Sastrugi

He’d been making his way across the ice and snow about one and half months when the wolf appeared.

At first, Stiles thought he was hallucinating. He was the only survivor of the Beacon Hills Blizzard of Doom—as he was calling it—and so far, he hadn’t seen any signs of life anywhere. No people, no animals, nada. So, when the canine shape slowly emerged from the darkness beyond his campfire, he thought he had finally lost it.

The wolf was a huge male, with snow caked under his belly and sides and a gash running down his left cheek. He walked forward with unhurried steps and stopped a couple of feet from Stiles, giving him a long look.

Stiles’s hand froze midway to his mouth as he stared, mouth agape. It wasn’t until the wolf’s stomach growled so loud Stiles could hear it over the crackle of the fire that he snapped his mouth shut.

”You know, I don’t think I’ll taste that good?” he said tentatively. ”I mean, I’ve been eating mostly canned stuff for the past six weeks and on top of that, my tender meat has been thoroughly marinated in desperation and rage. So, you know, not exactly an haute cuisine portion here.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say but hey, Stiles had never been known for his brain-to-mouth filter. And besides, how were you supposed to start a conversation with a huge-ass wolf anyway?

The wolf didn’t lunge at him but he didn’t move away either. Instead, he sat down and stared at the can in Stiles’s hand.

Oh, right.

”So, this mystery meat is…apparently boar in rosemary and thyme sauce,” Stiles said, squinting at the cursive print on the side of the can in the dim light of the fire. ”But let me tell you, it tastes like spam. I mean, everything tastes like spam after a while, rosemary or not. I actually found these from Lydia’s, not that I know why the hell they even had any canned food anyway. I mean, they were so loaded that—” 

He paused and frowned, glancing at the wolf from the corner of his eye. The wolf was still sitting on his haunches, somehow giving out an all-suffering air. Stiles huffed and shook his head.

”Yeah, whatever. I guess I can feed you. It’s not like I’ve had too many dinner guests lately.” 

He shoved the piece attached on the spork into his mouth before bending the lid of the can more to the side and tossing the can to the wolf. It landed with a soft thud next to him, billowing snow on his forepaws. Stiles was fleetingly grateful he hadn’t accidentally hit the wolf in the head.

The wolf sniffed at the can, poking it a bit before laying down. He gripped the can in between his massive front paws and delicately nibbled at the meat. Stiles watched him for a moment before he shook his head again and packed his things up, attached paracord from his sled to his left ankle, and bundled up for the night.

He’d learned early on how sensible it was to keep all his belongings near him at all times. Just because he hadn’t seen anyone else so far, it didn’t mean he didn’t have to worry. The barren, snowy plains were a bitch to navigate and a sudden blizzard could mean either instant death or the loss of his provisions which would also get him killed but slower. Hence, attaching his sled to his person.

Yeah. Sled. 

See, he’d tried carrying his things at first but it hadn’t taken long to realize it wouldn’t work. Even though hauling his school books had made him feel like a mule at times, it had been nothing compared to how fucking much stuff he needed to survive the snow-calypse. So, when he’d come across a storage that had had sleds for whatever reason, he’d fist bumped and whooped and then sat down to have a minor panic attack.

Because right beside the sleds? There had been several sets of tiny cross-country skis.

The memories of years back had flooded him from nowhere and it had taken him a moment to get a grip and force back feelings of loss and loneliness. With slightly shaking hands, he’d started modifying the sleds into something he could use to haul his shit across the snowy plains. It had taken him several tries but after some experimenting, he’d finally managed to macgyver one of the bigger sleds into something usable he could drag behind him. Held together mostly by duct tape, paracord, and spite, it was far from pretty but it was practical. 

And practical was what he needed to survive.

The next morning, Stiles nearly pissed himself when he crawled out from his sleeping bag to realize the wolf was sleeping right next to him. 

”Gaah!” he yelled and scrambled up, only to fall face down to the snow when he tripped on the paracord tied to his ankle. 

”Fucking fuck shit fuck!” he swore as he spat snow from his mouth. He glanced at the wolf who hadn’t even bothered moving. He just flicked his ears and gave Stiles a baleful glare.

”Gee, please excuse me for disturbing your beauty sleep, Togo,” Stiles grumbled, wiping snow from his face. ”It’s not like you scared the living shit out of me. What the hell were you doing anyway, sleeping almost on top of me?”

The wolf raised his head and yawned, showing off his impressive… no, fucking massive teeth. It dawned on Stiles that perhaps yelling at a wolf the size of a medium-sized pony wasn’t such a bright idea.

”I mean… personal space?” he finished weakly.

The wolf snorted and slowly stood up, stretched, and shook himself from head to toe. Then it trotted away without looking back.

Blinking, Stiles stared after him for a while, feeling bummed. It wasn’t like he wanted the wolf to be around per se, but, well, he wouldn’t say no to some company.

It got pretty lonely out there sometimes.

Still, there was no point in staying put. With a routine born from countless repetitions, he did his business, ate a quick breakfast of jerky and trail mix, and gulped down a portion of melted snow before packing up his meager belongings and setting on the road.

He didn’t really care where he was headed, as long as it was to the south. It was the only logical choice: if the whole Northern hemisphere was buried under ten feet of ice and snow, south was bound to be free of it. Right?

He’d barely made it to set up his camp when the wolf emerged again.

”Oh, so you didn’t abandon me after all,” he said. ”Or did you come back just for the food?”

The wolf gave him a lofty look and lay down on the other side of Stiles’s campfire. Stiles shrugged and tossed him the half-eaten can of… ox tongue? Really?

It slowly became a thing: The wolf would come back when Stiles set his camp, eat whatever Stiles gave him, and curl up to sleep without sparing him another glance. In the morning, Stiles would always wake up with the wolf pressed to his side, radiating warmth through his sleeping bag.

”I’m Stiles,” Stiles said one morning when he slowly peeled himself out of his sleeping bag. ”Just thought you should know, if you’re gonna stick around.” He glanced at the wolf and blinked when the wolf was staring at him with a strangely intense look.

”Yeah, I know it’s an odd name but believe me, my real name would be even odder. I guess my mom wanted to have a little piece of her homeland with her in Northern California—not that it did her much good in the end.” 

The wolf cocked his head, and Stiles could’ve sword he frowned. 

Or perhaps he was just so lonely he projected it to a freakin’ wolf.

Whatever the case, the wolf didn’t leave that day. Or the day after.

And soon, Stiles realized he had a true companion.

”So, if we’re partners, I should probably give you a name, right?” Stiles asked one evening after peeling open a can of sausages. They were mostly gross so he fed nine out of twelve to the wolf.

The wolf, understandably, didn’t comment.

”How about Balto?” Stiles asked. ”No? Well, I didn’t think so. I mean, Balto was the more famous one of the serum sled dogs, but it was actually Togo who was the hero of the story. But you don’t look like Togo, do you? You’re massive and even though you’re not exactly ship shaped at the moment, you don’t look like a mutt.”

The wolf gave him a haughty look so full of contempt that Stiles couldn’t hold back a snort.

”What do you think about Snowy?” Stiles asked as he handed the wolf another sausage. The wolf snatched it from his fingers, snapping his jaws with a lot more force than was actually necessary.

Stiles yelped and jerked his hand away from the vicinity of said teeth. ”Shit, sorry! Yeah, I know you don’t look like an average poodle but there’s no need for the Jaws impersonation, geez!” He inspected his fingers for a moment, just to make sure they were intact.

”I mean, I can’t just call you ’the wolf’ either, can I? ’Stiles and the wolf’ sounds stupid—a bit too much like that musical poem…Peter and the Wolf, I think?”

The wolf perked up.

”What? That got your interest? You want to be called Peter?” Stiles asked, incredulous. He could’ve sworn the wolf rolled his eyes. 

”Yeah, yeah, whatever. Peter.”

There were decidedly too many teeth in Peter’s mouth as he grinned.

”—And all of this could have been avoided, you know?” Stiles said, waving his hand in a wide arch. Peter’s eyes followed the movement intently, mostly because of the can that was all but ready to fly off from Stiles’s grip. ”That tiny-handed orange monkey should’ve been impeached before he had the chance to even step into his office, but no, we had to be idiots and just keep on watching while he engaged in yet another pissing contest and pushed the world into a goddamn nuclear winter.”

He huffed and stuffed another piece of veal into his mouth before handing the can to Peter. The meat tasted metallic and stale but it was food and that’s all that mattered.

”I know, I shouldn’t complain: I’m alive, right? I could’ve died with everyone else. We all could’ve died.” 

He fell silent and stared at his hands before he huffed and closed his eyes. 

”Who the fuck am I kidding? ’We all.’ We all who? You and me? I don’t know if anyone else is alive. I might just be the last human left and you the last wolf, doomed to wander across the icy plains of the snow apocalypse until we run out of canned food.”

Despite himself, Stiles sniffed. He didn’t want to cry because there was nothing to cry about: everyone he knew was dead and he’d mourned their loss even before he’d set out of Beacon Hills. Besides, tears felt awful when they froze right in your cheeks and glued your eyelashes together. 

Later, when he was bundled up in his sleeping bag and set for the night, he whispered, ”I’m really glad you’re here, Peter.”

When he glanced at the wolf burrowed to his side, Stiles could’ve sworn his eyes were red. 

Nothing in the landscape really changed. It was disheartening because Stiles had expected the snow and ice to recede even a bit as they moved southward. Or if it happened, Stiles sure as hell didn’t notice it. 

They replenished their provisions whenever they found an establishment that wasn’t completely buried under ice and snow and sometimes Peter was able to hunt down a rabbit. The first one had been almost too cute to eat but it had also been so scrawny that it had barely filled Stiles’s stomach. He’d cut out the feet and tied them to his sled with a piece of string as a good luck charm. 

”Well, I guess it won’t do any harm, will it?” he asked Peter who stared at the dangling pieces like they’d personally offended him. ”And no, you’re not allowed to chew them when I sleep.”

Peter gave him a dry look, yawned, and curled up to sleep.

”Showoff, ” Stiles muttered and tapped his compass. It was acting up again—most likely something to do with how everything about the world was screwed up nowadays.  He glanced up at the sky but it wasn’t a big help. The skies had been overcast for weeks and apart from occasional snowstorms, they offered nothing. No direction and not much light either. 

”I have no idea whether or not I’m going to the right direction,” he grumbled, frustrated, and stuffed the compass into his pocket. ”And you know what sucks?” he asked Peter a moment later. ”I’m not going to find out if I’m into dick. I mean, I know I’m at least curious, but it’s not like I have the chance to find out now, have I?

”Back home, I had the biggest crush on Lydia. Yeah, I knew it wasn’t going anywhere because I’m me and she was… well, she was a queen. Her hair was red—she called it ’strawberry blonde,’ whatever that means—and she was so smart she could’ve done anything and go anywhere she wanted. Instead, she chose to stay in Beacon Hills and date the biggest douche at our school, which I really don’t understand. I mean, why didn’t she just dump Jackson? 

”I think some of my obsession with Lydia was just a means to avoid admitting myself that I might not be as straight as I thought. I don’t even know why; Scott—that’s my best friend—wasn’t a homophobe and I know for sure my dad didn’t care. Anyway, there was this one guy I saw one day at the beach. He was wearing these ridiculous swimming shorts, bright red with some white shapes. I mean, the shorts were ridiculous when he was on the beach but holy God when they were wet! I mean, when he emerged from the water, with his dark hair and beard and built like a Greek god, I think I had an epiphany.” 

He was silent for a moment, lost in the memory of warm summer days and newfound sexual fantasies. ”He was a couple of years older than I,” Stiles continued after a moment. ”I think his name was Derek.”

Peter let out an odd coughing sound that made Stiles look up at him. ”You okay there?” he asked. ”Don’t you die on me. I’m not gonna give mouth to mouth to a wolf, you hear me?”

Peter didn’t deign to answer.

Stiles hadn’t been counting days in a long, long while. After realizing that the compass didn’t work properly, he just didn’t see the point in keeping the score. Every day was exactly the same: wake up, eat, clean up, check the sled, walk, rest, walk, set a camp, eat, sleep. Rinse and repeat, over and over again. He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun let alone took a shower or had something fresh to eat. The days blended up together in a snowy haze which was probably the reason why the accident happened. 

They’d been crossing a plain when suddenly, the ground lurched under Stiles. He let out a terrified yelp and pushed with his skiing poles, trying to back up. He managed to move a couple of feet before his sled got stuck in snow and there was nowhere for him to go. 

”Peter! Help!” Stiles screamed as he started to slid forward again. 

When he stopped abruptly, he craned his head to see behind him and went almost weak on his knees when he saw Peter trying to drag the sled back up. He gripped the pole of the sled in his massive jaws and tugged Stiles and the sled back, inch by inch. But after a couple of tugs, he heard a sickening sound: the duct tape in his hipbelt harness ripped and even though he tried to grab a hold on the poles, he failed. Behind him, Peter’s howl joined his terrified scream as he slid forward, the ripped-out harness still attached to the sled poles.

Stiles tried to fight his way back but the more he struggled, the tighter the snow packed on and around him and when he realized he was truly stuck, he panicked.

”I can’t die here,” he wheezed and clawed at the snow around him. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. ”I can’t… need to get out… out… please… Peter…” 

He wasn’t sure how much time he lost. He caught glimpses here and there, of furious growling and scratching, of being dragged by the collar of his jacket, of being stripped and cold, so so cold, and then burning up.

When he finally opened his eyes it was only to realize he was naked, under covers, and drooling into a hairy and nicely muscular chest.

”Wha—”

”Shh,” the man holding him hushed. ”You’re safe, Stiles. Just rest now.” His voice was scratchy and rumbled in his chest, and the reverberation was a buzz in Stiles’s ear. 

Stiles shook his head—which was a mistake because it made him nauseous—and cleared his throat. ”What the hell?” he asked and squinted at the frankly gorgeous face peering at him. ”I mean… I’m not opposed to being on top of you, but why am I on top of you?”

The man sighed. ”I should’ve known that not even nearly dying would keep you quiet for long.” He gave Stiles a considering look before clearly deciding to go with whatever was in his mind. ”I’m Peter. I’ve been traveling with you for some time now in my other shape because it’s more convenient. I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles let out a noise that sounded a lot like a hysterical giggle.

Peter’s lips twitched. ”I know, it’s a lot to take in. You should rest.”

If there was something Stiles would’ve never thought he’d learn during the snow apocalypse, it was this: werewolves were real and he was definitely, enthusiastically into dick.

”So, what next?” Stiles asked, smothering his yawn on Peter’s chest.

Peter nuzzled his neck. ”We’ll head south,” he said, like it was given.

Stiles raised his head. ”Why?”

Peter kissed his nose and smiled when Stiles scrunched it. ”Because Derek and Cora are still alive.”

”Who—how—what—”

”My niece and nephew,” Peter said quietly. ”I can feel them. I don’t know where they are, exactly, but I can feel the pull. We need to head south and find them.”

Stiles nodded his head. ”Yeah, yeah, sure, okay. South. Sure thing. Let’s head out to find your furry family.” He dropped his head on Peter’s chest when he realized what he’d just heard. ”Wait. Derek? Your nephew Derek who also lived in Beacon Hills? The Derek who made me realize I’m into dick is your nephew?”

Peter’s shit-eating grin was the only answer he needed.