AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

As the elevator door opened with a ding, Stiles Stilinski darted through the narrow opening, his head bobbing along with the techno pop blaring through his earbuds. He spun in place and thrust his hips towards the wall just in time for a lovely nurse to pass him with a shriveling look.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, throwing his hands up and pocketing the earbuds. Being a respectable med student was putting a serious cramp in his style. A guilty worm in his mind reminded him if he ever wanted to be taken seriously as a doctor and a scientist, he should really be more respectful about this internship, and possibly send Dr. Deaton, his best friend's old boss, another fruit basket for calling up a friend of a friend.

"Hey, Erica, my main lady," he called out twenty feet from the reception desk. The bubblegum blonde gave him an eyebrow raise but didn't further acknowledge him. He was just an intern; therefore, below even the secretary. As he approached the desk, he saw she was filing and painting her nails.

"Oh come on, don't be like that!" Stiles gesticulated wildly. "You know I'm awesome." He spread his hands out to show off his new scrubs. They had Iron Man on them.

Erica sighed in a long suffering sort of way. "Stiles, while you are, in fact, pretty cool – and if you ever tell anyone I said that I will kill you – you do realize this is a family practice, right? This waiting room is going to be filled with overbearing mothers and kids with the sniffles in about ten minutes. I have to center myself before that happens," and she gave him an appraising look, "and your... essence of Stiles is not helping." She went back to filing her nails.

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. "Erica, your nails are beautiful already. Maybe you should, oh I don't know, typer something up in your computer?" He mimed typing in the air with long, piano player fingers. "Isn't that what a secretary is supposed to do?"

As he walked away towards the break room to drop off his bag, he heard Erica shout, "I have beautiful everything, just fyi!"

He snorted again and pushed the door open, only to nearly run into his supervisor, Dr. Freeman.

"Stiles, I need you to take Dr. Whittemore's patient in exam room seven."

He whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Rubbing his neck, he said, "Dr. Freeman, you are aware I'm just an intern, right?"

Freeman rolled her eyes. "Yeah, no shit. I hired you myself. But he's AWOL and this guy has a standing appointment every three months. It's some kind of..." She paused, scanning the pages in the file, and swore softly under her breath. "What the hell is an exit physical?"

Stiles echoed her more emphatically. "What the fuck is an exit physical?"

"I don't know," Freeman sighed. She rubbed her face tiredly. "Either way it's just a basic examination, he has to fill out this questionnaire here and a few forms, and then he's good to go." She pointed down a hallway towards the fire exit. When Stiles hesitated, she gave him a tiny shove and pushed the small manila folder into his hands. "Will you just get in there? I have four patients booked in the next hour. Goddamn Erica," she muttered, walking away angrily.

Stiles stood for a moment. It was a very rare kind of moment in his life in that he was completely speechless. Sure, he knew how to examine a patient, what to look for, but to be put in charge of a patient for the entire time? Usually he filed alongside Erica, watched Freeman treat teenagers with the flu, or helped old ladies to the elevator.

He shook his head, grabbed his bag and pulled out the shiny stethoscope his father had bought him when he got the results of his MCATs. He'd hardly used it, but he felt more confident as he wrapped it around his neck. Exam room seven was the very last door on the right by the exit. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Stiles opened the door.

A rugged looking man was sitting on the table. He was shirtless but still wearing dark, worn jeans. His face was stubbled and weary looking. Stiles put his body at twenty-five and his eyes at eighty.

"Heeeeeeeeeey," Stiles said with a nervous smile, spreading the word over the closing of the door. "So I'm Sti – I'm Dr. Stilinski." It sounded better.

His patient gave him an odd, appraising look. He was reminded of Erica's, without the pity only a beautiful girl could give. "Where's Dr. Whittemore?" The question came out as a low growl.

"Well, he couldn't be here today, and I'm told this is pretty routine. So anyway -"

"I would really prefer to be seen by someone who actually completed medical school," his patient said roughly, deadpanned. He twisted around to find the grey shirt he'd already discarded. "And not some Doogie Howser wannabe, either."

Stiles' typically genial face hardened. He stepped forward and pointed a finger at his patient's chest. He was trying to remain professional but failing admirably. "Look, asshole," he said, aggravated, "I can do the exam, you can fill out this stupid questionnaire, and then you can be on your way. Or you can make this difficult, cause a scene, and then I'll be forced to tell Whittemore when he gets back and he can cause a scene – I mean really, do I have to go on? I'm pretty fucking good at my job, so let me do it."

He was breathing hard. Anger always made him feel tired.

The other man's eyes were almost glowing an eerie blue, but when Stiles looked again, they were a normal hazel grey. He sat down without a word and dropped his shirt again. Stiles backed away, a bit heady with the unconscious victory. "Okay then," he muttered, ransacking the cupboards for rubber gloves and a blood pressure cuff. "So, I'm just going to take your blood pressure now." He turned back to his patient. "So what's your name?"

When the other man didn't answer, but gave him a piercing look, Stiles shrugged and wrapped the cuff around his arm. He began squeezing the cuff and looked at his watch.

"Hey man, I'm just trying to make some friendly conversation. You file is just labeled 'Alpha 1'."

"It's classified."

Stiles shrugged and released the pressure on the cuff. "110 over 60, very impressive. You must lay off the bacon and cheese sandwiches. I should probably start doing that. Got to look trim for my cousin's wedding." He chuckled to himself.

"Has anyone ever mentioned you talk too much?" The patient grumbled, but he wasn't being unfriendly.

"Many times over many years," Stiles grinned. He wrapped up the cuff and took off his stethoscope. He placed it on the other man's chest but immediately withdrew when he hissed from the cold. "Sorry, sorry," he murmured and rubbed it vigorously against his scrubs to warm it up. Again, more gently, and hopefully warmer too, he placed it over the man's heart. It was beating strongly, purposefully.

"Take some deep breaths for me," he murmured again, stepping closer to place his hand on the other man's back. Stiles moved the stethoscope over the broad chest, checking each lung, hearing only air. When he finished, he cleared his throat and said, "Alright, so here's this questionnaire thing."

Derek furrowed his eyebrows at the piece of paper. Of all the things he'd be expecting after calling his supervisor and basically saying, "I quit," a physical and a multiple choice test weren't among them.

"What kind of questionnaire?"

The doctor – Derek snorted internally; he was more likely an assistant or an intern – shrugged and handed him a pen. "Do I look like I get paid enough to know what it is? According to your chart's notes it says you fill it out, I take it, and then you leave."

He filled out the form while the doctor busied himself with his file, making occasional notes and rolling his eyes over some sections.

Derek stared at him, hard, when he returned the questionnaire. "Do you know what I do?"

He got another shrug and a non committal noise. "You're built like a house and we're less than twenty miles from Washington, D.C. I'm gonna go with Army, or maybe FBI. Like I said, they don't pay me enough for that."

"You look like the type who'd want to know anyway."

"The hell I would!" The doctor said excitedly. He looked around as though expecting repercussions for his outburst, but continued. "I mean, my best friend calls me three times a week from California and asks what I do, and he always wants to know if I get to see any CIA operatives but I mean really, how would I know? And seriously, what CIA agent is going to come into this cute little general practitioner's office? But then again some of them have got to have families. And now I can tell him I met someone named 'Alpha 1,' and that is the least creative codename ever, let me tell you. Or the most egotistical. Who needs to be first twice?"

Derek couldn't suppress a small grin. He pulled his t shirt back on and looked at the doctor. "Is that all? Am I done?"

"Yeah man, I guess so," he said, running his fingers through his brutally short hair. He opened the door. "So, yeah. Have a good one. Oh! And give this to Erica at the desk," he fumbled with a pink slip from the file, "and she'll take care of it."

Derek nodded but made no move to leave. Looking down, he said, "It's Derek."

"What?"

"My name is Derek."

Stiles smiled.

Derek's mouth quirked up as he walked towards his car on the top level of the parking garage. The black Camaro was his pride and joy, his only allowed ostentation. The Stilinski kid wasn't bad. A good first start to working his way back into the world. He'd even told him his name.

His grin got even bigger as he turned the key in the ignition. Trust. It was a cool thing.

He smelled it first, the gasoline, the C4, the sudden flame.

He heard the oxygen get sucked into a vortex of fire.

Then the world exploded, and he barely threw himself out the car before it blew apart.

"That's more like it," his whispered to himself before slipping into unconsciousness. The flaming wreckage of his Camaro rained around him.

Stiles whistled to himself in the exam room. An actual CIA agent told him his name! And smiled at him! And let him touch his bare chest...

That part of the conversation would not be shared with Scott during their tri-weekly Skype call.

He grinned again and was about to open the door when he heard a familiar, terrifying sound. It was a gunshot.

He hit the deck like his father had taught him and crouched by the door. Slowly he cracked open the door, beyond grateful that the door opened inward. Peering over the threshold, he saw two armed men patrol past the entrance of the hallway. Though he could hear the sickening thud of metal on flesh and their screams for drugs and needles, Stiles was positive he saw one motion to the other in a military hand signal. Erica was sobbing faintly around the corner. Stiles nearly got up to go to her, reaching instinctively for the Smith & Wesson knife he usually carried in his back pocket. Except he was wearing scrubs, and didn't have it on him. All he had were his car keys and depressingly empty wallet.

He started biting his nails in a panic.

"Who else is here? Who?! Where is Dr. Whittemore?!" Erica was sobbing harder.

Dr. Freeman's voice cried out, "He's not here! Look, I have the key to -"

A sharper sound, a silenced bullet, cut through the air. Erica screamed.

Another voice, colder, said, "Where is the doctor who is treating his patient?"

Stiles didn't think after that but launched himself for the back exit, wrenching it open into the bottom level of the attached parking garage. He could berate himself for his cowardice later.

The elevator had never moved so slowly. He jumped up and down waiting for it and gave up after fifteen seconds, instead racing up seven flights of stairs before collapsing, completely out of breath. "Get up Stiles, get up," he growled to himself, willing his lungs and legs to start working again. "Get the fuck up! Jesus!" A sudden burst of energy filled him and he sprinted the last three flights and was not honestly surprised to see the door leading to the top floor nearly blown off its hinges.

It was that kind of day.

He pushed it hesitantly, still out of breath from running, and it fell to the concrete with an alarming crash. A burning shell of car roared about twenty feet away, and scorch marks and shrapnel littered a fifty foot radius around it. A few pieces of concrete from the roof above had even broken through. Stiles stepped forward, but was assaulted by the smell of burning flesh. He looked around and saw what he had originally thought to be part of the car lying a few feet away was a man, a terribly burned man wearing familiar, tattered jeans.

"D-Derek? Dude, what -"

Stiles leaped back about five feet when the black and red husk rasped, "Get me into a car." Derek rolled over and hacked desperately, coughing up disgusting bits of his own lungs and the odd bit of metal. He tried to stand but his legs were too mangled and still healing. As much as he wasn't ready for it, he needed help, and the one person he'd started just barely trusting was standing next to him.

"I'm gonna take you to a hospital, man," Stiles stammered, reaching under Derek's armpits and heaving him away from the car towards him own old Jeep. It was unscathed on the other side of the garage level.

Derek pulled away with a growl and struggled again to stand. He looked at Stiles, eyes bright blue and stark against his newly scarred face.

"No hospitals!" he rasped. "Just get me in-into a car. Don't be afraid of me," he pleaded, almost whining.

"Fuck yes I'm afraid!" Stiles lost control and fell back against the wall, panting, eyes wide and wild. "There are – there are commandos with guns in the office and – and I ran away and Erica was screaming and crying and I should have been there to protect her -" Derek reached for him but he jerked away. "-and now you're dying and I'm afraid -"

"What do you mean, guys with guns?" Derek was finally on his feet, but barely. Stiles didn't miss that he was nearly naked, or that his skin was looking a lot more pink than black.

"Fucking guys with Beretta M9s. I know a military maneuver when I see one – my dad is a fucking cop, I'm not stupid." He shrugged violently and ran his hands over his hair again.

Derek tried to take a step towards him but nearly collapsed; only Stiles, moving quickly, caught him. He grunted and supported Derek's weight all the way to the car, then rearranged himself so he could push Derek, as gently as possible – which, when you've covered nearly head to toe in third degree burns, is pretty difficult – into a supine position in the backseat. He vaulted into the driver's seat, started the car, and bolted out of the parking space. The Jeep creaked and swayed into every turn.

Stiles was going to drive to the nearest hospital, no matter what Derek said, or even the nearest police station, when he felt a hand on his upper arm. Derek gripped him harder as Stiles brought the Jeep to a stop outside the parking garage.

"No hospitals," he said again, almost desperate. "I need – I need a safe place, somewhere to rest and shower."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Derek's face was almost completely healed. There were even traces of stubble sprouting. Stiles swallowed apprehensively. "Is my apartment safe?"

"It might be," Derek conceded with difficulty, "but then again." He left the words, "We both survived assassination attempts today" hanging in the air. "Where's the nearest motel?"

Stiles reached for his GPS and knocked it violently from its holster. Derek couldn't help rolling his eyes while Stiles tapped and typed into it. "It looks like there's a Motel 6 just a few blocks from here. And other one, kinda divey -"

"Motel 6. There's cash in my wallet."

"Dude. Your wallet survived that?"

Derek glowered at him. "I need a shower. And we need to talk."

Stiles went silent as he signaled for the turn. After looking both ways he pealed onto the road, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. Derek thought he might not reply, but then he said, "I don't know what the fuck is going on. Are you going to tell me? Cause if you tell me, if you do that, I'm in all the way. They were going to kill me in there," he finished thickly.

"It's not your fault." But Derek knew that didn't mean anything. He looked at his hands. He felt a little better, but a shower, rest, and a lot of food were still vital to his recovery.

The Jeep skidded to a stop; Stiles had nearly run a red light.

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Derek noticed the echo of his own thoughts and bit back his own angry retort. Instead, he rumbled again, "It's not your fault. It's mine."

A bitter sound, half laugh, half angry cry, escaped Stiles.

"Someone just tried to kill me and everyone in your office. You're paying for me saying to my bosses that I wanted to live a normal life."

The Motel 6 sign flashed in the distance. It was still early in the morning, but the sky was grey and cold. It would probably start snowing soon.

They parked and Stiles wordlessly ran into the office. He came back out a few minutes later, and said before Derek could yell at him, "I had cash too. I don't think your wallet actually survived. Have you taken a lot at your own pants lately?"

Derek recognized the humor and sarcasm reflex. He'd killed enough people to know it was something people did when they were desperately afraid.

Stiles hauled him out and quickly ushered him into a room with two small beds and the typical kitschy aesthetic of a highway motel. He tugged him into the bathroom and turned on the bath, keeping his hand under the water to get it to the perfect temperature. Derek, meanwhile, began peeling the remains of his shirt off. It was shredded and what still remained clung to his skin, blood and burned flesh acting like glue.

Hands with long fingers and small calluses covered his. Derek looked at Stiles' face.

"I'm a doctor in training," he said with a small grin, as if that explained everything. As if that explained why Derek felt like he could trust this man.

Eventually they got the shirt off. Stiles looked at Derek's jeans with dismay and embarrassment. They were ribboned and slashed and totally soaked through with blood.

Stiles' fingers brushed against the button at his waistband and undid it with clinical efficiency. The pair of jeans collapsed then, and Derek stood there, bruised, bloody, and very naked. Averting his eyes, Stiles helped him into the full bathtub. Immediately the water turned a rusty brown, and black and red flakes of skin began falling off and drifting to the bottom. Derek groaned and held his head in his hands. His back twitched as new skin began to grow where the scabs had fallen away.

"Should I... be helping you or something?" Stiles asked.

Derek could only nod, so Stiles grabbed one of the many paper cups on the bathroom sink and filled it with water. He poured it over Derek's back, washing away more blood. A piece of glass, once belonging to the Camaro's windshield, fell into the water.

He turned to face the doctor in training. A raw sort of look on his face caught Stiles off guard.

"I don't even know your name and you're not asking me what I am. You're just helping me."

He said it all in a rush. It was the most unbelievable thing that had ever happened to him.

Again, Stiles fell silent. He lifted another cupful of water and poured it over Derek's neck.

"First off, you can call me Stiles," Stiles mused. "And you're not holding a gun on me or my friends or coworkers, and that I can appreciate. Seriously.

"I want to be a doctor to help people. I've lost a lot of people in my life, and... it's just what I've always wanted to do. So you needing my help isn't really all that different from anyone else needing my help. And I don't know you, but I want to trust you, believe me – but you can help me, and I know I can help you. So, here I am. Something is going on, and we're both kind of in the middle of it right now."

He looked down, around, anywhere but Derek's eyes.

"I'm a werewolf, and I kill people for the government."

He almost thought Stiles had left, because he stopped moving, and nearly stopped breathing. But his heartbeat continued, strong as always.

"You know, that didn't even crack the top ten list of things I thought you were going to say," he said with a small smile Derek could hear in his voice. More warm water poured over his head, washing away glass and grit from his hair. "I mean, shit, 'I murder people courtesy of the US government and I'm a creature of the night' didn't really come to mind."

Derek barked out a laugh. "Creatures of the night are vampires."

The paper cup skittered to the floor. "Do those exist too?!" His face, round and alive with excitement – for a moment, the events of the last hours forgotten – appeared in Derek's field of vision.

"I don't know."

Stiles grimaced, disappointed. He picked up the cup and continued rinsing Derek's back and arms. When the water got too filthy, he pulled the plug and they sat in silence as the drain gurgled. When it was empty, he turned the water back on and let it fill anew. The second bath, hotter than the first, pulled the stress from Derek's muscles like venom from a bite.

"You don't really do this often, do you?" Stiles murmured, more to himself than to Derek, even if it was meant for him.

"No," Derek whispered. "I've... never done this before."

Stiles pulled the plug again on the bath. "You mean get bathed by a sexy young thing?" His lips turned up at the corners, amused by his own attempt to lighten the mood.

"Trusted someone."

Stiles had never heard anything so sad in his life.

"So wait," he started to say, while Derek sat on the bed, the towel low slung around his hips. Stiles had gone outside to grab the overnight bag he kept in the car so he could change out of his now far too conspicuous Iron Man scrubs. "Are the other alphas werewolves too?"

"What?" Derek was confused.

"The other alphas," Stiles shrugged. He pulled off the top shirt in favor of a white undershirt and red sweatshirt. "There are others Dr. Whittemore sees."

The towel slipped from Derek's fingers as he stood, angrily approaching Stiles and pushing him against the wall.

"Jesus fuck!" Stiles cried as Derek crowded into his personal bubble. "Fuck – what, you didn't know there were others?"

"Of course I didn't!" Derek growled dangerously. "How many more are there?"

"Dude, if you want someone to trust you, start fucking earning it!" Stiles pushed Derek away, and was conscious of being allowed to move him. It was frightening, but he didn't back down. "There are two others. I've seen Alpha 2, but never Alpha 3. His chart has a picture of him though."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" Derek grabbed Stiles' shoulders to focus him. "Stiles, tell me."

Stiles liked the way Derek said his name; it was desperate.

"Yeah, probably," he gestured wildly. The defense mechanism worked and Derek took a step back.

"But," he swallowed nervously and looked at Derek, "I know where to find Alpha 2."

The room was silent except for the heartbeats of the occupants.

"I memorized every zip code in the United States when I was a kid." Stiles was a little sheepish as he pulled out the huge, cross country roadmap from his Jeep. He spread it out on one of the beds and pointed to Washington state. "And every file has a billing address for insurance purposes, right? And Alpha 2 is listed here." He pointed to the west coast. "98103. It's a Seattle zip code."

"Why did you memorize all the zip codes as a kid?"

"I needed an outlet after my mother died," Stiles replied shortly.

Derek tugged uncomfortably at the striped shirt Stiles had loaned him from the bag and didn't say anything. The shirt was tight, but better than nothing. The jeans were a little better though. He rifled through the wallet that had survived, much to Stiles' delight, quite intact, and put it in his pocket. A dog eared piece of paper fell from it, and Stiles retrieved it quickly.

"Hey!" He shoved it into Derek's face. It was an old photo. "This is him! I mean, he's, like ten or fifteen years older now, but this is definitely him."

Derek grabbed Stiles' arm and ripped the photo from his grasp. "It can't be," he growled. "Everyone in that photo except for me died twelve years ago."

Stiles waved that off as a minor inconvenience. "Who is this guy?"

"He's my uncle Peter," Derek muttered, looking at it more closely. "Or, he was. Once." Before the fire.

"Well that's him." Stiles crossed his arms stubbornly. "He was here like a week ago. I remember seeing the file later, saying 'Alpha 2.' I cracked a joke with – with Erica."

Derek frowned and stared harder at his uncle's younger face. The photo was dated the day before the fire. Could some of his family have survived it?

"Hey man," Stiles placed his hand solidly on Derek's shoulder. "We still need to talk. We need to figure stuff out. I need to call -"

Derek pushed Stiles off him and stepped away. He shook his head and said, without looking at him, "You can't call anyone. It's... just better for everyone. You said you were all in right?" And he turned and looked into his eyes. Bright blue met dark brown.

Stiles shuffled in place and ran a hand through his head again. "If I call anyone, contact anyone," he said slowly, "they'll, whoever they are, trace it, and come after us, and go after my dad and my friends. Right?"

Derek nodded. They both stood together, looking at the little cluster of roads leading to Puget Sound.

"I was going to be a godfather next month." Derek sighed, wanted to reach out to comfort him, but his hand fell a few inches too short. The moment passed.

"I'm sorry." It sounded flat, even to his ears.

Stiles shook his head. "Whatever man. So, we taking my car? It's a sweet ride. I moved all the way here from California just this summer..."

Derek let him talk. Stiles deserved to ease his pain some way.

AN part two: I'm going to be mentioning a lot of different places across the country, most of which I've never visited, so please, don't hesitate to let me know if I've gotten something wrong or you have suggestions.