Chapter Text
Fuck. That car absolutely had just slammed into that guy. Sure Distracted Douchebag was probably only going five miles an hour. But in that kind of a goddamn penis-replacement of a monster truck, smashing into the front of that at any speed…
Stiles drops his taco on his plate, sprints for the street. He spares a wistful thought for it as he runs, because Kiko’s Tacos are the absolute bomb and normally he works the wrong shift to get here when they’re open. The one problem being a mom-and-pop taco truck, running on mom-and-pop hours.
Thank god it isn’t rush hour, at least. Someone's already trying to hold up traffic, blocking the guy splayed face first on the ground. Hopefully one of the customers at the taco truck calls 911, because he may be an EMT but there’s only so much he’s gonna be able to do for someone for someone who’s been hit by a goddamn truck.
Some oblivious concerned citizen has beat Stiles to his surprise patient, bending over to tug at the man splayed across the ground.
“Hey, don’t move him!” Stiles hit the edge of the sidewalk, flaps his arms in a giant x. He slides to his knees, starts scanning on autopilot but before he do anything more the man flips on his back.
“Hey, hey, hey, don’t move, yeah?” Stiles’ raises his hands, tries to project calm. If the man gets agitated, it’s only gonna make this worse. The citizen’s retreated to the sidewalk before Stiles can think to ask her for some help, but then Stiles’ eyes jump to the man’s face and freeze because damn.
He’s gorgeous.
And glaring right at Stiles, as he completely ignores Stiles’ very reasonable request, to push himself up on his elbows.
“Sir, my names is Stiles and I’m an EMT with Beacon Hills Fire and Rescue, alright, I need you to stay still until help arrives,” Stiles reaches out, palms flat. Maybe the man had a head injury, was still a little in shock. “You could have a spinal injury.”
The man’s eyes narrow and in his lips purse in to what is absolutely, definitely a pout, and why is it so adorable. He looks like he bench presses elephants for fun, he shouldn’t be so adorable.
“I’m fine.”
Before Stiles can stop him he’s struggling to his feet, slapping dust off his admittedly nice jeans as he goes. The stupid douchebag of a driver has sped off far down the road by now, and Stiles kicks himself for not getting the license plate number. Whatever. Right now, he needs to get Stubborn Hottie to stop moving around and let Stiles check him out.
Except, he’s not staying, he’s walking away. Not limping, not clutching at an injury, nada. Just. Walking away, like he’s out for a resentful Sunday stroll.
“Dude, seriously,” Stiles pushes off the hot pavement, shakes his hand absently at the sting. “Hold still for a moment, you just got hit by a truck.”
There’s a crowd now, on the sidewalk, the helpfully clueless passerby among them. They’re all clucking anxiously, and good. At least they’re sticking around. Hopefully someone called 911, and the police will be here soon to take their statements. Maybe one of them saw the license plate.
Grumpy Cheekbones pauses long enough to clench his fists, mutter, “It wasn’t going that fast, I don’t need any help,” before walking past the chattering cluster and down the sidewalk and wait. Where’s he going?
Stiles stumbles after him, nearly tripping over the curb edge in his rush.
“Look, okay, I don’t think you’re fine, but whatever,” he says soothingly, “At least wait until the police arrive, they’ll need to get your statement.”
He doesn’t understand. He’s sure that truck was going fast enough to knock the man clean off his feet, and doesn’t seem to even have a bruise? A single scrape?
“Not gonna press charges,” Hottie McCrazypants grunts. “I’m fine. I’m going home.”
“Not gonna… okay look,” Stiles huffs as he jogs to catch up, “that asshole needs someone to read him the riot act, we can’t just let him get away with that–“
“There’s no we,” Sir Scowls-a-lot hutches his shoulders. Stiles droops, and now he’s finally caught up he can turn, jog backwards. Only so he can be polite and look the man in the eyes after all. Nothing to do with those ridiculously blue-green eyes. Nope.
“Stop following me.”
Stiles flings his hands in the air. This man is practically built out of frustratingness. “I will when you stop being an idiot and hold still. “
Stubborn Sourpuss makes a sharp left turn and ooo. Is that a motorcycle? Or course he has a motorcycle. All he needs is tattoos and maybe a lone wolf chasing-down-bad-guys kinda job and then he can check absolutely all of Stiles boxes.
And he doesn’t have a helmet. Of fucking course he doesn’t.
“Look, I can see that clearly you're a tough guy, very stoic, suck it up like a champ and all that,” Stiles manfully ignore the way Mr. Practically a Model’s jeans stretch over his ass as he swings his leg over the bike. “But there’s this little thing called internal injuries, and just maybe you might wanna get checked out so you don’t, I dunno, die a slow painful death.”
With a flick of a wrist, the bike growls to life, sullen and popping. His hands flex on the handles, and then without another look at Stiles he kicks off, goes roaring off down the street.
The nerve.
Behind Stiles comes the wail of sirens growing louder and louder, neon-bright lights flickering out of the corner of his eye.
Well. If he can’t actually help that stubborn idiot, he might as well go let the responders know what happened. In a moment. He should probably watch the broad leather-clad shoulders of Gorgeous and Growly rapidly shrinking in the distance.
Just in case he has a sudden change of heart.