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

Stiles took a shower. He turned the shower up as hot as it would go and hissed as the molten water hit his back and shoulders. Eventually, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes. He emerged a few minutes later to find Derek already sitting on his bed, thankfully wearing pajama pants. His face was still troubled and Stiles stubbornly ignored the redness around his eyes.

"Okay," Stiles breathed, "what's the plan?"

"It depends on why Peter is targeting you." Derek's voice was low. He sounded very tired.

Stiles shrugged depressingly. "Isn't it because I'm with you?"

Derek gave him a look. It might have been pain. "Yes, but what does he want? What's his agenda?"

Stiles shrugged again, his hands raised in confusion.

Derek sighed. "Is he just trying to lure us somewhere for a team of Navy SEALs to come capture us? Or does he want to do this himself, make me submit to him as an alpha wolf? I'm betting on the latter," he grumbled. He looked at Stiles, pain definitely etched on his face. And there was sadness, too. His hand reached forward and landed gently on Stiles' knee. "I'm sorry, Stiles. About everything." It was the third time he'd apologized that evening.

Stiles stood forcefully, his hands balled into fists. Derek's hand fell into the empty air. He was breathing hard like he'd just run a mile and Derek could hear his heartbeat beating more erratically than usual. Suddenly Stiles yelled, a sound of frustration and anger, and lashed out at the hotel wall. Derek was astonished to see he had actually made a sizable dent into it.

He stood and went to the younger man, who backed away. "If I had just died the other day," he trembled, "like I was supposed to, then they would have been safe."

Derek cocked his head. "You're angry at yourself for surviving?"

"I don't fucking know!" Stiles, though his knuckles were already bleeding, slammed into the wall again, making a hole. "I'm not – I mean, I -"

This time it was Derek who wrapped him in a hug. "I'm going to save them," he assured Stiles. "And then I'm going to destroy Peter. Your family will be safe."

Stiles went limp in his arms. His hurt hand hung at his side. "I guess I'm finally afraid," he said quietly into Derek's ear.

Derek led him into the bathroom and ran hot water over his hand. He looked faintly amused as Stiles winced in pain. "You know," he murmured, toweling it off, "if that's how you respond to real fear, I worry for anyone standing in your way."

"Well, what wouldn't you do for your family?"

"Anything." Derek looked directly into Stiles' eyes. Neither looked away for several seconds.

They trudged back into the bedroom, neither wanting to sleep but both knowing they needed to be refreshed for the drive tomorrow. Stiles pulled back his blankets first and crawled in. Derek stood awkwardly next to his own bed.

"Dude, what?" Stiles sat up.

"It's – nothing, don't worry about it." He began peeling back his blankets.

Stiles shook his head. "I know that face by now, man. That is your 'I still have things to talk about but due to my emotional constipation I'm not going to' face. Spit it out."

The glare fired his way made him smile. He watched Derek walk slowly over to his bed.

"Can I sleep with you?"

The question had Stiles gaping like a fish for a solid thirty seconds.

"Wh-what?"

"It's a pack thing," Derek mumbled. A blush crept up behind his beard. "Being close. I want to – comfort you." When Stiles still hadn't responded after another thirty seconds, Derek backed up slowly, his eyes downcast.

"Wh-whoa, dude, no, come here." Stiles scrambled to pull the blankets down further. Derek quickly got under the covers with him and turned off the bedside light. The room plunged into darkness, with only hints of moonlight peeking through the closed blinds.

They both laid together awkwardly on their backs, barely an inch apart but not touching. Stiles mustered up his courage and turned over onto his side, facing Derek. "Turn over," he commanded softly. Derek grunted and turned, his back facing Stiles' front. Stiles wrapped his arm over Derek's waist and gently entangled their legs. Already he could feel himself relaxing. The massive amounts of heat coming off Derek's naked back felt like they were worming him deep into his heart.

"I like to be the big spoon," Stiles whispered gently into the back of Derek's neck a couple of minutes later. After a few moments though, he realized Derek had already fallen asleep; his breathing was deep and even. Stiles shrugged, tightened his grip, and fell asleep too.

Stiles walks through the upstairs hallway in his dad's house. It's dark and eerily silent. He blinks a few times, unsure how he had gotten to California so suddenly. He isn't even sure if he had driven. And Derek is missing. That isn't right.

"Dad?" He calls out in the night. His voice reverberates mysteriously through the house.

All the photos are gone from the walls. That isn't right either. No matter how much time had passed, the sheriff would never take down the photos of his late wife.

Stiles gets more anxious by the second. He rushes down the stairs and turns into the living room.

His father is there, tied to a chair. Thick blood is dripping on the floor.

Stiles moans and runs to him, skidding slightly on the slicked wood. He kneels at his father's side and sees his isn't breathing, or moving. He's just bleeding. He's dead.

He stands, shaking, and spies another body, a woman in white, on the couch. It's Allison, and a huge bloody hole covers her flattened stomach.

Stiles wants to throw up, but his feet keep him walking towards the kitchen.

He walks in just as Peter Hale stabs Scott in the neck. His best friend sinks to the ground, terrified eyes trained on and pleading with Stiles. His newborn son cries weakly on the kitchen counter.

Peter's eyes glow red. He gestures widely around the blood-spattered kitchen. "Look at the mess you've made, Stiles," he grins in the dark. With his bright eyes gleaming, he looks insane. Stiles can't move.

"Look what you've done."

He woke up screaming.

Derek shot awake as Stiles starting yelling. They were a tangle of limbs and sweat-soaked sheets. He grabbed Stiles' wrists and called out, "Stiles! You're dreaming!"

Stiles choked back a sob and opened his eyes. He shuddered and threw his arms around the older man, surprising Derek with the contact. He clung to him, new tears pricking at his eyes.

"It'll be my fault if they die in five days," Stiles whispered.

"No," Derek growled low. He pressed a hand firmly against Stiles' back and echoed Stiles from earlier: "It will be Peter's. Because clearly he's fucking crazy."

Stiles hugged him harder. "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

Derek could feel his teeth growing alongside his anger. Peter was his last remaining blood relative, one of his original pack. And yet, he was a danger to his brand new pack. No matter what their past was – and Derek could remember racing alongside Peter on the full moon, howling, eating turkey with him on Thanksgiving, being a family – he was a threat.

"Absolutely I will."

A few minutes before the alarm clock was set to wake them, Derek blinked, disoriented, in the dark. Something warm and solid was pressed against him. He hadn't felt this relaxed in years.

After his nightmare, Derek had pulled Stiles down with him back on the bed. He had laid on his back with Stiles curled on top of him. His face was still pressed into Derek's collarbone, his arm still clutched around his waist, and one of his lanky legs was tangled up with Derek's.

Derek glanced at the clock again. It was a quarter to seven. They had to get on the road soon, stop for coffee. They had to get moving. But the bed was so warm...

Stiles mumbled in his sleep and Derek felt traces of drool puddle on his skin. He chuckled to himself and shook Stiles as gently as possible.

"We have to get up now," he murmured. The younger man mumbled again, something about fish this time.

Derek rolled his eyes and got out of the bed. He turned the alarm clock off and went into the bathroom. As he started brushing his teeth, he realized Stiles' scent was clinging to his skin even harder than the man himself. He liked it. He eyed his deodorant suspiciously, irrationally angry at the product for wanting to disguise the scent.

He was finishing up and pulling a clean wifebeater on when he heard Stiles fall out of the bed with a yelp and a tangle of limbs. Derek chortled from his position in the bathroom doorway.

"You could have woken me up," Stiles rumbled. He shoved past Derek into the bathroom.

Derek leaned against the doorframe, turned away from Stiles to give him privacy. "I tried. You sleep like the d– like a log. And you said something about fish?"

It was a testament to their growing bond that Derek knew now that what Stiles needed was a safe topic to talk about.

"Yeah, well," Stiles pulled his pajama pants back up and went to wash his hands, "I didn't understand good seafood until I moved to the east coast. Like, California has got a lot of good things going for it, but have you ever had real Maryland crabs? Dude." His tone was reverent.

Derek shrugged and turned into the bathroom. "I lived in Maine for a couple months once. When you can get lobster for $4.99 a pound, nothing else is ever quite as good."

"I've never been to Maine," Stiles barely articulated through his toothpaste-filled mouth. "Did you like it?"

Derek thought for a moment. "It was quiet. Good food, nice people. The ocean is everywhere, it's a huge part of everyone's life. Yeah," he mused, "I guess I did like it."

They starting driving soon afterward. Derek decided to drive the minivan all the way to Des Moines, finally abandoning it in an airport parking lot.

"See?" They were in the long term parking section. Derek pointed the fine coating of dust on the interior of a car out to Stiles. "The owner of this car has been gone for a while. It's more likely they'll be back soon to notice it's gone. But this car," and he moved to the older burgundy LeSabre next to it, "is a lot cleaner. They probably just dropped it off a few days ago."

"So we should take this one?" Stiles tapped the car's back wheel with his foot.

"Yep. But not just because it's less conspicuous." Stiles still hadn't gotten over the efficiency with which Derek could break into a car. A quick shimmy of a flat piece of metal and the door clicked open. They slid quickly inside and threw their bags in the backseat. Derek reached beneath the dashboard and yanked on a few wires. A few sparks later and the car started with a rumble. "You can only do that with older cars. The wire thing," he explained as he back out of the parking lot. "The Camry and the Chevy we took -"

"You took." Stiles was teasing him.

"I took," Derek admitted with a smile, "were flukes. Most people aren't stupid enough to leave their keys in their cars, and we had to abandon them quickly. Older cars like this – this is a 97, maybe a 96 – can be hotwired."

They reached the guard, who didn't even look at them but checked the pass hanging from the rearview mirror and charged them $27. Derek handed over $30, got his change, and drove sedately out of the lot.

"We might be able to keep this car all the way to Colorado," he said to Stiles as they merged back onto the highway. Though the dark cloud of Beacon Hills was rapidly approaching from the west, they couldn't deny that driving through the flat midwest, flying by other cars and cornfields, and doing the crossword together was a real slice of heaven.

Stiles adamantly insisted on driving, so before they got to Omaha Derek relinquished the wheel. He tapped his fingers animatedly on the steering wheel and got every down clue on the next crossword in the book.

After the last crossword they took a break and found a small barbeque joint. It was noon and the place was full of families and people in the middle of holiday shopping. Derek was startled to remember that Christmas was less than two weeks away. He looked to Stiles while they stood in line to order and saw Stiles was having similar thoughts. His expression was closed, and when he picked up his pork drenched in thick, Kansas City style barbecue sauce, he sat down at their table without a word.

Derek watched him stab his french fries maliciously into his barbecue sauce and decided to speak up. "Christmas was always a huge deal at my house," he eventually said nonchalantly, his mouth half full of steak. Stiles looked up, surprised. "I mean, because of the pack. The family thing. We spent every waking moment together and sometimes that got irritating, but it was great on Christmas.

"On Christmas Eve," Derek smiled at the memory, "my mom always read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas.' It didn't matter what we were doing, when she pulled out that book we all sat down to listen to her. That last Christmas we had together, my older brother was home from college and I thought he'd be too cool to listen to the story too, but he sat down with the rest of us and pulled Megan and Molly – my little sisters – into his lap so they could see the book." He kept smiling, remembering the way his six year old sisters had tormented his brother Michael. They jumped up and down on him, and Molly had landed on a very sensitive spot – even for a werewolf, it had hurt.

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows. "Why are you telling me this?" He asked quietly.

"Because you looked sad." Derek could think of no other reason. No better reason. "I know what Christmas means. I miss it, too."

"I already bought everyone's presents," Stiles said after a few moments. "I bought a swingset for Scott and Allison – the baby won't be able to use it yet but it was so cute, I couldn't not buy it." He looked to Derek for affirmation, who nodded once. "And I got my dad an iPad, mostly because I want to watch him try to use it – it's hysterical how bad he is with technology.

"Is it," Stiles finished almost pleadingly, "is it wrong that all I want right now is to be sitting with them all under a Christmas tree, and see their faces when they get these things? Is that the right thing?"

Derek grasped Stiles' arm and gave it a brief squeeze. "You love them. That's the only right thing. And you have to stop worrying," he said, taking a huge bite of his steak. "We'll protect them. I won't let anything happen to them."

The wolfish grin and sudden blue brightness of his eyes did wonders to convince Stiles.

Derek was driving later that night, looking for another motel to crash in. Stiles was dozing off, his even breathing fogging up the window. He was glad he was asleep though; it gave him a moment to assess the bloom of affection sprouting in his heart. When he had thought of Stiles as cool water rushing through the cracks of his heart, he'd been wrong. Stiles was better than that: he was fertilizer, he was rain, he was the ivy growing around his heart, the roots tugging the cracks closed and sealing them forever.

He was surprised how quickly it had happened. Maybe it was their situation: they needed each other to survive, and that had jump started their bonding. Maybe he had just been so lonely for so long that he had imprinted, like a duck as Stiles had said once, on the first person to show him kindness. Maybe Stiles was meant for him.

Derek remembered Stiles. He had seen him before, at the hospital where his mother worked. He had come to drop off the car for her that evening. As he turned to leave, a young kid came down the hall pushing an emaciated woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank in the back. Even though he could smell her dying, she had a bright smile on her face as she talked to her son. He watched them wheel out the door and followed at a distance. They were parked right outside the entrance, looking at the stars.

"Stiles, what's that one there?" She pointed her thin hand up into the night.

"It's Ursa Minor, Mom." He sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That one right there is... Cygnus?"

"That's Perseus, dear." Her smile was watery. "Cygnus is over there."

Derek could hear them discussing the stars as he pulled away. When he asked his mother about the woman a week later, she told him sadly she had died.

He pulled into a gas station, still lost in thought, about a mile down the street from the tiny motel they were staying in. Stiles woke with a start as the car turned off and parked.

"Where are we?" He asked Derek blearily.

Derek cracked his neck. "We're still in Nebraska. You've only been asleep for about an hour. Go on, grab some stuff to eat and buy $30 in gas. I'll fill the tank. Remember -"

"I know, I know," Stiles rolled his eyes, "cover my face." He pulled his red hoodie up and walked inside, his hands deep into his pockets. Derek only waited a few minutes before the station beeped at him, signaling that he could start filling. He disconnected the gas hose and the stench of gasoline filled his nose. He could see Stiles through the windows of the convenience store, perusing the candy aisles and picking out his favorites. Derek could only pray he might pick out something that wasn't half sugar.

Another car pulled up. Derek noticed first that the hoodie he was wearing was similar to Stiles' and also bright red. As the gas hose clicked off, the $30 spent, he noticed something else. With the gas no longer flowing, he could smell the tang of gunpowder.

He had barely moved before the kid pulled his gun on the clerk in the store. Derek heard the screams for money and watched the clerk fumble with the cash register and then faint. He saw Stiles stand from his position behind a shelf and approach the manic thief. Stiles was already right there, fighting with him over the handgun.

Derek burst into the store, fangs and claws out, just as the gun went off in the thief's hands.

Stiles grabbed some Twinkies, a few candy bars, and, after a second's hesitation, grabbed a few Clif bars: the macadamia nut ones Derek liked so much. He checked out a couple magazines and the DVD rack.

"Wow, 'The Bourne Identity' for only $2.99? Score!" He nodded appreciatively and picked up the case, checking the back. He heard a car pull up the the station and a few moments later the bell above the door jingled. Stiles turned towards the counter to pay when the kid in the red hoodie pulled out his gun.

He dropped to the ground, all his things scattering over the floor. The kid demanded money while threatening the clerk with his pistol. He was trembling so hard the till wouldn't open. The thief raised his gun in the air and fired once, terrifying the clerk into a dead faint. Stiles looked around and stood, his hands raised in a defensive position.

"Hey!" The kid turned around. His eyes were wide and bloodshot; Stiles suspected he was high. He lunged forward, surprising the thief. One of his hands wrapped around the barrel and the other reached for his wrist. They struggled for a moment, the thief stronger than he first appeared, when Derek burst into the store with a frightening roar. The sound startled the kid, and his hand squeezed the trigger. It hit Stiles right above the shoulder.

Derek bellowed at the thief, picked him up bodily and threw him against the wall. He crashed into the potato chips with a dull thud. Tons of bags exploded and shattered chips covered the floor. Derek picked Stiles up in a fireman's carry, heady with the scent of blood and fear, and in the other hand hastily grabbed the Clif bars and Twinkies. He threw Stiles into car and ran back inside. The clerk was stirring feebly but Derek took no notice; he stole several blue first aid kits and some rubbing alcohol from the paltry home supplies aisle. Then he hurried back into the car and spun out of the parking lot, making it back to the motel in less than a minute. Stiles was pale in the backseat but his heartbeat was steady. Blood seeped out of the wound in his left shoulder.

Derek supported him back into the room and into the bathroom. He set him down on the floor next to the sink. Stiles groaned when Derek ripped off his hoodie and undershirt with his claws.

"Dude, that was my favorite sweatshirt," he murmured.

"I don't fucking care," Derek growled angrily. He threw the clothes into the bathtub and surveyed the wound. It was a fairly shallow graze, considering the gun had only been a .22, but it was in thick muscle tissue and was bleeding copiously, especially without any clothing around it to stop it. "God dammit Stiles!" Derek's hands were shaking as he grabbed every gauze pad from one of the first aid kits and pressed onto the wound. Stiles hissed and leaned his head against the wall.

Stiles opened one eye, wincing, and watched Derek's face. It was taut, totally drawn, and his mouth was as thin as he had ever seen it. Even his eyes were still tinged with blue. "It's going to be okay, Derek," he tried to soothe. "I'm going to be fine. It was just a stupid kid." He even raised his hand to Derek's face.

Derek pulled away with a snarl. "I'm not angry with the fucking kid, Stiles!" He pulled the gauze away and mercilessly poured rubbing alcohol into the graze. Stiles shouted in pain and nearly bit his tongue.

"Fuck you, asshole!" Stiles tried to stand but Derek pushed him back down. "Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?"

He wouldn't answer, just crouched back down and dabbed, with startling gentleness in contrast to the way he'd just been acting, at the graze. Blood and rubbing alcohol were seeping down Stiles' chest and Derek got every trace of it.

Stiles tried again to raise his hand to Derek's face. This time, the older man didn't pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned into Stiles' hand, his stubble rough against Stiles' fingers.

"You can't... put yourself into these situations," he whispered. His eyes were vulnerable as they turned back onto Stiles. "You can't... I can't lose you."

Stiles rolled his eyes and grinned. "Do you really think you could get rid of me that easily? Have you met me?"

"I'm serious." Derek took his hand from his face and laid it carefully on his lap. "You could have been killed tonight."

"I could have been killed on Wednesday morning when those military assholes invaded my work," Stiles retorted. "Or Wednesday afternoon when Alpha 3 came to your apartment. And if I recall correctly, it's only by the grace my my dad's gun safety classes that we got out of that situation as lightly as we did."

Derek grunted and picked up the bloody gauze. He threw it into the bathtub along with the ruined clothing. After he'd finished taping a square bandage over the wound, he settled himself against the wall with Stiles and threw his arm over the other man's shoulders. Stiles unhesitatingly leaned against him. They sat back for a while, until Stiles said, "You remember what you said yesterday?"

"About what?" It came out gruffer than he meant.

"About me being afraid." Stiles tested his shoulder, wincing. "I was really, really afraid in there."

Derek looked at him oddly, and let out a loud, barking laugh. He laughed until his sides rumbled and Stiles couldn't help laughing too. After a while he shuffled around a bit and pulled something out of his back pocket. Stiles couldn't contain a little squeal of delight when Derek pulled out The Bourne Identity. They ended up on Derek's bed in the dark, watching it. Stiles fell asleep first, but Derek stayed awake late into the night. Finally he placed a small, feather-light kiss on top of Stiles' head. "I was afraid too," he whispered into the dark.

Sheriff Stilinski wrote up the man who invaded his home as a home invasion, possibly gang related. He never came back, in any case. The only thing he could do was call Stiles twice a day, until his voicemail filled up, and email him at every opportunity. Stiles had gotten back to him once, telling him not to worry, but he didn't reply again.

Peter was never far away. He stayed in the burned remains of the Hale house deep in forest, waiting. Waiting for his prey to come to him.

Mr. Cross had texted him once. "Have you made contact yet?"

"Not yet," he responded. "I am 100% sure they are on their way back to Beacon Hills."

"Good. Remember not to kill him. Kill the Stilinski boy. Tie up all loose ends."

Peter would.