Chapter Text
It’s always been luck of the draw as to what supernatural monster the Nemeton throws at them next. First its psychotic demon foxes. Then it’s a deputy with a penchant for fire. Then harpies. On one memorable occasion there is even a griffon nesting in the preserve.
Next it’s zombies.
This is not a fucking joke anymore.
Stiles sometimes looks back and wonders if that’s why Jackson and Isaac and Danny and Cora and Derek all got out of town while they still could. While they were still alive.
Stiles has buried too many bodies already. The last thing he wanted was to bury his father as well.
Okay, so maybe this one wasn’t just Beacon Hills, the literally Beacon to the good, the bad and the monstrous. Maybe it was a mutated virus. Maybe it was a plant with deadly spores engineered by the government to be a weapon. Maybe it’s a supernatural spell gone horribly, terribly wrong.
Stiles doesn’t know and if he’s honest, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore. Maybe at first when the streets started swarming with the undead in all their glorious forms of decay but now?
Now he’s got bigger things to worry about.
The thing is - the Beacon for the Supernatural? - is a Beacon for all the undead as well. They swim, fly, run, crawl their way to the town as if it’s the answer to their prayers. And that is not Stiles’ opinion having encountered one too many of the things - it’s pure fact. Statistically there are more zombies around the West Coast than the East.
It’s a stupid idea to stay. Everybody knows that, even those who didn’t know anything about the supernatural have understood that it’s in their best interest to leave town and seek safer communities that are already beginning to form. Beacon Hills was weird enough before the zombie apocalypse hit…
Rumour is they’re already building a wall around New York.
It’s a stupid idea to stay. That’s why Stiles would have been on the first plane or bus or train or whatever mode of transport out of there possible along with the few living friends he has left, had it not been for one slight issue.
He remembers chaos. He remembers that he was there, that he was going to leave, Scott by his side, Liam bouncing his leg nervously as he waited. Kira looks like she wanted to clutch a hold of Scott’s hand, but is too nervous to do so with her parents and his mother right there. Malia is chewing her fingernails again, her dad - adopted dad - nearby. Lydia and her mother are slightly behind them, and both look scared but Lydia… Lydia looks pale. Ill. She can barely sleep for the screams that her nightmares and visions tear out of her.
Every now and then she flinches, batting at the air as if she can still hear the buzzing of flies around her.
The buzzing of death.
It’s okay. For that single moment it’s okay. Stiles is trying to pretend they’re all going to be fine, the world’s gone to shit anyway, it’s not like they have to worry about their evil tree anymore, they can leave and never look back; they just have to make it out of town.
Stop. Freeze the picture there. Stiles wishes he could go back to that moment and rewind it, keep it frozen forever. But he can’t. Life isn’t a video.
Life goes on.
Play. Stiles spins around, looking for his dad.
His father. The Sheriff. The man responsible for all those people.
Of course his father wasn’t going to leave without making sure they all got to safety.
He can’t remember what happens.
That’s always the thing that will irk him the most. He keeps awake at night trying in vain to remember anything that happened afterwards.
He knows the aftermath. He can remember the empty car parks, full of burning cars and corpses both dead and less-dead. He can remember running and thinking ‘thank god for all the supernatural creatures that have chased after him over the years’. He can remember hiding out in the first house he found, collapsing in the dark and letting the panic and fear finally overwhelm him, no Lydia to kiss him out of this one.
He can’t remember the moment the rest of the pack must have left, while he was still looking for his dad.
He can’t remember where he found the gun either, nor why there is red on his t-shirt.
He can’t remember the moment he found his father, but he knows he must have because he has his badge, bent and battered, still flecked with dark rust stains of blood.
Stiles knows the truth is he doesn’t remember because he doesn’t want to. And while he lies awake trying to recollect, he never tries that hard and he goes to sleep a little easier because of it.
It’s a little off-putting being the only living person in a necropolis.
Logically he can’t be the only one. But if there are others they’re getting picked off faster than Stiles can meet them.
The town is crawling with bodies that have rotted away to various states of decay before stopping. It’s a stasis spell, he thinks, it must be. He’s read articles that explain how in a normal zombie apocalypse no dead body would last beyond the period it took them to break down. Yet while the dead certainly are disgusting and they tend to leave the occasional lump of greenish looking bodily fluid around, they’re still mostly intact.
They’re still mostly dangerous.
A baseball bat made of aluminium can only shatter so many undead bones before he final realises that it’s him versus them. Broken bones aren’t lethal.
Guns and knives are.
He raids the police station. He would raid the Argent’s apartment, but Chris moved ages ago. He picks up what he can in terms of ammunition and weapons. He talks to himself as if it might stave off the loneliness just that tiny bit.
Then he plans. He loads his jeep with what he can before realising that the vehicle isn’t going to make it out of town. And despite what the movies have said about zombie apocalypses, they never say how quickly the gas runs dry.
Time passes in a haze. He feels muted, trapped inside his own head. He’s not even sure if any of this is even real but he keeps going. Keeps fighting.
Scott and Lydia are in New York, it occurs to him one day of raiding a place for food. He’s considering grabbing a shopping cart just to carry it all, but knows that will only slow him down. It will make him a target. He feels like he’s the only human but he’s not. There are others out there with guns and cruel sneers and he knows better than to approach them.
He’s only eighteen.
He thinks. Or - fuck - is he nineteen already?
He can’t even tell that anymore.
Looking back Stiles will never know how he survived those first few months. Mostly by the skin of his teeth and a few close saves because in hindsight he was very, very lucky.
Luck, however, has a tendency to run out.
It's very clear to almost everyone other than Stiles that he's growing reckless. That is if there were even other people with him.
He's alone. That's the first hint that he's losing it. His friends are half-way across the country and his dad...
His dad is dead.
He has to admit it to himself sooner or later. His dad is dead because Stiles shot him.
His dad is dead and sooner or later Stiles will go the same way. He acquires weapons meant to protect him; a shotgun, his dad's glock, a knife or two or maybe half a dozen. For each one he starts planning for a contingency in which he gets bitten and he has to kill himself.
He'd planned for his death by zombie.
He doesn't plan for his death by the usual monster of the week.
Stiles gives Beacon Hills off as gone. There is no point hanging around, not now his friends are gone and his dad is dead. He packs a backpack - one of those large camping rucksacks meant to last weeks in the wilderness - and loads it with food, a few spare clothes, weapons and the few things he can't bear to leave behind. His dad's sheriff's badge. A crumpled picture of his mother and father.
Stiles is an orphan now.
With that thought hanging over his head he puts his back to the setting sun and walks.
He's still in Beacon County when the monster finds him. He thinks it’s a zombie so he prepares the shotgun. He's not expecting the speed of the monster. It crashes into him and he finds himself on his back, sprawled in the dirt. His shotgun is ripped from his hands.
Rolling to his feet, Stiles shoves himself upwards and runs. Trees blur past and he hears a single laugh and then he's on the ground again. A clawed hand sinks into his backpack, dragging him back to his feet no matter how much he claws at the soft earth. Stiles ditches the straps, rolling forwards and away but the monster is too fast. With a violent jerk Stiles is flung sideways, crashing bodily into a tree. He slides down, head spinning and the monster stands before him, examining its prey.
"Fresh meat..." a man leers at him looking sane and alive and-- "Haven't had fresh meat for ages. Not with all the dead walking around..." he sneers down at Stiles, and he has too many teeth and his eyes have a white glow--
"Cannibal," Stiles says, seconds before he realises, "Wendigo..."
"You're a clever one..." the man laughs, "Are you scared? Fresh meat tastes better scared."
Stiles isn't scared. He should be. But he has a gun in his belt and at least two blades to hand that he could grab... that he should grab but there is a wendigo that looms above him and all the fight--
It drains out of him. It's inevitable. He is going to die - it might as well be sooner rather than later.
It’s going to kill him.
And Stiles--
Stiles drops his hand from where it had been edging towards his dad's gun and closes his eyes. Finally, he thinks, waiting for the moment the wendigo lunges towards him with hands curled into claws, waiting for the moment its hand sinks into his flesh and tears--
There is a growl, deep and earth shaking and a rush of air.
His eyes fly open and when they do, it’s to see the wendigo in several little pieces, flying through the air. Its blood is dark and gunky, spread across the ground like a piece of abstract art. With a snarl its head goes flying and the human shape that just saved Stiles’ life shakes reddish wendigo blood off his claws.
Claws, Stiles realises: curled, slightly yellowed werewolf claws.
He's on his feet before he realises it, grabbing his dad's gun (he can't bear to think of it as his) and bringing it out in one swift movement.
The gun comes up, and he meets the bright beta-blue eyes of a werewolf.
Not just any werewolf, he realises, heart sinking in horror and panic. Because of course it would be him.
“How nice to see you again, Stiles.”
Peter Hale grins up at him, blinking his eyes back to human blue and rocking back, away from the shattered chest of the wendigo he just ripped open. He pulls out a handkerchief from somewhere - and seriously, a fucking hanky, asshole probably carries it around just for moments like this when he needs to clean his claws. The white cotton doesn’t stay white for long.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and Stiles suddenly realises he’s been standing there, staring, gun still pointed at Peter. The werewolf doesn’t appear intimidated, but still gestures at the weapon, “Do you mind pointing that… elsewhere?”
“How about not?” Stiles’ voice is rough from disuse. Sharp. Far too wary for a teenager.
“Stiles--“ he doesn’t like the way the werewolf manages to molest his name, he might even change it just so Peter can’t-- “I would have thought you’d be far away by now, playing happy families with our true alpha.” There is visible venom in his tone when the werewolf mentions Scott, but Stiles ignores that. “So that only begs the question: why are you still here?”
“Why are you?”
Peter stands. It’s not as intimidating as it should be, Stiles realises. He’s actually taller than the other man--
“I--“ Peter pauses, as the gun follows his movement. He holds out his hands as if to show he means no harm, the handkerchief balled up in one of them but Stiles doesn’t waver. Peter rolls his eyes, “They didn’t exactly bother to evacuate a prison full of dangerous supernatural creatures,” he sneers, “It was only a matter of time before the power went out.”
“But… the mountain ash…”
Peter raises one eyebrow, “A problem, true, but for once fire actually worked in my favour.” He grins, flashing a razor sharp fang, “Now, can you please point the gun elsewhere?”
Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He can’t even remember the last time he was alone with Peter. Probably back when Derek and Scott were trying to rescue Boyd and Cora from the bank. Back then he’d been harmless. Their former murdering alpha werewolf who had painted half the town red was now a beta who skulked in the shadows and made snarky comments.
He’s not anymore. He hasn’t been in a long time, maybe ever. Maybe it was all a pretence. Peter played the long game.
Stiles knows that. He knows exactly what Peter will do to get what he wants. He’s killed, sided with his enemies, attempted to kill Scott and manipulated his daughter.
He’s dangerous. Stiles knows that. He had told Scott that.
He should have said something sooner. He should have made it clearer, done something himself…
With a snarl Peter lunges forwards. It’s not threatening, more like annoyance but Stiles reacts all the same. At least he would - but Peter grabs the arm holding the gun, knocking his hand up and twisting--
--the gun falls to the ground, Stiles wincing at the throb in his hand but Peter doesn’t honestly think he’s only got the gun--
--the knife slams into the werewolf’s side and Peter actually looks taken aback. He still manages to grab Stiles’ wrist, but Stiles doesn’t let go of the blade in Peter’s side.
“Stiles--“ Peter purrs, and he’s definitely changing his name to something with less sibilant consonants in it, “You can let go of the knife, or I can break your wrist and take it.”
Stiles needs his wrist. He can’t afford injuries, not in this world.
He lets go of the knife. Peter drags it out with a wet slurp and Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the blood. Peter eyes the blade, then Stiles who takes a few step backwards as if to bolt. Not that he’s going to - he can’t outrun a werewolf.
He wonders if Peter is going to kill him. It will be welcome, he thinks, but not as welcome as it would have been five minutes ago. The moment is gone, and there’s a new spark in him that wants to keep fighting. He keeps it there, kindles it because he knows he’s going to need that later.
Peter doesn’t kill him. Instead he wipes the knife blade clean with the cotton still scrunched in his hand. He twirls the blade around, admiring it, “If I give this back to you will you stab me again?” he asks, head tilting as he considers Stiles.
“Depends,” is all he can muster up. He’s honestly a bit disappointed in himself. He used to be able to give better banter than this.
“On what?”
“On if I think I would be successful the next time.”
Peter does a strange thing then. He throws his head up to the sky and laughs.
Stiles is honestly a bit freaked out.
“I forgot how much I enjoyed your company,” Peter says, still chuckling. He tosses the knife lazily in the air once, and then flips it towards Stiles. It thuds in the dirt by his feet, blade sinking into the soil. “Might as well keep your little blade,” the werewolf gestures to it, “You’re going to need it for more than chopping carrots.”
“What.” He can’t even form a question. It’s just a flat statement, showing his confusion as the older man watches him patiently.
Peter’s lip curls like it’s a private joke, “Eloquent,” he mocks, “Derek can form better sentences that that.”
Anger bubbles up, hot and fresh and Stiles has been alone for weeks, alone in his head with thoughts that are falling apart at the seams, falling into him and them and survive and that dark niggling at the back of his brain he never quite got rid of that tells him he’s good at this, that he was made for this (“we chose you for a reason, Stiles”).
“Well fuck you,” he spits, grabbing his knife from the soil, pausing to scoop up the gun and his backpack, staggering slightly under the weight before he rights himself and stalks off without looking back.
It's not as good an exit as he hoped but it gets the message across. He wants nothing to do with Peter.
He can feel Peter’s surprise, alarm even at his abruptness. Not because he can smell emotions or some bullshit, but because the werewolf bounces a little and then falls into step behind him. Stiles doesn’t turn. He doesn’t like having Peter at his back, he doesn’t trust Peter. He half-expects the man to lose interest and go his own way but--
He doesn’t call the other man out on it either.