Chapter Text
When Stiles was still a little kid, a permanent set of band aids across each klutzy knee, his mom used to tell him stories. Stories about monsters and things that go bump in the night. But also stories about good fairies and heroes triumphing over evil.
She would tuck him in, making sure nothing but his head peeked from the blankets. If even a toe was exposed, he would wake her in the middle of the night, screaming and crying about monsters gnawing at his feet. His blanket was safe, everything else wasn't.
His fears never stopped her from telling him stories. His mom was never one to sugar coat things. She knew there was evil in the world. She knew some parents tried to shield their kids from all those horrors. To protect them as parents are wont to do.
But Claudia Stilinski knew nothing good ever came from lies. It just led to more fear and heartbreak. Better to tell the truth, to wean Stiles to all the bad, then have him suddenly thrust into a cruel world with no idea on how to get by.
Maybe that's why he's survived so long.
For the millionth time since that first snow flake fell from the sky, when he crossed what was once the American-Canadian border, Stiles wonders where that fairy tale hero was when patient zero stumbled off a plane and vomited black goo over some poor flight attendant.
He's in a blizzard, and he has nothing but his thoughts and a desperate urge to find shelter keeping him warm. Adrenaline doesn't last forever, even though it's the only thing that's kept him going for the two weeks he's been walking along this godforsaken highway. Ever since he ran out of gas and had to abandon his motorbike outside the Winnipeg city limits.
He hasn't seen another vehicle since, and didn't bother venturing into the city, afraid of coming across survivors, hungry for his supplies.
It's too far north and too cold for the infected to survive. But it isn't them he fears, it's the humans. The infected are slow, clumsy, and easily dispatched with a swing of a bat, a bolt in the eye socket. But the humans, they are vicious and more coldblooded than the infected could ever be.
Stiles shudders, and not from the cold, remembering what he saw in the suburbs of Minneapolis.
Half eaten corpses, bite marks the size of human teeth. The infected don't eat people, they can't, nor do they want to. When Stiles still had a sense of humour, he used to joke and say they're solar powered, running on heat from the sun. What else could explain how they freeze solid in the cold, but in California, they could run.
The infected only want to spread the parasite. That's their one purpose. Survival of their species.
But humans, they need to eat.
It's been two years since patient zero. Thirteen months since the market crashed and money became all but worthless. One year since the government abandoned its people. Eleven months since all social safety nets were thrown out the window. Ten months since the shelves of abandoned grocery stores were stripped of anything resembling food.
Some people are resourceful. Setting up communities to grow their own food. When Stiles passed through Nebraska, he found one such community. A chain link fence surrounded it, guarded by men with rifles, protecting an expansive field of corn. Stiles had considered raising a white flag, offering to trade with the men, but he was cautious. As his mom taught him.
He held back, watching through his binoculars for a few days, and it was a good thing he did. Another survivor had noticed the community and approached with his arms raised, only to be mowed down by gunfire without any hesitation.
Stiles supposes it's a good thing the further north he goes, the emptier the land gets. Of both humans and the infected.
He keeps himself fed with a well oiled crossbow. It belonged to a friend, but now it belongs to him. He doesn't come across big prey as he once did before the outbreak, when he was able to hunt without dragging along everything he owns in the world. He used to hunt to put something interesting on the table for his family, something that wasn't plain cow or chicken. Now he hunts to survive; living on squirrels, rabbits, and the occasional bird.
What he would give for a bite of plain old cow.
What he would give for a fire.
But he has to keep moving. He has to find shelter.
Stiles walks along the empty Highway 6, nothing but snow, and the vague shapes of trees keeping him company. No thoughts but need shelter and north, keep heading north in his mind.
When sharp yellow headlights cut through the whiteout and focus on him, he feels something in him break. He's at the end of his rope. He's tired, hungry, and he doesn't want to die out by the side of a highway.
Shivering to his very bone, Stiles unlocks his stiff arms from where they are wrapped around his cold body, and slowly lifts his arm, thumb extended skyward.
He figures, there's a hundred percent chance he's going to die out in the cold, but it's only slightly less probable the person driving the incoming vehicle will slaughter him and eat him for dinner.
Stiles will take whatever he can get.
***
Derek sees the figure standing by the side of the road, his thumb raised. At first he can't believe it, and he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. After all, what are the chances? But he stops anyway, his conscience would never forgive him if he didn't.
He rolls down the window, instantly filling the car with blowing snow and freezing air, but he isn't about to get out. What's a little cold compared to a potentially murderous hitchhiker?
"You got a name, kid?" Derek asks, head leaning out of the window, one arm placed nonchalantly on the edge of the glass like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like this isn't the fucking apocalypse and he doesn't have to be careful, so damn careful. Derek isn't stupid. His other hand reaches for the shotgun in the passenger's seat, pulling it into his lap, ready to whip it out if need be.
He learned, long ago, to never underestimate humans. His teeth and claws can do a lot of damage, but to use them, he has to get close, too close for comfort. A shotgun helps with that.
The kid shivers and shuffles his feet, mouth chewing nervously at the frayed string of a dirty, worn parka. He looks about a thousand years old and sixteen at the same time. When he looks up to meet Derek's gaze under thick eyelashes, his eyes glow amber in the reflected light of the whiteout. The kid shrugs.
"Does it matter?" He asks, voice rusty and disused, with a hint of roughness underneath like he's coming down with a cough. If Derek was capable of getting infected, he would have taken off faster than the wind. But he can't get sick, none of his pack can. Perks of being a werewolf. He can smell influenza on the boy, but not the rotting sweetness of the parasite. He isn't infected, just sick, and he will die without Derek's help.
Derek huffs, eyeing the kid critically, from the soles of his worn thin boots, to the aluminum baseball bat coved in incriminating red stains, to the expensive and well cared for crossbow, to the artistic stitches dividing one eyebrow into two. He looks like he's been through hell, and knowing the state of the world, he probably has been.
Derek makes a decision. Tipping his head to the passenger's side door, he says, "Get in." Picking up the gun, he places it out of the kid's sight, but still within reach.
The kid narrows his eyes, like he didn't expect Derek to help, and now that he has, it makes him suspicious. But he moves anyway, stomping through the snow to the other side of the truck. He climbs inside, limbs long and sprawling, keeping his large bag tucked between his knees instead of throwing it into the backseat. Smart. Derek appreciates intelligence, it’s a useful trait to have when all alone in the wilderness.
He pulls off the side when the kid shuts the door with a soft click, and resumes the drive back to his cabin. The pick up's snow chains rattle and crunch through the dense snow, gripping the crumbling asphalt beneath.
"What should I call you then, if your name doesn't matter?" Derek glances at the kid out of the corner of his eye. Now that he's closer, Derek realizes he doesn't look as young as he thought. He's maybe in his early twenties, possibly mid. Definitely not sixteen, probably hasn't been for a long time.
The kid stares out the windshield, not even looking at Derek, and not answering the question. But the relief in the twitch of his fingers is evident as the warmth pouring from the heater floods his frozen body.
"I'm just going to keep calling you kid in my head if you don't give me something to work with." Yeah, Derek's feeling chatty, but he can't be blamed. He hasn't seen a human in years, even before he found out the world went to shit. He's been living up in Canada with his small pack of wolves for a long, long time.
"I'm not a kid." The kid says with a hint of indignation in his voice.
"Is that so?" Derek chuckles when the kid finally turns to him, a sour expression pulling his lips into a frown.
"Fine." The kid sighs, pained, "Call me Steve."
"You don't look like a Steve," Derek remarks, reaching for the console, and cranking up the heat. The old truck relents with a complaining groan. He doesn't need it that high, but the kid looks like he has ice wedged in between his bones, he's so stiff.
'Steve' makes a noise of frustration. "There's no satisfying you, is there?" He grumbles, reaching out for the vent where the heat comes through, making a faint noise of pleasure when cold fingers meet hot air. "It's Stiles." He says finally and reluctantly, as if it was guilt tripped out of him when Derek shared his heater.
"Stiles." Derek rolls the name over his tongue before nodding, the name fits much better than Steve.
"Seriously?" Stiles remarks, eyebrows raised, "Steve, a perfectly reasonable name for a white guy, you question. But Stiles, a invented sounding name if anything else, doesn't even get a raised brow. What have you been smoking?"
Derek grins wolfily, "Not weed, that's for sure." At Stiles' questioning look he explains, "Doesn't grow this far up north, not enough sun, and I can't afford to waste electricity on UV lamps."
Stiles scoffs, "You sound like a man who tried."
"Oh, I've tried alright. Nothing much else to do up here except read and try to grow useful plants. The game is plentiful, the vegetation safe to eat so long as you know what you're looking for, and I know what I'm looking for." Derek says proudly. "The land provides everything I need to exist except gasoline and entertainment."
Stiles tips his head to the side. "Is that why you picked me up? Entertainment?"
Derek shrugs, "If nothing else."
Stiles purses his lips, then nods his head, accepting his answer, but his shoulders stiffen perceptibly.
Derek realizes how his words could be taken and he cringes. Not wanting to make Stiles uncomfortable or feel threatened, he continues, "You never mentioned. Where are you heading? I can drop you off in a nearby town, but you're unlikely to find anything but snow." Everyone's dead, he leaves unsaid but implied.
Stiles shrugs, "Honestly, I didn't expect to make it this far." He chuckles humourlessly. "I hadn't planned out much except making it up here."
"The infected don't come this far north." Derek says, "Their limbs freeze and they get buried under the heavy snowfall."
Stiles nods, "I've been heading north ever since I figured that one out."
"So you're not here to find family?"
Stiles snorts, turning away from Derek to look out the passenger side window. "Are you here because of family?" He asks in return, hurt clouding his voice with derision. Derek doesn't let it get to him. He's here because his family is dead, but he made peace with that long ago, long before the outbreak. But the hurt must still be new for Stiles if it smarts enough for him to become defensive.
Derek wonders about what he's been though. What caused the pain, who he lost. Parent, friend, girlfriend. But instead of asking like his curiosity is itching for him to, he pushes the topic aside.
"Fair enough." Derek says, looking back to the road, concentrating on driving them to the warm cabin. He can clear out the guestroom for Stiles and hopefully he'll stay a fortnight, or two, maybe forever. The pack will ask questions, but Derek knows they'll like him. After all, their Alpha already does.