Chapter Text
It probably said something about him, like a glaring neon sign pointing to a very specific mental disorder wrapped in crime scene tape, something wrong with him that would entertain generations of true crime podcasters to come once he finally snapped—anyway, it probably said something about him that even after everything that went down in the last few months, all the murder and werewolves and kidnappings, that even with all of that, Stiles still found going to Walmart at 3 am to be a serene and enjoyable experience.
He just felt there was something to be said for the meditative process of being the only visible customer in a warehouse the size of a small suburb, pushing your cart along to the rhythm of the wonky front wheel and the over loud squeak of sneakers on sticky linoleum.
The searing, unnatural aura of the fluorescent lighting matched the insomnia that looped endlessly through his brain regardless of the sun's orbit, and as he filled his cart with chips and 99 cent frozen pizzas he could almost imagine that time had stopped altogether.
Time and events weren't the solid, reliable things he had always taken them for. Not these days.
The monotonous, distant beep of items being scanned did little to cover his muttering as he made his way towards the drink coolers at the front.
" Everything's fine Stiles . Sure, werewolves exist and maybe there's a few humans running around, enacting vigilante-justice style executions on anyone dumb enough to go for a late night walk, but everything is fine Stiles, you worry too much! Just be a good little human boy and go play lacrosse. Pretend your best friend doesn't turn into a pissed off furry once a month and isn't still trying to hump the leg of the daughter of the dude who wants your head mounted on his wall—"
Just as the cart clipped the edge of a towering and impressive display of cereal boxes he suddenly remembered he had a whole case of mountain dew under his bed. Miraculously freed from the need to carry on he double timed it over to self checkout, determinedly avoiding eye contact with the tired looking employee in the crumpled blue vest who slow jogged past him towards the still rumbling noise of boxes falling. Oops.
The parking lot at this time of night was practically abandoned, only the ambient buzz of street lights and insects to accompany him as he tossed his bags in the passenger seat. Not too many weeks ago he would have entertained himself with apocalypse scenarios, just him alone in a vast world of zombies, or maybe the only survivor of mass alien abduction. The only one left behind in the Rapture. The only one left on the planet.
"The only teenager who knows about what goes bump in the night and is still stupid enough to wander out alone," he thought, scoffing at his old naivete. The Stiles of a few weeks ago might have been lonely too, but he didn't know how good he had it.
A quick glance at his phone informed him the time was 2:10 am, and that he had no new messages.
In the past, he would have spent the evening blowing up Scott’s inbox until morning rolled around and he could meet up with his best friend to info dump about whatever he had tried to bore himself to sleep with all night long. But ever since werewolves and girlfriends became a thing Stiles had found that the chances of meeting Scott alone at their lockers in the morning had been exponentially decreasing. And the few times they did manage to grab some bro time Scott had less than zero interest in discussing this whole new world they had been dragged into. Magic and monsters were real and Scott turned into the wolfman once a month, but heaven forbid Stiles wanted to put any thought into that reality beyond "super strength means good at lacrosse" and "we beat the bad guy Stiles" therefore it's over now, just let it go.
His phone showed a long string of unanswered messages to everyone's favorite scowling, inappropriately stalkerish, werewolf mentor. Everything from legitimate questions to memes—and some paranoid rambling in between—went ignored, although not always left on unread. He was still debating on whether that made it worse or not.
The roads were empty as he drove home, the lack of street lamps illuminated the state of the county's infrastructure budget, if not the roads.
In retrospect he really shouldn't be surprised by all the supernatural murder and general crime happening in Beacon Hills. The whole town was full of dark corners, shady single adults, and a general populace with a disinterest towards the subject of missing children and or mangled bodies.
Keeping that in mind he took the longer route home through the bougie side of town with the fenced in yards and the houses with four car garages.
The light was only barely better in this neighborhood, presumably because rich people preferred nothing that could interrupt their beauty sleep, and that included functioning street lamps. Unfortunately, that did not include a ban on stop lights.
As he downshifted to a halt something caught, a horrible grinding, chunky clunking bang from deep inside the vehicle made him swear, hands white knuckled on the wheel as the sudden adrenaline of the car bucking under his grip kicked in. The car jerked, both slamming to a stop and swerving to the left as he wrestled to remain in control, and panicked seconds seemed to drag like minutes until he finally found himself panting as the now still Jeep ticked and hissed around him.
"Fuck me," he hissed, pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.
He slumped forward, pressing his forehead against the wheel with a groan. His whole body tingled, adrenaline leaving his system as fast as it had arrived. Blearily, he wondered which would be cheaper, an ambulance ride or a tow.
“Ugh.” He pushed himself back up, reaching a still trembling hand to grab his phone out of the cup holder. He had battery, but who would he even call?
A quick twist of the key confirmed his worst fears as the engine gave a pained rev and refused to turn over. Swearing under his breath he tried again, only to swear louder when the engine gave a loud crunch and died entirely.
“Nooooooooo, come on Roscoe, don't do this to me,” he groaned. He really had the shittiest luck. Rescue was his only hope, unless he wanted to abandon his car and walk home.
Not going to happen.
His free hand tapped out a vague rhythm on the wheel as he pondered the chances of being able to fix whatever had broken in the engine versus the chances of getting a consequence free ride home at 3am.
Crunch .
Stiles froze, nervous tapping silenced. Slowly, he leaned forward to peer out into the darkness.
It was windy, all the nearby trees tossing about and making it difficult to tell if there was anything else alive out there. He squinted, eyes straining as they jumped from home to home, all looming ominously in the night as he tried to identify the source of that noise.
"Probably just a tree branch," he muttered, falling back into his seat and shaking out the tension in his shoulders. "Or a garbage bin, blown over by the wind…" He looked around again, nose scrunching in disgust as he realized what block he had managed to break down in. "Yeah, or not. Do rich people even leave their bins at the curb? Or do they just have the help ‘disappear’ it for them?"
He knew that he was roughly in the same neighborhood as Lydia's house, but he doubted she would be in a helpful mood if he showed up banging on her door after midnight asking for a jump. Unless help counted as calling the police on him. Which would get him home—home and grounded, again.
He stilled, tilting his head to catch—yes, there it was again. A sort of scraping sound, like something dragging—
The car, formerly dead and problematically refusing to move, suddenly came to horrible, thrashing life.
He couldn't help the scream that ripped out of him as the entire car rocked side to side as if a giant dog had decided to use his car as a chew toy.
"Please don't be a giant dog. Fuck!"
He scrambled to unbuckle himself, just in case he had to bail as his car was eaten by a giant invisible dog monster.
Unfortunately, being free to run also meant nothing was holding him down when the car gave an almighty lurch forward, as if a giant, invisible dog monster had climbed right on top , which caused him to lurch forward as well, just as the car rocked back to right itself.
He smacked his head into the wheel. Inevitable, and painful.
Feeling woozy now, and half blinded from the smarting tears and throbbing in his face, Stiles slowly pushed himself back upwards. He listened, tense and breathing heavily through his mouth as he cupped his nose. It felt broken, but then again so did his whole face, and he didn't think it was bleeding.
From above there was the subtle sound of something moving. Calculated, but near silently. Like the sound of hail, tiny taps and scrapes moved from the back end towards the front, pausing directly overhead as Stiles gave up trying to breathe altogether in favor of holding his breath. He could see a shadow, stretching out over the hood of the jeep, distorted in the ambient light from blocks away.
Slowly, pressed his hand tighter over his face, willing his lungs to stay silent and stop burning.
He didn't even dare to blink as a hand, long and green, with claw tipped fingers and scales that looked almost wet in the darkness, inched downwards from the roof of the car.
Stiles watched, petrified, as the arm hung there for a moment, pressing lightly against the glass before suddenly retracting back upwards.
He couldn't help the surprised whimper of fear that escaped him, and he knew (stupid, stupid— ) that he made some sort of noise as he reflexively jerked back in fear.
The thing on the roof shifted, and he pressed himself as far down in the seat as he could. It probably wouldn't help, not if the thing was as large as its arm implied. He was fucked, and he didn't even try to hide his shout of horror as the creature thing made it's move.
Again the jeep rocked like the Titanic as the creature flipped down onto the hood, visibly denting it and taking bits of paint along with its claws as it slid downward until it's back legs were touching asphalt, it's upper torso reclined forward over the hood to put its face right up near the windshield.
"Please no," Stiles whimpered as one scaled and clawed hand slowly began to reach out.
—Danger—
It definitely was! He was going to die and he hadn't even told his dad he was going out. Someone was going to find his mangled remains (oh god he hoped there would be remains to find and that the thing didn't just eat him whole) and they would call the cops and his dad always took murder cases himself and he would have to see his son in bloody bits—
—Danger where?—
What do you mean where? There's a giant lizard monster about to rip out my throat—
—No. Safe. Danger where?—
"Wait, what? Are you talking to me in my head?"
The creature didn't answer. Instead it raised its hand, slowly, almost like it was trying not to spook him.
Stiles watched in confused horror as the hand lifted to press gently against the glass. Not trying to break it or push through, just resting there, like an invitation.
—Want. Safe —