Work Text:
“I can’t believe your million billion dollar sports car doesn’t have freaking GPS built in,” Stiles complained for the umpteenth time that evening.
“And I can’t believe you would be so stupid as to want a ‘police evidence locker’ friendly form of tracking device on our little operation, but I guess disappointment is part of life,” Peter sniped back.
“Dude, whatever. You better hope they even sell paper maps still, because hell if I know if that’s even a thing. I’m starving. Meet you back at the counter.” Stiles saluted, ignoring the wolf’s eye roll.
He walked toward the chip aisle. This store better have Cool Ranch Doritos, because his cravings lately had been out of control. His sneakers squeaked loudly as they scruffed against the sticky tile and he purposefully dragged one shoe just to test how loud the sound could be. Pretty loud it turned out.
Did everyone get cravings once and a while that were so strong it was like, all they could think about until they almost went crazy not having that particular snack?
He was still walking, the yellow bulbs overhead buzzing in that obnoxious way electronics in an otherwise silent space did.
His feet hurt, and he rubbed his palms on his thighs to ease some of the ache as he walked. He thought the craving thing was probably an ADD thing.
He paused, bending over slightly to take a breath. He really needed those chips but a cold drink was starting to sound good too.
“Did you want a soda? I thought you had more of that toxic green poison masquerading as a beverage at home.”
Stiles blinked, the rows of brightly colored cans and his own confused face reflected back at him through freezer doors. Peter stood at his elbow, looking at him expectantly.
“Uhh, I guess?” Stiles reached out, grabbing a coke. “For the road,” he mumbled, turning around.
The chips were on the next aisle, and Peter watched him slink over and grab a bag of Cool Ranch as if it would jump out at him. The lights flickered, buzzing again. Something black and thick dripped slowly down out of the watermarked cracks in the ceiling panels above.
“Did you get your map?” Stiles asked, watching avidly as Peter’s long ears twitched toward him, just like those dogs in the Youtube videos that he definitely didn't spend whole evenings binge watching.
“You are adorable and I love you,” He told his wolf. Peter growled, nipping playfully at his hand as Stiles reached up to ruffle his ears. “You look just like werewolves do in the movies, dude. Like a dog wearing very, very expensive jeans.”
He laughed at his own statement, covering his mouth as several shadowed figures lurking near the magazines seemed to lean toward him at the sound. Wolf-Peter whined, the map in his hand-paws tearing slightly as he fidgeted.
“Shh, we’re fine. I think.” Stiles blinked, biting his lip as he forced his eyes back open. “Let’s just...pay and get the heck out of here. Just go. Casually.”
They headed toward the register, stepping around the growing puddle of bubbling black goo that continued to drip.
“Don’t look, just keep walking,” Stiles whispered as they passed the shadows. “Give me your map, I’ve got cash.”
Peter passed him the map, and Stiles took out his wallet without a word. They both ignored how the far side of the store had become winding halls that lead off into impossible angles filled with unlabeled food items that were strewn about as if a bomb had gone off.
“Good evening,” Stiles said to the old man behind the grimy counter. “Ten on pump two please.”
The old man said nothing as he took the items to scan. Stiles kept smiling. Something thumped against the closed ‘Employees Only’ door, scraping against the fake wood and making Peter twitch.
“Receipt?” The old man thundered with a thousand wailing voices, the entire building shaking down to its foundation as he set the bar scanner back in its cradle.
Stiles smiled. “No, thank you.”
The old man nodded.
He thought his ears might be bleeding.
Turning to Peter, Stiles’ whole body gave a violent spasm - and the car jerked under them as Peter gave a feral snarl and wrestled with the wheel.
“Oh my god! Oh fuck-” Stiles swore and babbled the entire ten seconds it took for Peter to get the car pulled over, emergency blinkers casting an intermittent red glow over the empty shoulder lane.
“What. The fuck.” Peter choked out, jaw - human and stylishly stubbled again- clenched tightly as he breathed out heavily through the shock.
“I feel like we died and went to hell or something,” Stiles said, feeling the hysteria bubble up. “Was that purgatory? Limbo?”
The pair shuddered at the thought, hearts still racing from the near car crash.
“We weren’t dead,” Peter grunted out, finally unclenching his death grip on the wheel. “I'm guessing a parallel world, or liminal space is closest to a name for….that.”
Stiles sighed, dragging both hands down his face as if he could wipe away the memory of the last ten? Had it really only been ten minutes in that fucked up gas station? He groaned. “Ok. So no more shopping trips at witching hour oh-clock. Damn it.” He sagged back into the passenger seat, enjoying the slightly cool feeling of leather and new car smell.
“...Do you think the chips are ok to eat?”