AN: I do not own Teen Wolf, the Bourne movies, or the book The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman from which I pulled a ton of inspiration for the fight scene.

They opened the cellar door slowly, Stiles going first and peeking around the corner. They crouched behind the corner as they both heard the sounds of a car door opening and feet crunching on the dead leaves outside.

"Should – should I go hide or something?" Stiles asked him quietly. Derek nudged him on the hip with his hand, smearing a streak of rusty red blood on Boyd's white pajama t-shirt. Stiles turned and saw a small closet, what might have been a pantry once, just to his right. He skittered into it just as the screen door clattered open. He crouched in the back as Derek turned towards the door. The hair on the back of his head nearly stood up; it was the human equivalent of raised hackles.

"Boyd!" Peter cried out in the entryway. They heard him scrape his boots on the mat. "You better start waking up, I don't smell waffles yet -"

He stopped short at the sight of Derek, freed and covered in blood. Stiles couldn't help grinning at the shock evident on Peter's face for just a moment.

"No waffles today, Uncle Peter," Derek snarled. His face was contorting into the wolf shape again. "You should have remembered to count the heartbeats."

Before Peter could recover Derek had pounced, still growling ferociously and tearing at his throat. He was a wolf again, all dark hair and ferocious teeth. Stiles wanted ti cheer with pride from the closet. Peter reacted instinctively, shielding his face from the onslaught. Derek nearly had his throat in his teeth when Peter threw him across the room. He smashed through a collapsing wall, howling as he went. Boards and bits of debris followed him into the next room.

Peter roared and ripped off his jacket. It was lined with deep slashes through the expensive leather. He yelled at the hole where Derek had flown through, "Nice try, nephew!" His whole body began changing, the fabric of his clothing ripping as he turned into his wolf. He was massive, bigger than Derek, and a mixture of muddy brown and white. Stiles heard Derek shake bits of wood and brick off himself as Peter charged through the wall after him. There was a flurry of dust and dirt as both wolves began fighting.

Stiles had watched plenty of nature shows, both as a kid and an adult. He'd visited the National Zoo once or twice since moving to the east coast, too. The wolves there had fought while he watched, but it lasted only seconds before one gave up and walked away, tail tucked between its legs. He knew it was just a show for dominance. This was something far more brutal; the sight of two massive werewolves tearing each other apart was awesome, in that it inspired a terrible sort of awe. It was not a simple show of dominance or a teasing test of strength. It was to the death. Though Peter had size on his side – and Stiles thought that must be an alpha thing, because Derek was bigger than him in human form – Derek was faster, his jaws appearing one place and injuring somewhere else entirely the next. He nipped at Peter's tail and a few hot droplets of blood flew towards Stiles, landing in the dust on the floor. He reached out to them, feeling them stick in the dust. He didn't care which wolf they were from, but he reached for them anyway.

The very foundation of the house was shaking. Stiles covered his head as drywall dust rained on him. He stifled a cough into his elbow, terrified that Peter would remember he was there. Another snarl ripped through the living room and the biggest crash yet followed afterward; Derek had managed to rip away from Peter and throw him out the huge picture window.

Stiles tumbled out of the closet to follow them. Minding his hands, he leaned out of the broken window and watched them claw at each other. Their hackles were puffed up and they circled each other, growling and barking.

Suddenly Derek was whining, one of his front legs held close to his body. Stiles had the idea of going to him, standing in front of him to protect him, but his legs wouldn't move. He cried out, "Derek, watch out!"

Peter looked up at the house for a split second. Stiles could have sworn he had a smile on his wolf face.

He went back to toying with Derek, nipping almost playfully and knocking him over. Derek kept whining. His black fur was soaked with blood and his injured paw wasn't touching the ground anymore. He skipped backwards as Peter stood up on his back feet and grabbed the scruff of Derek's neck and shook viciously. Derek howled again as Peter threw him. Large tufts of hair scattered around like pine needles in the air.

But Stiles kept his eyes on Derek as Peter stood with his tail erect, another almost victorious grin on his muzzle. There was a rock outcrop on the side of the driveway. It was propped up a bit, and Derek was nearly standing on it.

His paw wasn't really injured. It was whole and fresh and ready to attack. He had taken advantage of Peter's desire to toy with him without giving him any real, life-threatening injuries, and what ones he had were already healed. Derek backed up against the rock, curling into it as though in submission.

"I win." Stiles was shocked to hear words, guttural and strange sounding, pass Peter's lips. His nose came within an inch of Derek's throat. "You lose."

Derek exploded up. He wrapped his jaws around Peter's throat and slashed it open. Blood spurted everywhere. It covered Derek's face and streamed down his fur, dripping onto the ground, but he didn't let go, not for a second, until he had completely torn Peter's throat out. Bits of gristle and guts hung from both sides of his jaws.

Stiles thought he looked proud.

Peter was slowly becoming a man again. He laid on the ground in the sunshine, gasping for air from the hole in his neck. Stiles leaped down over the porch steps and stopped just short of Peter's choking body. He stared at the entire scene, almost lost for words.

"Holy fuck!" He eventually yelled. Almost lost. Derek spat out the offal in his mouth and rolled his eyes, as much as a wolf could. He also transformed back into a man, ignoring his nakedness in the cold winter air. He looked down at his uncle on the ground.

"I win," he whispered. His breath fogged around his head. Stiles sidled around Peter to clasp him on the back.

"I can't believe it's over," he said. "I mean, a five minute fight ends our cross country road trip."

"Don't think for a second this is all over, Stiles," Derek said cautiously. Peter stopped choking.

They turned back towards the house. As he moved to wrap his arm around Stiles' shoulder, the dying man on the ground writhed and stood again in a flash. Before Derek could pull him away, Peter had Stiles in a choke hold and was backing away towards the house.

"Peter, let him go!" Derek's eyes were blue and his fangs had come out. Stiles struggled against Peter's vise-like grip as cold blood dripped down his neck onto his chest. The improbability of the situation weighed on his mind like glue.

Peter struggled to speak as his vocal cords dangled outside his body. He whispered against Stiles' ear, "I will always win, Derek." His lips curled over his fangs and saliva dripped down his chin.

Stiles felt the tips of fangs touch his wrist.

Derek lunged at him before Peter could bite Stiles. Stiles squealed in what he hoped came out manlier than it sounded as all three of them ended up on the ground in a tangle of limbs, blood, and teeth. He closed his eyes and tried to escape from the arm around his neck.

An angry whine cut off abruptly. The arm around Stiles' neck loosened and he bolted back upright. He was shaking from head to toe.

Derek stood with him. This time, Peter was unmistakably dead. His head was twisted at an odd angle. "There are only a few ways to kill a werewolf," he muttered, not looking at Stiles. A bruised sort of flush was creeping up his neck. Stiles knew well enough that Derek was ashamed of himself, ashamed that he hadn't made sure Peter was dead the first time, ashamed he'd let Stiles get so close to harm's way. "You have to – to make sure we can't heal from it. I'm sorry, I gave him a few seconds and he healed enough to get back up, I'm sorry, I'm -"

Stiles touched Derek's arm. His neck was starting to bruise, but what was that compared to being alive? Derek finally looked at him. His eyes were still glowing, but they were red instead of the familiar ice blue.

"Are... are you the alpha now?" He asked tentatively.

Derek nodded stiffly after a moment. He looked away from Stiles again, back towards the house. "That's – that's usually how this works. I mean, I'm not an expert on power exchanges, but, yeah."

Stiles looked around the front yard of the Hale house. Besides the now assuredly dead body of Peter Hale, it was quiet and calm. He even spotted a few birds on a pine branch. He tugged on Derek's arm again until Derek stepped closer. Stiles wrapped his arms around his neck and hugged him, breathing in his familiar scent. "What do we do now?"

Derek grunted into Stiles' shoulder where his face was buried. "They're not done chasing us," he murmured. "We're still in danger. When they find out Peter failed -"

"So we keep running?"

Derek nodded. "We have to."

Stiles was silent for a moment. "Can we stop somewhere before we hit the road? And maybe put clothes that don't reek on?"

Derek snorted. "Yeah. Let's go."

They ran up the porch steps back into the Hale house.

Sheriff Stilinski considered himself a hard to surprise individual. Dealing with Scott and Stiles for fifteen years had given him a lot of experience in what he considered to be strange and unusual behavior. If he couldn't handle finding them out in the woods at 3 in the morning after hearing on the police scanner a dangerous mountain lion was on the loose, he couldn't handle anything. He was, however, unprepared for his son showing up in the middle of the morning looking like he was recovering from a barfight with a dark stranger who looked no better on his heels. Stiles looked antsier than usual, which, considering that the sheriff had been there during the amphetamine crisis of sophomore year, was saying something. Their clothing didn't fit them well either; on Stiles it was loose and baggy, and on the stranger it was tight everywhere.

He reached out to hug his son, who embraced him closely in return. "How come you didn't call me back, Stiles?" He didn't mean to sound so hurt and worried.

Stiles gave him a half smile and shrug in return. He looked around the porch again as though he expected more people. "Dad, can we come in? Please?"

The sheriff stepped aside, carefully watching his son and the stranger. They moved almost in sync, as though they had been together in the trenches and had to learn each others' body language or die. Stiles went immediately for the kitchen, with his companion trailing awkwardly behind them. The sheriff followed them with his arms crossed. He found them pouring bowls of cereal like they hadn't eaten in days.

"Stiles, you need to tell me what's going on." The sheriff leaned against the counter and stared hard at his son. "Right now."

"Dad, I swear," Stiles said around his bulging chipmunk cheeks, "I will tell you everything, but we haven't eaten anything substantial in about... days. Just, let us eat, okay? I promise." He gave the sheriff such huge, pleading eyes that even he, well trained in the art of puppy dog eye deflection, sighed and caved in.

Three more bowls of cereal and an entire box of Honey Bunches of Oats later, the three of them sat at the dining room table. Stiles still looked around at all the windows, twitching like a squirrel.

"Sheriff Stilinski." The stranger spoke first. The sheriff looked at him, really looked at him, and was surprised to find he recognized him; at least, he thought he did. He saw a younger, gangly youth in his mind: all toothy grins and dark ruffled hair.

"Call me John," the sheriff said, scrutinizing him further. The stranger blushed and sunk lower in his chair. "You look awfully familiar, son. Did you live around here or something? Ever get into trouble?"

"No, sir," Derek mumbled. He blushed even harder and if he could have, he would have hidden behind Stiles.

Stiles snorted and came to his rescue. He leaned forward towards his father, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. "Dad, I need to tell you a lot of stuff. You're not going to believe most of it, and then you're going to try to help but that's not what we need, so just listen, okay?" His brown eyes bored into the sheriff's.

The sheriff nodded curtly and settled back with his hands folded on his stomach, waiting.

Stiles launched into their unbelievable story. He started back at the medical office, the shooting, and back to the hotel in Virginia. He stuttered around bathing a naked Derek and dived right into the fight at Derek's apartment.

"Yeah, so after that guy attacked us, we got the hell out of dodge, it was fuc-freaking crazy, and Derek just -"

The sheriff bolted straight up. He stared at Derek and said wonderingly, "Derek Hale. I remember you and your family. You're supposed to be dead."

Derek's answering shrug bordered on sheepish. "Yeah. That's what they tell me."

"But that's the thing, Dad!" Stiles interjected. His arms were windmilling around his head. He continued, "Derek works for the government and he kind of quit and that is why we had to run for our lives -"

"Stiles." The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you seriously telling me you're being chased across the country by the CIA with a governmental werewolf assassin? Is that seriously the story you're giving me?" He looked disbelievingly from his son to Derek and back.

"I can prove it," Derek said. He stood and grabbed one of the dining table chairs. "There's blood on this chair from when you were tied up earlier this week. I can smell it even though you cleaned it with bleach." Derek extended his claws and ripped deliberately through the fabric cushion on the seat. The cottony pieces of fluff fluttered through the air.

John Stilinski's jaw dropped. Not only did no one outside the precinct know about the break in, but long, razor sharp claws had just sprouted from this man back from the dead. It was almost more than he could take.

"The man who broke into this house was my uncle Peter. He broke in here to intimidate us into coming back so he could trap me and kill your son. He's dead back at my old house. I killed him." Derek paused, looking almost contrite. The claws retracted. He breathed out hard through his nose, trying to rein in the much more powerful and unfamiliar wolf inside him. Stiles unconsciously reached out and hooked his pointer finger through Derek's pinkie. The sheriff did not miss it.

He leaned back, shock still evident on his face. "How do you -"

"Know about that?" Stiles barked out a humorless laugh. "Well, he's got super senses," he explained, pointing his thumb at Derek, "and I got a video over the weekend. Peter, working from orders from the CIA, threatened to kill you and Scott and Allison if we didn't come home."

Derek growled out curtly, "We came here because we're leaving again."

The sheriff looked between them again. "What do you mean, you're leaving again?"

"We need to leave, like, immediately," Stiles said. He nodded up, towards his own bedroom. "I need to pick up some stuff and then we're hitting the road again. They're still going to come looking for us, and when they find out how much I know..." He didn't look frightened, for which Derek was unashamedly proud. He looked determined.

"But what about school? Your job? You just got that job four months ago!" Stiles' father gestured wildly around his head, and Derek saw where Stiles got it from. "What about me?" He sounded almost heartbroken.

"Dad!" Stiles reached forward for his father's hand. He grasped it solidly. "I will try to keep in contact with you and Scott as much as possible. But I'm doing this because I love you and I need to protect you. This is the best way, the only way."

Derek growled and nudged Stiles with his knee. They had already been there too long.

"Mr. Stil – John," Derek started, his arms spread in some apologetic gesture of peace, "I never meant to get your son involved with this."

"So un-involve him!"

"It's not that simple," Derek shook his head. "But I promise you, with every fiber of my being, that Stiles will be safe with me. I will never let anything happen to him."

The sheriff gestured at Stiles' bruised face. "Clearly something has happened to him! His nose is – is broken and don't tell me that wrist isn't either. He's walking like an old man and I haven't heard from him in a week. Tell me the truth, Derek – am I ever going to see you two again after today?" Derek and Stiles shared a look. It was impossible to decipher, but sadness drifted from them like a wave.

"I-I don't know, Dad," Stiles whispered. He stood, with the sheriff mirroring his every move. "I love you, Dad. Please trust me."

The sheriff recognized that face on his son. It was the face of an eight year old so determined to see the New Year through he stayed up til 3am and crashed for the rest of the next day. It was the look of a fourteen year old with his first weight set and a whole summer in front of him. It was the glint in his eye he used to have when he talked about the late, great Lydia Martin. Stiles would get his way, one way or another. He felt tears prick his eyes, but he wouldn't stop them.

"I love you, Jarogniew," he choked as he pulled Stiles in for a fierce, protective hug. Derek looked away, anywhere but the two of them.

They hastily grabbed a few of the extra suitcases from the downstairs closet. Stiles emptied his closet of the last remaining clothes he kept there and all his most valuable comic books. He grabbed his old laptop and went into the bathroom. When he went to grab deodorant, he bit back a laugh and left it on the counter.

His father tossed him a small black something before they left. "It's a burner phone," he muttered, "still has minutes on it. Call me. Call me as much as you can. I'll deal with the – the body at the Hale house. And Derek?"

Derek forced himself to look the sheriff in the eye.

"I knew your mother. She was a woman of her word. Make her proud. Protect my son." He gripped Derek's shoulder tightly. "Make sure I see him again soon."

Stiles tackled his father in a hug. "I love you, Dad," he said again. They gripped each other until their knuckles turned white when Derek let out a near silent whine. Stiles squeezed his father one more time, then he and Derek bolted out the front door, taking the steps two at a time until they got to Peter's black sedan. They buckled up and waved briefly to the sheriff before driving down the quiet suburban street towards the highway.

The first thing Stiles did with the disposable phone was dial Scott's number. Allison picked up on the third ring.

"Oh my God, Stiles!" Her frantic voice was tinny through the speaker.

"Allison, my favorite lady!" Stiles' happy grin reached up to his eyes. He gave a brief thumbs up to Derek and turned back to the phone. "I would love to chat, seriously, but I need to talk to Scott right now."

"He – he's about to leave for Deaton's office -"

Derek heard a tiny male voice on the other end of the line. After a few seconds of arguing, Scott must have taken the phone from Allison because the male voice was much louder. "What the fuck, Stiles? Your dad and I have been trying to talk to you for days."

"It – it's complicated, man," Stiles answered. "But... you're not going to be able to reach me very easily from now on. I'll try to check in with you and Allison, expect lots of emailing, but I won't be around much."

Or ever again.

There was a sad sigh on the other side of the phone. "Should I go talk to your dad?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighed in return. "He can tell you everything. I'll call again in a couple days, all right? And I love you, Scott, and Allison too. I promise I'm going to be okay. Me and Derek, we'll be okay."

"Derek?" Scott's voice vibrated with uncertainty and jealousy.

"Scott, dude, he's just – he's nearly as awesome as you, I swear, and he – just talk to my dad."

"You're freaking me out, Stiles," Scott coughed on the other end. "More than usual."

A humorless laugh left Stiles. Derek turned his eyes from the road to look at him. His face was drawn as though he was about to be sick. "Yeah, well, it's been a weird week for me."

"Should we – I guess we shouldn't wait to open up Christmas present, huh?"

Stiles groaned. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, "No, go ahead. You'll have to check on my dad. There's no way he can handle an iPad on his own."

There was a moment of quiet over the phone. "Stiles?"

"Yeah, Scott?"

"We decided on a name. Daniel Oskar McCall."

Stiles cocked his head and asked, "Did you say Oskar? Like, my middle name, Oskar?"

"My dad wanted his middle name to be Raphael," Scott laughed somewhat bitterly. "But he has no claim on him. You do." Derek could hear a female voice agreeing in the background.

They were almost at the highway entrance headed back east. "I-I have to go, Scott," Stiles murmured. "I'll – or my dad – everything will get explained, I swear. I'll try to email you later this week."

"Okay, dude." Scott didn't press for anything more. "Take care. We'll send pictures when we can."

"Love you, man." Stiles clicked the end call button and stared at the phone like it was something he'd never seen before.

"It's a good name," Derek grunted lamely as he drove onto the highway. The traffic was light, considering it was past rush hour.

Stiles didn't answer. He threw the phone into the backseat, agitated. After a few miles he said dully, "There's a shopping plaza up here. We need to switch cars."

"Shopping plaza, huh?" Derek attempted to respond lightly. "It was just a Burger King the last time I was here."

"Dude," Stiles shook his head, "that Burger King has been gone for years. It's a Panera now."

"What's a Panera?" Derek scanned the intersection in front of them and turned his confused face back to Stiles.

"You're so lucky you have me with you," Stiles chortled, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Derek extended his hand and took Stiles' in his. He tried to comfort him through just the touch of his fingers. "I know, Stiles," he whispered. "You ready for this?"

"Hell yeah." He grunted and opened the door. They had parked in the very back of the parking lot next to an old Nissan Pathfinder. Stiles blocked Derek from view as Derek jimmied the lock open. They loaded their stuff in and started the car before two minutes had passed.

Stiles jumped into the driver's seat before Derek could. "You hardly slept last night. I got this, at least for a little while." He shooed Derek to the passenger seat.

They grabbed sandwiches at Panera before they left. Derek wolfed his down and pulled out the paper he'd snatched from an empty table. He asked Stiles as they drove further from Beacon Hills, "Who's McDaniel in Gone With the Wind? It's six letters across."

"Hattie."