They have to leave after that. Wolf packs don't like little humans who kill Alphas, and living in a city with multiple packs is suddenly much less comfortable. Luca helps them restock and drives them to the airport. He's kind and quiet, and seems friendly enough, but none of them miss the way he eyes the weapons in Allison's bag and never turns his back on any of them.

Allison tells herself she's used to it. She's Argent; prickly relations with werewolves sort of comes with the job of hunting and killing them, even if she's more select than some of her family.

Stiles seems set off by it, hiding beneath sarcasm and bad puns for most of their ride to the airport. Allison can see the hair pricking up on the back of his neck, and the way his hands twitch with the fastener on his satchel. Lydia finally snatches it from him at one point, snappy and on edge herself.

Luca sees them off through customs, and slips off as they collect bags and re-lace their shoes. They'd decided on flying back into the states, taking economy seats on the first plane out of the country. Neither of her friends is speaking as they pass the souvenir shops full of maple leaf memorabilia.

"Magazine?" Allison points out a rack of Vogue and Elle to Lydia.
"No thanks."

They have an hour to waste, so they settle at a table, watching people file past. The other two aren't guilty exactly, Allison thinks, they just aren't used to people fearing them. It's an adjustment.

She does the only thing she can think to help.

"Come on" She says, linking an arm through each of theirs and putting on her best imitation-Lydia smile "We're getting ice cream."

It doesn't fix anything. But watching Stiles waltz past security with a dash of raspberry swirl on his nose is enough to make Lydia laugh. It's something.

There is little reason to their movements now. Apart from a few close calls with a vampire for hire in Seattle, Kali doesn't seem to be on their trail. The rules are looser as a result, and they tend to stay in one place for longer than before, meeting people, picking up bits and pieces of knowledge as they go. Lydia doesn't remember when they became hunters, but they did, and suddenly they aren't just running from the danger, they're fighting and winning. And helping.

They help a lot. There is more than one small town that owes them their state of peace and tranquility. Even more once-omega's happily settled into a peaceful pack that now owe them favors. In New Orleans they help a boy who introduces them to a swamp witch. She's powerful, really powerful, so Stiles and Lydia spend a good deal of time up to their knees in mud scribbling ancient words with twigs and bones while Allison paces and polishes her knife.

"Does it hurt?" Allison asks one night. "The magic?"

Lydia shrugs. "Not really. I get headaches, but it's better than being amnesiac all the time."

She remembers the pack that had chased them down in Oregon, the way her attacker had gaped as her spell-work had tossed him aside. She smiles at the memory.

"You don't ever feel like it makes you cold? Like it takes over so that you're just… it and not you?"

Lydia peers at her friend. They're on the hotel room floor, a bottle of cheap white wine between them, with Stiles spread out snoring on one of the beds.

They'd hit a bar - a nice perk of their fake ID - early in the night with a group of university kids that had challenged them to shots. The humans had drunk them into the ground, and followed the victory with, well, victory drinks.

Upon reflection, it was probably not their best decision ever.

Allison was watching the grey glass of the window, and resolutely not looking at her.

"Is this one of those thing where we talk about me, but we're actually talking about you?" Lydia asks, feeling sympathetic and a bit sleepy.

The next words are shaky "It's like, the hunter takes over. And I'm scared of it, but it's me, and they made me this way, but I can't…" she chokes "…I can't hate them."

"…Your mom?"

Allison nods, and then she's crying, and maybe it's because the bottle is more than half empty, or because it's two in the morning, or just that they keep forgetting they're little more than teenagers and hundreds of miles from home.

She cries, sudden and painful and when Stiles wakes up Allison chokes out a tearful apology and Lydia can see his heart break in his eyes for the hundredth time.

"Family stuff?"

She nods, and he goes to hug her, and he says all the right things. He's got a dead mom too Lydia remembers, and he gets it, the guilt and the loss and the anger. The numbing helplessness, because she's gone and you don't get to fix that, or change any of the past now that it's over.

When they wake up they're draped over each other in an uncomfortable pile, with the wine gone and bleary eyes.

Allison recovers first, punching Stiles in the shoulder. Hard.

"Don't ever do that again."

He winces "What?"

"Feelings."

Her voice is deadpan, but when he looks over through the hangover he sees a tiny smile.

"Love you too."

Stiles is elected to do the morning coffee run, as apparently the night before is completely his fault. He's not sure how that works, him being asleep for half of it and all, but Lydia is scary in the morning so he does as told.

The pounding in his head has decreased to a dull roar, with each step reverberating from the pavement through his skull. He makes a note to never touch alcohol again. Like, ever.

He's a half block away from the hotel with a tray containing the required extra hot vanilla lattes and assorted muffins when he realizes he's being followed. He takes a right, walks two blocks, then a left, and down the first empty alley way he can find.

The second his tail turns the corner he's tossed a net of spell work at the boy, freezing him in place. He's taller than Stiles, and he fights back rather fruitlessly, claws springing from his fingers with a snap.

He growls a name.

For the first time that morning Stiles' grip becomes shaky, and he barely avoids dropping the coffees in his surprise.

"Isaac?"

"I tried to contact you" Lydia says, quite bluntly and way too loudly when he enters.

"I couldn't hear you over the pounding noise in my head" he moans, handing her a coffee. Isaac has followed him inside but Stiles doesn't have time or interest in explanations.

"Fix it?" he whines.

Lydia mutters something old and vaguely Latin sounding. His head lightens and the world is clear and tolerable again.

That's when he notices the other wolves in the room. And he wishes he were hung-over again or even out cold, because it's way too early in the morning to be dealing with an unshaven Derek Hale sitting on his bed.