Standard Disclaimer: The show Teen Wolf is owned by MTV and partners, and this fic and author are in no way affiliated with them.

Author's Note: So I felt the fandom was lacking in a) Scott-centric fics, b) Scott/Malia fics and c) 6b coda fics, so here we are. This is a three part story covering 6x15, 6x16 and 6x17 in each part, retelling some scenes but with mostly new material augmenting and filling in the gaps. Expect some introspection on current events and the war to come, with lots of romantic and occasionally angsty stuff in between, along with some minor artistic liberties taken with canon - the last scene of this chapter specifically does this with regards to the canonical status of the Hale house, because I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy!

- - - -/- - - -

i. Eve Of The War.

- - - -/- - - -

War. The word beat like a drum in his veins.

He'd known it would come to war, how could he not? It had been building for weeks now, drawn to Beacon Hills like a supernatural being unto itself, formed of whispers in the night and blood in the air, strengthened by the unknown chaos and fear of a nightmare beyond comprehension, unleashed from shackles of nonexistence not even the Wild Hunt could contain it with. The creature terrorising their town, leaving dead wolves and rats and skinless corpses in its wake, had in turn given birth to a new terror, armed with shotguns and rifles, the spectre of Gerard Argent looming over them. And on this night, a night of Hunters camped outside the Sheriff's station with bloodlust in their eyes, Scott saw for the first time what war truly looked like. And while he'd known it would come to this, now he knew.

And so, when his father had emerged from behind the barricade, waved his FBI badge and taken Tamora Monroe aside to cut a deal, Scott figured out pretty quickly what would happen next. Jiang and Tierney, the last two survivors of Satomi's butchered pack, would be remanded safely to FBI custody, Monroe would disband her lynch mob and allow it, and Scott and his pack would leave. Not just the station, but Beacon Hills. They would leave that very night. Monroe might've been ruled by her fear, but she wasn't stupid; the authority of the FBI as a national agency wasn't enough to diminish the sickly sweet smile on her face, but the grip on her shotgun would, and did, slacken.

Scott wasn't stupid either - he knew the only reason Rafael McCall would dare much such a deal was to protect him. Not his friends, not the last members of Satomi's pack, just him. His father was no doubt of the opinion that if Scott went to college, he would cease to be a werewolf, an Alpha, the protector of Beacon Hills. Scott supposed he couldn't blame him for that; for a while there, he'd dared to think the same. Maybe the dream would come true one day soon, but for now, Beacon Hills needed him. Already, lost and desperate werewolves were flocking from all over to find him, seeking sanctuary, a pack, an end to the fear, drawn by the legend of Scott McCall, he who survived an Alpha Pack, defeated the Beast of Gevaudan, and driven off the Wild Hunt. It would be a battle unlike any they had fought. It would be a war.

"Give me a minute," Scott told his father. "I'll convince them it's the right call."

They had the Sheriff's office to themselves, while the rest of the station stood with hands on their holsters and stared down the Hunters through the windows, the overwhelming vortex of fear that had led two of their own to suicide begging them to spill blood rather than stayed trapped within its wake. Agent McCall had done most of the talking, convincing them it was the right call, that Jiang and Tierney were not their responsibility, that they were too young to be involved in standoffs with vigilantes, and so on. The group had taken it silently, waiting for Scott to be the one to protest. He had not, and now the silence took on an anticipation fit to burst, but, once more, they waited. Only after Scott's father had left, nodding approvingly at his son's seeming acquiesce as he went, and the Sheriff followed, casting a doubting look over them, did they begin.

Liam went first. "We can't just leave!"

Lydia was calmer, logical. "There's no guarantee they won't come after us anyway. And that thing is still out there, making it worse."

Malia, as always, was more direct. "Liam's right, it's a stupid deal. We're not taking it." She glanced up at Scott, arms crossed. "Your dad's negotiation skills suck."

He almost laughed. "Of course we're not really taking it," he said, feeling a curious calm wash over him. "But it's the only way we walk out of here without a fight, and it's the best solution for Jiang and Tierney. And besides... Everyone only needs to think we've left town."

"What do you mean?" asked Liam.

This time he allowed himself to smile. "We're not running."

"Oh," his beta said, blinking. "That's a better plan. I like that plan."

"It'll give us a chance to regroup," agreed Lydia. "We'll go separately, then meet up somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't look."

"We'll need a whole lotta places they won't look," said Malia.

"Still going to be a fight tomorrow," said Theo, his smirk a challenge. "Not like you guys have great odds against an entire army."

Liam rolled his eyes. "Do you ever have anything helpful to say?"

Theo did not. "You're all going to die."

"Then we die fighting," snapped Malia. "Scott's right, we're not running."

"You don't have to come with us," Scott told Theo. Something petulant crossed the other boy's face, reminding him all too much of the kid he'd used to be friends with a lifetime - one Theo himself had taken - ago. "Lydia's got the right idea - we'll meet up at the old Hale house tonight." He turned to the Banshee. "And you tell Quinn there's a place for her, if she wants it."

"And if she doesn't know?"

"Then that's okay. Just as long as all of us know that the second we walk out those doors, we'll have to choose."

He knew what he was asking. They did too. Their answers hung in the air, suspended by indecision, doubt, fear. Earlier in the night they had been ready to fight their way out, but this was different. Any one of them could leave and leave for good, find normal lives untainted by blood and death and war, and Scott would let them. It was up to them to decide which was the right choice, and which was the wrong one. It was up to them to decide what was worth entering into a war for.

Lydia nodded first, she who had been fighting alongside him the longest. Theo's reply was a disinterested shrug, as if even being included was an inconvenience, to which Liam muttered, "Asshole," under his breath before turning to Scott and grunting his assent.

Scott's eyes found Malia's last. It had only been hours ago she had been infected by that unknowable and all-encompassing fear, every muscle trembling, her voice breaking, her heart a parade of panic and dread. He had placed his hands on her shaking shoulders, tried to steady her, tried to be there for her like she had for him so many times now. She had wanted to leave, more than anything else in the world. A part of him couldn't help but remember how badly she had wanted to leave at the start of all this as well, to travel the world and forget about creatures of the night, to just be a normal teenager and discover the woman she could become. That same part of him wanted to let her go now, and for reasons that felt intangible and undefined, he knew he would be relieved to see her safely away yet completely lost without her. But Malia Tate had spent half her life running away, and since he'd known her, since the day he'd turned her back into a human, Scott had never known her to run from anything. It was one of the things about her he admired most, and of late the things he admired about her seemed immeasurably important.

She didn't even blink. "I'm coming with you," she said, with a certainty so utmost, a faith in him so sure, it felt as though the sun, that first thing that could not long be hidden, had broken through the clouds.

It was that conviction, hers and his pack's both, that carried him into the night, out of the station where terror had driven two deputies to take their own lives, past the hunters with the guns he knew would yet be pointed at him in the battles to come, and as he saw his pack disperse to their vehicles and into the unknown. If any of them left, it could be the last time he saw them. The thought threatened to shake him, but Malia stayed by his side throughout, and for that he was beyond grateful. No shadow seemed dark enough to fear, so long as she was standing by his.

- - - -/- - - -

"My suitcase's already in the Jeep," he said to his parents, pre-empting an argument. "I just need to get a few more things, then I'll leave."

His father followed him upstairs, more keen to further explain why his deal was the best option rather than contend with the anger of his ex-wife, who had not reacted well to his interference in events to say the least. Scott tuned him out as he made a show of stuffing leftover clothes and toiletries into his bags with equal parts resignation and indignation, focusing instead on the calm rhythm of his heart and Malia's downstairs. He could hear her rhapsodising to his mother about all the places in Paris she'd visit now the FBI was paying for her flight, speaking with so much earnest enthusiasm it saddened and heartened him at the same time.

He wasn't shocked when she eventually came upstairs, interrupting his father. If Agent McCall had any need to question her presence, or the fact she moved around the McCall house easier than a man who used to live there, he blessedly kept it to himself. "I'll be downstairs," he said, and they were alone.

Scott looked at her lingering by the doorway, and recalled the summer just passed. At least three nights a week, when he wasn't working at the clinic or as the assistant lacrosse coach, she had come over so he could help her study for summer school, and it was there in his room they had found a cozy routine. At first they'd combat her latest scholarly struggles - she grumbling, he encouraging - then end up sitting on the floor, watching whatever late night movie was on and eating candy Malia had pilfered from Coach's various secret stashes. With Lydia occupied by MIT acceptance tests and visiting Stiles half a country away, and with Mason and Corey helping Liam mourn his relationship with Hayden, Scott and Malia had each other. Some nights they talked until later than late, about dumb things like movies and cartoons from their childhood, half-remembered as if the Wild Hunt had gotten to them, and some nights they were comfortably silent, the kind of silence acquired by familiarity and the promise there was always a tomorrow for things to say.

It was this silence Scott felt as he finished packing his bag and headed for the door, and he relished in it. The silence didn't break when her hand grabbed his, but something else did. An uncertainty, a confused statement followed by a qualifier, a "You know what I mean" that said more than it didn't. This was something new, something sure of itself. For a moment Scott simply marvelled at his grip in hers, watched his thumb trace over her knuckles, as soft and warm as they'd felt when he'd been bleeding out in the tunnels, these hands that had taken away his pain.

She didn't meet his gaze until she squeezed his hand, and did not need to say a word. Her eyes said it for her: I'm with you.

He smiled, and tipped his head. "You could've grabbed a bag," he teased.

With the slightest raise of her eyebrows, she leaned down and snatched the duffel at their feet with her free hand. Their fingers remained intertwined throughout. The grin on his face grew wider, wider still as she turned away with a small smile on her own. Out in the hallway, down the stairs and towards the arguing voices of his parents, their hands remained caught, their gaits singular, as if these past few weeks they'd been stumbling around each other like they'd just noticed the other's feet existed, but now, they were dancing. Only when his parents came into view did the dance end, but not before Malia squeezed his hand again, ever slightly, and the feeling rooted warmly in his heart even after his hand cooled.

"You got everything?" his mother asked. Her eyes darted in annoyance at her ex-husband. "You planning to escort him to the state line too?"

For a split second it seemed his father would make an issue of it, and took a step forward. But Malia rumbled a low growl from her throat, and that step was recanted.

"Great," said Scott, and ignored his father entirely to envelop his mom in a tight hug. "I'll be okay," he whispered into her hair, and then, even quieter, "Wait for Argent to call. He'll explain."

After the hug ended, Melissa gazed at him with questioning eyes, but nodded. "You'll call me when you get there?"

"Of course," replied Scott.

"And me," said his father.

Scott gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Sure."

Letting out a snort of amusement, Malia turned on her heel, still carrying one of his bags, and left the house without another word. Scott shot his mother a more genuine smile, and followed the werecoyote into the cloudless night. The warm light of home at their backs, they tossed the bags into the backseat of the Jeep, climbed inside, and within its confines of the car, the silence returned.

But only for a second. "I'd just about kill for a burger right now," declared Malia. "Not kill someone that didn't, like, really deserve it, but the longer I go without, the more deserving everyone will look."

Chuckling, Scott stared up the Jeep. "There's this twenty-four hour diner just off the highway. I'll pay."

"Well, then I'm definitely getting some fries." Malia settled into her seat. "Maybe two burgers. And some waffles."

"Sounds good," said Scott. And, before he could stop himself, added, "It's a date."

She made a half-amused, half-startled, noise that indicated she didn't think he realised what he just said. She was right, of course, but Scott concentrated especially hard on the dashboard in front of him and tried desperately to stop the beating of his heart rather than admit that. His mouth felt very dry.

Eventually, Malia said, "Then I guess I can share some of my fries."

It was the romantic thing he'd heard in months.

- - - -/- - - -

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like, being outside Beacon Hills. It was hard to pin down, that feeling he'd carried with him for years, ever since he, Stiles and Allison had activated the Nemeton and, with it, a beacon for the supernatural, but it seemed almost like a low thrum in the corner of his ears, pulsating with the magical currents that ran beneath the town like blood cycling through a heart. Without it, the prickling on the back of his neck belonged solely to the night's cool breeze, and any nerves and anxieties were his own, soon to be replaced by the sirens's call of the Nemeton from the outside,, beguiling and captivating in a way that reminded him of looking at a painting and feeling the incessant need to comprehend it, appreciate it, be one with it. And now, confronted by that urge, he could almost picture himself years in the future, feeling it fade. He didn't know if he wanted that or not. He didn't want to know if he wanted that or not.

In the twenty-four hour diner, the hum of the fluorescent lights was familiar enough to soothe that yearning. This late at night, the blinding white interior evoked the feeling of a timeless place, far removed from concepts of war and standoffs with lynch mobs, a place where memories made lingered in the air with the smell of burnt coffee and cooking grease. There was nothing to fear in a place like this save for the possibility of health code violations, and its occupants weren't like the people back home, stranded on their island of terror. Other than them, the only customers were three bearded truckers guzzling coffee, a frazzled-looking doctor eating lunch at 1am in bloodied scrubs, and a dark-haired kid around their age wearing a brand new UC Berkeley shirt. The waitress was middle-aged but aged more by the lights and her plastered smile, and the cook had a ponytail and looked annoyed at having to part with his crossword book. Not a one of these people were whispering in fear. Not a one of them were eating the last meals on the eve of a war.

True to her word, Malia had gotten two burgers, a plate of fries and a plate of waffles, and gone to work on them with a predator's appetite. When he wasn't partaking in some of the offered fries, Scott are his burger one handed while the other scrolled through his messages.

"Liam got out," he announced. "Claimed he's going to visit Hayden for a week. And Argent just got back to me, said he'll go see my mom."

"And Lydia?" asked Malia between bites. "Bet her mom's thrilled she's going."

"Yeah." His phone buzzed, and he scanned the text. "Not Lydia, it's Mason. Corey must've talked to him, because... yeah, he's not happy. I don't like that we have to lie to him. He's as much pack as anyone."

Malia shrugged, chewing. Translation: He'll know by tomorrow.

Scott hmm'd in agreement. "Yeah, I know." His phone buzzed again. "It's Lydia, she's on her way. That's all of them." That he was expecting, anyway. The omega, Quinn, who had only been roped into this mess by virtue of showing up at his house with a bullet hole in her head, had been given instructions just in case, and he knew Theo wouldn't bother texting to say no. Or yes, he thought, but did not dwell; Theo's presence was an unanswered question he didn't much feel like pondering to excess. He placed his phone down. All that was left was the girl across from him, wolfing - or perhaps coyote'ing - down her burger, who had come with him instead of returning to her empty, haunted, family home.

"Have you talked to your dad?" he ventured.

She shrugged again. "He still thinks I'm in Paris."

A hunting trip, he remembered suddenly. Henry Tate had been gone for a month or so on a summer hunting trip with his buddies, to someplace where the hunting was good. The thought raised his arm hairs on end. It had been a good season for hunters. I was hunted by my dad, Malia had said, reaching out to a common ground they shared, her way of being there for him, and Scott wondered, not for the first time, if Mr Tate knew about his daughter, about the supernatural, and if so, understood enough to not be caught up with the likes of Monroe should he return to town while it was still being strangled by fear's insidious hands. Or would he be like Scott's own father, encouraging his daughter to leave and live her life away from it all? And if she did leave, would she feel the absence of something important outside the confines of Beacon Hills, as he did?

Malia reached to nab a handful of fries, her fingers brushing briefly against his, and said with faint wistfulness, "Wonder what they taste like in France."

He grinned, just a little. "I'm not sure French fries are actually French. It's kinda like how pizza's not really Italian."

"Ugh."

Scott raised his hands in surrender. "I could be wrong?"

"No, not that." She gestured with a half-eaten fry. "Now I'm craving pizza. Good job."

"They could make us some here."

"And add that to the bill? I thought college students were meant to be cheap. Lydia told me Stiles is living off of ramen and, like, a potato."

"Doesn't sound all that different from his usual diet," said Scott with a chuckle.

Malia reached for her second burger. "Yeah, but now he's using the college thing as an excuse. Which is driving Lydia insane."

"Of course he is."

"Guess it's better she's worrying about his diet more than, like, FBI academy sorority girls."

"I don't think the FBI has sororities."

"UC Davis does."

She'd said it while looking fixedly at her plate, and Scott fought to suppress a smile. "Sorority girls are overrated," he said idly. "And, uh, college girls in general..."

That got her to look up. "Yeah?" she said, lips quirking. "I mean, y'know, mysterious French guys aren't that great either. Especially if they're lying about their fries."

He smiled, that time. She smiled back, showing her teeth. Underneath the bright fluorescent lights, there remained nothing to fear.

Outside, some time and no time later, they stood for a little while, digesting both the meal and what had been said, what hadn't. Scott felt a curious lightness in his navel. Even after Kira had left and never returned from a distance their relationship couldn't maintain, he found he couldn't regret whatever it was he was sharing with a girl who seemed destined to leave for France one day soon. He didn't regret spending the summer with her, comforting each other about being hunted, the delirious blood loss-fuelled rambling, the shy smiles and waves, the feeling of her soft hand in his. Watching her now, bathed in the light of the three-quarter moon, that second thing that could not long be hidden, and transformed by the buzzing neon glow of the diner's signs into something ethereal, immutable, and without fear, Scott didn't regret a single thing.

Her eyes found his once more, and in them he glimpsed what came after a war.

- - - -/- - - -

They were the last to arrive at the ruins of the Hale house.

The others were lingering by their cars, looking up at the old shell with apprehension. Lydia's hair caught the Jeep's headlights first, and Scott tried to remember if she'd been back here since bringing Peter Hale back from the dead, and wondered if her Banshee senses would be able to tell her just exactly how long it had taken Derek's family to burn. He saw Corey next, looking so miserably pale he was almost transparent, and Liam was beside him, hauling four sleeping bags out of the trunk of Lydia's car and wearing the expression of someone pretending they were on some weird school trip to a haunted house instead of being on the run.

"You made it!" he said as they emerged from the Jeep. "Started to think we had the wrong place."

"Sorry, I wanted more waffles," said Malia, not sounding sorry at all. She was too busy glaring at something, or rather someone, off to the side. "I think he got the wrong place, though."

Leaning against his car, Theo was shrouded half in shadow and a smirk. "What, and miss the sleepover? We gonna start with Spin The Bottle or can we skip right to Truth Or Dare?"

Scott nodded his head to Lydia. "Quinn?"

Lydia shook hers in return. "She has my number. It's up to her."

"Yeah." He turned to Corey next. "I'm sorry about all this. Lying to Mason... You know why we had to do it, right?"

The younger teen's eyes were wet. "Yeah," he said. "I get it. I don't like it, but I get it." With a sigh, he reached into his backpack. "Deaton wanted you to have this. We think we know what's affecting the town."

From his bag he produced a thick leather-bound tome, one page bookmarked with a yellow post-it note. Corey handed it to Scott, but it didn't stay in his hands long, instead plucked by Malia to be placed into Lydia's waiting and somehow still perfectly manicured ones. Scott reached out and grasped Corey's shoulder in thanks, and said, "All right, let's head inside, try and get some sleep."

Malia went over to the Jeep, grabbed her bag and one of Scott's and trailed after Lydia, who was already thumbing through Deaton's book, and Corey, carrying two of the sleeping bags and a pile of blankets. Liam, still juggling his own burden, ambled over to Scott.

"I texted Hayden," he said, half-apologetic, half-defiant. "I had to warn her, you know. She and her sister have gone to ground, but I told her to be ready to run, just in case."

"Good," said Scott. "It was the right call."

"So was yours, back at the station." Liam looked down at his shoes and kicked at the fallen leaves. "You think they'll be okay? Jiang and Tierney? I know they killed people, but... they were Satomi's pack." Quieter, he added, "And Brett and Lori's."

Scott did not quite know how to reply. "I don't know," seemed too insufficient, and far from what Liam needed to hear, so he said, "Yeah. I think they survived because of us. Because you wanted to protect them." He glanced to his left - Theo hadn't moved, a silent spectre. "And because you brought them to us because you knew we could help. So thank you."

The rest went unsaid - Thank you for staying, thank you for fighting, and for trying to make up for everything. He doubted they would ever be friends, and some wounds would stay bleeding forever, but for now, somehow, Theo was with them. At the very least, another soldier for the war.

Theo's face stayed very still for a moment, and betrayed nothing. Eventually, he said brusquely, "I'll take watch tonight," and left before either Scott or Liam could get a word in.

They watched him go, and, with a nonplussed look and a shrug, Liam turned and headed up to the Hale house. Scott watched him go too, and once alone for the first time all night, he paused to close his eyes, letting every sound and smell of the woods wash over him. Owls hooted at the soft breeze, each leaf on every branch swayed and rustled in tandem one second and in chaotic discord the next. This far out from town, the air smelt clean and crisp, the forest's earthy aroma that of a calmer, slumbering, creature that felt no ugly, malformed, fear, only the gentle wind and the gentler thrum of the currents coursing beneath it. If he concentrated hard enough, he could smell the spent ashes inhabiting the Hale's ruined home, but that fire had gone out long ago, and any spilled blood had long since dried, so he felt no sting, no bittersweet reminder of the cost of his kind crossing Hunters.

The Hales and all their legacy had never recovered from that fire, their strength and heart lost with Talia, along with Derek's innocence and Peter's sanity. They weren't the only legends lost to a bloody history anymore - the Alpha Pack had been destroyed by one victim on a hunt of her own, and now Satomi's pack, despite their commitment to a path of peace, were near to extinct, all those young wolves murdered or murderers, scattered and lost and dead. Corpses upon corpses, burned or slashed or shot, reeking of fear 'til the end, and all that remained was Scott McCall and the friends he had left to him.

"Sometimes wars take prisoners," he'd said to the Sheriff.

"And others take none," the Sheriff had replied.

The thought chilled him more than the night ever could.

Not much had changed on the outside of the Hale house, and even less in the inside. The charred ruin the county had bought with grand plans to demolish and build over had remained the charred ruin without ambition Scott knew so well. When he entered, ducking under an askew doorframe, he could hear Liam and Corey exploring, looking for a place to settle down for the night. Lydia he found by the soft white light of her phone, sitting against what was once a living room wall in her sleeping bag, looking small, alone.

She looked up when he entered. "She's in the next room," she said with a knowing little smile.

"Thanks," he murmured, though he knew that already; his feet had been following Malia's heartbeat. "You all right?"

"No visions," she said promptly. "We're safe tonight."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know, Scott." Her smile faded, and she glanced down at her phone. "I was just... thinking about calling him. It's late on the east coast, but not that late. And you know Stiles, he's probably reading FBI instruction manuals for the ninth time." She spoke with a soft fondness that was becoming increasingly familiar to him, and the taint of sadness beneath it moreso. "I already told him I have classes in the morning... and I think that if I call, I... He'll figure it out."

Scott swallowed thickly. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Definitely," corrected Lydia. "He's the one that figures it out, always. And if he figures out we're lying to him... I'm not worried he won't forgive us. He will. I'm worried he'll catch the first bus or plane or boat he can to get back here as soon as possible. And if they get to him first..." She sighed a sigh that felt like the passing of years. "After we got him back from the Wild Hunt, I remember wondering, "Why didn't we figure it out sooner?" Us, I mean. We had chances, chances we could've taken, so many times, to say something, acknowledge anything, but we... just didn't. We didn't, and he was here for barely a week before he left me again." She looked down at her phone, and her eyes were shining. "There's never enough time..."

It struck Scott then that he was the lucky one, on this night of all nights. Lydia was alone, Liam was alone, Corey was alone. Theo too, and Quinn if she was out there, deciding whether or not to join their pack. The eve of the war, the night they could've made the choice to be with someone they loved and instead chose Beacon Hills. He didn't blame Liam for reaching out to Hayden. Corey's tears of anger and sorrow were beyond justified. The look in Lydia's eyes with the square of white and a name captured within them would haunt him. Scott ached for them, his friends, his pack. He wouldn't want to be alone either, and tonight, he hadn't been.

In the next room over, Malia's heartbeat was slowing into sleep, not quite gone, but getting there. The storm within his own heart was raging. He had to talk to her, he had to tell her something, anything, everything. That third thing that could not long be hidden.

"Call Stiles," he told Lydia softly. "Tell him you can't sleep, tell him that you needed to hear his voice. Let him ramble about FBI instruction manuals, he'll like that."

Lydia's smile returned to her face like the first flower after a cold winter. "I will," she said, caressing her phone.

"Then try and get some rest. We'll need it."

"I will," she said again. "Goodnight, Scott."

"G'night," he murmured, tuning out the dialling tones as he moved towards the next room, not wanting to intrude on an intimate moment.

Malia, true to her baser coyote instincts, had constructed a new den out of sleeping bags and blankets in the corner of the room. She was already burrowed in her own bag, and what he presumed was his was rolled out beside her, though consciously or unconsciously placed he did not know. He had a feeling though, just as he did for the ease of which she had made herself at home here of all places, among the burned legacy of her family. It was sad image, her so comfortably surrounded by such ghosts, but bemusement returned when he saw his duffel bag had been opened, and she had helped herself.

"Is that one of my hoodies?" he asked.

She mhm'd, but did not open her eyes. "Looks better on me," she said sleepily.

He couldn't disagree there. "Do we have to have a talk about the moralities of stealing?" he teased, kicking off his shoes.

"We're about to be on the run from the FBI," Malia shot back. "Your idea, by the way."

"Or one FBI agent in particular, at least." Scott shucked off his jeans for a pair of sweatpants. "But you got me there."

"Shoulda seen it coming since you hacked Argent's computer."

"Oh yeah, it's definitely a spree." Tentatively, he moved to approach her, and knew his apprehension had nothing to do with approaching a territorial creature's den; she had more than invited him in by this point. "Probably shouldn't have even paid for the burgers. Gotta live up to my reputation."

Malia snorted, and stayed studiously still as he settled into his sleeping bag, which rustled obnoxiously loud but not as loud as his hesitation. For a moment they lay side by side with the smallest yet greatest of distances between them, a new gulf to cross with only a rickety bridge to trust, until she crossed first without ceremony. Her head rose, then fell, landing on his chest, and one of her legs draped across his. Without a thought, he slid his arm around her shoulders, and his fingers found one of the strings of his hoodie and idly danced on it. Her eyes remained closed, but he kept his open, wanting to cherishing this image of vulnerability, sear into his brain the feeling of her body nestled into his. Her hair tickled his nose, and he grinned. Holding her felt comfortably familiar and thrillingly new all at once. If Allison had been like a bright flame, irresistible to his young mind no matter how it burned him, and Kira had been a spark, jolting his heart and sending tingles to his toes, with Malia he felt like he'd come off of a rollercoaster and found steady ground, so warm he knew he'd never be cold again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite locate the words to convey that, and he doubted he ever could.

So instead, he continued to play with the strings of his hoodie - now hers, it seemed - until she huffed out a breath. "You want it back?" she asked. "I could sleep naked, if you prefer…"

Scott's throat went very dry. "I, uh, you probably, you'd be cold, so... y'know..."

"You'd keep me warm," she said simply, and looked up at him, eyes flashing open. The impish little grin on her lips was a blazing beacon in the darkness, and, he, with great and terrible effort, resisted the urge to lean down and kiss her. He'd been resisting that urge for a while now.

Instead, he sought once more to find the right words. "Lia..." he murmured, half a question, half a prayer.

"S'okay," she murmured back, and lowered her head back down, near surrendered to her slumber. "Sleep now, feelings later."

With a chuckle he felt deep from his chest, he drew her in closer, one arm curling around her back, the other seeking her hand to intertwine their fingers together. He squeezed, I'm here. She squeezed back, I'm here too.

She was asleep within seconds, her soft breathing the most important sound in the world, and Scott followed soon after, without any other thoughts, fears or doubts to assail him. They would wake in the morning teenagers no longer, soldiers until the war was won, but for now, together, the night was theirs.

- - - -/- - - -

"What did you think we were going to do? Run?"

- - - -/- - - -

Author's Note 2.0: Needless to say, the handholding scene about killed me while watching, so I had to explore what could've come after. Next two chapters are basically done and should be up before Sunday's episodes, and there's some great stuff to look forward to (near death experiences, the kiss, blood and angst, "Too late" et cetera). If you enjoyed the fic, I'd love to hear from you! No need to drop a huge review, just comment your favourite moments, lines, scenes, anything that strikes you. However small, it's always appreciated. And if you need more of a fix, be sure to check out, like, every Scott/Malia fic Tarafina posts here, as well as TheFictionalMe's amazing fic Recalibrate. Thanks all for reading!