Chapter 4 – Search and Rescue

Stiles woke with a foggy head, slow thoughts, and heavy limbs.

It had been a long night of fitful sleep, dreams of clawing long-fingered hands interspersed with flashes of colour, and once or twice he had woken to echoes of an animalistic howl.

Somehow, though, he cobbled together a few hours of rest before waking somewhat-refreshed to a sky pale with pre-dawn light. It would have been peaceful if it weren't for the rhythmic distant hum or a drone – but, instead, he winced at the sound and rolled onto his back with a sigh.

Not a dream, then.

As if in confirmation, his whole body throbbed, one giant bruise from his head to his toes. The edges of exhaustion dragged at his limbs, and his stomach threatened to gnaw right through his abdomen. Fuck, he was hungry - ravenous, even. That would have to be his second priority for the day.

First, though, he had to check on his leg. Groaning, he pushed himself out of bed and limped into the bathroom, then sat down to unwind the bandage. He winced as he peeled it back, eyes catching on an area the size of his palm that was deep red, hot to touch, and dripping with thick yellow ooze.

Infected. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Stiles had been a spirited child, for lack of a better word, so he had plenty of experience with cuts and bruises and broken bones. Somewhere along the line, he had learned which injuries he could manage himself and which ones needed proper medical care, and this was definitely the latter. But the whole point was moot, really – all he had was the little bottle of Neosporin, so that would have to do. He pulled it out, now, and sprayed it generously over the area while hissing quietly at the sting, then waited just long enough for his pained tremors to subside before replacing the bandage and heaving himself back to his feet.

Nothing more to do for that. Let's get going.

There was nothing new to be found in the bathroom, but Stiles limped slowly through the rest of the house, poking his head into every room in the hopes that the sunlight might reveal some hidden treasures that he'd missed the night before. He tried not to feel too disappointed when he didn't find any food, but he did console himself with an empty backpack retrieved from the back of a closet, immediately slipping the first aid kit and the rest of the Neosporin inside before slinging it over his shoulder. Then he stopped at the kitchen for a final drink of water before making his way through the front door and back into the street.

As far as plans went, his current one wasn't particularly inspired. He was limited by his leg and his hunger, so he would search the nearby houses and hope he unearthed something useful. That was it. He tried to be methodical, sticking to the one side of the street and making sure to check in each and every house, including the ones that looked like they might collapse around his ears – after all, they were probably less likely to ransacked than the others.

The first three houses were duds, and they all told a similar story. Cupboards flung open, rooms stripped bare, furniture overturned – someone had already stripped them all bare. His heart sank further with each one, and he found himself desperately clinging to his last shred of optimism as he trudged hopelessly toward house number four.

Then he spotted them. There, in the dark corner of the walk-in pantry, covered in dust and forgotten: two faded tins of pre-made spaghetti.

"Jackpot."

Stiles grinned, grabbing both tins eagerly and tearing the lid off the first in a sudden burst of energy. He didn't bother trying to find a spoon, instead bringing the tin to his lips and tipping the food into his mouth, gulping it down frantically, his stomach groaning in relief.

The sauce was cold, the pasta rubbery, and yet: "I'm never going to complain about pre-made food again," Stiles decided, scraping his fingers along the rim and licking off the last of the sauce. "Melissa, I owe you one hell of an apology – this stuff is amazing. Incredible. Spectacular, even. I take back every argument I ever made against it."

The meal was done within minutes. Stiles dropped the empty tin carelessly onto the floor, then eyed the second one greedily. Surely just a little bit would be okay…but, no. "Survival 101, Stilinski," he muttered, carefully placing it into his backpack before levering himself to his feet. "Rationing. Don't be that guy.

"Also, it only took you twenty-four hours to start talking to yourself," he added, flippantly. The rest of the kitchen was empty, so he wandered out the door to work his way through the bedrooms instead. "Is that good? Is there an acceptable time frame for insanity when you suddenly wake up in a post-apocalyptic reality? There's something to google when I get home."

If home still exists. Stiles tried to push the thought to the back of his mind and failed miserably.

Stiles, after all, wasn't renowned for his physical prowess. He wasn't the fastest, or the strongest, or even the most charismatic member of the pack, but there was one thing he excelled at: theorising. He had had ample opportunity to do just that in the last two days, and he wasn't sure he liked where it led.

Because he had seen more than enough sci-fi films to be able to recognise that he was in an alternate reality. At the very least, he didn't think that he was dreaming, he knew he wasn't crazy, and he couldn't find any proof that fairies were nearby, which meant that something must have happened when the fairy died. Some strange burst of magic, perhaps, that dragged him into this weird abandoned town where people hid behind closed curtains and his bedroom belonged to someone else.

What he really hated, though, were the questions that followed, sending his heart racing and his mind whirling. Because, if he was stuck in an alternate universe (and he could almost see Lydia's epic eye-roll just at the thought), the next question was what type of alternate universe was he in? Was this a parallel universe that existed alongside his own, maybe allowing people to travel back and forth? Or was this simply a re-done version of his own world, where some change in the past had altered the events of reality forever?

Fear burned his throat, and he shook his head. "Get a grip, Stiles," he muttered. This whole train of thought was a pointless exercise – even if his world was still in existence, there was nothing he could do about it right now.

What he needed to do was focus on survival.

He turned his attention to house number five, clenched his fists, and kept moving.

His luck must have finally turned, because although the house itself was empty, he struck gold in the built-in garage when he spied rusting bike tucked away behind a long-dead car. He did hesitate a moment, glancing doubtfully at his injured leg, but then rolled his eyes and limped toward it. Hey, it beat walking.

His head swam slightly at he swung himself onto the seat, nausea briefly turning his stomach, but he shook it off and turned his attention to his next problem: he needed antibiotics, and he needed them now. The hospital was the obvious choice, but he discarded that option almost as soon as he considered it. Not only was it on the other side of town, but there was almost zero chance that it hadn't already been plundered – and, besides, it had a back-up generator. What if there was someone already there? He wasn't in any shape to deal with another firefight.

On the other hand, there was the McCall house. Melissa had always kept the house well-stocked with medical supplies, and it stood a better chance of being overlooked by scavengers, being somewhat isolated on the outskirts of town.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Melissa didn't exist in this weird, empty universe.

He grimaced, trying to push that thought of his mind before it could root itself too deeply, and kicked off from the ground to ride the familiar route.

The door was locked. Stiles frowned and tugged at the handle, equally confused and frustrated by the unexpected obstacle. Most of the places he had tried had broken doors or at the very least broken locks from when someone had smashed the doors open in the past. But not here, apparently, so after a minute Stiles gave up on the door and aimed instead for the living room window, reluctantly wrapping his hand in the remnants of his shirt and smashing his fist into the glass.

It was already cracked, so it broke surprisingly easily. The opening wasn't huge, but Stiles knew from experience that he could fit, so he knocked out as many sharp edges as he could find before squirming inside. Somehow, he managed to avoid slicing himself open, so it was only moments later that he clambered to his feet and took his first real look at the room.

The first thing that struck him was how tidy it was. Compared to the destruction he had been seeing all morning, this room was positively well-kept. The furniture stood exactly where it always had, covered only by a thin layer of dust, and the remainder of the windows were more-or-less intact. There was a stillness to the air that screamed of emptiness, and yet it didn't have the same abandoned feel as the other houses in town.

A flicker of hope warmed his chest. Surely, it couldn't be that simple, but still… "Scott?" he called out, hesitantly.

He strained his ears but, sure enough, there was no reply.

Stiles set his jaw, stifling a disappointed sigh, and limped deeper into the house.

It wasn't a long search. The kitchen was unsurprisingly empty, but everything else seemed to be intact – including, fortunately, Melissa's wonderful medical cabinet in the bathroom. Stiles wasted no time in uncapping a bottle of antibiotics and swallowing one dry.

He steered clear of Melissa's bedroom, unable to overcome his ingrained respect for her privacy, but poked his head into Scott's room and the guest room before heading back outside, less than twenty minutes after arriving.

His next destination wasn't far – it used to only take Scott about fifteen minutes. But between Stiles' burning leg and increasing cloudy head, it was a full half hour before he finally rolled to a stop in front the animal clinic – or, at least, this world's version of it, complete with broken doors, defaced walls and smashed windows.

Stiles kicked the bike stand into place, staggering slightly as he dismounted. He was oddly light-headed, the pavement rocking beneath his feet, and he found himself clinging to the clinic's doorframe with more desperation than he would have liked.

Okay, that's not ideal. Come on, antibiotics. Do your thing.

With one hand trailing along the wall, Stiles walked into the building and flinched at the sight of the trashed waiting room. Still, he pressed on, weaving through the debris and heading for the treatment room at the back of the building. He wasn't surprised to find it in a similar condition to the front but, thankfully, the back wall was still in one piece.

Stiles wasn't sure when he first discovered Deaton's hidden cabinet – maybe during the kanima disaster? But, somewhere along the line, he had nagged Deaton into showing him the ropes, which the vet did only on the condition that Stiles never opened it unless there was a dire emergency and Deaton couldn't be reached.

Until now, he had never needed to do it.

The cabinet was well-crafted, blending almost perfectly into the wall, designed to be easily overlooked. Stiles held his breath as he slid his long fingers carefully over the smooth surface, feeling for the barely-perceptible locks. One at the top, one to his left, and if he pressed both simultaneously and held them for three seconds…

There.

With a soft click, the door unlatched. Stiles grinned, shifting his weight to his heels and drinking in the sight. There, before him, was row after row of heavily-laden shelves, filled with bottles of herbs and strange liquids, and best of all: a small library of ancient-looking books, carefully curated by the vet-turned-Emissary, containing all the written words he could find on the strange and unnatural and occult beings out there in the world.

It was beautiful.

And then a heavy thud sounded from behind him, and his stomach flooded with dread.

It was a footstep, and it was soon followed by another, and another. Someone was in the waiting room, and they were getting closer.

Shit. Stiles' heart pounding against his ribs, and he hastily swung closed the cabinet and spun on his heel. He swept frantic eyes over the room, looking for somewhere to hide, before finally landing on an overturned bench near the door.

He barely made it three steps. The door flung open, freezing him in his tracks, and he snapped his gaze toward it to find a large figure filling the frame, all broad shoulders and tense hands and glaring eyes.

Familiar glaring eyes.

"Derek?" Stiles croaked, sagging with relief.

The werewolf's brow furrowed; his glare intensified. "How do you know my name?"

Oh.

Stiles eyes stung, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Fuck. He probably should have expected that, all things considered, but still. Was it too much to ask for one little break in this fucked-up world?

Derek blurred slightly, and Stiles blinked him back into focus. He looked almost exactly as Stiles remembered: short dark hair, stubble, wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans. But his shoulders were stiff, his hands clenched, and deep grooves lined his mouth. Most disconcerting of all, his face was taut with the familiar, closed-off look that he had once worn almost constantly, but which had disappeared somewhere between kanimas and darachs and alphas and nogitsunes.

"I know you're after something," Derek accused, abruptly, cutting through Stiles' thoughts. The werewolf seemed bothered by Stiles' stare, a flicker of anger crossing his face as he stepped closer. "You were at the McCalls', then you biked straight here. Why? What are you looking for?"

Ugh. Stiles' lip curled.

He'd forgotten how much of an ass Derek had been when they first met. All the grunting and snarling and shoving him around…it was a personality trait that he hadn't missed once. Just his luck he'd end up stuck with a version of Derek who'd apparently never changed for the better.

A version who was still waiting for an answer, with rapidly fading patience.

"Cut it out," Stiles finally answered, tone a lot more irritated than he had planned before he opened his mouth. Mind you, he was irritated, now that he thought about it. "I've had one measly tin of food in the last thirty-six hours, I'm sick, I'm exhausted, and I'm probably stuck here with no way home, and I'm really not in the mood. So, drop the attitude, already." The floor lolled and Stiles swayed, leaning into the wall behind him and mustering all his strength to glare at the man blocking the exit.

Derek's eyebrows scrunched together, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed. "You're unwell," he realised, sounding oddly surprised.

"Well spotted, genius." Stiles really wished the floor would stop moving. In the last few seconds it had progressed from rocking to full-blown spinning, which was torture for his stomach. "When did you enrol in medical school?"

"You're not healing," Derek said, still sounding confused.

"Perks of being human, I guess."

There was a soft haze over his vision, so he was having trouble making out Derek's features, but Stiles thought he saw a contemplative expression drift over the werewolf's features. He didn't have time to question it, though, as his stomach chose that moment to lurch horribly. He swallowed, trying to push back the wave of bile, but it was too much: dropping to his knees, he had just enough to time to lean his weight onto his arms before he heaved, vomiting water and bile and the remnants of his spaghetti breakfast all over the tiled floor.

It was over in seconds, and when it was done he groaned, resting on his haunches and burying his face in shaky hands. Even now, sitting on the floor, the room continued to swim, and he struggled to catch his breath. He was covered in sweat, but he still shivered, his teeth chattering, ice cold despite the summer heat.

Then he remembered that he wasn't alone, and he twisted slightly to glance up at Derek, who hadn't moved an inch but now looked significantly more uneasy.

"Look, I'm not your enemy," Stiles sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his thumbs over his temples in a vain attempt to block out the vertigo. "I just want to go home."

"How?"

The question echoed strangely through his mind, but Stiles didn't get a chance to answer. His hands went strangely numb as a loud ringing filled his ears, and the last thing he felt before the world slipped away was strong hands catching him as he fell.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, guys, this chapter was a bitch and a half. I ended up rewriting it three times and I'm still not super-happy with it, but I didn't want to wait too much longer. Next one should bit a bit quicker (hopefully!)

Thanks for reading!