#katrox321

No one replies, but Stiles hears a faint scuffing noise, like someone’s trying to pull themselves out of sight. He frowns, thumbing open the latch on his holster as he steps forward, listening hard. It’s still nearly impossible to see; he just barely stops himself from jumping when he rounds the corner of the dumpster and nearly runs into a mannequin. Another couple of feet and he can see the end of the alley - vaguely, but distinct enough he can see there’s only about thirty feet between him and the brick wall. Stiles takes another quiet step forward, aware that he’s blocking the only way out of here, which makes this a dangerous situation - not like the entire evening hasn’t been dangerous enough.

He can hear breathing now, quick and pained, and the only place left to hide is beyond a pile of half collapsed cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Stiles stops, but he can’t see anything. “Come on, buddy,” he says cajolingly. “Can you come out for me? Are you hurt?”

There’s no answer. Stiles sighs internally. He doesn’t want to pull his gun, but he has no idea who’s on the other side of the trash pile, or if they’re dangerous. He should call for backup, but with all the chaos going on in the rest of the city, it could be hours before he gets any help. He draws his weapon but doesn’t turn off the safety, unwilling to shoot unless he really needs to, and moves around the edge of the pile.

There’s a man crouched on the ground, his back up against the brick wall. There’s blood running down the side of his face, but what concerns Stiles is the way the man’s glaring at him, his eyes flickering electric blue. He snarls when Stiles takes a step closer, a nasty, feral noise that rips of out his throat and stops Stiles in his tracks.

He doesn’t have a ton of experience with werewolves, all right? Sure, he got training on them in the academy, but they tend to stick with their packs in tight-knit communities, and they’re not known to be troublemakers. Before tonight, he could have counted the number of werewolves he’s met on one hand, and his best friend is one of those, but Scott’s more the exception than the norm as far as werewolves go.

Stiles hesitates before holstering his gun. Blue eyes mean he’s killed before, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous. Stiles has been at this job long enough to know that nothing’s black and white like that. He’s got a duty, anyway; this wolf looks hurt, and it’s not like he’s got wolfsbane bullets on him that could do any real damage. So he puts his gun away, the werewolf watching his every movement.

Stiles offers him a cautious smile, lifting his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Hey man,” he says easily. “How’s it going? Are you okay?”

The werewolf stares at him, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He doesn’t say anything in reply, his eyes fixed on Stiles, his expression guarded. Stiles isn’t sure he’s able to control himself; his eyes continue to flash bright blue in frantic intervals, apparently at random. Okay.

Stiles draws in a deep breath; he’s not going to get anywhere smelling like unease. “Crazy night, huh?” he asks, trying a different tactic. He crouches down, thinking that maybe the werewolf will be put at ease if they’re at the same eye level, but the werewolf bares his teeth threateningly, pressing his back against the wall like he’s hoping that if he presses hard enough he might be able to slip through it. “Not really the kind of night you want to be hanging around in an alley, though,” he continues, keeping his tone gentle, watching the werewolf carefully. “Any reason you’re sticking around here? Where’s your pack?”

The werewolf blinks, looking a little startled. “Got separated,” he admits cautiously, eyes flickering around the alleyway. His voice isn’t as deep as Stiles expected it to be, though it’s a little hard to tell when he’s talking around the fangs in his mouth. When Scott talks with his fangs in, it sounds like he’s eating gravel.

“Okay,” Stiles says encouragingly. “Do you know where they might have ended up?”

The werewolf shakes his head, starting to look panicked. Stiles feels for him; he got separated from his mom in a crowd once, and that had been bad enough. He can’t imagine how it might feel to lose your family in a sudden riot of violence and poisonous smoke.

“I’ll help you find them,” Stiles offers. “Okay?”

The werewolf watches him for a long moment, eyes surging to luminous blue and then back to a glassy grey-green, before he nods.

“Okay,” Stiles says again, relaxing a little. “All right. What’s your name? I’m technically Deputy Stilinski, but you can call me Stiles.”

The werewolf considers him for a moment, and seems about to reply, his lips parting, when he freezes, eyes widening. Stiles frowns and opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong when the sound of an explosion somewhere in the near distance fills the air, vibrating the concrete under their feet.

“Jesus,” Stiles hisses, as the radio at his shoulder bursts into life, muted voices pouring in. “Did you - ”

The werewolf swings his head around to stare down the length of the alley, his nostrils flaring. Whatever he smells makes him freeze again. “Turn off your light,” he whispers.

“What?”

“Turn it off,” the werewolf says insistently, swinging his eyes - now blue again - to Stiles. He sounds desperate, and a little scared, and maybe that’s why Stiles obeys. He fumbles to get the light on his phone turned off, and scrambles across the alley as there’s a rush of noise from out in the plaza, a lot of people yelling. He presses his back against the wall next to the werewolf, tucking his knees to his chest, and turning off his radio. He’s scant inches from the werewolf now, so close he can feel the heat from the man’s body, but he doesn’t even get a lip curl this time; the werewolf’s head is turned toward the mouth of the alley, listening intently. Stiles watches the werewolf, and when the werewolf stiffens and hunches down lower, he does the same, blindly trusting him. Sure enough, a group of people, their forms dark shapes in the smoky air, amble slowly past the alley, talking amongst themselves in low voices. One of them beams a sharp light down the alley and Stiles holds his breath, but he and the werewolf are hidden behind the pile of trash, and whoever it is doesn’t seem to be looking too hard, because they move on after a moment.

He doesn’t move until he can no longer hear their voices, and the werewolf’s relaxed a little. “Hunters?” Stiles asks quietly, and the werewolf nods.

“With rifles.”

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, stretching his legs out on the cold concrete before them. This isn’t the first night of protests, and it probably won’t be the last, but the hunters are getting out of control if they’re burning wolfsbane and openly carrying guns - and exploding things, like whatever blew up just a minute ago.

“Derek,” the werewolf says after a moment of silence, and Stiles lifts his head.

“Huh?”

“You asked for my name,” the werewolf says. “It’s Derek.”

“Oh!” Stiles says, startled. “Hi.”

Derek nods, his eyes flaring blue in the gloom of the alley. There’s not much light, but they’re close enough that Stiles can vaguely make out his face, the sharp line of his nose made soft by the haze in the air. He’s still breathing fast, in quick, sharp pulls like it hurts when he does it, a ragged, wet edge to the sound of each breath. Stiles frowns, leaning in a little closer. Breathing in deep, he catches the metallic tang of blood.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks sharply.

Derek leans away from him. “I’m - fine,” he says flatly.

“Bullshit,” Stiles retorts. “Let me see it.”

Derek pulls his lips back from his teeth in a grimace but Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and finally, grudgingly, Derek peels open his leather jacket to reveal his shirt’s torn, and there’s a deep wound over his ribs. Stiles gets his phone back out and flips on the light, hissing when he sees how badly the skin’s been ripped open, Derek’s shirt saturated with blood.

“It’s - it’s not healing,” Derek says uncertainly.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes, leaning in for a better look. “What happened?”

“I got - hit by a car,” Derek says haltingly. “People were panicking, trying to get away from - ” He cuts himself off, looking ashamed, and when Stiles gives him a curious look, he says grudgingly, “The cops.”

Stiles shakes his head quietly. “May I?” he asks making a motion like he wants to lift Derek’s shirt. Derek does it for him, wincing when the fabric sticks to half-dried blood. “Tell me about your pack,” Stiles says, trying to distract Derek from the pain. It’s so hard to tell under the light from his phone, which throws everything in harsh black and white. The blood seeping from the wound in Derek’s side looks dark - too dark. Stiles bites down on his lip. Wolfsbane poisoning? That’d explain why it isn’t healing.

Derek exhales softly somewhere near Stiles’ ear, warm breath ruffling Stiles’ hair. “My sister,” he says. He speaks in these sharp bursts, like it’s beginning to pain him to even get out that much. “Laura Hale. She’s - “

“I saw her today,” Stiles says, nodding. She’d been one of the speakers at the rally, passionate and well-spoken. Much better than the opposition; the hunters’ main spokesperson, Gerard Argent, is dull enough to put anyone to sleep. “She’s your alpha?”

Derek nods as Stiles leans back on his heels, trying to figure out what to do with him. He’s sure the city’s emergency services are overwhelmed with casualties. What, then? “Came to see her talk,” Derek says dazedly, drawing in a rough breath that sounds like it hurts. When Stiles lifts the light so he can see Derek’s face, his pupils don’t react; they’re blown wide, only a thin ring of flickering blue light around the edges. That’s bad.

“You didn’t come to join the rally?” Stiles asks, carefully keeping his tone even as he unsnaps one of the pouches hanging off his utility belt. He’s got more supplies in his cruiser, but he’s not sure he could get Derek to his cruiser. He’s got enough, though; this was part of the academy training on werewolves too, and while it’s not entirely departmental policy to carry wolfsbane on your person, Stiles’ dad always did it, and Stiles is nothing if not his father’s son (that, and he’s saved Scott’s ass enough times to know that sometimes you need to move fast, and it’s important to be prepared).

“No,” Derek says slowly. “I’mma...academic. Don’t. Like crowds.”

Stiles looks up from his belt, alarmed by Derek’s sudden change in speech pattern. Shining his light at Derek’s face, he’s even more alarmed to see Derek’s nose has begun bleeding, thick black liquid rolling over his lips and dripping off his chin.

“All right,” Stiles says a little frantically, his fingers finally curling around the small bottle of pills. Each capsule is smaller than the eraser on a pencil, and contains the ashes of the fifty most common strains of wolfsbane - hopefully one of those fifty is what the hunters are burning. It’s probably not going to heal Derek completely, not with the smoke still lingering in the air, but hopefully it’ll arrest his quick downward spiral and let some of his healing started. He offers the pill to Derek. “You want to pop this for me?”

Derek takes it obligingly, though he misses his mouth on the first try, heavy eyebrows furrowing as he tries again and misses a second time. “Okay,” Stiles says slowly, reaching out and plucking the pill from his fingers. “Open up.”

Derek blinks and opens his mouth obediently, and that’s worrying enough; when Stiles first came down the alleyway, Derek snarled at him when he drew too close. Now he’s in a bad enough state that he’s willing to take a pill - be fed a pill - from a perfect stranger.

Stiles pops the pill into his mouth like a mama bird feeding her chick and Derek swallows without complaint, his pale eyes lidded, blood still dripping down his chin. Stiles watches him anxiously, not sure how long it’ll take to take effect. Derek barely seems to even realize Stiles is there with him, his eyes settling shut.

“Hey,” Stiles says anxiously, not wanting him to pass out. “Talk to me, man. You said you’re an academic. Tell me what you study.”

Derek doesn’t reply and Stiles curses, leaning forward to press two fingers to Derek’s throat, seeking his pulse. It’s there, but it’s erratic, and Stiles nearly pitches all the way forward when Derek suddenly groans, his hand snapping up to wrap around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles freezes with his fingers still pressed against Derek’s neck, a little nervous about the strength he can feel in Derek’s grip. Derek opens his eyes and they’re burning blue again, but the light’s steady this time. Derek looks at Stiles and his brow furrows.

“Who?” Derek wonders.

“Stiles,” Stiles tells him, swallowing anxiously. “Stiles Stilinski, Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. Remember?”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, an almost wondering look on his face, before he says, “Oh,” and lets go of Stiles’ wrist. Stiles sits back on his heels again, watching Derek intently. “What did you give me?”

“Wolfsbane antidote,” Stiles tells him. “How do you feel?”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face and then opens his jacket. They both peer down at the wound in his side. “Looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Stiles observes.

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” Derek agrees. He looks at Stiles again, frowning a little, and Stiles rocks on his heels, a little uncomfortable under Derek’s intense gaze.

“Well,” Stiles says, after a long moment passes and Derek doesn’t say anything. “If you think you can walk, we should probably get out of here. That pill helped you out, but there’s still a ton of wolfsbane in the air. You’ll get sick again soon if you don’t get out of the area.”

Derek nods and carefully unfolds himself from the ground, using the brick wall behind him to level himself to his feet. He sways a little when he pushes away from the wall, and grimaces but doesn’t protest when Stiles supports him with an arm under his shoulders, careful to not touch to the wound on his side.

They move slowly. Stiles watches Derek listen to the city around them and nod the okay that it’s safe to emerge from the alley. The plaza’s mostly empty; the car’s still burning at the end of the block, but the air seems a little less hazy than it did before he found Derek. Stiles uses his free hand to turn the volume on his radio back up and he and Derek pick their way across the square, listening as Stiles’ coworkers coordinate. It sounds like things are mostly back under control at this point; there’s been a lot of arrests, enough that they’re bringing in buses to transport all the detainees.

Stiles steers them toward where he left his patrol car, thinking that maybe he can give Derek a ride back to his house, or to the hospital, or wherever he wants to go. Stiles isn’t feeling all that enthusiastic; he wishes he could crawl into the backseat of the cruiser and take a nap, but he knows he’s got a long night ahead of him. His bruised rib aches at the thought.

A block past the plaza, past a series of shops with their front windows shattered, they start to see other signs of life. Stiles waves at a fellow officer who’s holding a bunched up t-shirt to a woman’s head. The other deputy waves back, but he’s too busy talking into his radio to chat. A group of scared-looking teenagers streams past them; they see Stiles and Derek with his eyes glowing blue and they all yelp, sprinting off into the gloom of the evening.

“What, are we the stuff of nightmares now?” Stiles complains.

Derek doesn’t reply; he’s been quiet since they left the alley. Stiles hears him sniffing the air and drudges up a smile. “You know, I’m not smelling my best right now. Give me a hot shower and - ”

“No,” Derek says impatiently. “It’s - “ He breaks off as there’s a shout behind them. They both spin, Stiles tensing as he tries to gauge whether the approaching figure is friend or foe, but Derek makes a relieved noise and staggers off down the sidewalk toward the stranger, who rips off the gas mask they’re wearing to reveal themselves as Laura Hale.

“Oh, Der,” Stiles hears her sigh, throwing her arms around him. It’s kind of amazing how broad-shouldered a man as Derek can hunch himself inward, tucking his face against Laura’s neck. Stiles watches in awe as black lines go whipping up Laura’s arms. He’s seen Scott do that before; she’s pulling Derek’s pain away. “God, I was so worried about you! Where were you?”

“Scared,” Derek tells her, his voice muffled. “Hurt. Hiding. Stiles helped me.”

Laura lifts her head, giving Stiles an appraising look. “Thank you, deputy,” she says softly. “The Hale pack’s in your debt.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles protests, his cheeks going pink. “I was just doing my job.”

Laura gives him a smile that’s mostly teeth. “I insist you come over for dinner,” she says, letting go of Derek with one arm, shoving her hand around in her pocket until she finds a business card, which she offers him. “When all this - “ She gestures around, at the smoky air and the shattered windows. “ - has calmed down a little.”

“All right,” Stiles says slowly, sticking the card in a pocket. “Well - you guys should get out of here. They’ll probably institute a curfew soon, and this air’s not doing anyone any favors.”

Laura nods as Derek peels himself away from her. He looks a little better than he did in the alley, more color to his solemn face. “Thank you,” he says seriously. “I would have died in that alley.”

“I’m here to help,” Stiles says, and he really means that; he joined the force because of the stories his dad used to tell about being sheriff, and how it felt to help people in need.

“Call me,” Laura says seriously, putting a hand on Derek’s arm and starting to steer him away. “You like steak?”