AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. Thanks to everyone who's read this fic! I appreciate it!

They had moved to Portland, Maine after their brief stop in Virginia. Derek's old landlord had been ecstatic to hear his favorite tenant would be coming back to stay for a few months. Paying on time, extra, in cash, ensured privacy and stability. Stiles had still been worried, no matter how much Derek reassured him.

"How long do you think we can stay here?" Stiles asked quietly. They had taken a bus to Maine after abandoning their last car at Logan Airport. It was full of college students returning home and businessmen too cheap to drive to and from Boston.

Derek didn't respond immediately. He brooded out the window and watched the gray scenery pass by. The clouds threatened snow. He eventually answered, "I have another... stash in the apartment I used to live in up here. We can pay on a month by month basis for a little while, recuperate, regroup."

Stiles looked around quickly and whispered, "Don't you think Cross is going to figure that out? Doesn't he have, like, records of all that stuff?"

Derek shook his head. He murmured back, "I never used my real name on any lease agreement and I always paid cash. Even the CIA has a few limits. Besides, as long as I did my job they didn't care where I lived. I doubt they'll even remember I lived in Maine." He stared back out the window.

Stiles squeezed his hand. "It's gonna be alright, dude." They were still holding hands as they disembarked from the bus and caught a taxi.

The first thing they did after moving everything in was find the local library. It was a tall glass building in the center of the city, across the street from a square with a war memorial in it. Derek watched Stiles carefully from the stacks while he got on the internet and answered his emails from Scott, Allison, and his father. Their Christmas celebration had clearly been a lot of fun. Stiles giggled at the pictures Scott had sent of his father struggling with the new iPad. Derek appeared from behind the stacks after about half an hour, and they left as inconspicuously as possible.

Two weeks after they'd settled in, Stiles found a job as a bartender at a local pub. Without medical school or his internship, he'd found he was very, very bored. Derek warned him to be careful, that it wasn't really necessary for him to go out and work, might even be better if he didn't, but Stiles insisted. A bored Stiles was a very unhappy Stiles, and damn if Derek didn't want him to be happy. He thought others might consider Stiles his greatest weakness. He thought of Stiles as his greatest strength. Loving someone didn't make him weak, didn't make him relinquish control. It made it impossible for others to control him.

Derek showed up every evening at the pub where Stiles worked. Stiles huffed about it, complained that he was scaring customers away with his surly stare and disregard for jackets in the middle of January, but when Derek leaned across the bar to softly kiss his frown away, he smiled and blushed like a teenager. The pub also welcomed musicians and bands sometimes. It wasn't a very popular or crowded bar, but plenty of people still showed up.

It turned out Derek could play the banjo.

One evening, a Mumford and Sons cover band stepped up on stage to play. Stiles was wiping the bar while Derek sat on the other side, nursing a rum and coke. Suddenly, one of the band members tripped off the stage and ran to the bathroom around the corner. Stiles rolled his eyes as the sounds of sickness floated back into the pub.

The rest of the band shrugged awkwardly and continued setting up. It seemed to Stiles like it was a regular occurrence. When the sick bandmate didn't show back up, even when they were done setting up their equipment, they looked around dejectedly. The singer stepped up to the microphone and said softly, "So... I guess we're down a banjo player. Any... anyone here play? I mean," he trailed off into a whisper, "Mumford and Sons?"

The bar fell silent. Stiles shook his head, feeling sorry for the band, when Derek finished the last of his drink and stepped up to the stage. He took the banjo from the singer, whose face resembled something close to a religious martyr seeing God. Plugging the banjo in to the amp, he strummed a few melodic chords, tuning it to his liking, before attaching the fingerpicks the singer offered him.

"Un-fucking-believable, dude," Stiles whispered as they started quickly into "I Will Wait." Derek's face was contorted into concentration, completely focused on playing. Stiles hadn't even known he'd liked Mumford and Sons. Then again, the radio was still off limits whenever they drove together.

One of his coworkers, a pretty girl named Sarah, bumped him on the shoulder with the tray of food she was carrying. "Your boyfriend's good," she winked at him before whisking away.

Stiles picked his jaw up off the floor and went back to stacking pint glasses behind the bar. He tried not to stare at Derek's arms, the way they moved over the arpeggiated notes, but he couldn't not. A customer actually had to snap his fingers in front of Stiles' face to order a beer and some nachos.

The rest of the night wasn't much better, in the sense that Stiles was too distracted by his own erection to get much work done. He slammed beers too hard on the bar and shot death glares at the women who were staring unashamedly at Derek. Sarah rolled her eyes humorously as he growled at one particularly buxom redhead who was crowding the stage.

"Stiles," she soothed, "just remember he's going home with you tonight, not them. Relax, dude."

"Holland Road" turned into "White Blank Page" turned into nine more songs before the next band slated to play forced themselves on stage, effectively ending the Mumford and Sons' band's set. Derek shrugged off the banjo strap and handed the fingerpicks back.

"Hey man, do you think you'd want to play again with us sometime?" The lead singer followed Derek back to his seat at the bar and sat beside him. "You're wicked good."

"Yeah," the redheaded woman said throatily as she sat down on his other side. She paused to glance at Stiles and shake her empty beer bottle, her eyes wide and demanding. As Stiles bent down to fetch her a new one, she continued, "You were really good up there. I'd love to watch you play again. More privately, of course." The last sentence came out in a throaty whisper.

"Maybe," Derek shrugged to answer the singer. He ignored the redhead and picked up a pen to write his email address for him.

Stiles bent back up with another full beer in his hand. He handed it to the woman and said, "That's $5."

She threw him a crumpled $5 bill and took a swig, her eyes never leaving Derek's face. As the singer walked away ecstatically, she leaned forward and whispered, "I'm free tonight. What do you say?"

Derek grunted. Stiles saw the ghost of a smile on his face. He busied himself making Derek another rum and coke.

"I'm not interested."

The redhead spluttered. "Are you serious?" She set her beer down angrily and gave him an ugly look. "What, are you blind?"

"No." Derek smiled when Stiles when he handed him his drink. "I only have eyes for one person." He leaned over the bar again and pressed his lips to Stiles' again, effectively silencing the woman. She gasped and grumbled away, sloshing her beer everywhere as she went.

"When did you get so poetic? And when did you learn to play the banjo?" Stiles grinned into Derek's mouth.

"Since you," Derek answered simply. "And when I was fifteen."

A door slammed open behind them. "Stilinski! Stop making out with your boyfriend and get back to work!" His manager, Mr. Finstock, yelled at him from the kitchen. "I swear to God..."

"Sorry!" Stiles called back.

Derek let out a rare grin, finished his drink, and kissed Stiles' cheek. "I'm gonna head out. Call me when you leave, okay?"

"Dude!" Stiles pushed him away playfully. "Go away. I'll see you later." Stiles blushed again as Derek left, leaving a $20 behind to pay for his drinks.

Stiles left the bar after two in the morning, when it closed. He shrugged on his parka and snapped earmuffs on over his ears. Sarah, a native Mainer, always laughed at his getup.

"I'm from California, babe. The whole cold thing just doesn't happen there quite like it does here."

She laughed again, wrapping a scarf around her neck. "You'll get used to it. Besides," she hugged him and turned to walk down the street towards her apartment, "summer in Maine, there's nothing quite like it." Sarah waved goodbye and headed home. Stiles smiled at her and trekked the four blocks back to his and Derek's apartment on the eastern Promenade. His building was a tall white one of the corner, with a maple tree in the yard. Across the street were tennis courts and an empty playground. The ocean past that was capped with white waves Stiles could see clearly even in the night.

He pulled out his key and unlocked the front door. His tired legs groggily carried him up the flight of stairs to the apartment. Groaning with tiredness, Stiles unlocked the door and stumbled inside.

Instantly he was wrapped in a fierce and terrifying bear hug. He squeaked in fear as Derek pressed him against the wall, his face buried with his forehead against Stiles' shoulder. Stiles felt something hard in Derek's hand press against his back through his parka. A cell phone! Stiles mentally kicked himself for forgetting to call.

"Derek," Stiles soothed, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry I forgot to call, but I'm fine! Everything's fine."

Derek growled and pushed Stiles further against the door. His head banged uncomfortably against the painted wood. When he looked up, his eyes were red and his fangs were poking out between his lips. "You can't fucking forget things like that, Stiles!" He shook his head, fighting off the alpha wolf inside him. "You – you need to call me, I need to know you're still safe."

With a sigh, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and pulled him closer, not in the least bit frightened of the alpha wolf. "I'm good, big guy. We're okay. I promise not to forget again."

Derek grumbled and let him go, but kept his face against Stiles' neck. Breathing in Stiles' scent, he felt himself grow calmer, grew more satisfied the younger man was safe and alive.

Stiles threaded his hand through Derek's and pulled him into the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket onto the ground. Before he could take off the rest of his clothes Derek tugged him onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist. Stiles smiled and allowed himself to be spooned against Derek's solid chest.

"I missed you," Derek whispered in his ear after a few minutes of quiet snuggling.

"Dude," Stiles laughed, "you saw me four hours ago." He turned in Derek's arms to face the older man. "I mean, I get it, I'm your whole world and everything, but -"

"Shut up, Stiles." Derek cupped his cheek and kissed him solidly on the lips. Stiles grinned and tugged on Derek's shirt, lifting it above his head. Derek rolled out of his and sat up, lifting up Stiles' shirt as he went. Stiles reached up to stroke the dips and curves of Derek's abdomen. A hand caught his own though, and Derek pressed a kiss into his palm. He left hot, open mouthed kisses up Stiles' arm to his bare shoulder, and dipped his head lower to leave a trail continuing across his flat stomach.

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. He ran his hands through Derek's messy hair, pulling him back towards his face. Their lips met again, Stiles nipping at Derek's lower lip until his groaned. He turned them over and climbed up on top of Derek, crushing him into the mattress and grinding their pelvises together.

"I'm going to blow you," Stiles whispered against Derek's neck. He bit down on his throat when Derek shivered. "It's the least I can do to make up for not calling you."

Derek groaned again as Stiles began his own journey down his chest. His tongue flicked out as he nibbled his way down the trail of hair disappearing into Derek's jeans. He gripped the sides of the waistband and pulled them agonizingly slowly down his thighs and over his feet. Only his black boxer briefs remained.

Stiles reached out and cupped Derek through the fabric and continued leaving bruising kisses around Derek's hips. Derek had the blankets fisted in his hands. Stiles looked up to again see fangs peeking through his lips. Slithering up Derek's body, he pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek and rubbed his own growing stubble against Derek's. "If you ruin the blankets with your claws, you're paying for them."

Derek opened his eyes. The bright red irises gleamed as they rolled. He lifted his hands above his head and rested his wrists on his forehead. "Better?" He asked, half mocking.

Stiles snorted and went back to the V of Derek's legs. He wriggled out of his own jeans and perched on Derek's thighs, running his hands up and down them. Stiles reached into his own underwear and pulled his own half hard cock out, just barely thumbing the head. Derek's eyes were trained directly on his hand.

Settling himself between Derek's legs again, Stiles pulled Derek's cock out. Still palming his own erection, he bent down and sucked on Derek's testicles. He licked a long, thin stripe against the skin and stroked Derek's cock up from the base, priding himself on the low hiss that passed Derek's lips. His own cock hung heavy in his palm, begging for attention. It was leaking precome and the head was flushed a deep red.

He took Derek into his mouth unexpectedly and moaned when Derek thrust unconsciously into his mouth. His tongue followed the path of his lips as he went. Derek bit out a low whine as Stiles eagerly sucked on him. He pulled off briefly to lick his palm for less friction, then stroked Derek more firmly. His strokes matched the demanding pace of his lips.

Stiles kept stroking but his lips left Derek's cock again. He kissed his hips, the insides of his thighs, and continued downwards until his tongue circled Derek's entrance.

Derek moaned out, "Jesus, Stiles," as Stiles pressed his tongue against Derek's hole. He licked and flitted his tongue inside, again matching the pace of his hand. For each long stroke, he stretched Derek with his tongue.

As he felt Derek shiver and tense, preparing to come, Stiles lifted his head and attached his lips to Derek again, swallowing every last inch of him. Derek didn't bother to control himself anymore and thrust upwards into Stiles' mouth. On the fifth thrust he came, biting back a shout by stuffing his wrist into his mouth. His lip split where one of his fangs had caught it. Stiles sat back on his heels and wiped a trace of come away with his thumb. His own cock still hung in his hands.

He was unprepared when Derek flipped him over. Stiles yelped as he landed on his back, Derek's weight pinning him into the mattress. "Apology mostly accepted," Derek murmured against his throat.

"M-mostly?" Stiles sputtered. Derek's groin, already half hard again, pressed against Stiles' straining erection. He gasped when he felt Derek's hand against it, stroking him gently.

"Yeah," Derek breathed, "mostly. You're still a pain in the ass." He gripped his own cock and lined it up with Stiles', rubbing them together.

Stiles arched underneath him. "I haven't even fucked you yet," he said, a wolfish grin beginning to dominate his face.

Derek rolled his eyes again. He leaned up onto his hands and knees and took Stiles into his hand. Stiles wantonly thrust up into his palm, desperate despite the friction, and came quickly, spilling over Derek's hand. He gaped as Derek licked every last drop of come from his knuckles.

Eventually they kicked off their underwear and settled back to sleep, the post coital haze affecting them both. Stiles cradled Derek in his arms and snuffled into Derek's hair with a smile.

"I have the day off tomorrow," he mused. "Do you want to do anything?"

"Sure," Derek yawned. "There's an island I want to take you to. Take a walk. Build a fairy house."

"A – a what?" Stiles leaned up to look at Derek's face. The other man's eyes were closed as if in sleep and his mouth was shaped into a small frown. He looked completely serious. "Derek, how gay have I made you?"

"You'll see when we get there," Derek muttered. He tugged on Stiles' arms to pull him back against him.

Stiles shrugged and settled down again. In less than a month his life had turned upside down. They were still afraid for their lives every instant. His family, three thousand miles away, was all but lost to him. It was heartbreaking, and yet, Stiles thought, as his eyes closed in sleep, not all of his heart was broken.

Some of it lived inside Derek Hale.

As Derek fell asleep, wrapped in Stiles' arms, he thought that going to that exit physical, as much of a trap as it had been, was the best decision he'd ever made.

The small house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac somewhere in western Massachusetts. The man in the house kept looking over his shoulder and out the windows, as though he could feel the pinpricks of eyeballs on the back of his neck. Derek hid low beneath the window outside, just avoiding being seen. He cursed his curiosity and sat back against the house wall. This was only his second job with the CIA. He still struggled with the hows, the whys, the what ifs of his job, the moral ambiguity, and the abject terror he subjected people to.

There was a crackle on the radio in his pocket. Derek clicked the button and whispered, "I need to wait a little longer. He's twitchy. Almost made me."

"Get it done," the voice on the other line growled. "You only have a half hour left in your window."

"Maybe," Derek whispered hesitantly, "maybe I could try again tomorrow?"

The radio squawked out loud, distorted feedback. Derek winced nervously at the sound. "No, you can't fucking do it tomorrow. Do it now." With a click, the connection turned off.

Derek sighed and wiped his face with his hand. Then he stood and looked around, even though he knew it was as secluded as it was ever going to be. He loosened his pants and stepped out of them, throwing his shirt onto the ground as he did. Derek felt his bones creak as he changed. He saw his reflection in the shadowy window and winced again; he was huge and skinny looking, with shaggy black fur. Once, more than a year before, he'd been assured he'd start filling out soon, that the muscles would grow and he'd be more powerfully built like his brother.

The man in the house screamed when he launched himself through the window. Derek shook the debris from his fur and snarled. His mark whirled away and ran, but Derek blocked him back into the kitchen. The last thing he saw before he woke up was the spray of blood that had splashed onto the ceiling.

Derek woke up with a shout. The bedsheets were twisted around his legs and waist and he struggled out of them to his feet. Eventually he ripped them with his claws and fell, breathing hard, onto the bedroom floor. He sat shaking and naked against the wall, so reminiscent of his memory-filled dream.

Stiles scrambled out of bed and joined him, crouching in front of the other man with the remains of the sheets around his feet. "Hey, hey," he whispered gently, "Just breathe, okay? Just breathe with me." He caught Derek's panicked gaze and held it firmly until the werewolf drew in steadier breaths.

"It's just hard, remembering it all in my sleep," he whispered softly. He reached tentatively for Stiles' hand and laced their fingers together. "I feel so helpless, watching myself and not being able to tell him to run away."

The younger man grimaced in sympathy and pulled away to go to the bedside table. He withdrew a small black notebook and a mechanical pencil. "You know the drill. Gotta write it down."

Derek shook his head. He closed his eyes and leaned back, seeing more blood and violence behind his eyelids. "I don't want to," he muttered sourly.

Stiles rolled his eyes and poked Derek's chest with the pencil. "Come on, dude. You started it. It makes you feel better."

When Stiles didn't stop poking him, Derek growled and took the notebook and pencil. Stiles sank to the floor at his side, saying nothing while Derek scribbled down his dream on the lined paper. He tried to capture every detail he could remember, from the scents and sounds of that evening, the feelings it had incurred, to the way he had vomited in his bathroom after being congratulated by his handler, Mr. Cross. The scratching of the pencil filled the bedroom as their own silence grew.

"What was it about?" Stiles asked tentatively. He tilted his head and bumped his nose against Derek's broad shoulder.

Derek set the pencil and notebook down on the floor. He breathed deeply against Stiles' hairline. "Let's just go back to sleep," he murmured softly.

"No," Stiles refused. He grabbed the notebook from the floor. "I want you to talk to me. You've been having nightmares ever since we got here, almost every night." Quickly he thumbed through the pages. "You didn't draw dicks in here again, did you?"

"That was one time," Derek muttered, closing his eyes again. "It was my second job. I remember being afraid, and... and seeing my reflection in the window." Seeing and remembering his thin wolf form gave him more conflicting feelings than almost anything else.

Stiles turned to look at him. "What about your reflection?"

"I looked... different." Derek shrugged, unable to articulate his thoughts. Stiles hummed and lifted his arm and put it around Derek's shoulder in solidarity.

"I just remember," Derek finally said, while Stiles nodded encouragingly, "that I still looked so much like a teenager, and that my – my mother said one day I'd fill out like my older brother. Even though he wasn't an alpha, and probably wouldn't be, he – he was huge, just this solid mass of brown and white fur and muscle and I wanted to be just like him for the longest time. And it made me..." He couldn't say what it made him, but Stiles understood. At any rate, he pulled Derek closer and wrapped his arms around him.

After nearly twenty minutes sitting against the wall, Stiles stood up and stretched. "Alright, big guy." He offered his hand to the other man, who took it and stood with a grunt. "Let's try for some sleep." Derek followed him obediently back into the bed. They kicked the torn sheets off the mattress and pulled the comforter up to their chins.

Stiles cradled Derek into his chest. He could feel Derek's heartbeat through the thin cotton of his own t-shirt. "You know what this means, right?" Stiles whispered into his hair.

Derek snickered and pressed his face into the crook of Stiles' neck. "We'll buy new sheets tomorrow."

AN part two: So, I live in Maine, and I can tell you that everything I mentioned here is 100% accurate. Interestingly enough, it's canon in the books that Jason Bourne moves to Maine with his wife after the first book. The fairy house thing? There's an island in the bay called Mackworth Island where the state school for the Deaf is. There's a walking trail around the perimeter and it's a thing in a certain spot to construct "fairy houses" out of natural stuff like leaves and stones.

I'd also like to dedicate this fic to Lisa, .com.