┗━━┛

“It... It kinda sucks that you're just a dog sometimes,” Stiles admits then, a little forlorn.

щ（ﾟДﾟщ） < 卩丨ᎶᎶㄚ ᗪ丨卩卩丨几'! )

“I wish I could talk to you. Like actually talk with you,” Stiles murmurs, already feeling heavy with sleep, “I bet you'd have the most smartass responses... and I... I would love to hear someone talk back, for once.”

(ಥ ͜ʖಥ) ¢rðþ? §†ðr¥†ïmê? ٩꒰´·⌢•｀꒱۶⁼³₌₃

“But you're just a dog,” Stiles whispers, “You're just a dog...”

*•.¸♡ 🍇 🎀 𝒹𝒶𝒹, 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔🍬🏵𝒹 𝓀𝓊𝓈𝒽❣ 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹♡𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓇 💸 𝓈𝓉🌸𝓇𝑒 -- 𝒽💞𝓌 𝑔❀🍩𝒹 𝒸💞𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒 ? 🎀 🍇 ♡¸.•*

Derek whines softly, and presses his head into the crook of Stiles' throat.

-X-

¸¸♬·¯·♩¸¸♪·¯·♫¸¸ 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰. 🥁🪘 ¸¸♫·¯·♪¸¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Stiles works on his paper, scribbling on his notes sheet, trying to get the words right for his thesis.

“How in the hell can this be so fuckin' difficult...” Stiles mutters.

It's late at night. Ashley is asleep and Stiles' computer is the only source of light in the room, illuminating Stiles' face as he places one hand on his forehead.

A migraine threatens to overtake Stiles at this time, which is the last thing he needs. His paper is due tomorrow and he's got class in the morning. Sure he's gonna sleep like shit tonight but one bad night was better than one bad grade.

୧(•̀ᗝ•́)૭ 🅿🆁🅴🆅🅸🅴🆆 ୧(⇀‸↼‶)૭

Stiles knows why he's so frustrated. It's not just his shitty schedule presenting itself, or this paper he's stumped with.

He doesn't wanna mope or be one of those people, but...

Seth broke up with him this morning.

Stiles isn't sure why. He thought they were going okay and sure they never made any massive commitments, but Stiles didn't think they were at the point of stopping what they were doing.

Seth was cute. He liked Star Wars. He also liked Stiles' moles, his jokes. It was the most at ease Stiles felt in a few months, with the pressure of midterms was looming and Stiles was trying to keep his bases covered.

Sure, Stiles had hooked up with guys before. And girls. Seth was not his only romantic or sexual venture here on campus.

But Seth was his first serious relationship.

And Stiles thought... well, he thought that maybe for once, things would change. That it wouldn't be like high school when Lydia thought he didn't exist, or Danny made a disgusted face when Stiles asked if Danny thought he was attractive.

He thought he was beyond the petty immaturity that came with being a teenager who thought their world just consisted of their high school's hierarchy and their hometown, but it seems Stiles was wrong.

By text. Seth broke up with him over a fucking text.

🌊 .·:*¨𝕴 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖓 𝖓𝖚𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖘.¨*:·. 🌊

Stiles sighs, about to close his laptop and just say fuck it for right now when a call notification pops up.

It's Scott. He wants to video chat.

Stiles accepts the call without hesitation.

It takes a second or two, but Stiles can't help but smirk as Scott's pixelated face comes over the screen.

“Hey, Stiles! What's up, man?”

Stiles lays back on his bed, nestling among his pillows as he talks into his headphone's mic quietly, “Nothin' much. I was trying to work on a paper, but I'm not a wordsmith right now.”

Scott frowns, his puppy face turning a little sour, “You kinda look like shit. You okay?”

Let it be Scott to equip the brutal honesty.

Sighing, Stiles offers Scott a tight smile, “I'm okay... Just... Stressed about midterms... And... Seth broke up with me today.”

“Stiles, man. I'm sorry,” Scott says sincerely, “He doesn't know what he's missing.”

“Oh yes. I'm a catch alright,” Stiles jokes.

“Oh you are, though! You're geeky and you're in your prime, dude. I'm not gay but if I was, and if I wasn't like your brother from another mother, I'd tap that.”

Stiles makes a grossed out face as he stifles a laugh, “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.”

“What else are brothers for, man?”

Stiles snorts, shaking his head. Scott barely makes sense sometimes, but his efforts still manage to stick when his message doesn't.

“You know... I really miss you,” Stiles blurts then, honest with Scott as he looks at his friend's face on his screen longingly, “I miss your mom and my dad, too.”

“And we miss you,” Scott says, offering Stiles a bittersweet smile, “Beacon Hills isn't the same without you, dude... Like, where's the Catwoman to my Batman?”

“Pretty sure we decided I was Batman, but... whatever,” Stiles snorts.

“Either way, you n' me, doesn't matter if we're on opposite sides of the country,” Scott smirks, the expression as crooked as his jawline, “We're peas in a pod, man.”

“Always,” Stiles pauses, looking to Stiles then, “But... how are things on your end? Hopefully better than they are on mine.”

Looking a bit giddy, Scott chuckles, and Stiles can see it in his friend.

He's in love.

“I think I'm in love, dude.”

Stiles nods, feeling a little empty, “Who's the lucky girl?”

“Her name is Kira,” Scott says dreamily, “We met because her golden came into the vet, and I was the tech on duty that day. She gave me her number, dude! I couldn't believe it, but when I called her she told me we should go out and eat. So we did. And Stiles, it was amazing.”

Despite his problems, Stiles grins for his friend, “I'm happy for ya, man.”

“Listen, Stiles...” it's one of those odd rarities — the times that somehow Scott manages to push through his awkward aloofness and is serious in a way that he can't manage apart from these blue moon moments, “I know New York is kinda lonely, but I think you'll get a breakthrough soon. You're probably not gonna expect it, you're not gonna know it even happened at first... but something good is gonna happen for you soon. I can just tell.”

It puts a different kind of pain in Stiles' chest. A longing. A loneliness that Stiles hasn't shaken since he came to New York and left his best friend and their parents behind.

Placing his hand against the screen, Stiles' voice wobbles as Scott presses his own hand back on his end in California, “T-Thanks, man...”

“Don't mention it...” Scott smiles, “Just try to think about that whenever you feel down... And besides. Just a few more months, and then you'll be back home. I got so many plans for when your back, dude. There's a new lazer tag place that opened and I was thinking of the comic shop too—“

In the dead of night, Stiles listens to his best friend ramble.

It's the best he's felt in a while, honestly.

Because Stiles hopes that Scott is right.

A break coming soon... having something good happen...

Well, it isn't a lot to hope for, is it?

-X-

Stiles doesn't beat winter.

Much to his dismay, it seems the season wants to come early.

A few days after their stop in the park in Utah, snow begins to fall. As it does, Stiles curses. They're nowhere close enough to Nevada for Stiles to feel better about the snowfall, and Derek whines from the passenger seat.

“It means driving is about to suck...” Stiles mutters, “There could be black ice, downed trees, impassible roads... I'm not excited about it.”

Despite wishing he could keep going, Stiles knows he has to get some new items. If he doesn't, he's going to regret pushing the issue.

And remember, he doesn't like taking risks if he can't cover his ass when he makes them.

So he finds a Walmart off an exit, and thinks this might be his only option.

It's a smaller Walmart, thankfully. Nothing massive or crazy like a super center. People definitely hit it before the apocalypse or during it, but it seems like there's still enough for Stiles to scrap something together for himself.

Thankfully, it seems that this Walmart had begun stocking for the winter before things truly went wrong, and Stiles feels a little better as he grabs a cart and places his shotgun across the child's seat near the handle. It's dark inside, but Stiles waits for his eyes to adjust, thankfully not taking too long since the skylights let in some illumination despite the overcast and falling snow.

Still, it's hellishly quiet, and Derek is on high alert at Stiles' side.

Together, they gather some more supplies. A wide shovel, some cat litter, chains for the tires, deicer and a scraper. Stiles also snatches two hunting jackets and other clothing items, grateful for the layering considering he knows it's about to get colder before it ever gets warmer.

Some new boots and even some ammo later, Stiles' cart is nice and full. He even found some stuff for Derek, finding hunting dog equipment to insulate him. There's also some camping gear that wasn't touched, so Stiles scored a small gas burner and a cast iron pan he one-hundred percent intends on using.

It's kind of a miracle no infected are here, and Stiles is happy with that as he heads towards the doors. You know, for all the talk of everyone holing up in a Walmart during an apocalypse—

He only gets near the doors when it happens.

Derek turns, growling and instantly having Stiles grab his shotgun. He doesn't see or hear anything at first, but someone chuckles, and comes into view from behind one of the registers.

“You gonna pay for that?” the man states, his grin wolfish.

Ah. So much for thinking this place was deserted.

“There's more than enough here for what I'm taking,” Stiles states, pumping his shotgun for emphasis, “I'll be out of your hair shortly, unless you want to make this into a problem.”

“Oh, it's already a problem,” the man states, and he talks forward, his leather boots crunching against the broken glass littering the floor, “You know where you are?”

“I'm near Vernal, Utah in a fuckin' Walmart,” Stiles fires back, “What of it?”

“You're in my territory, kid,” the man looks at Stiles, and the human swears he can see the man's eyes turn red for a second before they are back to their boring shade of blue, “And here you are, tryin' to take my shit.”

Beside Stiles, Derek hunkers down, snarling.

The man's attention moves to Stiles' companion, and he laughs, “Oh wow, I almost didn't see you there... Was wonderin' why I sensed another wolf. Little puny thing with you is definitely not up to par, hm?”

Stiles gapes, making a strangled noise before raising his shotgun, “Alright, you must've lost what marbles you had while you've been defending this place, but me and my dog are leaving now—“

The man snorts, “Your dog?”

His tone is nothing but mocking.

“Listen, I get he's kind of like the Hulk of dogs, but it doesn't matter!” Stiles hisses, “We're going!”

“Oh, you're goin' nowhere, kid—“

That's all it takes, and Stiles is surprised as Derek leaps forth, and the man goes after Derek just the same. It seems strange, how they go after one another, almost as though this is personal, but Stiles has to run after them as they disappear into the dark.

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, taking off.

Something knocks into one of the aisle 's shelves, sending them toppling over and guiding Stiles to where the apparent fight is taking place. He scrambles for his flashlight, keeping one hand ready on his shotgun as he turns it on from where it's attached to his backpack strap.

He sees Derek first, his reflective collar coming up in the dark while Stiles tries to see where the man is.

Except, he can't find him.

To Stiles' surprise, there's another dog there. Well, something similar to Derek. The other dog (seriously or is it a fucking Wolf, Stiles is losing his mind) comes up scarily close to Derek in size, but does beat Derek in mass, sporting a gray color that pales in comparison to the soot-like shade that is Derek's coat. Its snarling and going after Derek full tilt, and Stiles tries to aim his gun but to no avail as Derek intertwines with his adversary to the point that Stiles can't get a clear shot.

“Goddammit!” he curses.

The two knock over more shelves, and Stiles is getting seriously worried as he tries to keep up. Sure, it's just two massive dogs beefing it out, but it's like the clash of titans. And it's happening in a Walmart no less.

He tries to keep an eye out for that man, but he seems to have disappeared after Derek got him. Stiles wonders if Derek killed him, or the man set his own dog onto Derek as he limped away, injured as hell. After all, Stiles knows what Derek is capable of. It's kind of terrifying.

But nothing or no one else comes, and Stiles worries as he attempts to get the other dog that fights with Derek.

Eventually they break apart a bit, and Stiles can tell how winded they are, with fur missing and blood running down their flanks. They've done a hell of a number on themselves.

As they try to catch their breaths however, this is when Stiles steps in. He aims his shotgun, firing twice into the offending wolf and causing it to yelp dramatically as it feels with buckshot. It begins bleeding fiercely, and a part of Stiles feels bad because yeah he's just shot an animal and he does not intend on telling Scott about this.

The wolf, somehow, doesn't exactly go down. It stumbles, but if anything, it looks enraged that Stiles shot it. It makes the human back up a bit, brow furrowing as he goes to reload. The other wolf snarls, and it's then that its eyes turn red, and it fucking charges.

Stiles tries to run backward, but something catches under his foot, causing him to fall harshly on his ass. His ammo goes rolling on the ground, with only one shot in the chamber as Stiles tries to pop his shotgun back together to fire it.

But before he can, the wolf get mere inches from him.

It's then that Derek intervenes, tackling the other wolf and shoving him back off into the dark and out of the light of Stiles' flashlight.

What happens in the dark is unknown to Stiles, but there is a sharp whine as Stiles forces himself to his feet, and resounding snarl that makes Stiles' blood curdle. He turns, anxious and terrified, only to see something gruesome.

Derek shudders, his coat wrecked and body not fairing better as his body and mouth drip with blood. The other wolf is still, frighteningly still, and it's then that Stiles' realizes its neck is bent in a horribly awkward position.

“H-Holy shit...” Stiles breathes.

And then, Derek collapses.

“Derek!”

Stiles rushes forth, sliding across the bloodied tile until he skids to a stop beside the wolf. He can hear Derek whine, his breaths shallow and short and oh god oh god please don't make this how Derek goes out.

Stiles is desperate, and he heaves Derek up as best he can. Granted, Derek is heavy, and he's large, but Stiles is determined, dammit!

He drags Derek away from the other wolf, pulling him closer and closer to the outside of the store. He checks briefly to ensure that the man is nowhere near them and nothing else is going to spook them before he gets Derek to his car, which is thankfully parked right in the fire lane.

Derek whines as Stiles does so, bleeding onto the upholstery as Stiles rushes in his panic.

God. He hasn't felt this frightened in a while. Not even for himself.

“I'm— I'm gonna grab things for you, okay? I'll be right back!”

Derek growls in protest, but Stiles rushes back to the store. Taking his buggy, Stiles rushes into the pharmacy aisle. It's mostly picked clean, but a little is left, and Stiles grabs everything he can, uncaring for what it is— as long as it'll help Derek.

Once he clears what little there is, Stiles rushes back outside, just tossing everything into the back of Roscoe without pause or hesitancy. He isn't sure where that douche from before went, or if he has friends, but Stiles isn't sticking around to find out, pushing the empty cart back towards the store as he goes to jump into his Jeep.

As he gets Roscoe started, he swears he can hear howling from inside the store, and his heart thunders as Stiles turns the key over.

Thankfully, Roscoe doesn't decide to be a shit, and she starts up and doesn't give Stiles shit when he slams the accelerator.

The tires spin just a little, but thankfully the snow is thick enough for Stiles to start building traction, and it lurches forward after a second or too.

As he speeds away, Stiles sees a group of people coming up to the doorways of the Walmart, lingering and looking threatening as hell in the rear view mirror as Stiles drives off.

“Why in the hell didn't they get us when we came in!?” Stiles shouts, exasperated, “Were they— were they just w-waiting or something!?”

Derek whines from the passenger seat.

“We are never going in another Walmart again, so help me!” Stiles hisses.

The human hears another huff from the passenger seat.

Trying to settle himself some, Stiles glances back to Derek, “I'm gonna patch you up in just a minute, bud. I just wanna put some miles between us and that shithole.”

When Stiles looks at Derek though, the wolf is staring at him. Or Stiles even dare say scowling at him. The human isn't sure how a wolf or dog or whatever could be scowling but when he looks at Derek, it's like the dog's disappointment is palpable.

“You're not happy with me...” Stiles mutters then, feeling some tension in the car, “How in the hell?”

Derek yips, stomping once with a slight whine. His protest is wordless but Stiles can only figure a few things.

“Is it because we even went in there?” he guesses, “You were down for it at first!”

The wolf beside him growls softly, succinct and still frustrated. Nope. Not it.

“Is it because I didn't get to shoot that guy? I don't know where he went, man. You tackled him into the dark and that was it and I'm still confused about that!”

Derek seems to give up on trying to communicate his grievance with Stiles, for once their connection not solid enough to get it together, and with Derek being to tired to expend anymore energy on the matter. It makes Stiles worry, seeing how Derek lets out a dissatisfied grunt before laying his head down onto his paws to look miserable.

“Well... Let me put fifty miles between us and then and I promise I'll try to get you feeling better,” Stiles murmurs, feeling even more guilty than he already does, “I just... why did you break your rule?”

The wolf looks at Stiles, as if to say: you've been breaking your own recently.

Or maybe that's what Stiles' conscience is trying to rebuttal with.

“You're not supposed to be the hero,” Stiles whispers miserably, “Especially over me...”

Derek doesn't fight back on Stiles' words. He merely watches Stiles from his perch on his paws, his eyelids drooping.

Stiles really, really hopes he's just tired...

About another thirty miles pass, and Stiles deems them far enough to stop to take a look at the wolf bleeding onto his passenger seat.

He takes a blanket from his nest in the back of Roscoe and props Derek on it, earning some pitiful noises from the dog. But he's careful. Cautious. Tears well up in his eyes as he gathers some gauze, some kid print that has monsters on it that almost would be comical if Stiles weren't so heartbroken to have to us it. He wraps Derek's wounds tenderly, an almost desperate edge to his hands and fingers as he finds more and more wounds to address.

He gives Derek a few doggie pain pills. He's unsure on Derek's weight, but he guesses the beast of an animal is well over a hundred pounds, so he doses for that. Besides, he doubt Derek would be hurting if he gave a little extra.

Still, it seems his care takes an edge off of Derek's suffering, and Stiles is sure that he slips an antibiotic pill in the small amount of wet food he presents to the wolf as well.

“You're gonna have to take it easy for a minute,” Stiles tells Derek, sniffling.

The wolf eyes him as he eats out of his travel bowl, a small whine escaping him between licks of its contents.

“No protests. You messed yourself up good... I know... I know I haven't been on my a-game as of late, but that doesn't mean you can push yourself in this state.”

Derek huffs, still looking pitiful, but not quite able to argue a case for himself on this one.

“Rule nine,” Stiles tells him then, quiet and trying to school his breath, “Take it easy when you have to.”

The wolf puts his head down on his paws, nestled in his allocated blanket while he snorts once.

The snow still falls between them, cold and slow and covering the road, but all Stiles can think about is that they came too close to losing today, winter be damned.

He's not going to let that happen again, if he can help it.

-X-

“God. I hate the snow.”

Stiles is back in Beacon Hills for Christmas break, and of course, the weather had different plans that what Stiles had in mind. Granted, New York had winters far worse than California, but Stiles was hoping that he was gonna escape this winter wonderland bullshit for a few weeks, at least.

“And to think, you used to enjoy it when it snowed,” his father says, coming up to where Stiles is sitting in a chair on the porch to hand Stiles a mug of hot chocolate.

“Well, that was when it got me out of school and I didn't have to drive or go to work in it,” Stiles mutters, but he still takes the hot chocolate.

John snorts, sitting in a chair beside Stiles and taking a sip from his own mug, “Adulthood has made you so bitter.”

“Not entirely,” Stiles huffs, and he uses the mug to warm his poor hands, “But everyone's gotta grow up at some point, right?”

“Guess so. That's the way of things,” John murmurs, rocking in his chair, looking out into the yard where his inflatable Santa is getting buried under the falling snow, “There's bills. You gotta work. You're responsible for a lot. And the whole time you just get older and older until eventually you just get to sit on your porch with your kid and bitch about it together.”

“Yeah, well... Adulting sucks,” Stiles mopes with a pout.

“Welcome to it, kid,” his dad chuckles into his next sip of hot chocolate.

“Seriously though... There's got to be something more to it, right?” Stiles asks, a little frayed, “I mean... Life just isn't hating how much it sucks?”

“Well, there is one thing,” glancing to his son, John smiles with more warmth than what the mug between Stiles' frozen fingers offers, “It's the people in it that make the difference.”

Stiles' brow furrows, and John sighs, smiling as he takes in Roscoe in the driveway.

“The people you care about make life worth livin', Stiles. The love you feel for them, the love they feel for you... We can make all the problems we ever could for ourselves... But as long we got people at home waitin' for us, we'll do alright.”

Stiles hums.

He thinks of college. Of how hard it's been, of how lonely New York has been over the years.

The only thing that's kept him going is knowing he's got his little family here.

Tucked away. A corner of the world that's all his own. People that will always be waiting for him, that will always love him no matter what happens.

“I think... I think once I graduate, I'm gonna move back here,” Stiles blurts suddenly, seeing his father's eyes widen, “I... I want to stay here. With you. With Scott and Melissa.”

Stiles sees his dad smile, and he sets his hand on Stiles' shoulder, “I'd love that.”

“Me too,” Stiles sighs, looking out into the snow as he whispers to himself, “More than I think you know...”

-X-

Derek sleeps a lot.

He's healing and exhausted, so Stiles isn't surprised by it. But he misses his light barks or critiques of Stiles on their trips. He rarely stirs, if anything, to just eat or go potty when Stiles deems he probably has to go.

At night, Derek is far more tactile, coming right up on Stiles, lying adjacent to the human. He shivers sometimes, still weak and trying to get back after his nasty fight, and Stiles tries to coax and pet him through it. He feels a little hot to the touch, hotter than normal, and Stiles prays that Derek didn't get sick on him.

It's not like vets are around these days, after all.

His stress and anxiety are through the roof, and Stiles can tell that he's on the verge of a panic attack. His right hand trembles sometimes, but he's able to skirt by with the radio or by telling himself that Derek needs him in the saddle right now.

Somehow that last one always works.

Eventually though, Stiles thinks he needs to get some more for Derek. He didn't have a lot of supplies, that's for damn sure, but Derek's gone through a good chunk of what he managed to snag from the Walmart in Vernal. He definitely needs more bandages, and some wet food and doggie aspirin probably wouldn't be a bad thing right now.

So he plans a stop, seeing an abandoned chain pet store in a strip mall that has a few infected milling outside of it. It's skirting on the edge of his six or more rule, but Stiles is desperate and you know what... he kind of wants the challenge right now.

It's not common he gets like this— this rage that is inside of him. Usually he is an anxious, fearful mess that is only trying to adapt and survive. But occasionally, there's something else. Something dark and violent and fucking pissed about how things are in this world, and sometimes it shows its face when Stiles is running on mental and emotional fumes.

Last time he felt like this was Ohio when this other survivor tried to steal Roscoe and his bag from him while he slept.

It wasn't a pretty day for either of them.

Because when he isn't struggling, Stiles is conniving. He's smart and a bit wicked when he wants to be, and right now, he really wants to be.

When he thinks, all he can see is that man's face in Vernal, at the sneer he had. The sound of Derek snarling and yowling as he fought the other wolf there among the aisles.

Derek whines now, seemingly aware of how Stiles is feeling.

“Stay in the car,” Stiles grits out, and he grabs his bat in his hands because this one feels personal.

He gets out of Roscoe, his hands sure and his gaze colder than the air and locked on the eight infected that linger outside of the store. They moan and trudge about while Stiles grips the handle of his bat.

Looking at them, Stiles brings a hand up and whistles, the sound loud and crisp and instantly drawing their attention. He can hear Derek bark from his front seat, but Stiles readies himself.

There are two infected that are the closest to him, maybe ten feet away, while the remaining six turn their heads by the store's broken doorway. They immediately come alive, turning and picking up speed.

Stiles leans over, grabbing a cart from the corral and aiming it.

He shoves it at the first zombie, making it topple over and gargle while he aims for the second. His bat connects with its skull with a deadly crack, spraying Stiles in its blood while is falls limply to the ground.

The one under the cart tries to reach for Stiles, but the hell of his boot ends its plans swiftly enough, making a wet noise while its rotting brains squish against the asphalt.

Three zombies near him, and Stiles aims with his bat once again. He knocks one in the neck, and it falls into the other while Stiles grabs his pistol from his thigh holster.

He fires quickly— two shots into their heads before he shoots and kills the third.

Three remain.

He has two more bullets in the clip, so Stiles shoots two that are the closest to them, dropping them onto the pavement while the last infected nears.

He's a big son of a bitch. Must've been a body builder or bouncer or something before the infection. Even in the state he's in, with his bite mark rotting on his right forearm and there being a bullet hole that goes straight through his shoulder on the opposing side, he is a wall of mass that approaches Stiles.

But after all, this is what his shotgun is for, isn't it?

He takes the weapon from where its slung over his shoulder, pumping it and glaring down the massive zombie that charges him. He waits until it's about a foot away and then presses the trigger twice in quick succession, loading the zombie's face with buckshot.

It makes a wet noise before falling to the parking lot below, and Stiles reloads two more bullets. Without pause, he fires them into the zombie's skull, ensuring its downed for good.

Glancing up at the store, Stiles can smell gunpowder and rot as he refills the chambers with two more bullets, staring the store down. He's sure to reload his pistol too as he walks ahead.

Walking in is easy enough. Broken glass crunches under his boots as he goes inside, looking among the aisles to see what is left. He avoids the areas they had other animals though— like the reptile and fish section. It's obvious that they didn't stand a chance here, or were pillaged off by wildlife if nature didn't get them first. It sticks of ammonia and it burns Stiles' nose. But like the mom and pop store, this place wasn't truly raided like the others, so Stiles finds a few items easy enough.

He gets some more gauze and bandages, and yes, doggie aspirin. There's also some other stuff like calming aids and even a little toy that is supposed to provide calming pheromones, so Stiles doesn't hesitate to grab it. He ends up doing like he did in Vernal, grabbing a vacant cart and filling it with a few more items. A bed. A fresh, fuzzy blanket. Another bag of food. And of course, a couple more cans of wet food.

He encounters two more infected while he “shops,” but he deals with them easily enough. He doesn't even use his guns, taking his bat and taking them out without too much issue. One falls into a flea and tick treatment display and gets one of the product hooks in its eye. The other gets pounded into a pulp by the dog pee pads because yeah, that's how things are now.

With a decent haul and his mind more at ease with his acquired items, Stiles goes to head outside. But it's then that he sees it.

Someone is standing beside the Jeep.

Stiles abandons his cart, not even thinking about his things as he jumps through the broken doorway of the pet store as he brings his pistol up as he screams. Derek is at the door, snarling and trying to get the person, but Stiles doesn't want that to happen.

“Get away from the fuckin' car!”

The person isn't infected, it's obvious by the way they jerk back at Stiles' words while Stiles charges at them. Their face is covered, and they scramble back a bit, falling on their ass and scraping against the asphalt as Stiles zeroes in on them. Derek is still furious inside of the cab.

“Make one wrong move, and I'll empty this entire clip in you,” Stiles growls, and for once, he's grateful his hands aren't shaking to lessen his threat.

“Oh mt god,” the person says, and Stiles' face scrunches a bit at the familiarity, “S-Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, not having heard his name uttered by someone else in so long. Let alone by someone he knows.

“J-Jackson?”

The other human pulls down his bandanna covering his face while Derek quiets from inside Roscoe.

“I... I thought I recognized this blue piece of shit,” Jackson says, breathless and dare Stiles even say emotional, “I never thought I'd say this but... Jesus, I'm kind of happy to see you.”

Stiles is relieved, but he regards Jackson with a bit of trepidation, “You are?”

“Yeah man... I mean, I haven't given it much thought in some ways. I mean, look at how the world is. Kind of a narrow scope,” Jackson states, but he quickly gets to his feet, and Stiles lets him, “I haven't seen anyone in like... weeks.”

Stiles gets that. He totally does.

“Most humans I meet aren't usually willing to be social,” Stiles mutters, “You're the first person I've met that I knew before this mess...”

“Yeah. What are the odds, man?”

Before Stiles can figure what's happening, Jackson comes close, giving Stiles a hug.

It surprises Stiles, especially as Jackson's voice gets a bit of a tremor in it.

“It's been so fucking lonely, dude.”

Despite his initial eagerness to fire into Jackson, Stiles lowers his gun and hugs Jackson back, his voice a little too desperate for his own liking.

“Y-Yeah... Really has been.”

They hang on for just a moment more, but Jackson is the first to pull back, clearing his throat a bit. It's kind of strange, seeing him like this.

Stiles still remembers him from high school. The quintessential jock douche that was also the popular boy the girls lusted after. And of course, he has a colorful past with Stiles, the weird outcast on the tinges of the school's student body.

But it's here, standing in this random parking lot in Price, Utah that it feels like none of that truly matters anymore.

Well, 'cause it doesn't.

“Hey... I've... I've been trying to get back home,” Jackson starts, getting a bit hopeful, “I know you were in New York which— Jesus, Stilinski— you managed to get all the way out here? How in the hell, dude?”

“Took a while,” Stiles says, a bit cutting as he refocuses the former jock, “You said you were trying to get back home? To BH?”

“Yeah,” Jackson blinks, seeming to remember himself, “I was visiting family in Salt Lake and... when the infection hit, things got bad. Like, real bad... There was military there for a while, but things just got overrun, especially since the government really isn't a thing anymore, go figure... So I just... escaped. And now I'm just trying to get back.”

“Kind of goin' in the opposite direction for that,” Stiles states.

“I know, but the highways are all blocked up down the rest of the way... I'm actually heading up north... Kind of back in the direction of Idaho. All the highways are blocked down that way. Seems like most people tried to escape from Cali that way and it's all just... clogged. I tried taking my car down there but it got stuck in the snow. Too many infected were around for me to be comfortable so I had to try and work my way back on foot.”

“I ran into that on the way here myself...” Stiles mutters, “Which means I'm gonna have to head a little north, back towards Salt Lake...”

“Yeah. Which, if you can avoid going into the city, please do,” Jackson states, looking a little pale, “It's messy there.”

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face, “'Course it is...”

“Listen, uh... I don't know a lot. I heard just a little about what was happening in Cali before everything went dark. BH was okay, but... some part of California are a loss. Like San Fran, or L.A...”

“What are you getting at, Jackson?”

“That maybe— if you're up to it— I can come with you,” Jackson starts, backpedaling a little, “I've learned to fight a bit so I'm not dead weight, and I promise I won't leave you hanging. We don't have the best of pasts but—“

“Sure.”

It shocks Stiles with how easy the answer comes to him.

Granted, this isn't quite breaking his rules. He knows Jackson. Knew him before the infection. Sure, he was a dick, but times and people have changed. Stiles knows he sure has.

“Oh... T-Thanks, man,” Jackson looks a bit surprised that Stiles has accepted his offer of traveling together, and Stiles can admit he's a bit surprised at it too, “I've got a bit of supplies I can offer but I can help grab stuff if necessary. I've gotten really good at picking locks.”

Stiles smirks, “That may come in handy, but... I guess you can watch the Jeep while I grab the stuff I was getting for Derek.”

“Derek?” Jackson asks curiously.

“The dog. Front seat,” Stiles mutters, “He's a bit roughed up but I don't think he'll attack you unless I say something...”

Jackson looks to where the large wolf sits in Stiles driver side, huffing and fogging up the glass on Stiles' car threateningly, “Is that, uh, supposed to make me feel better?”

“Considering? Yeah. He's a beast man.”

All Jackson does is swallow thickly while eyeing Derek with wide eyes.

Chuckling a little, Stiles goes back into the store, grabbing his cart and hurrying back outside. Jackson is still standing dutifully by Roscoe, holding what looks to be like a pistol under the long sleeves of his jacket.

He doesn't seem to have fared that much better. His hair is grown out, his once tan skin paled and dirtied. He looks a bit worn, losing some of his muscles and leaning out some. He just seems a little lost and frazzled and just grateful Stiles has shown up against all the odds.

Which, Stiles gets it. He didn't expect to come across anyone he knows just yet. Sure, he isn't by Beacon Hills, but nowadays, it's easier to assume the people who were in your life before the infection will never be a part of it again.

Yet here Jackson is, helping Stiles unload his items for Derek into the back of Roscoe.

High school Stiles would be beside himself. After all, Jackson was his biggest bully in school. He relentlessly hounded Stiles and his brother in arms, Scott, any chance he got. It was like a past time for him. And Stiles can still vividly remember the torture that Jackson brought on so easily and without thought. It makes helping him... a little weird.

Up until now, Stiles hadn't seen Jackson since they graduated. He went to college further upstate, some varsity type thing Stiles thinks. That was a few years ago now, and Stiles never thought he'd cross paths with Jackson again in the first place. And yet...

When Jackson thinks about taking shotgun, Derek riles his lips up at him, growling in warning. It's a bit comical, how Jackson so easily walks back to the trunk of Stiles' car, making himself comfortable where Stiles' nest is. Derek seems proud of himself for having warred off the other human from his claimed seat.

“We gotta work on your bedside manner, bud,” Stiles says, shifting Roscoe into drive while ruffling Derek's fur.

As he gets his Jeep back on the road, Jackson clears his throat a little from the back, “So, uh... Didn't know you had a dog. Must be hard to keep one during this shit.”

“I found him, in Yellowstone,” Stiles states, “Snuck up on me while I ate jerky... But apart from getting in trouble recently, he's been easy to have around.”

Derek huffs at him.

“I feel like we're all just wandering around lost right now,” Jackson admits, quiet, “It took me a while to get out of Salt Lake, and that was hard enough... Honestly, I don't know how you made it from New York all the way to here.”

“It... wasn't easy. I've had a lot of close calls,” Stiles' hands tighten on the steering wheel, “But... I gotta get home. I gotta see my dad. Then Scott and Melissa... I know... I know there's a slim chance they'll be okay, but...”

“Knowing is better than being left in the dark,” Jackson finishes.

All Stiles can manage is a small nod.

“I think that way about my parents a lot... and... and Lydia,” Jackson gets a little choked up at the mention of the redhead both he and Stiles worshiped in high school— albeit, Jackson was the only one whose feelings were requited, much to Stiles' dismay, “We broke up shortly before this happened. Had a small fight. You know, stupid relationship bullshit... But all I can think about now is just... getting to tell her I'm sorry and that I still love her.”

'She went to BHU too, right?”

“Yeah. They had the best program for her major, was local... It's one reason I want to get back so bad. To tell her that, if she's... if she's even still alive.”

Feeling for Jackson then, Stiles murmurs, “I'm sure she still is... Lydia's amazing, man. I'm sure she created some molotov cocktail or science experiment to fight zombies off.”

That makes Jackson snort softly, and he nods, “Y-You're right... It'll take more than an apocalypse to stop that girl...”

A lapse of silence passes, but like before, Jackson is the first to speak up.

“Uh, Stiles... Listen, man. I know this might be a little weird, considering... well, I treated you like shit in high school,” Jackson states, and that makes Derek glare at him, “But I just want to say... I'm so sorry, man. Seriously. And... It didn't take the world ending for me to regret what I did, but... guess it took the world to end for me to be able to say it to you.”

“Hey man, water under the bridge now,” Stiles admits, and he chuckles softly, “Honestly, kinda miss the days where the most I had to worry about is you trying to shove me into lockers.”

“Me too. Even though I was a righteous dick,” Jackson smiles bitterly.

“I'm sure there's worse to be now.”

Jackson hums, and then looks at Stiles again, “You say that, but you've kind of turned into a glorified badass.”

Flushing a little, Stiles mutters, “Not precisely...”

“Dude. I saw you before you went into the store. You took down those zombies like a pro!” Jackson gets a little excited, making Stiles snort, “When you got your shotgun out and when BLAH BLAH with it, I was... shit man, I was impressed.”

“I've had to learn a lot since I left New York...”

“Well, you're kickass now, dude,” Jackson states, kind of awed, “I'm sure you'll make it back home no problem.”

As Stiles stares out the windshield, with the world turning white with the falling snow, he murmurs, “I really hope so...”

-X-

Stiles doesn't try to keep with people.

Granted, it's not like he had a lot of friends before the apocalypse, but the window to bond with anyone was promptly slammed shut the moment they became zombies, or started to look out for their own skin.

It just wasn't possible anymore. It was every person for themselves.

In some ways, Stiles was okay with that. It was easier to work on this his own way, to not worry about someone slowing him down from his end goal.

California was still a long bit away, and Stiles didn't want to risk coming home for the sake of... company.

Sure. He was lonely. The loneliest he's ever been.

He hasn't talked to anyone in weeks. His panic attacks are worse. His anxiety is constant and overbearing.

As tempting as it is to share it with someone, to pull them close and feel like Stiles isn't in this alone... that he isn't just doing this all for nothing... Stiles knows it's better to keep to himself. To keep himself focused on getting back to the people he cares about. Who made all of the bullshit worth it and gave him purpose when the world fell apart between them.

Because when he gets home... when he sees his family...

Everything will be alright.

He will be alright.

For while the world may be ending, while humanity may be dying off slowly every day, they will be back to face it together.

And Stiles... he doesn't want it any other way.

He can't have it any other way.

-X-

It's not that Stiles wanted a picture-esque high school experience.

Sure. He wanted the most popular girl in the school, with a personality as fiery as her red hair before Stiles figured out that— one: he never stood a chance, and two: his heart also longed for the next highly unattainable person in their grade, Danny.

“Oh my god, you had a crush on Danny?” Jackson had teased.

Stiles flushed and brushed him off, but was surprised to find Jackson was supportive behind his initial shock of his admission and the humor of it.

Because of course he would be now. In the middle of the fucking end of the world. The perfect time to have personal growth and arcs like that, he guesses.

But Stiles knows, if Jackson found out before this shift in his character, his life would've been made an even bigger hell to live through once he got onto the campus of Beacon Hills Public High School.

It was torturous enough— with Harris and his abuse of power that he constantly used to give Stiles detention no matter what he did (dad, I swear, this guy just hates me—), and then with him and Scott just being jokes on the lacrosse team.

Even after a few years, Stiles doesn't think he'll ever understand why Finstock said yes to them being put on the roster when they never got any plays. But maybe that's because Finstock had at some point gone in with a screwdriver and personally undone all of his screws. He never made any sense and Stiles doesn't think he ever will.

But Jackson still gets to him right now. At how different and just kind he is.

Stiles wonders how exactly Jackson shifted from a grade-a douche to a pretty chill dude in the span of a few years, zombie apocalypse withstanding.

God. Because he's getting along with Jackson fucking Whittmore, of all things.

Scott isn't gonna believe it.

“—that's easy for you to say,” Stiles says one night — they have a small fire, out in the woods on the edge of Utah where Stiles feels comfortable enough that no one should be around, or if they are he can deal with them swiftly, infected or not, “You were the pinnacle of what everyone wanted to be in high school. You had it all, man. Money. Popularity. The girl. Captain of the lacrosse team. You had a fuckin' Porche. I was just the freak that everyone ignored apart from his childhood best friend.”

“You know, people didn't exactly hate you. Minus myself,” Jackson adds quietly, “Except, I guess I really didn't hate you either.”

That makes Stiles squint his eyes as he cook the rabbit Derek had somehow caught, bringing it to Stiles proudly. He huffs beside Stiles' side, his head lying on his paws despite the bandages that still cover his body and shift with his breathing.

“If you didn't hate me, then what was all that crap you gave me about?”

Jackson shrugs, answering easily from across the fire, “Jealousy, I guess...”

“You? Jealous of me?” Stiles blinks.

The other human nods, “I mean, yeah. I had a lot in high school... but honestly, it was pretty miserable. I was miserable. It felt like I was playing some role given to me, and it all just felt fake. Like it could all go away in seconds... and it did, once we graduated. No one really gave a shit after we got our diplomas. It was... unsettling to go from this all star to some dick no one gave a shit about.”

“That's real work for you,” Stiles mutters, “No one cares about anybody...”

“Yeah, but... I guess that's one reason that I kinda saw where I went wrong... I had so much investment in my image then, because underneath it all, it's all I had. Sure, I'm not the dumbest crayon in the box, but I'm not as brilliant as Lydia. I could never be... The issue was that I couldn't adjust past the pedestal I had been placed on. I didn't have anything once high school was over and we got into the real world... And it all clicked as to why I didn't like you as I did.”

Frowning softly, Stiles flips their rabbit.

“You may not realize it, and I'm sure high school was the last thing you've thought about in a while since all this started—“ Jackson gestures widely to the woods around them, and Stiles gets the point he's trying to make, “—but you had something most people don't get. You were yourself. Unapologetically. You didn't hide behind personas or expectations of you. You were Stiles. The only other student in the grade that could hang with Lydia's test scores and GPA and you didn't pretend to be anything other than what you wanted to be, even if people didn't like it.”

“If I remember correctly, you didn't like it.”

“No, I didn't,” the other human admits, bundling up on himself some, “It's... why I saw a therapist once I got out of high school. I had a massive identity crisis and just a ton of unresolved anger because of my dad and what he wanted of me...” Jackson looks a little mentally distant before he glances back up at Stiles, “Kind of pansy when you think about it.”

Stiles shakes his head, “Nah. Makes perfect sense, man... 'Sides, I can say that it helped a lot...” laughing, Stiles jests, “Just look at us, dude. Did you ever think we'd get to this point? Apocalypse withstanding?”

“No. Never,” Jackson agrees, “But... I planned on getting in contact at some point... To let you know I was sorry.”

“Wish the circumstances would be different, but yeah man... I still appreciate that you still apologized, even if it could totally be water under the bridge with how the world is, apology or not.”

Jackson nods, twiddling his thumbs together before glancing at Derek and hopping onto a more comfortable topic for the both of them, “So... You found a pet bear in Yellowstone?”

Derek growls lightly, as if understanding he's at the butt of Jackson's little joke, but he settles well enough as Stiles pets behind his ears. He quickly learned that's one of Derek's good spots.

“Yeah... I thought Derek was a wolf at first, but he had a collar on him with a name tag. Don't know how he ended up there, but... I'm glad he did.”

“He's a good dog. Or wolf. Or bear,” Jackson jokes with a smirk, but grows a little serious, “But also, he's heavily intimidating.”

“Oh yeah. He's a vicious son of a bitch, if he wants to be.”

Derek huffs at his side for that one.

“Is that how he god injured?” Jackson asks, frowning.

“Yeah, kinda... Although it was my fault, really... We stopped in a Walmart for some winter gear once the snow started falling. I thought it was deserted but some weirdo and others were camped out in there. They had a dog like Derek too and they beefed it out before I could drag us both out of there... Derek got pretty messed up.”

Jackson winces, “Talk about the short end of the stick.”

“Yeah... I had a few close calls before this, but that one—“ Stiles looks down at Derek and his bandages guiltily, “—that was probably one of the worst...”

Derek looks up at Stiles, sensing his upset. He headbutts Stiles' thigh and rumbles reassuringly, as if to say: I'm still kickin'. Don't worry.

“Well, I'm glad you two found each other,” Jackson states with a small smile.

And as Stiles ruffles Derek's fur, feeling the most grounded he has in a long, long while, he whispers, “Yeah... Me too.”

-X-

“Stiles... Honey, I think we need to talk.”

It's a few days into his first summer break after freshman year, and Stiles is in the kitchen with Melissa. They were preparing to cook dinner for tonight— with Scott and his dad in the living room choosing the movie they were gonna watch while Stiles opted to help Melissa with her the chicken she intended for them to eat tonight.

He stops from where he was chopping up some potatoes and looks up to where Melissa eyes him with concern from across the kitchen island situated between them.

From his speaker, his music plays softly between them.

✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ TACOS AND SUSHI, TACOS AND SUSHI, TACOS AND SUSHI AND ANTIDEPRESSANTS ♡*.✧

“Oh... About what?”

He heard the “mom” tone in her voice. The only problem is that Stiles isn't sure what he's done to warrant it.

“I'm not pressuring you into saying anything if you don't want to, but... Stiles, it would go against everything I stand for if I didn't say something to you in an attempt to help,” she looks at him seriously, leveling him with her gaze, “I think you're depressed, dear.”

<:::::[]=¤ not on my watch 👏 NOT ON MY WAYCH (▀̿̿Ĺ̯̿̿▀̿ ̿)

Stiles blinks.

Well. He wasn't... That's something.

“Scott's told me a little. About how things are in New York,” she smiles sadly, “I also see your Instagram... You don't post or do things like you used to... You've become a bit of a ghost."

“I've... just been busy,” Stiles admits.

Or. Maybe he doesn't admit what truly needs to be said.

Melissa thinks this too, it seems, as she gives him one of her dubious expressions. It reminds Stiles of when he tried to convince her that he didn't break her cookie jar while trying to steal Chips Ahoy as a kid.

“If you don't want to open up to me about it, I get that. I'm not here to corner you and force you to tell me what you feel or why, just that I noticed,” she whispers, and she reaches across the island, bracing Stiles' hand with her own, especially as he balls it up into a fist as it starts to shake, “But more than anything I want you to know you're not alone... And that it's okay to try and get help.”

Stiles stares at where he hand rests against his own, and he tries his best not to break.

He doesn't want to admit how he's been feeling. Not because he's scared of being weak. Not because he's scared of what will need to be done to help him.

But because saying it is admitting that something is wrong with him, and... that just doesn't feel right to Stiles.

“There's resources at your campus, right? Counselors and whatnot?” she asks, “Even then, I can get a hold of someone if you need. Maybe get some prescriptions to help with how you're feeling...”

“I'll... I'll have to think about that...” Stiles murmurs.

“Well... You can worry about it after tonight,” she whispers, and Melissa pulls back, going to where the stove beeps, letting her know it's ready, “Let's just have a nice time together, forget what's wrong for a bit.”

“R-Right,” Stiles mutters.

┗(^o^ )┓三 s̳t̳o̳p̳ ̳b̳e̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳i̳n̳ ̳a̳ ̳b̳i̳g̳ ̳t̳i̳m̳e̳ ̳r̳u̳s̳h̳ ̳O̳U̳A̳H̳ ̳A̳H̳H̳ ̳O̳U̳A̳H̳A̳O̳U̳U̳U̳H̳H̳H̳H̳H̳ 三 ┗(^o^ )┓

He's raw and he feels seen for the first time in months. Hell, maybe even years.

Stiles isn't sure what to make of it.

·.¸¸.·♩♪♫ yₑ𝐩. 𝚝𝓱ᵢ𝘴 ᵢ𝘴 ₐ 𝚋ᵤ𝚌𝓴ₑ𝚝. 🪣 ♫♪♩·.¸¸.·

-X-

(ㅅꈍ﹃ꈍ)* 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭. *(ꈍ﹃ꈍㅅ)♡

Roscoe chugs along faithfully, through the snow that covers the highway and that makes the world a shining, blinding shade of white.

It almost covers the state sign, letting Stiles know that they were finally out of Utah — just crossing through Wendover not too long ago — for all the hiccups the state gave them.

¯_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯ ＱＡｎｏｎ ｂｒａｉｎｗａｓｈｅｄ ｍｅ ｍｏｍ ¯_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

“So... what is this music anyway?” Jackson asks.

They've been traveling for about a week, and Jackson has surprisingly been a great addition to Stiles' group. Having a second person has really eased some anxiety off of Stiles. A larger group of infected doesn't seem as daunting. He feels reassured about having a guard if he has to take piss or if they go on runs.

Sure, he worries about food more. About the extra space Jackson takes up. But damn. It's nice to have an actual person around, and one that isn't trying to kill Stiles at the same time. It's nice to banter with him, crack jokes. His favorite is when they talk about how Harris sucked and Finstock was probably one percent away from being declared insane. It's just... nice to have that back for once.

Derek is... well, he's not entirely thrilled on Jackson being here. While he has healed up for one, he is still pretty cautious of Jackson. Derek doesn't trust the other human as easily as Stiles did (and granted, he only did so since he fucking knew the guy from home). Derek truly looks at Jackson like he's going to throw a wrench in Stiles' life and it's kind of funny if Stiles is honest. Because a bitter Derek is a funny Derek as he's come to find.

Which is why Derek still claims his front seat, glaring at Jackson all the same and keeping him in Stiles' nest. (And don't think Stiles hasn't noticed that Derek specifically puts himself between Stiles and Jackson when they try to rest for the night, it's hilarious.)

“Indie, if you want to be specific,” Stiles answers, glancing over his shoulder at his former high school bully, “I found his music in college. Helped with my anxiety. And well... I take what I can get these days.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that's shit. I'd kill for some Adderall right now.”

Stiles groans softly, “You n' me both, dude.”

“Shit, you got ADHD, don't you? I remember that being a thing...” Jackson starts, “How in the hell did you cope with the withdrawals?”

“Not well... I had to hole myself up for a few days while I came down. Had to take refuge in a seven-eleven bathroom... Wasn't fun.”

Jackson winces, “Sounds like you been through hell, Stilinski.”

“Honestly... yeah,” Stiles mutters, a bit despondent.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Stiles knows Jackson is curious. It's not entirely out of morbid curiosity, but that Stiles knows Jackson has caught on to his paranoia and his panic attacks. He had them before in high school sure, and they aren't as bad as they were before Jackson joined their group, but it was often enough for him to notice and be concerned.

Stiles gets it. You want someone you're trusting your life with to be one-hundred percent in control, and if they aren't, you wanna fix it. He knows how out of commission he can get. He just can't... shut that part of his brain off.

“I mean... therapy is a unknown commodity these days,” Stiles jokes with very little humor.

“You're in luck. I was studying psychology.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah. I was going in the route of therapy.... I... Kinda started seeing a therapist after high school. Worked out my anger issues and other things,” Jackson admits, “It helped me a lot and I just wanted to help others in the same way.”

Stiles huffs, “And now you're offering to help me.”

“In what ways I can,” Jackson states, “Even then, sometimes just getting it out helps.”

Stiles purses his lips, a little unsure, but he wonders when in the hell he will get this chance again. It's just him and Jackson in this car, and Derek's a weird hybrid dog. It's not like he will understand. And it's not like he intends to tell his dad or Scott what he went through to get back home, if they're still even around to be there when he returns...

“I... I killed my roommate, Ashley. She was the first.”

Jackson is quiet while Stiles grips the steering wheel, tight and hard enough his knuckles pop.

“You know that joke trophy Finstock gave me? The participation one? I always thought it was funny. I was the best bench-warmer on the lacrosse team, that's for damn sure... Well, I brought it with me to New York. Kept it on my nightstand like the other jocks who sported around their own... When... When the infection got bad, I woke up to her trying to eat my face off and I... I had to kill her with that. She was a freshman. Had started college just a few months prior to the outbreak.”

Jackson still remains quiet, letting Stiles ramble as he always does, even as his voice gets gritty and uneven at times.

“I was scared out of my mind, dude... The infection just got out of control so bad, and I just tried to keep up... I watched people I knew maul each other in the street. Friends beating each other dead over the last box of food in the cafeteria... Part of me wondered if I was in a horrible nightmare I just couldn't wake up from.”

“I know what you mean...” Jackson whispers, but he still allows Stiles to maintain the conversational floor.

“I was lucky. My father sent me to college with a pistol. It... came in handy... Thankfully he taught me how to shoot and maintain it before I left. Just... didn't expect to have to go through all that for him to be right about me having it.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, and he pulls over, seeing that Roscoe needs to be topped off anyway.

The road is deserted. It's just the three of them as Derek tilts his head at Stiles from the front seat.

“I've probably killed over a hundred infected the past few months. As for those who weren't infected, probably twenty... I've nearly died probably just as much,” Stiles takes a deep breath, “Sometimes I close my eyes and I'm back in my dorm that morning things went to shit. Sometimes I'm holed up in that gas station bathroom in the seven-eleven that I had my withdrawals in once my Adderall ran out in Pennsylvania. Other times I'm in Roscoe and they break the windows in. Sometimes I'm trying to get back inside and don't make it. Like I'm reliving my worst memories but also my worst fears.”

“Post traumatic stress disorder is a hell of a thing,” Jackson mutters, “Panic attacks. Depression. Triggers. You try to keep to your routine because that's what you know is safe.”

Miserable, Stiles whispers, “Not much is anymore...”

“Home is,” Jackson states so easily, “Safety is your dad. Scott. Melissa.”

“I wanna make sure they're safe.”

Stiles wipes at his face, unsure when he started tearing up, but his cheeks turn damp all the same as Jackson hums quietly, “You've... You've gone through a lot, Stiles. You've done a lot. I can tell you hold a lot of guilt in you, but you just have to remind yourself that you're trying to survive—“

“I know that, but—“ Stiles hits his steering wheel once, frustrated, “What if they're dead, Jackson? What if they're gone? What then?”

Jackson scowls, “I... I can't exactly give you many selling points on making it through this bullshit. The world... it's hell now. I can't try to spruce that up, but... I'm sure your dad would want you to go out with a fight. Scott too. And Melissa, she's a nurse, right? She wouldn't want anything happening to you to begin with.”

Stiles places his face into his hands, trying to school his breath, “No... No she wouldn't... And my dad and Scott would kick my ass if I gave up, I'm sure...”

“Then you try to go on in what ways you can,” Jackson mutters, “You know... if... if there's nothing left for us back home, I heard... I heard there's a place in Washington. A barricaded city with survivors. We could go there. Find something among all this rubble n' misery.”

Glancing back to Jackson with red-rimmed eyes, Stiles asks, “R-Really?”

“Yeah man,” Jackson pats his shoulder, smiling, “Maybe you could go back to a proper dork.”

That gets a small laugh out of Stiles, and Derek headbutts him softly from his seat.

“Hey. Why don't you rest in the back? I can drive for a little bit.”

“Yeah... That... That sounds nice, just... let's top Roscoe off, first.”

And so they do, getting Roscoe back up to a full tank while Stiles highlights his marks on the map for Jackson to follow. It's about a hundred-and-fifty miles, taking 84 to Twin Falls, Idaho. Should be long enough with the weather for Stiles to get some rest and calm down in the back.

As he hands Jackson the map and gets situated in his nest, Derek immediately clambers back into the blankets with him, nosing at the human and licking his face once for good measure.

He's grown rather protective since the Walmart in Vernal and since Jackson joined them. He healed better than Stiles thought, but he wonders if there's wounds for the dog that he can't see as Derek clambers against him and presses their bodies together.

░▒▓█ 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚜 █▓▒░

Stiles doesn't mind the proximity. He's far used to it now, alongside Derek burying his face into Stiles' neck.

They all have their coping methods these days, it seems.

#9̼ n̼o̼ b̼u̼n̼, m̼e̼d̼ f̼r̼y̼, 1̼ l̼r̼g̼ s̼w̼e̼e̼t̼ t̼e̼a̼

-X-

One day and one pill at a time.

Stiles reads the cheesy motto of the anti-depressants in the darkened aisles of a CVS in Ohio.

He came here, not only looking for some ibuprofen (it was a really, really rough day yesterday), but also hoping he could find something else to help him along.

The CVS was definitely raided before he came here. The shelves are both empty and the floor is a mess. The pharmacy section of the store is battered to bits with practically nothing left among the office.

Stiles got lucky. He found a bottle of generic pain pills lodged under the edge of a shelf, but in the process, he found some anti-depressants.

He supposes that this sort of thing isn't exactly high on the survivor's list of things needed to live through the apocalypse. Because a sore shoulder from taking out zombies with his bat is one thing, depression though? Whole other ballpark.

It makes him think of Melissa that night... when she talked to him so briefly about how Stiles was feeling.

In truth, he was fucked up before the outbreak. But now, he's worse. He knows he is. But at the same time, how in the fuck could anyone get through shit like this and come out unscathed?

But still. The bottle stares back at Stiles somehow, almost accusingly.

He wonders if something like this could even help someone now.

If it's even worth trying to get help when he just had to shoot a woman for trying to kill him while he siphoned gas yesterday.

With a depreciating snort, Stiles drops the pills onto the ground, and he heads for the exit of the CVS.

The bottle rolls for a second or two before it settles on the ground, left behind to collect dust.

-X-

They get overrun near Boise.

Stiles wanted to avoid the capital. After all, big cities brought big problems, but so did the weather and all of the highways or roads that were impassible, either because of snow or abandoned cars. It was against everything his gut screamed about, but, it's how things are now.

Stiles stopped for gas, running low and needing to siphon something soon since using the heat on Roscoe burned a lot of fuel. They were near a gas station that was almost hidden in the snow when the first group of infected arrived.

Jackson helped, made it a bit easier to manage, but suddenly there's more and Derek gets out of the car, nervous and clinging to Stiles side as he growls and goes after any infected that get near. But he and Jackson can only do so much on top of Stiles, and soon there's somehow thirty infected swarming them at once and god, Stiles thinks that they deserved better than a shitty Shell station to die at.

Stiles managed to get inside, blocking the doors up with shelves and feeling more than just the cold cause the shiver that runs down his spine then, and he begins to go into his backpack, gathering up the ammo there and cursing as he has to restart twice, his right hand shaking.

“Rule fourteen, rule fourteen,” Stiles mutters to himself, “Come on, Stiles, dammit!”

He can hear the infected pressing against the glass and hissing outside, and Stiles readies his ammo as he hears Jackson curse so brokenly.

Glancing over to him, Stiles falters, “Jackson? You okay?”

“I...” Jackson stalls, but Stiles can see it— there's blood dripping on the floor.

“Shit, you're hurt—“

Stiles immediately comes over, but Jackson steps back, holding himself away from Stiles as he pales and looks almost at a loss for words.

“Jackson, what are you— . . .”

It's then that Stiles sees it.

A hole, ripped into his jacket, and a set of fresh teeth marks bleeding on his forearm.

“You...” Stiles' throat tightens, “You got bit.”

“Seems like it.”

Jackson's words are so quiet and fragile. It's the most scared Stiles has ever heard him.

“It's fresh, if we can try maybe cutting it off—“

“No. You know it doesn't work like that,” Jackson hisses, and Derek's ears fold back at his snapping, “It's already in my blood, Stiles. I'm infected.”

Stiles' heart breaks just a little further when Jackson says it.

Because... well, it's kind of undeniable now.

“I'm infected,” Jackson repeats, and he gets a bit of determination about him, “But you're not.”

“Jackson, if you're doing what I think you're gonna do... It's the first rule. Don't be a fucking hero—”

“Shut up, okay? There isn't saving someone who's gone. Get over that,” he's being harsh, but Stiles knows it's because he has to be with him right now— coddling doesn't exist anymore, it can't, “If I can draw the hoard to the back end of the station, you and Derek can get back to Roscoe. You can get out of here.”

“I don't want to leave you behind—“

“You're gonna have to. Because if you take me along, by morning I'll be trying to eat your head off. You already dealt with that wake up call once. I'm not gonna do that to you again... Especially since I already made your life a living hell once before...”

Stiles isn't sure what to say, but Jackson quickly comes over, set in his plan as he hands his backpack to Stiles, alongside the rest of his ammo.

“I've got one bullet left. Think that will do the trick,” Jackson states, “I may be infected now, but I'm not gonna turn into one of those assholes.”

Stiles gets it. It's the only control that Jackson has left.

He even thinks that he'd do the same, in Jackson's position.

“I just... The movies really don't make these moments true to what they are, do they?” Jackson's eyes are red, but he quickly goes into one of his backpack's pockets, grabbing something out, “Your ass better get back home. And when it gets there, I want you to find Lydia. Give this to her, if she's still around and... and tell her—“ he chokes up a bit, “—tell her I never stopped caring.”

It's then that he places a necklace in Stiles' hand. He recognizes it. Jackson bought it for them when they first got together their freshman year.

God... lifetimes ago, it seems.

“Jackson, I...” Stiles blanks, his eyes tearing up, “Man, I wish shit didn't turn out like this.”

“Me either, Stiles,” Jackson sets a hand onto Stiles' shoulder, grimacing tightly, “But at least we got to talk and put shit behind us, yeah?”

“Y-Yeah. We did...”

“I'm glad. I... I always meant to let you know... That I regretted what I did to you,” Stiles almost swallows wrong then, “And, if he's still around too... Let Scott know that I'm sorry too.”

Stiles can only nod, raw and shaking.

“Okay... Okay,” Jackson glances at the front of the Shell station, at all of the infected swarming its doors, “So this is it now. Can't talk forever... I'll go out back, draw them out. Then you and Derek rush to Roscoe and you fucking get out of here and get back home for the both of us.”

“R-Right...”

As Jackson heads to the back of the store, he hesitates as Stiles watches after him, and he sends a small smile the other human's way.

“Guess you're not the only one who became a badass, huh?”

Stiles' mirrored smile is heartbroken and trembling as he pockets Jackson's parting gift, “You're a better one than I could ever be, Jax.”

Jackson nods once, and then, he goes to the back door, taking a deep breath.

“Let's do this shit...” he mutters under his breath.

Shoving the door open, Jackson runs, almost immediately getting assaulted by infected that were rounding the other end to get inside. He starts yelling, trying to gain all of their attention.

“Come on, meatbags! Come get it while it's fresh!”

Stiles chokes on a small sob as the infected begin to pull away, smelling Jackson and the trail he leaves behind in the snow, turning the formerly pristine white of it crimson as Stiles hears his yells grow quieter with distance.

He only waits until there's one infected still lingering by the doors, shoving his makeshift barricade back until he's free and can knock the last straggler out with his bat. Derek is whining at his side as Stiles doesn't hesitate, grabbing Jackson's bag and booking it for Roscoe. He lets Derek in first, the wolf jumping past and quickly into the passenger seat while Stiles quickly mans his helm in the driver's.

He gets Roscoe on and in gear, putting the pedal down right as he hears a single gunshot in the distance.

He can't help it.

He cries, sobbing openly while Roscoe carries him away from the Shell station and the horrors that unfolded there.

But no matter how far he will drive away from this place, he can and will never, ever forget what happened here.

Because now, he owes it to Jackson.

He owes it to him to make it back to Beacon Hills. To make what little he can right.

-X-

“There are options, Stiles. If you don't want to medicate, although I recommend we look into medication, we can try other methods.”

Stiles frowns, “You know as well as I do that with how things are going, I'm lucky if I can even get my hands on any prescriptions... I can barely get my Adderall. So I'd love to hear your suggestions outside of a Rx card.”

“Well, I've seen how you reacted whenever we brought in a therapy dog for students when testing was coming up. Maybe we could look into getting applications for an emotional support animal?”

“That's a thing? I mean, I know there's service dogs or whatever, but...”

“They're not the same as a service animal, but I think one would still do you a lot of good,” his counselor, Ms. Thompson, places her hands together and gives him a light smile, “I'm sure you know of Oscar, Rebecca's pet. She got special permission to have him here as her emotional support animal. I believe she lives down the hallway from you.”

“I... got to hold him,” Stiles admits as he crosses his arms, frowning softly, “Oscar's pretty cool...”

“So maybe we can try that route. I think that an animal who can just embrace you as you are will be what you need. No expectations to be had with them. Nothing but unconditional love is given. I think you'd respond very well to that,” Ms. Thompson is too hopeful for Stiles' liking, “But, it admittedly may take a minute or two before the kinks can get worked out because of our limitations, but I think this will be the breakthrough you need with your depression.”

“You sure, though?” Stiles says, dubious, “I mean, don't you see the state the world is in?”

At that, Ms. Thompson's cheerfulness does falter a bit. Good. She needs to be a little fucking realistic.

“While it's going to be a challenge with the state and government's restrictions, that doesn't mean things are going to be hopeless for you, Stiles,” because of course, she manages to find a silver lining no matter how bad the storm it's attached to is, “It's been hard since we've been ordered to shelter in place. I know that you were looking forward to going home, but—“

“No. You don't know,” Stiles hisses, his anger just lashing out of him then, “You know that I asked to be transferred to BHU after this year. You know I was going back home for good, and you know now that when I finally know that's what I want— I can't—“

“You can't go back now,” she states so easily, and Stiles hates how she can say what he can't aloud, “Stiles, I'm more than aware... But I don't want you to lose your head in that.”

“You don't get it though,” Stiles hisses, and it's probably the most open he's been about how he's felt since his freshman year— since he left his dad among the autumn leaves in their driveway back home and nothing truly felt right since, “They're halfway across the damned country and I can't even leave campus to go down the street!”

“Stiles,” Ms. Thompson sounds tired, but in a way that Stiles unfortunately relates to, “We're all stuck in some way. We all have loved ones we desperately want to get back to... We don't want to spend this time apart from them. Because this...” she then sheds a bit of her professional façade, and Stiles doesn't know if that should scare or relieve him, “This is scary. What is happening... it's going to change the world as we know it, Stiles... I can tell you that even on a personal level that people want to do nothing more than face that change with their families, be it for better or for worse, but we all don't really get a choice on the matter.”

Stiles crosses his arms and stares down at the ugly carpet of Ms. Thompson's office, and he feels like a fucking asshole, especially when he notices how emotional Ms. Thompson is too.

He's not the only one who is hurting right now. Who is stuck in New York with their family miles and miles away. Who is just stuck in general.

But hell, Marcello, the transfer student from Italy, is faced with his family being in another fucking country. Stiles should be grateful he isn't in a situation like that.

“I can hear you berating yourself for how you're feeling. Don't,” sighing, Ms. Thompson takes off her thick black glasses and then regards Stiles for a second longer, “Also, while this might be the end of the world... this stays between us, got it?”

Stiles wonders what Ms. Thompson means until he pulls out one of her drawers and then removes an opened glass bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. It makes Stiles snort and lose some of his bristle.

“Don't think it would matter if I tattled. Not like I would, honestly,” he admits.

As she pours them both a shot of whiskey, Ms. Thompson frowns, “I think a lot of things aren't gonna matter anymore, but... I just hope that's a pessimistic feeling on my part.”

She presents Stiles with his respective shot glass while she grabs onto her own.

They take their shots without hesitancy. With the way Ms. Thompson downs hers so easily, Stiles can tell this isn't foreign to her. He'll admit. He's drank a bit more too. Everyone has since the CDC started giving out such stark orders and the fear of this all started setting in.

“I don't get how you can pretend like all of this is okay,” Stiles admits, “'Cause it's not.”

“I do it because there are kids like you who need me to act like it's okay. Sometimes I need to pretend too.”

“Then why be honest with me? Why lie to yourself?” Stiles asks while she pours them both another shot, “Weren't you just goin' on about getting me a service animal and writing me a prescription for anti-depressants a few minutes ago? It's like you dropped your script...”

“You're too stubborn to accept fallacy, especially if it's put in place to protect you or others,” Ms. Thompson states, handing his shot glass back, “You prefer the truth, even if it sucks ass.”

That gets Stiles to chuckle, “Yeah... Yeah I do.”

“The truth is the truth. There are some people who don't want to hear it. They want to go on and think that things are fine or they are fine. It's easier I guess. To convince yourself things are alright when they're not. You can pretend you're happy and like life's sunshine and rainbows when in reality the biggest storm is brewing over your head. Ignorance is bliss, they say.”

“Think that method's pointless,” Stiles mutters, “I can't pretend to be happy when I'm not. Even if it seems like the easier option... I'd rather know the truth even if it sucks, otherwise, I wouldn't actually ever be happy, and I would know the entire time that I'm not and would just feel worse for it."

Clinking their shot glasses together, Ms. Thompson shakes her head, “Amen...”

As Stiles takes his shot, so does she. Ms. Thompson finishes first, wincing slightly at the burn of the spirit before she looks at Stiles.

“If you prefer the truth, then just answer me this,” she starts, leveling him with her gaze, “Why did you come to New York if you never wanted to leave in the first place?”

That makes Stiles scowl, and he sets his shot glass down. Ms. Thompson goes to pour them both another shot.

“I'm not sure what you mean...”

“You always hated it here. You always hated being away from the people you care about,” even now, when they're drinking together and feeling as damned as the world outside this office right now, Ms. Thompson can just so easily read Stiles it's scary, “I can tell that you've felt this way for longer than you've come to me. You didn't just put in your transfer request for nothing.”

Stiles huffs, and he leans back in his chair. For the first time, he's... actually not sure about why he came here.

“I dunno...” he starts, “Maybe that's because what you're supposed to do, right? You're... You're supposed to go out on your own after high school, make something of yourself... Everyone always told me I would go to bigger places than just a rinky dink town in the mountains of California... I guess... I guess I wanted to see if they were right. To find purpose. A reason for all this.”

“So you chose a criminal justice major at a college all the way across the country in New York to do so,” she hums, "You want to validate the space you take up. Make something valuable of your life... You want to rationalize your existence as something more than just existing."

“Yeah. Go big or go home, just... without all that deep Twilight Zone reflection,” Stiles mutters, feeling peeled back down far too many layers, “Worked out great, didn't it?”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of. And just know that we don't need to think we have to justify our life to make us worthy of living it. Life is life, it's good and bad. It is what it is."

"And I guess those who feel as miserable as I do just have to bear with it," Stiles snorts humorlessly, "It is what it is."

"Depression is a callous mental health issue. It's able to convince you of a lot of things. Make you feel bad in so many ways. In truth, it's like a pit of quicksand but it hands you a shovel and convinces you that you're better off digging than to try and get out."

With a whistle Stiles licks his lips, "Quite on the mark..."

"But depression is wrong about us not having a reason to climb out. There's love. For ourselves or for others, that reminds us that no hole is too deep to surface from,” Ms. Thompson tells him, “You love your father. Your friend Scott, and his mother Melissa... Talking about them is the only time I've seen you smile during our appointments. And that's fine, Stiles.”

“It is?”

“Humans aren't meant to be alone,” Ms. Thompson offers him a sad smile, “The entire time we've existed as a species, we've never did it by ourselves... I'm telling you, Stiles. Don't start now. Don't let your depression tell you that you're better off staying and digging that hole until it's your grave.”

Without lingering on that for too long, Ms. Thompson sighs and passes him back his filled shot glass.

“We've got ten minutes left before your appointment ends. And, maybe the world,” she says, looked just as worn as Stiles feels, “Drink up while you can.”

Grabbing his shot glass once more, Stiles knows he doesn't need to be told twice.

-X-

Stiles doesn't stop until he's in Oregon.

It's probably a few hours after what happened near Boise. He's only stopped to get gas, but he has just kept pushing and pushing until his eyes burn from both exhaustion and tears, stopping before he gets to a city named Vale.

It's night. It's completely dark out once Stiles' turns off Roscoe's light, plunging what little of the world that was illuminated into complete darkness.

Roscoe's engine still runs steady, and Stiles makes sure the tank is topped off before he forces himself to put up the barricades are up on his windows, and he's dug out near the tires to where it'll be easier to get out in the morning. He especially makes sure to clear by the exhaust, because it would be too tragic to get suffocated through the night by fumes. It's hard work but it needs to be done. Stiles needs for it to be done.

By the time he crawls into the back of Roscoe, he's a bone-deep kind of tired. He's cold too, shivering even through his gloves and layers and Stiles can't contribute it all to the cold, honestly. Derek waits for him in his sea of blankets, whining like he has been this entire time since that damned Shell station.

He can sense Stiles is upset. Probably the most tore up since Stiles picked him up in Yellowstone. And Stiles can't even say a word to Derek, just pulling the dog close and burying his face in his fur and sobbing.

He can hear Derek's heartbeat, steady and reassuring through his warmth as he gently licks at whatever he can reach of Stiles. He's trying his hardest, but they both know that he could never make up for what happened back near Boise.

Nothing ever could.

Stiles once again sleeps with his shotgun by his side, his pistol under his pillow, and his bat above his head.

He does not listen to music tonight, and only calms once he has nothing left to give.

-X-

Two days later, they're near Burns, Oregon.

There's a bit of webbing here when it comes to the highways and their layout. Two routes that head south are his focus today. One dips through the Harney Basin and by Lake Albert, but it's a direct way into the north end of Cali. The other goes a little too far west and cuts back into Nevada, so Stiles hopes his bet to take this route will pay off, and that he doesn't encounter a clogged highway again.

While Stiles has a rule about pushing himself, but he feels like it's more important than ever he gets back to Beacon Hills. Not only to get out of this damned snow but also because he doesn't think he can last much longer if he doesn't see his family.

He's been through so much, and he's so, so tired.

Derek is far more antsy, not letting Stiles go out on his own if he stops for gas or supplies, and he refuses to let Stiles spend any second alone. It's like he's worried what will come of Stiles if he does, and honestly... Stiles understands. He doesn't know what he'd do at this point if he were alone again, like before.

Because while he doesn't talk to Derek as much as he used to these past few days, having Derek there... it makes losing Jackson a little easier. Easier in the sense that Stiles still has something to hold onto. Something to touch and feel that is alive like he is and is here with him.

But once he stops near Burns, Stiles knows that he is probably gonna spend a day or two here.

Mostly because the snow is really thick, and while the clouds are starting to lighten and break, it's still a little too cold for all this to melt. He's gotten lucky at times with avoiding crashes or losing traction too often, but driving through this shit is a massive pain, and it steals up so much time. Plus, he's admittedly kind of feeling like shit and he thinks he needs something better than the back of Roscoe, despite all the good it's done him thus far.

Besides. It seems Burns was abandoned, evacuated early on. Stiles remembers hearing something on the news that the east coast was trying to do so because of the massive population there. Try and get them out, prevent them from being sitting ducks Stiles supposes.

Didn't matter in the end, sadly...

But it's one reason he wonders about Beacon Hills. If they were big enough to evacuate. If they even bothered.

It's something he doesn't want to focus on while he finds a motel.

It's two stories, rundown even before the infection, but it's shelter and it's solid and Stiles doesn't see anyone around.

The rooms have fireplaces, which is a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one as Stiles uncovers firewood that was tarped over at the edge of the building. Derek is with him, maintaining vigilance as Stiles gets some firewood hauled up to the second floor. It'll be a better vantage point, and the chances of their room getting ransacked while they stay here is lesser than if they were on the ground floor.

The safest option is important to Stiles.

He brings up some of the more valuable items from Roscoe, just in case, and covers his baby with a tarp— helping her blend in and not get frozen over. She needs a break and earned it too, and Stiles makes sure to take care of her some so that the cold isn't too unkind to her while they wait for some more thaw.

It maybe takes an hour or so before Stiles feels like he's done enough to settle, and Derek hangs out in his selected room with him. He gets the fire started, and thankfully the room heats up well enough despite the harsh cold from outside.

He uses his cast iron pot to heat up some snow and boil the water it makes so he can eat something he used to hate in college— beef ramen. Except now, after grabbing whatever was available and learning to be less picky out of necessity, the shit tastes divine. Especially the broth, which Stiles drinks up and ends up sad about when there is no more left.

It's a bit restorative, and Stiles is grateful. It's one of many, many things he needs right now...

If anything, he looks at the shower longingly. It's been so long since he had a hot shower, and with the grunge he carries, it's hard not to miss it even more. But he concedes by heating some more snow up and letting the water it makes cool enough to clean himself with a washcloth.

It's the best he's had in months, so he won't bitch about it too much.

Derek watches him as he does so, the wolf lying on the bed opposite of Stiles' at the other side of the room. He made sure to take his perch near the door, always keeping a barrier between Stiles and the world that was seemingly out to get him.

He waits until Stiles is done cleaning up, full and as clean as he will get at the time being, before Stiles lays down and places his hands over his eyes.

He waits for a little bit, the room quiet except for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and his unsteady breathing.

He's had a couple of panic attacks since Boise, but Stiles tried not to linger on them too long. He can't afford to. Never can. And he coped by creating more rules and going over his ever growing list and reciting them to Derek to also memorize.

But now, with him holed up in this motel room, a shitty chair propping the door shut on top of the chained lock being slid into place — his shotgun by his head, pistol under his pillow, and his bat to his back — Stiles feels another start to come on.

Derek whines, and instantly, he jumps the space between the beds, coming over and swarming Stiles as his hands shake and his eyes water.

Biting his lower lip, Stiles grips onto Derek's fur, his eyes pinched shut as his breath catches over and over like a broken record stuck on loop.

“I—I'm s-sorry,” Stiles shakes out, burying his face into Derek's fur.

He hates that he's like this. Sure. Stiles had panic attacks and anxiety and other problems before zombies became a bigger problem outside of fiction, but if anything, Stiles is truly a mess. He knows it. Knows that if the world somehow got back into a semblance of what it once was, he'd need medications galore— years of therapy. If that would even help.

If he dreams, a rare occurrence now, it's always nightmares. Images of Beacon Hills — of home — burning and overrun with the undead. His dad and Scott and Melissa just corpses lying on the ground and Stiles has nothing left.

He knows he's messed up. God. Is he messed up. But he just wants to get back. Just wants to see the people he loves and to feel like he didn't lose everything he cared about before the infection. That there was still something left to care about...

It's hard. Hard like breathing at this moment. And Stiles clings onto Derek like a lifeline— although, that's really what he is.

Stiles is just so lonely. And having Jackson around was the most that Stiles has gotten prior to him having to kill his infected roommate that fateful morning. He's been on his own up until Derek, but it was nice to have a semblance of normalcy. Of home.

Derek tries his best, though. But he's up against some harsh odds. Stiles wasn't on his best standing before this, but Jackson has... well, irrevocably wrecked him. There's only so much comfort tongue licks and whines can bring, much to Derek's apparent dismay.

But it's enough to wear Stiles out. Because he's tired. Really tired.

He's been driving for almost several months straight without truly stopping. He's gotten battered and bruised. Has nearly died so many times.

He's tired.

And so it's just so easy to slip into the numbness that follows the panic, and sleep.

-X-

He's almost halfway there.

Stiles is near the state line of Nebraska, heading eastward from Iowa.

He got a flat tire the other day, and that was hell to search for a spare. He's grateful his dad taught him how to change it before he left for New York.

He's... also admittedly glad for the pistol when Stiles has to clear out a Autozone somehow filled with infected for the replacement.

Stiles is still covered in grime from the nasty wheel well and brake dust, but he's proud that Roscoe is back on her feet. In fact, he makes a day of it, cleaning her up and trying to do what he can to take care of his baby.

She's done a lot for him— gotten him halfway across the States as best she could, through infected and survivors, through thick and thin.

So, Stiles washes her. He grabbed some fancy soap that smells like oranges and that lathers up his baby nicely, carrying away the grime from the road and the unfortunate bodies Stiles has had to plow through to get her here. It's overall a great improvement. It all is as Stiles splurges, even giving her cherry air-fresheners that smell as obnoxious as they do welcoming to the subtle stench he's added to it since the start of his travels.

It's probably the best she's ever looked. Even before the infection broke out and got out of control.

Stiles sits on top of her hood once he's washed Roscoe off and toweled her dry. She sparkles like the pond he parked in front of, and he feels a good type of fatigue wash over him just the same.

He unwinds with a few sips of whiskey from his flask, and he props his phone up on the windshield. It's screen shows a picture of his father, Scott and Melissa. It's got an obnoxious Snapchat filter on it, courtesy of Scott. But it's enlarged, taking up the screen as Stiles sits beside his phone, hand buried into a bag of trail mix with a bottle of coke between his legs as voicemails from them play over the small speaker.

He hears about Scott taking Kira to see the newest Marvel movie. Melissa tells him that his dad tried to sneak a cupcake into his groceries. His father tells him how he loves him but he would like to have just one cupcake, goddammit.

It's not like their picnics or movie nights, but... it's the best Stiles can do for right now.

-X-

Hot.

Stiles isn't sure what is happening, or what is wrong, but last he remembers is the world being cold.

Sweat.

His clothes cling to his form as he whimpers in the sheets. Tossing and turning and feeling agonized as he tries to get comfortable.

Sick.

Stiles isn't sure when it occurs to him through the haze, but it does. He feels so light-headed, the room spinning even as he lays motionless in the bed, his lungs slightly rasping as he tries not to hurl.

Everything is hot. Too hot. But Stiles doesn't have the energy to expend to deal with this right now.

And with a sort of defeated resignation, Stiles supposes that maybe this is how it ends. Here in a shitty, abandoned motel in Burns, Oregon, only a couple hundred miles from California — from Beacon Hills.

He's made it all the way from New York just to get done in by the flu or some shit.

God. He'd cry at the calamity of it, if he could.

Because he knows he's done for the moment he starts hallucinating.

It was terrifying at first, because he wasn't expecting it. He's in no position to defend himself nor make rhyme or reason with the world, but when he first feels a cold cloth on his forehead he thinks he's dreaming.

But he swears he feels it. And then, he is sat up, a glass pressed to his lips.

The water is cold but godsend and he drinks it all down without thinking about it.

He didn't realize how thirsty he was.

But it isn't until he's back against the mattress that he looks over and he sees someone there.

A person.

Maybe they're here to steal his stuff? No. They wouldn't take care of him if they were.

If that was even what was happening right now. Stiles can't truly be a judge of reality at the moment.

But he stares at the person he sees — a man — as he tries to make sense of it. Vision blurry, his head pounding and throat dry.

He's got dark hair. Hazel eyes.

“You need rest,” the helpful stranger says, “You're sick.”

Stiles expected his voice to be deeper. The guy is a little built, all brooding. Tanned skin and sharp cheekbones. His eyes a piercing hazel.

Stiles thinks of Derek.

“Take c-care of the dog,” he stutters out before falling under again.

At first, Stiles was sure he was imagining the man, but he appears again once Stiles wakes.

Derek is nowhere to be found, and he's a bit distressed.

“M-My dog,” he tries to sit up, regretting that as the room swims and the man helps him back down against the mattress, “Where is my dog?”

“He's fine,” the man tells him, but the untrusting look Stiles sends him is enough to make him add, “I promise that you'll get to make sense of this soon.”

“Nothing makes sense anymore,” Stiles mutters with a scratchy voice, bitter but also defeated, “You're not real. And I'm gonna die in a motel room because I got the flu like an idiot.”

“Don't say that.”

The man's voice sounds hurt, like Stiles words were a knife that the human just stuck through his rib cage. It makes Stiles huff a bit because why in the world would this guy give a shit?

Before he can muddle in that for long, the man comes back, pressing the cool cloth against Stiles' forehead again. Stiles hadn't realized, but he had closed his eyes, and after a few seconds, he opens them, staring at the stranger.

“You're burning up,” he says with a scowl, and it's then that Stiles realizes how beautiful this guy is.

“Why are you helping me?”

Stiles can't help but blurt it. He lacked a brain-to-mouth filter before the apocalypse, and he certainly wont garner one when he's so sick and out of his wits. But it's all that can come to mind as this Adonis of a fever dream looks at Stiles as though this should all make sense.

“Because you saved me.”

Stiles isn't sure about that one. He might be all over the place, but he's got a decent memory. And he's sure he could have amnesia but still remember a face like the stranger's before him. Ain't easy to forget someone like that.

“Right,” he says sarcastically, closing his eyes, “I totally did...”

It isn't until the third time that Stiles wakes that he feels a little more in his faculties. He's not sure how much time has passed, and while his body feels drained, there's a distinct tether to the world that he feels right now. He was floating before but now he isn't floating away.

He looks over and sees the strange man on the bed beside him.

“You're still here,” Stiles comments as he sits up a little.

It's an odd mixture of bewilderment and uncertainty that somehow comes out neutral. Mostly because Stiles is actually starting to realize there is an actual man in his fucking room that's been taking care of him, and he is both shocked and disturbed at the same time.

He goes to reach for his shotgun, but doesn't find it there.

A bit of panic ramps up his heartbeat, to which the man seems to pick up on, with the way he stands and holds out his hands in placation.

“Hey, don't freak out—“

“Who in the fuck are you?”

Stiles' voice is callous. Because helping him or not, Stiles doesn't know this guy. He also don't know how he managed to get in here, what he's done or what he's taken, or why in the hell Derek didn't fucking kill him for coming in—

“Listen, I'm not gonna hurt you. I never could. I promise I'm not some dick trying to kill you,” the man assures, but it brings no comfort to Stiles as he pulls back on the bed some, definitely still weak and out of it despite his growing distress, “You're Stiles Stilinski. You're trying to get back to California to see your family.”

“And how in the hell do you know that?”

Has this guy been stalking him somehow? Stiles isn't sure. He thinks he would've noticed someone tailing him for this long and through all of the bullshit he's left behind the past couple of states — since New York — but it's the only thing that could possibly make sense.

If there is any to even find. Stiles has been running low these days.

“I... It's... Shit,” the guy sits on the edge of the bed opposite of Stiles and places his face in his hands, “This is hard to explain.”

Looking under his pillow for his pistol, Stiles hisses, “You better figure out how to.”

The guy looks up, scowling once more before he looks over to where Stiles' bags are against the wall. Stiles looks after him, trying to find his gun while the man grabs something from his belongings.

His pistol isn't where it should be, and Stiles starts to feel more and more unsettled before the man returns.

What he has in his hands makes Stiles' mouth go dry.

“That's... That's...”

It's Derek's collar. The reflective material dirtied, the tag Stiles made a bit worn. But it's Derek's alright.

Stiles looks up, eyes burning.

“Did you fucking kill him? Did you kill my dog?”

“What? No. No,” the man blinks away his confusion and shock at Stiles' upset, and he looks heartbroken at the way Stiles' eyes turn red and he stares at him like he's some monster, “Just, hear me out, okay? Nothing bad happened.”

Stiles is unconvinced. But he's sick and weaponless, so he has no other choice than to hear this guy out.

“You're gonna think this is crazy. And I guess it is,” the stranger frowns and meets Stiles' eyes, “But... do you believe in the supernatural?”

Stiles scoffs, because what in the actual fuck.

“You're right. This is crazy. You are crazy—“

“Stiles, please,” the man begs.

Stiles quiets, but he isn't happy. Not with this fucking nut job in front of him.

The stranger sighs, looking uncertain as he continues, “I'm Derek.”

Stiles blinks. Once, then twice. It's all he's able to do as the stranger scowls again and looks at him expectantly.

“You're not saying anything...”

“What in the hell am I supposed to say?” Stiles hisses, “You're trying to tell me you were a fucking dog right now.”

“Not a dog,” the man corrects instantly with a huff, and Stiles brows furrow at the slight familiarity of it, “I'm a werewolf, actually.”

“That's it. I'm officially insane. I made it all this way just to finally lose all my marbles... There's no other way to explain this.”

“Yes, there is,” the guy starts, and he looks at Stiles with a frustrated since of determination, “You found me in Yellowstone. You tried to shoot me, and I took your beef jerky. We nearly died in a Walmart in Utah. We lost Jackson in Idaho,” the man looks desperately at Stiles, “I told you, I'm Derek.”

Stiles stares at the man before him, a hurt working over his face then.

He must be insane. He must be dead. Something. Something that should explain the grateful leap in his chest and the way his heart stutters at how certain this guy is as he looks at Stiles.

“Y-You... But... How?”

“Lycanthropy,” the man — Derek — states, and he sets the collar in Stiles' hands, “It's a long story, but... I was stuck in my wolf form, even before the outbreak... I was on my own for a while before you came along, and... when you did... I... had a reason to come back.”

Stiles takes the collar Derek offers and holds it tight, his chest seizing a little as he shakes his head, “But... if you were a human this whole time... or a werewolf... I... God, are you sure I'm not fucking gone?”

“You're still sick, but you're not dead or deranged,” Derek assures.

Stiles is emotional. How can he not be? This is huge. Huge if it's actually true and he's alive and not crazy like Derek — god, his fucking dog — says he is.

Otherwise... well, Stiles isn't sure what he'd do if he'd find out this is all his head or some twisted joke.

Before Stiles can help himself though, he swarms Derek in a hug. A real hug. And he wraps his arms tight around Derek just as he's done since they found each other in Wyoming a month or so ago now, and Stiles is wordless for how it feels for Derek to finally embrace him back.

Derek buries his face into the crook of Stiles' neck, taking a deep breath and squeezing Stiles close while the human cries.

“You don't know how badly I wanted to do this,” he whispers, as desperate and broken as Stiles is at the moment.

Stiles can't respond. He can only cling on tighter, feeling raw in so many ways.

He holds the collar close like he does Derek, his hands no longer shaking.

-X-

“Just admit it. You're lowkey a hopeless romantic.”

“I am not, Scott.”

“Are too!” Scott knocks Stiles' shoulder playfully, “You think I don't remember how you wailed on and on about Lydia, and then Danny! You're just a Rapunzel waiting for her Flynn Rider.”

“Okay, a few critiques. One, I literally have a buzzcut so I don't even have hair— and two, I would totally be Merida, you ass.”

Scott snorts, “Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you had a princess already lined up.”

“Of course I do. I know you do too.”

Quietly, Scott mutters, “I was kinda feelin' like Ariel.”

“My point exactly,” Stiles exasperates as he flops onto Scott's bed.

“That still doesn't change mine, though!” Scott flops onto Stiles' bed, putting his hands under his chin and twiddling his legs back and forth like some school girl ready to gossip, “You want to get bitten by a lovebug so bad.”

“This isn't a Jonas Brothers or Fergie lyric,” Stiles huffs.

“No. It's just your heart,” Scott flips over, placing a hand dramatically over his forehead, “Oh, woe is I. Who shall take my hand before I am bereft forever?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles sits up, “Okay, Juliet. Cut it out.”

“I'm just sayin'... I totally expect you to just meet some person and be like, instantly in love.”

“People don't work like that,” Stiles argues, brows furrowed, “I don't work like that.”

“Maybe you haven't met the right person, then,” Scott points out, “Maybe... the right place, the right time. That's all you need.”

Humming, Stiles doesn't have the same hope Scott does.

“Yeah, and maybe I'll win the lottery tomorrow or I find out bigfoot is real.”

“Stranger things could happen,” Scott jokes, “What if zombies become a thing?”

“Please,” Stiles turns Scott's Xbox on while his friend comes right up beside them, not caring as he cuddles Stiles just the same as they did when they fell asleep on each other in kindergarten, “That's just like true love. Shit only exists in movies.”

“Well, put one on then, you buzzkill,” Scott says as he settles his head on Stiles' stomach, already getting distracted, “Oh! How about something Disney?”

Chuckling, Stiles grabs the controller, “Think I can live with that...”

-X-

Stiles' sickness doesn't truly pass until two days later.

In the interim, there's a lot that transpires between Derek and Stiles.

Firstly, they spend a lot of their time touching. Stiles is guessing that they were close to begin with, but now that Derek is his human self again, he's just as touch starved as Stiles is, if not more. He mentioned he was stuck in his wolf form, and Stiles wonders how long it was since he felt someone under his fingertips. Going by the reverent way he traces Stiles moles on his face, forming mindless constellations, Stiles guesses it's been a long, long time for him too.

It's nice. Just to be close and with someone. And with Derek, it's something more than like what Stiles had with Jackson. Sure, they both missed people and were grateful for the connection they had, but he and Jackson were comfortable with getting their fill here and there.

But with Derek, it's this raw and needy thing. Stiles can't go long without drifting back to him. His leg pressed up against Derek's. Derek's hand snaking its way on his thigh. They always have some point of contact. And it's like this feral note inside of Stiles' brain quiets and feels content in a way it hasn't in months.

But more than anything, they also talk.

Jackson was nice too, and he and Stiles bantered. But there were also boundaries there. Things they didn't touch on. Things they didn't say to fill the space and time. But with Derek, there is nothing holding either of them back. Stiles tells Derek about how Adderall withdrawals sucked, how he misses burgers, and which Star Wars movie is his favorite.

It's like Stiles can just be with Derek. Like there is almost so hell on earth beyond this shitty motel room.

But Derek talks just as much. Granted, he isn't as wordy as Stiles, but it's obvious the man has had a lot to say the past couple of months.

He specially explains what he is to Stiles. Answers his questions and debunks myths or proves Stiles right. He's cagey about his past, and that's okay. Stiles can be too. He gets that. So he focuses on learning more about something that was supposed to be an urban legend.

Derek's a born werewolf, which Stiles excitedly learns is a thing, and he's one of the few that are fully able to shift. He shows Stiles, carefully, how his body can go between human and wolf.

Stiles teases him when his eyebrows disappear once his sprouts proper mutton chops and gets a caveman's brow. But Derek takes it in stride, laughing past his fangs before he buries his face into Stiles' neck again.

Still, he tells Stiles about how he deals with full moons. Silver does bother them, but doesn't kill them. He's got a keen sense of smell but he unfortunately can't understand actual dogs.

It's all so interesting and amazing and Stiles lowkey nerds out.

“I wish that the internet were still a thing,” Stiles mutters, lying on his side as Derek does too, the two facing inward towards each other, “I would Google the hell out of you.”

“And ignore the actual source of information?” Derek teases.

“I knew you'd be a smartass.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes,” Stiles smirks, “You huffed n' puffed too much for me to think you weren't giving me the dog equivalent of rolling your eyes.”

“Trust me, at times I wished I could.”

Stiles laughs, a brilliant and warm sound that he hasn't heard in a while.

It makes Derek smile warmly until Stiles settles, their eyes meeting once more.

“You know... if I am crazy,” Stiles starts, his breath soft and filling the few inches between them, “I think I'm okay with it.”

“You're not,” Derek's hand comes up, and he cups Stiles' face, making the human to close his eyes, “I promise you're not.”

Bracing Derek's hand with his own, Stiles chuckles, “I know. I know...”

Derek hums, and he pulls their foreheads together, closing his eyes.

“The world is crazier than I remember it,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees just as quietly, soft and hushed, “I don't know how you're handling it... Coming back to this, of all things.”

“Well, I got a pretty good anchor,” Derek murmurs, eyes opening and locking onto Stiles'.

They linger like that. Hovering around each other as Stiles feels something shift in his chest.

Stiles isn't sure who starts it, but his lips end up on Derek's.

It's chaste but almost overwhelming with how intimate and profound it is. Stiles feels almost drowned in it after he pulls back, brow creased and his tongue chasing after the taste of Derek on his lips as they pull apart.

Derek looks content. Eyes half-lidded and a small smile breaking out across his lips.

It's a damn good look on him.

“Is this considered bestiality?” Stiles jokes, not able to help himself.

Headbutting Stiles in such a familiar way, Derek pulls Stiles' head under his chin as he chuckles, “Oh, hush.”

And as Stiles loses his face in the neckline of Derek's shirt, he thinks that he can do so, just this once.

-X-

After Stiles is better, he pushes for them to leave the motel and Burns.

It's not that he's against what he and Derek are having right now— trust him, he's way into it, but Stiles has a goal, dammit. He's almost home. He's almost back in Beacon Hills and to where his dad and Scott and Melissa should be waiting for him.

While Derek is a wondrous miracle Stiles is still disbelieving of, nothing could stop Stiles now.

Nothing.

Derek complies with Stiles' wishes easy enough. It seems that he doesn't want to be cooped up too much either. Stiles can tell that his urge to keep Stiles safe hasn't waned, and he wants to ensure that they won't deal with anything like Boise again.

He helps load the car, manning Stiles shotgun while Stiles carries his dad's gifted pistol, and Stiles will admit it's nice as hell to have someone help him with all of this shit again...

But, it's also funny. Seeing Derek dump the dog food Stiles had gotten for him alongside some other items like the dirtied dog bed. But he keeps the toy fox. Because of course he does.

“It means a lot to me,” he says defensively.

“Just say you still wanna play with it and we'll call it even,” Stiles laughs.

Derek huffs but doesn't argue with Stiles, so the human counts it as a win.

Once they are gassed up and their supplies are sorted and together, Stiles walks up to Roscoe and sees Derek waiting by the driver door. He's clad in a leather jacket, Stiles is sure something old of Jackson's or something Derek scrounged in the motel, and he looks at Stiles expectantly.

“I can drive,” he offers, holding out a hand for Stiles to give him the keys, “You honestly need a break from it.”

Raising a brow, Stiles points out, “When was the last time you drove a car?”

“I'm not going to crash it,” he rolls his eyes lightly, “Besides, it's not like you're gonna get pulled over or anything for it.”

Raising his brows, Stiles hums, “Fair point.”

He passes the keys to Derek, but before he lets them go in the werewolf's palm, he points a free finger at the man.

“But listen. This here, she's my baby,” Stiles is stern, and he pats Roscoe's side, “She's gotta make it back home in one piece.”

“I know,” Derek smiles fondly at Stiles then, “I promise I'll be gentle.”

Stiles nods once, and then walks over to the passenger seat before he chuckles.

“What?”

“Nothin'. Just realized that we swapped,” Stiles says as they open the doors to his Jeep, “You were my co-pilot for a while.”

While they situate themselves in their respective seats, Derek hums, “Huh. Guess you're right.”

Roscoe comes to life, thankfully, without issue. Stiles is grateful. He knows she hates the cold. But in truth, so does he.

As he hears his music start up, Stiles gets excited as Derek reverses Roscoe out of the motel parking lot easily enough. He turns up the volume, happy to hear his music after days without it.

(¯´•._.• 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔳𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫 𝔠 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔦𝔯𝔬𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔟𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 •._.•´¯)

Derek glances over to Stiles, shifting Roscoe into drive and getting her started down the highway.

¤ (¯´☆✭.¸_)¤ ♧😈 𝓘Ť's Ꮆ𝔦ᵛƗ𝐧ⓖ ʰσＭⓞⓟ𝒽Ｏ𝐁𝕚𝕒 🫥 ☢🍫 ¤(_¸.✭☆´¯) ¤

Stiles doesn't expect it. But his hand intertwines with Stiles, their fingers slotting together perfectly, as though molded for each other.

*•.¸♡ ɪ ɢᴏᴛ ꜱᴄᴀʙɪᴇꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜰᴏʀᴅ'ꜱ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ꜱᴀʟᴇꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛ ♡¸.•*

It's the first thing that's felt right in a long, long time.

-X-

They pause near Lake Albert for a bit.

Mostly because Derek probably needs a break from driving, but Stiles is hungry again and also wants to stretch his legs. Admittedly, despite some thaw, it's still hard work driving Roscoe, and Derek is newer to this than Stiles is. He's done great, but he hasn't been at this for months like Stiles has been. And Stiles was spoiled by his motel stay, sick or not. He misses not being cramped in his Jeep, as much as he loves her dearly.

Still, they've made good progress, and Stiles is... happy.

He's happy. Something he hasn't felt in a while, being overwhelmed with stress and worry and thinking he was in on this on his own. But he's not. He's not and he's here and Stiles doesn't want to think that this could fuck up like what happened with Jackson, because he cannot do that to himself.

Like when he was in Yellowstone, Stiles sits on the hood of his Jeep, eating beef jerky and stale granola, but this time, with company. Derek snacks with him, taking advantage of a Hostess cake Stiles had found at one of their stops, making a face as he bit into the pastry that just defies all logic when it comes to expiring. Stiles isn't sure if he should be grateful they processed their food like this, or terrified that it got to that point before the infection.

Still, Derek enjoys it, and Stiles finds he has a slight sweet tooth, one that is sated for the first time in a while as Derek licks icing off his fingers and looks content in a way that Stiles wishes he could mirror.

“And to think, I was giving you dog kibble this whole time,” Stiles huffs, and he breaks a piece of jerky off to give to Derek, “Lord, I even gave you wet food.”

“It's tolerable when you have the tastes and stomach of a dog,” Derek admits, “I got by on a lot of questionable things before I found you in Wyoming...”

Turning a bit toward the werewolf, Stiles asks, “Can you tell me more about that? Finding me?”

It's not too close to Derek's past to make the werewolf clam up, and Derek must feel that this teeters just on the edge of touchable for him. Their legs brush together as well as their hands as Derek takes the jerky Stiles offers with a sad smile.

“I was just following my nose... I'm not even sure how I ended up in Yellowstone specifically. I think maybe I was drawn to the actual wolves there. Just... didn't want to be alone anymore,” he states so simply, “A wolf is meant to have a pack. They aren't meant to be alone.”

Stiles nods, filing that away for further examination later. Derek doesn't realize, but Stiles was somewhat of a sponge for information before the apocalypse. He was a wannabe know-it-all, and his knowledge varies across so many topics. He wasn't kidding when he said he misses the internet. His search history would be golden right now.

“Still, I was hungry, and I scented the jerky,” Derek states, “But also something else I just couldn't ignore.”

With his cheeks stuffed with jerky and granola like a mannerless chipmunk, Stiles' question is somewhat muffled past his mouthful of food, “Which was?”

Derek chuckles at Stiles, a bit fond if not lightly disgusted at his antics. Stiles wouldn't have it any other way, honestly.

“It was you.”

Swallowing quickly, Stiles tries not to choke as he voices his intrigue, “You could scent me?”

“Everyone and everything has a scent. But for people, it's very individualistic. No one quite smells the same. It's how we can tell each other apart, can know if we're in another territory, or most importantly, if another wolf is close.”

Stiles will have to touch more on this later, but a sudden thought overtakes his focus then, “Is that how you knew that guy was in that Walmart before he appeared?”

“Yes. But he'd also covered his scent... Kinda realized he set a trap a little too late because of it,” Derek admits, scowling a little, “But he was a conniving alpha like that.”

“Wait... Alpha? So you mean that he was a werewolf too?”

“Yes. You thought he had another dog like me and just disappeared, but in reality he shifted into his wolf form while we fought. It was honestly between more him and me than you... After all,” Derek looks at Stiles, his irises flashing red, “I'm an alpha, too.”

“Whoa,” Stiles says, mesmerized by the shift in color in Derek's irises, “Shit, that is so cool.”

“Benefit of knowing a wolf's dynamic without asking,” Derek tells Stiles, “Alphas are meant to be pack leaders. So that guy in that Walmart and I were basically attacking each other because, well... it's a dominance thing.”

“But you won,” Stiles states, coming closer, “You fucking won, dude.”

“Yeah, but I got that shit beat out of me,” looking down, Derek huffs, “Usually I can heal almost instantly, but alpha wounds are different. They last longer. Meant to teach you a lesson...”

Frowning softly, Stiles asks, “What did you learn?”

Derek glances up at Stiles, garnering that seriousness that makes the human's heart tickle at his ribs.

“That'd I do it again if it meant I kept you safe.”

They close now, like in the motel in Burns. They just can't help it. They gravitate to one another in a natural kind of way. In a way that never causes Stiles any worry because god dammit, he wants this.

Derek doesn't fight it either. Stiles doesn't know if that's because he sucks at the control he's mentioned, or if he doesn't see any reason to deny himself this either. Because they've both suffered. Horribly. Needlessly. And it just feels like pouring gasoline on a festered wound to cheat themselves of this.

Their lips slot together like their hands do. Perfect, as though they were made to do so.

Stiles has kissed a lot of guys and girls once he got into college, he'll admit, but none of them come close to Derek.

They never could.

He doesn't want them to.

Stiles feels Derek cup his face, pulling the human in closer and dragging him across the empty wrappers between them and causing them to slide off the hood and into the snow.

They kiss like that until their lips are numb, until Stiles is chasing after some more and nipping at Derek's lips as if to ask: come on, big guy, what is there to lose for us now?

But Derek hesitates. Stiles can tell, with the way he pulls back and eyes Stiles with a type of hunger that makes the cold of Oregon feel like summer. Stiles has no doubts the werewolf wants him — that Derek wants to go further than this — but something else is holding him back.

“What are we?” Stiles asks, because he's got to fill this final void between them with something, and if he can't get action, he'll get an answer.

“Not sure,” Derek murmurs, and he slides their foreheads together, his hand on Stiles' jawline, “Is dating even a thing, still?”

“Not sure,” Stiles echoes, “It's not like there's a true opportunity to. What are you gonna do? Take me to an abandoned restaurant to have dinner together? It can't even be like a special Friday night kinda thing. I'm not even sure what day it is. Or month.”

“I'm not even sure what year it is,” Derek admits, and it's then that Stiles gets that whatever Derek went through... it must have been longer than the time that zombies became such a big problem.

“I guess it doesn't really matter. Time is an illusion anyway,” Stiles says, and he all but crawls on top of Derek, feeling the alpha's arms wrap around him so naturally, “We just have here and now, and each other.”

“Right,” Derek concedes, his hand rubbing up the small of Stiles' back, “Right...”

Cupping Derek's face, Stiles whispers, “But what this is... it's real. Somehow. Some way. It's real and we have it. And I just...”

He trails off, but Derek responds by pressing their lips together again. The position does nothing to ease Stiles' want, with his dick hard and pressing at the fly of his jeans, but it's almost a null factor. Because for now, kissing Derek is more than enough. Having Derek pull him closer is more than Stiles could ever ask for now.

But it's as they pull away again, catching their breath as it fogs in the air between them, that Derek looks at Stiles.

“Where is it that you're going to in California, anyway?”

“Small town. You probably wouldn't know it,” Stiles murmurs, “It's called Beacon Hills.”

Stiles doesn't miss the way Derek tenses underneath him.

“Derek?” Stiles asks out of concern.

Shaking his head, the werewolf grips tightly onto Stiles, scowling as a rumble escapes his chest. It makes Stiles worry, and he pivots Derek's neck to where they are looking at each other again.

“Hey, big guy,” Stiles whispers, “Is there somethin' wrong?”

“It's nothing,” Derek says, but Stiles can see past it — can see that is a blatant lie and there's something Derek isn't wanting to say — that maybe he can't say, “Just tired.”

“Okay... Well, I can take over driving again if you are,” Stiles suggests, and Derek nods once before their foreheads lean against one another again, and Derek closes his eyes to take a grounding breath through his reddened nose.

“Okay,” the werewolf says, and they leave it at that.

-X-

尺卂丨ᗪ 丂卄卂ᗪㄖ山 ㄥ乇Ꮆ乇几ᗪ丂

They're about to cross into California, and Derek is tense. Stiles can tell by the way he scowls in the driver seat, getting more and more upset the closer they come to leaving Oregon.

(.﹒︠₋﹒︡.) ﾟ✌🍪  𝔹Ⓔέᑭ ᵇ๏σ𝐩 𝓑σｐ  ♬🐸 （（●´∧｀●））

Stiles knows that there's something Derek isn't sharing. Something important. And it unsettles him because in some ways, it felt like there were almost no boundaries between them. They had effectively destroyed any that Stiles has had. His rules. His fears.

With Derek he feels like there's a point to all this again.

But there's just this one thing... this last hurdle holing them back.

Holding Derek back.

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙝𝙞𝙛𝙪, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙡!] ❞

Stiles isn't sure what it is that Derek isn't saying. He knows a little— not much. Just that Derek was stuck as a wolf for a while and he doesn't want to talk about what that is.

He doesn't want to tell Stiles why there was a dog collar around his neck since before he came across the human. About how it got there— who made it.

★彡 c̶o̶p̶y̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶:̶ ̶k̶ŏ̶p̶′̶ē̶-̶r̶ī̶t̶″̶ ̶n̶o̶u̶n̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶e̶g̶a̶l̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶g̶r̶a̶n̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶a̶u̶t̶h̶o̶r̶,̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶o̶s̶e̶r̶,̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶y̶w̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶p̶u̶b̶l̶i̶s̶h̶e̶r̶,̶ ̶o̶r̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶b̶u̶t̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶e̶x̶c̶l̶u̶s̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶p̶u̶b̶l̶i̶c̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶,̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶d̶u̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶,̶ ̶s̶a̶l̶e̶,̶ ̶o̶r̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶b̶u̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶e̶r̶a̶r̶y̶,̶ ̶m̶u̶s̶i̶c̶a̶l̶,̶ ̶d̶r̶a̶m̶a̶t̶i̶c̶,̶ ̶o̶r̶ ̶a̶r̶t̶i̶s̶t̶i̶c̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶k̶.̶ 彡★

But Stiles can't shake this. It's not that he wants to pry. He knows how horrible it is to have something so shameful and tragic occur you wish it hadn't, and he knows that there are things he rather not say to Derek that have happened to him since he left New York.

But it's becoming more and more obvious that Derek is comfortable with Stiles going home.

For whatever reason that may be.

And Stiles isn't sure if that's something he wants to face, either.

◦•●◉✿ g҉e҉t҉ ҉m҉i҉l҉k҉ ✿◉●•◦

The song filters out, but before Stiles lets the next track start, he turns off his radio. He sees how Derek tenses a little, almost sensing what is coming up as Stiles pulls over to the side of the road.

Roscoe needs topped off anyway. They're about ten miles away from the state line. This shouldn't hurt.

“Derek,” the human starts, not missing how the werewolf grimaces then, knowing what is coming, “You know I don't want to step where I'm not allowed but... you are acting more and more cagey the closer we get to California.”

Derek says nothing. The silence in the Jeep is almost suffocating.

“What happened, man?” Stiles asks, pleading and desperate, “Because I'm going home no matter what and if you can't— if you can't come with me because of what's wrong, I'm not sure if I can do this. Any of this.”

Derek looks out the passenger window, facing away from Stiles. But the human can see the way his nails lengthen. How they pop into claws and prickle at the denim on his thigh.

“We weren't entirely a secret...”

Stiles isn't sure what Derek means by that before he continues.

“There... there were humans he knew about us. But they didn't accept what we were. They thought we had no control. That we're just animals waiting to go feral, and just happen to have human skin,” Derek quiets a little, “They took it upon themselves to police us, and kill us if they deemed necessary. Normally they have a code for these things, but there are some who don't give a shit... They call themselves hunters, and my family was murdered by them.”

It's not beyond Stiles to already feel like a dick at this moment.

“You... You said you're from Beacon Hills... You might've lived there when it happened, as a kid... But do you remember the Hales?”

And it all just suddenly clicks together. A nasty picture forms, and Stiles lets out a ragged breath.

“You're Derek Hale,” he says, “One of the sole survivors of the Hale fire...”

Derek nods, unable to look at Stiles.

Stiles remembers that night. His dad was on call, and Stiles had memorized some of the dispatch numbers. He knew what 947 meant.

“I͓̽ w͓̽a͓̽s͓̽ b͓̽o͓̽r͓̽n͓̽ w͓̽i͓̽t͓̽h͓̽ g͓̽l͓̽a͓̽s͓̽s͓̽ b͓̽o͓̽n͓̽e͓̽s͓̽ a͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ p͓̽a͓̽p͓̽e͓̽r͓̽ s͓̽k͓̽i͓̽n͓̽. E͓̽v͓̽e͓̽r͓̽y͓̽ m͓̽o͓̽r͓̽n͓̽i͓̽n͓̽g͓̽ I͓̽ b͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽k͓̽ m͓̽y͓̽ l͓̽e͓̽g͓̽s͓̽, a͓̽n͓̽d͓̽ e͓̽v͓̽e͓̽r͓̽y͓̽ a͓̽f͓̽t͓̽e͓̽r͓̽n͓̽o͓̽o͓̽n͓̽ I͓̽ b͓̽r͓̽e͓̽a͓̽k͓̽ m͓̽y͓̽ a͓̽r͓̽m͓̽s͓̽. A͓̽t͓̽ n͓̽i͓̽g͓̽h͓̽t͓̽, I͓̽ l͓̽i͓̽e͓̽ a͓̽w͓̽a͓̽k͓̽e͓̽ i͓̽n͓̽ a͓̽g͓̽o͓̽n͓̽y͓̽ u͓̽n͓̽t͓̽i͓̽l͓̽ m͓̽y͓̽ h͓̽e͓̽a͓̽r͓̽t͓̽ a͓̽t͓̽t͓̽a͓̽c͓̽k͓̽s͓̽ p͓̽u͓̽t͓̽ m͓̽e͓̽ t͓̽o͓̽ s͓̽l͓̽e͓̽e͓̽p͓̽."

“Your dad tried to save what he could, but it was all a loss,” Derek mutters, “I was practically orphaned aside from my sister Cora surviving, and my uncle Peter getting dragged out. Although, he was burned badly before the firefighters got to him, and he had to be put in a coma in an attempt to heal.”

Stiles scowls as Derek frowns further.

“My sister and I had to go into hiding. The hunter that was after us... she was relentless. She didn't care that my family and I were born wolves. She said that we were a threat, and we were going to attack eventually... I honestly just think she enjoyed it. Killing us. She made it all so personal,” Derek pauses, but he somehow finds the courage to go on, “I spent years running from her but she eventually caught me. I'm not sure what it was about me that made something go off in her head, but she decided it was better to drag her plans out with me. She kept me captive, torturing me daily. Using wolfsbane to keep my wounds from healing. Silver to keep me in line... Eventually, my wolf took over in a way to cope with it all.”

Stiles reaches over, placing his hand onto Derek's. The alpha grabs onto it like a lifeline and squeezes, almost shaking as he speaks.

“I'm not sure how long I was with her. I was just this pet to her that she commanded around. I hunted for her, killed for her. But it's because I knew what would happen to me if I didn't. I tried to numb myself as best I could,” Derek hangs his head in a sense of shame that is almost palpable to Stiles, “When the infection broke out, her stronghold was overrun. I got out, somehow, and just started roaming aimlessly after that. I didn't quite understand what was going on. I didn't want to... It was hard to believe that the world she ripped me from was gone.”

Derek glances at Stiles, his eyes reddened.

“When I found you in Yellowstone, that was... that was the first time in a long time that felt like there was a chance for me beyond what Kate did. That I didn't have to just live my days without purpose or with something that wasn't beyond all the pain I was left with... You... You're the only reason I shifted back, Stiles.”

Tears slip down Stiles' cheeks, because god, this isn't what he was expecting.

“Derek, I'm an ass,” he sniffles, looking at the werewolf then, “You didn't have to tell me—“

“I did,” there's that certainty of his, hidden under his waning discomfort, “I... had to acknowledge it someday. And even then, I would've had to when you finally got back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles wipes absently at his eyes with his free hand, still not convinced, “I just... feel like I forced this out of you.”

“No. I chose to tell you,” Derek assures, “I know you only asked because you could tell I wasn't okay... I'm learning, slowly but surely, that's it's okay to not be okay with you.”

Stiles isn't sure what to say. He isn't sure if there is something he can say to that.

“I've witnessed your panic attacks. I've seen how you have nightmares some nights. I know you sleep with a shotgun and a pistol and a bat because it's the only way you can convince yourself to close your eyes at night,” Derek starts, and Stiles feels raw with the way Derek looks at him, at the way Derek seems to see into him then and recognize something there, “You have rules because it's the only way you can feel like you have control. You're trying to get home because it's the only thing that makes sense and has kept you going. You're just trying to survive like I am, and I don't feel like I'm the only one trying to put themselves back together.”

“You're not,” Stiles breathes, admitting it for the first time in words, “You're not.”

Derek leans over as Stiles does, and the werewolf buries his face into Stiles' neck, grounding himself. Stiles grips onto Derek, feeling like he might slip away if he doesn't.

They hold onto each other for a few moments before it doesn't feel like they are about to burst apart at the seams the moment they let go of one another.

But even as they part, there is something in Stiles that protests the distance. Something in him that begs to meet back with the man that mirrors his own broken reflection and to cling onto it for all that Stiles has got left in him.

“God, what a mess we both make,” Derek comments, his eyes slipping closed from a second.

Stiles can see that the tension he was holding in his form is gone now, and it eases some of the pressure in Stiles' chest to see that reprieve.

It's then that Stiles looks at his radio, gathering an idea.

“We have to get out of the car anyway,” he starts, quiet and almost unsure as Derek glances at him, “Might as well make something nice of it.”

Derek furrows his brow, obviously confused as to what Stiles wants until the human turns on his radio and goes to a specific song on the CD within it.

The beginning strums of the guitar play through the air as Stiles opens his door, turning on Roscoe's headlights once more as Derek follows in confusion until they meet at the front of the Jeep.

𓂀 d̷o̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷c̷o̷n̷s̷i̷d̷e̷r̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷r̷s̷e̷l̷f̷ ̷t̷o̷ ̷b̷e̷a̷t̷ ̷m̷e̷m̷b̷e̷r̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷L̷G̷B̷T̷Q̷ ̷ ̷c̷o̷m̷m̷u̷n̷i̷t̷y̷?̷ ̷.̷ ̷.̷ ̷.̷ ̷P̷e̷n̷n̷s̷y̷l̷v̷a̷n̷i̷a̷ 𓂀

Stiles places himself against Derek, enjoying how he slots so nicely, his head fitting under Derek's chin as he places one of Derek's hands on the small of his waist, snow falling gently around them.

For once, he doesn't mind it.

“Stiles, what are we doing?” Derek asks, confused.

“Learning to be human again together,” he whispers back, “For just a little while.”

➶➶➶➶➶ 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝓀 ➷➷➷➷➷

Derek realizes then that they're dancing. Stiles isn't sure if Derek ever got the chance to dance with anyone before the fire. He must've been a teenager then, if not younger.

( ﾟ∀ﾟ)ﾉ【𝚝ₐ𝓴ₑ yₒᵤᵣ ᗰₑ𝚍𝘴】

They say nothing as the music plays, holding onto one another as the song echoes out into the night. The dark less threatening. The snow less foreboding.

They are just two souls enjoying their time together.

`•.,¸¸,.•´¯ °·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.-> 🎀 𝐼'𝓂 𝒥𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒹. 𝐼'𝓂 𝟣𝟫 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒽🍩𝓌 𝓉🏵 𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹. 🎀 >-.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·°¯°·.¸.·° ¯`•.,¸¸,.•´

Stiles wouldn't want it any other way.

Ḧ̴̤̖̲́̕͠Ò̶̢̘̦̯̺͕̠͎̤͆͐͑̆͘͠L̶͈̫͆̂̽̔͋́̅͝͠Ţ̶̢̛̝̱̲̲̻͉̭̇̔̌̾͛̄͠ ̷̬͔̞̗͚͓̃̈́̉̾͒͌͘M̸͚̯̜͚̈͒I̴̳̘͈͌̇̒͗͊͐͆̅̈́̍L̸̪̳͖̯̳͍͔̬͊̈́͐̿̄F̷̞͌̀̂̒́̕͝S̶̨̩͔̻̞͖̃̓̃͝ ̷̢̢̡̰̞̹̞̣̼͉̇̑̈́̎̆͊͐͋Ï̸̗̐͝N̷̪̙̰͖͎͛̋̈́̈̅̚̕͝͝ ̴͖͖̅̏̆͠Y̵̼͓̰͗̋̈̐̽̚͠Ợ̵̧̛̻̘͚̤̪̘̆̌̓̇͗̒͒̄Ų̴̡̻̣̰̘͎̪̐̎̓͒́̾̌̋͑̐R̸̩̙̗͌́͗̄̏ ̴̢̧̼̳̘̼͊̈́̀̚͘͝Ä̸̞̐̒̈́̀̐R̵͕̤̈́̿̅̚͝E̴̡̛͇̬̹̓̏͠A̴̖̱̣͙͔̲̮̳̍̐͗̍͋͒̚͜͜͝❗̶͈͍̯̙͇̜͙̆̃̈́̽̃͗Ç̶̡̼̬̹̦̤͇̰̀̔̀̀̔̌́̎͝L̵͍̉̊̔̔̈͐̾̉̑͒ͅI̶̧̘̗̣̪̼͂́͐́͐́̀̃͘Ç̷͎͙͉̤̙̼̻̃͛͐̆̄̕͜͠Ḱ̴̛̙̪͈͉̲̣̪̘͖̉͐̎͗̑̆̆ ̵̛͕̗͎̘̜̼͍̠̜̓͘N̴̟̋̀͂́̋̅̕Ǫ̸͉͇̲̙̟̘̫̹̋͐̈́͑̅̑̃̄̈́͝W̸͙̬̞̮̳͑́͐̅̚͝ ̸̨̢̗̬͕̺̹́̕T̴̤̤͓̫̰̪̳̔̇̉̌̃̈́͒̀̚͝ͅƠ̶͓͍͈̰̹̥̻̤̰̼̽̇̂̍̿̐́̐̚ ̴̢̙͙͈̯̖͖́̇͌̄̐͐́T̸͍̰́A̵̮͔͕̫̬̟̪̣͊͗́͑̕̕͜L̴͔͌̀̄̇͌̄̓̒K̷̳͕̝̺̓̽̂͜͜͠͝❗̷̪͙̦̦͎̯͚̹͖̞̓̌̔͘ ☜(`o´)

He feels Derek press his nose into the grown out lengths of his hair, his hand squeezing Stiles just a little closer than before.

And dare Stiles say it, but he doesn't think that Derek would, either.

-X-

They cross into California the next day.

It's... It's pretty crazy.

The moment that Stiles sees the sign saying there in California, Derek has to pull over because Stiles is crying. Big open sobs that he can't quite quell.

The relief he feels is palpable. Because it's been months. It's been months but he's almost home and he can feel that in his bones.

Derek, he's still coming to terms with everything. And that's okay with Stiles. Stiles knows this is big for him. Apart from their one night of honestly, Derek has spoken about what he went through beyond any of that. Stiles still isn't sure how long it's been since Derek has even been in California, but going by the look he makes when he thinks Stiles isn't looking is enough to spur the human into action.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and he's sure he looks like a mess— a snotty nose, a red face, puffy eyes, “It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay.”

“And if I'm not okay?”

“Then that's okay,” Stiles tells him, “I'm okay with you needing time.”

Derek blinks, like he can't believe that Stiles is in front of him right now. Stiles gets it. He wonders how he managed to get Derek as he has, still.

“If you need to not go into town, that's okay too—“

“I'm not letting you go on your own,” Derek says so suddenly that Stiles knows there will be no arguing it.

“O-Okay.”

Derek looks ahead of the road, a bit determined, “We should get there by early morning tomorrow, if the weather holds...”

“Right,” Stiles breathes, and he looks out the window.

“You okay?”

Stiles snorts softly, “We need to pick another word...”

“Doesn't answer my question.”

“I'm... I'm good,” Stiles says, “I mean, I still want to know what happened to my dad and Scott and Melissa, but... I'm not as scared now. And I'm just... ready to be back. Ready to face this and just... know.”

“You've gone through a lot to get here, I'm sure...”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, straightening his jeans over his legs, “It's... taken a lot to get to this point.”

Derek nods, quiet.

“It's taken you a lot to get here too,” Stiles states, looking at Derek then and going to hold his hand, “Don't think I'm not noticing that...”

Derek's head hangs a bit, and he takes a deep breath.

“Come on. Let's step outside the Jeep for a second... I feel like we both need a moment to compose ourselves.”

Derek does so, turning Roscoe off before he gets out of the driver's seat. He rounds the front alongside Stiles, and they look at where they state sign is in the distance. They rest against Roscoe's hood, and Stiles' breath fogs up the air.

His leg jumps up and down a bit while Derek stands still beside him.

“How... How long has it been since you've been in California?” Stiles asks, “Do you even know?”

“Years,” is all Derek says.

Stiles thinks that's all he can summarize, with his lack of knowing how things happened to him.

Derek stares at the state sign with something akin to hate, and Stiles scowls deeply at the expression.

“Listen, if... if coming back is too much—“

“It's a lot, but it's not something I won't live through,” Derek mutters, and he glances at Stiles from the corner of his eye, “You going through this on your own? There's a chance you won't live through that.”

“Hey, I made it halfway across the country during the zombie apocalypse by myself,” Stiles points out, “Give a brother slack where it's due.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Derek sighs, shaking his head, “That still doesn't mean I'm going to run off and abandon you now...”

“I know, but... I just... don't want you to go through this if you're not ready for it.”

“I'll be honest... I don't think there's a way to ever be ready for me,” Derek admits, his voice soft and quiet, “But that doesn't mean I should turn tail and run... I'll... I'll never get better if I do that.”

Nodding in understanding, Stiles mutters, “I know what you mean...”

Derek glances at Stiles then, “You do?”

Stiles nods, his eyes meeting Derek's for a fleeting moment — hazel and amber clashing for a few seconds like how the sky and the earth meet at the horizon, “I... I was diagnosed with depression before this stuff started up. Sounds pretty weaksauce, but... I promise, it's shit.”

“Is that why you have panic attacks like you do? Why you smell sad, even when you tell me you're not?”

“You can smell that?” Stiles asks, a bit bewildered before he refocuses himself, “But... yeah. I guess it is. But I'm sure there's more to it now. The world kinda ending and me being stranded from my family on the other side of the country didn't help me any at all.”

Derek puts his hands in his pockets, “I'm sure it didn't...”

“That's why I get this is a lot to walk into,” Stiles starts, looking at where Derek's leather-clad shoulders bunch together, “I didn't want to admit for a while about how I was not doing well. It's hard to. Because you have to put in effort when you're not right and you want to get better, and that's just... daunting to say the least,” snorting humorlessly, Stiles adds, “Especially when fucking zombies become a thing.”

“It's an unexpected hurdle to recovery, but yeah. I get what you're saying...”

“Just don't punish yourself,” Stiles tells him, “You'll have bad days. Maybe sometimes you think you aren't getting better... but just let yourself breathe. Remind yourself you're human— or in this case part human— and that... it's okay to not be okay...”

“It's okay to not be okay...” Derek echoes.

Stiles looks at Derek to find that the alpha is already staring at him, “Yeah... Because... If you're able to be honest with yourself... you can start fixing what's wrong.”

Derek hums, not looking away from Stiles.

Stiles' lips part, and Derek's eyes track the movement— especially as Stiles' tongue comes out to wet his lips, and they redden from the cold.

“Do you care if I'm honest with you right now?” Derek asks.

“Hell no. Go for it,” Stiles exhales.

“I really, really want to kiss you right now,” Derek whispers, and it's then that Stiles realizes they're already turning towards one another, “I want to because it's the only time that I feel like things make sense.”

“Okay... If... If we're being honest,” Stiles replies, his own words hushed as Derek comes close, “Being with you... it makes me feel the happiest I've been in a long time.”

“Me too,” Derek comes close, only an inch separating their lips, “And here I thought I lost the chance to be happy again... But all it took was some guy in a Jeep who is too stubborn for his own good, and now I think... I think I can have a shot at being okay again.”

Stiles crashes their lips together because god, he understands.

He's just wanted a connection since he left for New York. He uprooted himself in an attempt to find a new place to hitch his star, but he never quiet found it. He missed home. He missed the people he loved and who loved him back.

And with the world how it is now, he misses so much more now. Little things that you wouldn't think of. People he saw once and never again.

Days where even when he was feeling his worst, he at least didn't worry about his family being dead, or if he was gonna die too.

But it's when he's with Derek that... well, it's lesser. It's not as daunting. Because he sees that same pain and that same fear and longing in the man who slots their lips together and pulls Stiles in close.

A man who is trying to piece himself together in a world broken beyond recognition and that just wants there to be a reason he should keep going after he's suffered so much.

With Derek, Stiles found that place. He found that need and that void that matched his own, and suddenly, he didn't feel as alone as before.

Derek takes Stiles, turning him to where his back presses against Roscoe's hood. His tongue slots into Stiles' mouth like he can't get enough of the human's taste, and Stiles chases after Derek just as eagerly.

He wants Derek so badly. To the point where he wants to push past the barrier of skin and bone and until their souls wrap into one and fill and cover the scars and wounds left by what they've gone through. To where it doesn't feel like they're a cup living half full — a ghost of a person just wandering until they hope they can feel alive again.

But Stiles supposes this is the best they can manage as Derek hikes Stiles' shirt up over his stomach, past his happy trail and the faint lines of his abs so that Derek's hand can splay across his chest.

Despite the cold, Derek is hot like a furnace. Stiles guesses it's a werewolf thing, because Derek somehow gets away with that thin leather jacket in this cold and does so without complaint or shivering.

But it's welcome from Stiles, who shivers a bit from the contrast in temperature, his skin prickling as he gasps softly.

“Back of the Jeep,” he states, because it really would be a tragedy to get frostbite or something during this.

Derek complies, popping the back of Roscoe open to where they clamber in excitedly. They rest around his nest, with them both working their jackets off first.

Stiles tosses his stuff impatiently almost like a child, all clunky and lacking grace, while Derek looks like a goddamn supermodel undressing for some commercial. If Stiles didn't know he had Derek in the bag, he would be worried of how effortless it is for the man to be beautiful.

Because, holy shit, as Derek removes the plain henley he was wearing, he is fucking beautiful.

He's a natural tan that makes Stiles look so pale in comparison. His muscles are also defined, especially on his upper torso and arms, where he's dusted lightly in hair as dark as the raven peaks on his head. His eyes, so pale compared to the rest of him, stand out— especially as they flash red.

“Never gonna get over that,” Stiles states breathlessly.

It makes Derek chuckle, and he swoops over Stiles with a wicked roll in his back that makes Stiles groan when their lips meet.

Stiles feels one of Derek's hands explore his form while the other braces himself over Stiles. The air is hot between them, and Stiles feels almost perfectly suffocated by it. Especially as Derek's hands touch over the few scars he's acquired during his time of trekking it back here to California, reverent as he is soft about his touches.

And Stiles? He loves it. He's... never been touched this way. Held like something not necessarily fragile, but as though he was too valuable to be damaged. Derek knows that Stiles isn't glass. Maybe he's not one-hundred percent in the mental department, but his body is there and god he just wants Derek to do what they both want him to.

“I'm not some delicate flower,” Stiles hisses, needy and desperate, “You don't have to be gentle.”

It's all Derek truly needs, because they're both taught and wound up. It's been months for Stiles, but years for Derek — if he even got a chance to do anything like this before things went wrong and he was captured.

They're both desperately clawing at each other, an intent need overtaking them as they both take what they need from each other.

Derek undoes Stiles' jeans with a hungry pop of the button, and Stiles shoves the denim away from his hips alongside his worn boxers. The sight of his bared hips makes a rumble appear from Derek, and he quickly lets his hands fly to his jeans as he leans up over Stiles.

He's a little too tall for the roof of the Jeep, and his head and hair brush the top while he takes apart his pants, leaving Stiles to stare after the werewolf while he reveals that he's gone commando and that is hotter than it should be.

“Oh my god,” Stiles squeaks as Derek's is revealed to him fully— smooth tan skin and muscles bunching beautifully underneath it as Derek tenses, his gaze hot and wanting on Stiles, “How in the hell— you're just perfect—“

Derek chuckles before coming in, and he slots their mouths together. They're both hard now, and with nothing to keep them under wraps, their flushed cocks brush against one another in a way that makes Stiles' toes tingle.

He moans into Derek's mouth and then holds onto the werewolf, burying his hands on Derek's back and pulling closer and closer until their chests are almost flush together and Stiles can count his long lashes that kiss Derek's cheeks like he does.

“Don't leave me,” Stiles pleads, so hungry and desperate and open in a way he hasn't been in a while, “Don't leave me alone—“

“I won't,” Derek vows, breathless and gripping back onto Stiles, just as needing as he buries his face into the human's neck, “I never could... I'm as good as yours.”

Stiles can't help it, tears spring forth, and Derek almost stops, a bit shocked to see them. The air smells like must and salt but Stiles lets out an emotional laugh before placing their foreheads together.

“You better prepare yourself, then,” Stiles murmurs, his eyes closing, “I don't let my people go easily.”

“I think I want that,” Derek mutters.

He presses their lips together again, and to Stiles' surprise, he feels Derek's large hand go between his thighs. He blanks for a second until he remembers, his hand going into the seat pocket on the back of his driver's chair, and pulls out a bottle of lube.

“H-Here,” Stiles stutters, seeing how Derek quirks a brow, “I... had this for reasons.”

“Reasons,” Derek huffs softly, but there's no judgment in that, and if anything, he looks a bit relieved that Stiles was able to provide them something to actually make this enjoyable.

“I hooked up with guys occasionally,” Stiles still says in some defense, “And girls. It wasn't always a Stilinski self-love fest before the apocalypse.”

Derek chuckles, “I hooked up with guys before... It's okay. This will just make things a lot easier.”

Stiles is a bit intrigued by that actually, but also a bit relieved. Because that means that Derek will know what he's doing, because Stiles doesn't think he has the patience or control to guide Derek through the motions right now. Not when Stiles threatens to fall apart at any moment with Derek's hands on him like this.

The moment the cap pops on the lube, Stiles' heart jumps. It jumps up his throat and into his dry mouth as he smells that stupid, glorious lube while Derek applies it to some of his fingers on his right hand. His skin gets an oily sheen with it, and Stiles licks his lips hungrily at the sight.

“You ready?” Derek asks.

“Y-Yes,” there's no doubt in Stiles' voice— just an unfiltered want, “Please, Derek...”

Derek nods, letting his hand disappear between the pale thighs that part below Stiles' hips, “Let me know if anything bothers you...”

It's... a lot.

Not that Stiles hasn't done this before, or that it's even been a while. But that... it's Derek doing this.

Derek, who feels different to Stiles than any other person ever has. And Stiles has been with a few. They were enjoyable, sure. They gave Stiles a good time, made him feel a buzz for a few minutes or days, but they never were anything more than superficial. But with Derek, somehow, it feels like the werewolf has clawed him open and crawled inside the vacancy that Stiles has been sporting for so long now.

That Derek made himself a home where Stiles longed for one. That Derek gave him love when Stiles numbed himself.

The human has to bracket an arm over his eyes as they pinch close, and he bites his bottom lip between his teeth because feeling Derek move inside of him is like his nerves and heart are exposed to his touch at the same time. It's overwhelming.

“You good?” Derek asks.

“If you s-stop now, I'll shoot you,” Stiles threatens, peeking past his arm and through his lashes at Derek, “I don't care if you'll heal afterward.”

That makes a smile break out across Derek's lips. It's a brilliant, beautiful thing. Then again, Derek is too.

“I'll take that as this is good so far.”

“It's great. Amazing. More than amazing,” Stiles flushes, “I... God, Derek. I already feel like I'm fallin' apart...”

Derek hums as he adds another finger into Stiles, stretching the human further and making him groan as his toes curl a bit.

“Don't just yet,” Derek leans over, ghosting his lips so deliciously over Stiles', “I'd like it if you could once I'm inside of you.”

“F-Fuck,” Stiles breathes, “Fuck.”

Derek kisses him, and Stiles can feel the restraint he holds onto himself. But Stiles knows. Knows that Derek is aware that Stiles wants him to not be gentle because he can take it. It's because Derek is waiting. Waiting till Stiles truly can because of course he's a gentleman like that.

He keeps on fingering Stiles as they kiss, and Stiles whimpers as the tip of his cock brushes against Derek's belly and how he can feel Derek's length rub against his thigh. Sweat pools on the human's skin, and Derek scents it heavily.

A rumble escapes him, and Stiles looks at the werewolf in a daze.

“What do I smell like?” Stiles asks.

Because Derek has never told him.

“Like...” Derek pauses, a twinkle working its way into his eyes, “Like home.”

It's profound. Profound for the both of them, but for Derek Stiles is sure that is a soul-shattering kind. Because his first home was burned away. His last “home” was where he was tortured and hunted and treated like a rabid animal.

Derek hasn't had something to call his own in so long.

And he's just told Stiles that he is somewhere his heart wants to stay.

Stiles' eyes water up because he gets that. Because part of his heart was always in California. Always with his dad. With Scott and Melissa.

But the other half has always been looking. Always been hoping to find a place to nestle itself into and call its own.

And with the apocalypse, with his fears of Beacon Hills and his family being gone forever, it's been hard for Stiles to feel like his heart has anything to claim and care for.

And then in waltzes Derek. First as a wolf, and then as a man. With a tragic past and scars that matched Stiles' own in kind.

Like two faces of the same coin. So co-dependent by nature. So interlinked by design.

Stiles doesn't even notice Derek's hand slipping out until he feels Derek place his length in front of Stiles' hole and he tenses just a little, breath catching and his eyes immediately trying to search out for Derek's.

Hazel meets amber. And their bodies slot together.

Stiles gasps as Derek enters him, stretching him out and leaving Stiles breathless and trembling. It isn't painful— no. It feels like sandpaper is going up and down his spine and sending out sparks that make his fingers and hands tremble as Derek sinks into him.

Inch by torturous inch. Until Derek is settled inside of Stiles entirely, the werewolf's eyes closed and mouth agape as he breathes roughly over his lips.

He shudders lightly. Like being in Stiles is also just as fraying. His muscles contract and twitch under his skin and Stiles feels something swell in his chest. A wave threatening to break across the shore as it grows and grows, pulling at him just the same.

“Please,” Stiles begs, and he wonders if that's enough.

It is.

Derek sets in on him. Slightly pacing at first, trying to ensure he isn't breaking Stiles in the process, but until he gets his rhythm and finds it in Stiles, he moves slow, cautiously building pace till he knows the time is right.

Stiles bites his lip. He's sure he's broken the skin. He can taste rust on his tongue and dear god he's going to fucking fall apart.

But once Derek is sure, once he is certain that he isn't going to break Stiles, he sets in on the human like nothing else.

His hips move, one languid roll to get the angle right and then, he's fucking Stiles like nothing else.

Stiles grabs a hold of Derek, mouth agape as his head throws back into his nest of blankets. Because god, this is just what he needed. He needed to feel something more than this drifting, than this hollow worry he's carried for months.

He needed to forget about the zombies. About the humans who also want to kill him. About rationing food and siphoning gas. About looting abandoned stores. About trying to survive.

And just for a bit... to forget about Beacon Hills.

To be happy with something he found, all on his own out in the world beyond that tiny city in the northern hills of California.

To be happy that... for the first time in a while, he actually feels alive in this moment.

Stiles' nails dig into Derek's back, making the werewolf growl as his canines length into slight fangs, his eyes glowing red while Stiles openly cries into the back of his Jeep because he's got no reason to be quiet.

He wants to scream. To yell. To let out all this energy bubbling up inside of him as Derek thrusts into him, knocking him closer and closer towards the back of the seats at their heads while Stiles tries to brace himself among the blankets below.

“More, Derek,” Stiles begs, because he wants Derek to finish ripping him apart— wants Derek to finish the cracks in the glass and break the rest of the mortar holding him together, “I can take it.”

The werewolf snarls then, nails lengthening into claws as his eyes flash crimson. Stiles shudders a bit under Derek as he begins to rock into Stiles even harder, a carnal want passing between both of them.

Like ends of live wires, not grounded, they spark dangerously between one another.

But Stiles thinks it's perfect. Perfect that they can be like this one another and take what is left among their wreck.

Stiles loses himself in Derek's motions, his head falling back as the alpha buries his face into Stiles' neck, groaning and using his tongue to taste and draw lines between the various moles and beauty marks there. He blankets Stiles so thoroughly that he thinks maybe they are melding into one as Derek holds onto him, the remains of who they are crumbling apart in each other's arms.

Stiles cries out as Derek hits him just right, over and over again while Derek grunts into his ear, almost panting as Stiles lets his nails dig into the flexing muscles of Derek's back. He's close. So goddamn fucking close.

To California. To home.

To having something of his own that makes him feel like all of this was somehow worth it.

Derek's teeth tease Stiles' flesh, and the human shudders, moving his head and offering more space to the wolf. He nips, but lightly, not enough to do anymore than tease Stiles so horribly after he's begged for no restraint from either end.

But Derek pulls back, placing their foreheads together and breathing out hotly against Stiles' mouth until he's shaking and Stiles looks at him so longingly. Fluttering open from where they had closed, Derek's eyes lock onto Stiles', and they stare at each other while their bodies mold into each other.

“I— I think I already love you,” Stiles admits, breathless but honest.

Derek blinks at him, eyes wide like he didn't expect those words. Stiles didn't either. But he doesn't think that means they aren't the truth through and through.

But it seems like it's enough, because Derek gasps, rolling up high into Stiles and making him feel like he's almost splitting in two. He gasps, not expecting that either as Derek's hands grip and pinch him in their vice.

He ends up falling over the edge, breaking in half as Derek slots himself between the separation. He fills the void in Stiles. Makes things seem as though they've fallen into place while stars cross his vision and he shakes under the werewolf.

Stiles is breathing, but it somehow feels like he is suffocating. He feels pain, but also an overwhelming sense of fulfillment.

He can't help it. He grips onto Derek. Pulling and pulling him down until their lips press together though the haze of hormones and heat that has fogged up the windows of Roscoe.

Stiles doesn't pull away from Derek until his high is gone. When that completion wanes into contentment, and Stiles settles his forehead against Derek's as he breathes.

Derek still pants, eyes wide and still in slight disbelief.

“Hey, big guy,” Stiles braces the alpha's cheek with his hand, smiling in a loopy, Hallmark-movie kind of way, “You aren't brain dead, are you?”

“You... You love me?” Derek asks, so unsure and afraid to believe the words, “But... how can you? I'm not— I'm a mess.”

“And so am I,” the human tells the wolf, “I've been one for years. I've gotten worse in the past few months. But with you... I feel like I can get better.”

Derek frowns, but it's soft. Soft like the way he runs a thumb reverently across Stiles' cheek.

“I think I love you too,” the alpha admits, voice quiet, “I'm pretty sure this is what love is.”

“I don't think I'd care if it's not... If we're somethin' else entirely... I think I'd like that better, even.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Stiles' eyes drift down to Derek's lips, down to where he places his hand across Derek's chest and his fingers splay out, “I never liked living my life to others' expectations. And then I made outrageous ones of my own. I guess... guess that's one reason I'm so messed up. Because everything that is supposed to be one way for me isn't. Like it's not enough.”

Derek hums, and he places his hand over Stiles', “I don't even know what to expect of myself.”

“Then let's not worry about the stupid shit,” Stiles suggests, “Let's just... be.”

Derek's doubt falls away, and Stiles can see he likes the idea of that too.

“Who would've thought... It's the end of the world—” Stiles snorts as Derek falls to his side, and the human turns so that they are facing inward towards each other, “—and I found a reason to keep going.”

“And here I thought I'd never get a reason to come back,” hazel meets amber once more as they look at one another, “And then I found you.”

Stiles can't stop the smile that stretches his lips.

But then again, he doesn't think he'd want to anyway.

-X-

“But I thought you loved New York—“

“I don't, dad,” Stiles mutters into the phone, his room dark and his mind darker, “I never did.”

“BHU doesn't have as good of a criminal justice program, Stiles. I don't want you to jeopardize your degree if you switch to try and come back.”

“I already talked to my counselor. There wouldn't be an issue. Credits would stay the same. Certifications would be the same. Maybe BHU isn't as renowned as the colleges here in the big apple, but... it's home, dad.”

His dad quiets, and Stiles stares down at the carpet. He wonders when things go so fucked. When he realized he felt as he did hundreds of miles away from home. Years after he left.

His dad sounds quiet, and Stiles can hear Ramsey whine from the other end of the line, “Kid... I just hate how you're feeling. I don't... don't want you to think you're in this alone.”

“I know I'm not... I just... New York isn't what I want,” Stiles chokes up a bit, “I don't know what I want... Nothing feels like it's enough.”

“Will coming home help, then?”

“I think... it'll be the step in the right direction,” glancing over to his packed boxes and bags, Stiles clears his throat a little, “I, uh... I started going to therapy. Melissa told me that I should try it when I was down for spring break, and uh... It's something here on campus— with my counselor. She... she suggested that I start thinking about what might make me happy... and... Well, all I could think about was you guys.”

Silence lapses for a few seconds, but Stiles knows why. Because Stiles is sure his father is crying, just like Stiles is.

But emotions are hard for Stilinski's. It's hard for his father to hear him admit how wrong he's felt for years. It's hard as his son to know how much his dad wants to fix something that he can't repair.

It reminds Stiles of the night his father sat him down. Claudia was in the hospital. The doctors had come upon their final suggestion of what they could do. Stiles still remembers his father explaining to him that his mother wasn't coming home. They they were all they had in the world, really.

Stiles may not have wanted to say this, and this may be the last thing his father wanted to hear coming from his son— but past the tears, past their walls and the way they both try to pretend they are infallible, Stiles knows they will be there for each other no matter what it is.

“When are you coming home?” his dad chokes out, and Stiles feels his heart fall a little at that.

“I'm... not sure. The CDC... They've put some travel restrictions in. No out-of-state travel right now. My flight was canceled this morning and driving back it out of the question,” Stiles hears his father's muffled curse over the line, and he hates that their hands are both tied in this, “I'm... I'm scared, dad. It sounds like all of this is just getting worse and worse... I just want to be with you guys, be it good or bad...”

“Things may seem pretty scary right now, Stiles. But no matter what happens, I want you to know that we're here. You may be in New York, but I'll damned if that distance or this virus is going to make you feel like you're on your own. Because you're not.”

“I— I know,” Stiles stutters out, nodding once to try and reassure himself.

“Just... stay inside kid. Stay safe. This will all blow over soon,” his dad speaks with such a confidence that Stiles' heart aches with it, “You'll be back home with us before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles hums, holding his phone close till he hears his case creak, and he closes his eyes while he tries not to feel like he's falling apart in a way he can't come back from, “I'm not sure when it'll be, but... I'll come back, dad. Somehow, sometime...”

And with a bittersweet chuckle, his dad sniffles over the line, “I'm lookin' forward to it.”

-X-

Welcome to Beacon Hills!

That shitty wood sign for the entrance of town has never been a more welcome and terrifying sight to Stiles as Derek drives Roscoe past it.

He's going a bit slow, going past a couple of abandoned cars and items like luggage left in the road.

The leaves are changing, the snow is melting on the ground. The sun has come up and covered the world in a light fog.

But Beacon Hills... it's still here. Changed. But still here.

Stiles... can say the same about himself.

They roll up into town first, passing the small strip leading up to the town hall building. The glass is broken in some places, items are taken. It's a reminder to Stiles that things have changed for the world, that no matter how small the corner of it was, nothing was untouched by the outbreak. Nothing could be spared from the infection, or the panic— of humanity's dire struggle to survive.

Stiles' heart catches in his throat while Derek remains on high alert, because so far they haven't seen anyone.

Not a single infected. Not a single human. Not even a body.

It makes Stiles wonder if the city evacuated before they got here. If his father and Scott and Melissa were forced to leave Beacon Hills and into the world beyond.

Maybe he was too late.

Maybe they are gone, and he's coming back to nothing.

Derek stops the car by the statue of the wolf that sits in front of the town hall building. He eyes it sadly, and Stiles can tell he's going through the motions himself as they step out of Roscoe and onto the damp street as Stiles' chest catches.

“Can— can you tell if anyone's here?” Stiles asks.

Derek sniffs the air, making a slight face and looking around.

“I'm... not sure,” he admits, “There's scents. But they're faint. Not sure how old they are, or who they're from.”

Stiles doesn't know if that's good or bad, and he begins to feel that ugly desperation in him turn up tenfold.

“Well— we could go to Scott's house first. And if not there, we can try mine. My dad would try to hold up there... Or maybe they'd all go to the supermarket—“

“Hold on,” Stiles shuts up at the hiss of Derek's voice, his heart thundering up a bit as Derek's nose wrinkles a little, and he turns to look down the road, “Something's here with us.”

Stiles goes over to his front seat, stepping across the slush-covered road carefully as Derek hones his attention on the end of the road. The human grabs his bat, and he makes sure his dad's pistol is faithfully at his hip.

Derek's brow furrows as he scents the air. And then, he scents it again. He takes a cautious step forward, as though he isn't sure of what is happening.

Stiles stares down the road, ready to face whatever it is that is coming their way.

He truly doesn't expect what it is, though.

It's a familiar shape. A gray blob of speed at first, but Stiles' eyes widen the moment it earns its definition. He can hear the panting, the click of nails against the asphalt.

It's another goddamn wolf.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, looking to the alpha.

But when Stiles looks over to the driver's side of the Jeep, Stiles sees that Derek isn't there.

No. He's running toward the gray wolf like a goddamn idiot.

“Derek!”

Stiles' shout echoes in the small town square, and Stiles watches in horror as Derek collides with the other wolf.

He's expecting a more horrific version of the Walmart in Vernal, but instead, he's going to see Derek get ripped to shreds in his human form.

Stiles' adrenaline picks up, and he starts running before he can even hesitate or think about it.

He's expecting to hear Derek scream in pain, to scent blood on the wind.

But... all he can hear is the whines of the wolf and Derek crying from where they fall about one another in the street.

Stiles stalls, unsure of what is happening until the wolf shifts into a woman and — oh god, she's naked. Stiles pointedly glances away with a slight wince while Derek wraps her up in a tear-filled hug.

“Oh my god, Derek,” the woman says, burying her face into the other wolf's chest, “I thought— you were gone so long—“

“I— I thought you had been killed,” Derek starts, so scared, “Kate. She had you and Peter cornered and I thought... I thought she got you too.”

“I escaped,” the girl states, and she looks at Derek in disbelief, “But I know she got you.”

“Yeah...” Derek grows quiet, “I... the infection. I'm not sure when things happened. I shifted and just... never shifted back for a long time...”

“Then how did you change? How did you get back? Who—“ the girl then looks at Stiles, her face pinching, “Who is he?”

“Stiles!”

The human's heart all but stops, and he turns, almost disbelieving of what he swears he just heard. His eyes are wide and watery as he hears shoes thundering against the pavement, and a familiar mop of brown hair crosses his vision.

Stiles drops his bat, the battered weapon clattering to the ground as his heartbeat skyrockets.

Before Stiles can honestly take in what he thinks he's seeing, he's getting tackled, practically shoved into the pavement with it. Grunting, Stiles can hear Derek come up on him, and he growls lowly.

“No, Derek! It's fine,” the girl states, grabbing onto Derek, “No one is hurting... Stiles?”

“Stiles— oh my god,” Stiles' throat feels like it's in a vice as that familiar kicked puppy look he's missed so much appears, “You're fucking alive— we thought you were dead—“

“Scott,” Stiles can't help the small whimper he lets out, and he grabs at his childhood best friend with a sort of desperation that would embarrass him in other circumstances, “Oh my god, Scotty. Breathe, dude. Breathe. You don't want an asthma attack.”

“T-This deserves one,” Scott sniffles, and he's probably the most tore up Stiles has ever seen him, “Dude, how in the hell? You were in New York! And there's zombies!”

“Yeah, dude. Crazy shit, but—“ Stiles starts, but then he hears others approach, and he looks up to the stairs of the former town hall.

The strange girl from before gathers Derek up on the side, whispering things to him as Derek watches on cautiously.

Scott doesn't get off of Stiles though. He's sure the puppy pile he's gonna get after all this time and hardship is gonna be killer and even now as he goes to stand, Scott can't seem to separate himself from his friend's side. Stiles doesn't mind it though. He really fucking doesn't.

But Stiles watches with sore eyes and an aching chest as the door to the town hall opens, and out steps Melissa and— and—

“Dad!”

“S-Stiles?” his father looks confused as he emerges with Melissa, the former nurse placing her hands over her mouth as she immediately starts to cry upon the sight of the boy she calls her second son, “You're... Roscoe... Am I hallucinating?”

“Oh my god, dad!” Stiles jumps away from Scott, his friend following along like the tear-filled mess he's been since he shoved Stiles into the road, “Melissa!”

John stares at where Roscoe sits in the middle of the road a bit absently before Stiles charges his old man and Melissa. He wraps them up in his arms with Scott not far behind, and it's then that it must truly sink in for his father.

His son is home. He's home and he's alive, despite it all.

“O-Oh,” the break in his father's voice is enough to send Stiles over the edge, sobs falling heavily from him while Melissa cries into his worn flannel and Scott buries his face into Stiles' back, the both of them weeping just the same, “You're... I can't believe this.”

“I missed you all so fucking much,” Stiles' voice breaks like he does then, and he squeezes them tightly— because he's wanted this for so long, even before the apocalypse, and now they're finally here and he's home and it's just—

So fucking overwhelmingly perfect.

“Us too, Stiles,” his dad chokes up again, and he places his chin on top of his son's head and breathes in deeply, “Us too...”

They all hold onto for a moment, as emotional as they are grateful and clinging to each other. They all shake and tears are abundant.

It's the sappiest and best reunion that Stiles could've imagined. Hell. It's even better.

Eventually, they pull away from one another, especially as a throat clears itself. It's then, after years of seeing her, that Stiles takes in the sight of the glorious redhead he hasn't seen in ages.

Lydia— she's held up will. Somehow, even during the apocalypse, she's kept together. Hair brushed, face clean. Her clothes are a bit worn and aren't designer anymore, but she still pulls them off flawlessly.

Stiles isn't surprised to see she handles even the end of the world with such grace and aptitude.

But Stiles' relief and joy is slightly cut then, and a frown overtakes his lips as Lydia seems to recognize him, her eyes widening.

“Bilinski?”

Stiles snorts at the namesake. God. Finstock really was off his fucking rocker the more Stiles lingers on it.

“Yeah, it's me. Stiles. Took me a minute to get here, but...” Stiles steps away from his group, and they all are questioning why that is while he approaches Lydia, “I have something for you.”

Scowling, Lydia looks a little dubious, “Even now you're still trying—“

“No. Listen, you were a high school crush for me, but things have changed since then. I sure as fuck did,” Stiles huffs, and Lydia lowers her bristle while Stiles fishes into his pocket, “But it's from someone else. Someone... important.”

It's then that Stiles reveals the necklace that Jackson gave him back in near Boise. He's kept it on his person ever since. Just in case. Just in case he saw Lydia like he had here.

It was an astronomically small chance she would still be around. That she would still even be alive. But here she is, staring at the necklace with an intimate sense of recognition that makes Stiles feel like an asshole for having to do this.

“Jackson,” Stiles murmurs, and everyone is quiet then as Lydia's hand trembles, coming up to her mouth, “He... We ran into him in Utah... Things... didn't work out. But I made him a promise. He wanted you to have this... and he told me to tell you that he never stopped caring.”

Lydia is wordless, but her face says it all for Stiles.

He's not sure how he'd process this himself. Finding out someone you loved died by the word and favor of an almost-stranger. In a way it feels cruel. But things were rarely kind these days.

“Of course h-he'd have kept it,” she says, taking the necklace before taking a step back, her mind and focus set on that necklace, “I... thank you...”

“I'm sorry I just couldn't bring him back...”

Nodding once, Lydia steps away. She excuses herself, rushing back into the town hall and leaving Stiles at the top of the steps, feeling numb despite what has happened today.

Because while his family is alive, the same cannot be said for others. Because while he is with them now, there are some families, some people, who can't and won't see each other again. Be it opened ended, or tragedy marking the conclusion of their story.

Not everyone is as lucky as he is.

Stiles feels his father's hand on his shoulder, and Stiles can't help the natural way he leans into the touch. His eyes water while he wipes at his cheeks, and it's then that Derek and the first girl to appear, now thankfully wrapped in a blanket from the back of Roscoe, come up to join them on the steps.

“It seems that a lost has happened in the past few months,” John mutters, tired but also grateful as he adds, “Let's just... take the day. To catch up. To be with each other.”

Stiles nods once, “Yeah... Okay. Let's... Let's do that.”

Melissa grabs a hold of Scott, who's still mercilessly crying into his hands. It's almost comical at how tore up Scott is, because once he starts crying, he's a tearful mess the rest of the day.

John hesitates though, as does Derek and the girl he's with. The former sheriff looks between them, then specifically at Derek.

Derek stares at the door of the town hall, uncertain. Afraid.

Stiles fears that maybe this is too much. That maybe Derek will back away and run. Run until he's on his own and he doesn't feel the pressure of coming back into something he hasn't had or tried to have in so long.

But his father just offers Derek the warmest of smiles.

“Come on in, kid,” the way Stiles' dad says it, it's like he knows Derek already, and then Stiles knows he does when John adds, “It's time you met the rest of the Hale pack.”

“P-Pack?” Derek asks, confused.

“Yep,” John pops the 'P' with a smile, “Turns out there was a whole bunch of supernatural creatures here in town and I never had a clue. To be honest, a lot more makes sense.”

Blinking, Stiles looks at his dad, “Wait— there's more than just werewolves?”

Chuckling, his father nods, “Come on, Stiles... I'll show you.”

And it's then that Stiles is guided up to the town hall door before his dad takes him inside. There's people in here, maybe twenty altogether. Stiles recognizes some, others he doesn't. He doubts everyone is from Beacon Hills, but it still feels like a community as Stiles passes through the entrance.

His mouth gapes a bit, taking in the candles and the networking they have created here in the town hall.

“I like what you've done with the place...” he states.

“It was Scott's idea—“

“It was ours,” Stiles argues, “Don't let him take all the credit. You know that we had an apocalypse plan since elementary school.”

Ruffling Stiles' hair, his dad smiles so fondly it makes Stiles' teeth ache from the sweetness of it, “'Course you two did.”

“I'm just grateful it worked...” Stiles mutters.

“Well, I'll tell you about everything else that did. And everything that didn't.”

As his father pulls him aside, Stiles nods once.

“I tell you about New York and everything in between. Well... the better parts of it,” giving his dad a hopeful smile, he asks, “I got some gifts for you... Think I could show you them after we talk?”

John smiles, his eyes red but hopeful in the candlelight, “I'd love that...”

-X-

In the end, the spend the rest of the day talking. Till their throats are sore and the sun goes down. Until they think they've gone over everything the possibly could.

John told Stiles of what Beacon Hills was like when things went to shit. Once the power went out. When people really starting panicking. The day the infection came sweeping through and they dealt with hordes of infected.

Scott had suggested the town hall when it became clear they needed to protect themselves. Small space with enough eyes and gun power... it worked well, thankfully. They hadn't really dealt with raiders, and most survivors that came along left them alone or joined them in the hall, unsure of finding anything better if they left.

Stiles confirms there really isn't much to find anywhere else.

Of course, his dad is curious about what lies beyond California, and Stiles is a bit hesitant at first to tell him. Because how in the fuck do you tell your father the world went to hell in a hand basket with no true chance of coming back? That most of what you find is empty space or infected?

The military is non-existent, as is the government. The closest thing to either are the groups of survivors who shoot to kill and ask questions later. The humans who somehow lost their humanity once society fell apart, and hunt like rabid packs of dogs.

Still, as much as it pains Stiles, he's honest. He tells his father these things. Tells him about his struggles of dealing with those and hordes. About how hard it was and how often he came close to not making it home.

It brings tears to his father's eyes, and while it has to be said, they don't linger on it for longer than they need.

So John refocuses them.

He tells Stiles about how he learned about the supernatural in Beacon Hills, which is a subject Stiles could gladly transition without hesitation. Because hell yeah— he's been intrigued ever since Derek wasn't just a weird wolf hybrid he picked up in the foothills of Yellowstone. And it's not like the internet exists. It's a mental scratch Stiles hasn't been able to sate before now.

But it turns out that quite a few residents of Beacon Hills weren't as human as they appeared.

Firstly, it seems that strange girl that first appeared outside of the town hall as a wolf is actually Hale. Specifically Cora Hale, one of the sole survivors of the fire that Derek had mentioned before, back in Oregon. Peter hadn't made it, but Cora somehow had, staying hidden in Beacon Hills from Kate, the hunter that made it her personal mission to ruin the Hale's and Derek's lives.

Her reunion with her brother has had an... impact, to say the least. Derek, he clings to his sister when he isn't with Stiles. The human often finds them just against each other, limbs entangled as they wordlessly hang onto one another. And Stiles is sure that at one point they chase after each other outside of the town hall, and Stiles' heart mends itself a little that, after all Derek went through, he didn't truly lose everything because of Kate.

Already, in the few hours they've been here, Stiles can see a change in Derek. A bit more hope that fills his step, in the smile that graces his face.

It really makes Stiles feel like... maybe things can get better for them, apocalypse withstanding.

Still. It's not all that is different.

Stiles is surprised to find out that Kira, the love of Scott's life, is actually a kitsune— or a werefox. Lydia turns out to be a banshee once the apocalypse started. And his father's deputy Jordan Parrish? A fucking phoenix. Like how is that even a thing? Also, how fucking cool that it is boggles Stiles' mind.

“Yeah, it was a shock to say the least,” his dad snorts, shaking his head absently, “The station was swarmed with infected, then suddenly my deputy turns into a massive, fiery bird and burns them all to a crisp... We live in interesting times, I guess.”

But Stiles is glad. Glad that things have seemingly worked out for the best. Despite their losses, despite the heartbreak and the worry of making it to tomorrow, they have a goddamn chance at making this work.

At living when everything else was dying around them.

Stiles can't honestly believe he's here. That his family is alive. That he's got Derek, and he's got someone to reunite with too.

For all the fear he felt. All the despair.

“It's a miracle,” Stiles tells his dad, “I... I feared coming back and there wouldn't be anything or anyone left... But I never wanted to lose hope.”

But it's then, with that admission that John stands, and he takes Stiles to his corner of the building.

It's there, beside his dad's sleeping bag that Stiles sees it.

It's a small shrine surrounding a picture frame. It's a few years old, and the photo is from a time and world that has long since past.

Stiles remembers that day. Senior year— it was his photo for the final yearbook. He's got that goofy smile of his, his eyes alight with mischief and if anything, a hidden trepidation for the future.

Stiles stares at his photo. Stares at the fresh wildflowers and the mass of candles and run off wax that surround it so lovingly. A piece of before that his father didn't lose. His son that he didn't want to think was lost.

“I never wanted to lose hope either,” his dad says as he comes up from behind his son, and Stiles can see the weathered expression of pain and haunting memories that the sight of his son's photo brings, “I wanted to think... no matter what happened or how much time would pass, you'd come back like you said you would.”

“And I did,” Stiles murmurs, glancing to his father, “It took a lot... It cost a lot... But I did it.”

“That's because you're a stubborn little shit,” his father engulfs his son into a tight hug, all emotional all over again, “But it's what I admire most about you, kid...”

Stiles closes his eyes as he hugs his father back.

They're feeling a lot, but most goes unsaid. However, that doesn't mean the father and son duo don't acknowledge or know all that they aren't saying right now.

They take a few moments before they pull apart, and they pretend not to notice each other's watery and bloodshot eyes as they wipe at their faces.

“Think that's enough for today,” his dad murmurs, “Melissa was making a roast... should be done now.”

“God. I haven't had warm food since ramen,” Stiles says with a slight moan, “I missed warm food.”

“I don't even wanna know what you had to eat out there,” his dad muses with some disgust.

Snorting, Stiles falls into place with him, the two Stilinski's walking side by side through the dark rooms of the town hall and towards where everyone is gathered around Melissa and a pot she is ladling from.

It's then that his father uses their lack of proximity to ask, “So... you and this Derek fellow... Care to tell me about you two?”

“Oh. It's, uh... well, I guess we're kind of together,” Stiles admits, “Not sure how to label it really.”

Stiles knows his dad is aware of his preferences. Stiles, despite the mortification it caused them both, was a bit of an open book as he grew up. There wasn't much that he got himself into that his father didn't eventually find out about. And that was no truer than when Stiles started getting grown up feelings and urges and was the worst about keeping private things private, to their dismay.

But luckily, John didn't care. He loved his son no matter what. And Stiles knows that is more true now than ever.

The world is ending. Who gives a shit about the inane details when really, they didn't matter anymore?

“He makes you happy?”

“Y-Yeah,” Stiles admits, “He... He really does.”

“Good,” his father smiles at him, “It's... It's good to hear you found something. Or someone...”

Stiles nods, and he notices how they hesitate just a bit, lingering about ten feet away from the group they managed to cultivate here.

“I think, for the first time in a few years... I'm gonna be okay,” Stiles says, but he's quick to add, “It'll take some time though. And I know there will be rough days. Especially with things and how they are now, but... God, dad, I feel like I finally found what I was missing all these years.”

“As long as you're alive and happy, there's nothin' more I could want for, Stiles,” his dad says in agreement.

As they linger away, Stiles crosses his arms, and he looks to his dad, “You know... Jackson... he mentioned to me that there was a human settlement in Washington. Said it was... it was as close as we could get to before.”

John's eyes widen, “Shit, there is?”

“Yeah. I mean, it would be a hell of a trek. And there would be a lot to lose if... if it wasn't true,” Stiles admits, “But if it is, if we can get up there... It would be good, right?”

“It would be. If they're open to other survivors, we could not try and sleep with one eye open. We wouldn't be as worried doing supply runs, staying safe if a horde comes through...” his dad hums, “Washington... It's a bit away, though.”

Scoffing playfully, Stiles jokes, “Scared of a little travel, old man?”

Ruffling his son's hair, his dad grins, “I'm sure after your trek, Washington is nothing.”

“Well, for now, it's an idea,” Stiles states before he looks back to their group of survivors, at the light they preserve in a world that's growing darker and darker by the day, “For now, let's just have a good meal together. Enjoy tonight and worry about tomorrow when it comes.”

With an accepting nod, John braces his arm across Stiles' shoulder as they walk towards their families, found and made.

“I love ya, kid...”

And as Stiles smiles, the expression genuine and the most profound it's felt in years, he whispers back, “Love you too, dad.”

Together, the two Stilinski's join the McCall's. And the Hales.

Lydia Martin rests against Cora's shoulder, quiet but not hiding away. Parrish punches John's shoulder from some shitty joke the former sheriff made. Kira holds Scott's hand while the human wipes at his eyes and waves at Stiles with his spoon.

Stiles smiles at all of them, especially as Derek nestles his way to his side.

“Not sure if this is what you imagined Beacon Hills would be like when you came back. If you ever imagined it,” Stiles murmurs, holding his bowl of stew and enjoying how it rests warmly in his stomach.

Reaching over, Derek takes one of Stiles' hands in his own, his hazel eyes hopeful while their fingers intertwine as delicately and intricately as their lives have now.

He knows they're new to this. They're new to healing. They're new to each other, even. But Stiles is in no rush. And Derek seems to be content with simply being with him.

It's like all that they suffered through can't touch them when they're together. That their bad habits don't seem so dauntingly hard to break. Like there's a chance at something normal for them, as normal as they can get, considering.

But Stiles is grateful for that.

“It's better than anything I ever could've hoped for.”

And Stiles understands. But he never could've hoped for this.

After years of hopelessness. After years of feeling alone.

It's as the world is ending that it feels like somehow, his life is beginning anew.

Stiles can tell you that is one thing those zombie movies never got right, either. But he never would've thought that this was possible.

Because for once, being wrong was the best thing that ever happened to him.