Chapter Text
“Stiles, is that sound what I think it is?”
Scott’s voice is strained, and clearly fighting through pain—a tone that Stiles is all too familiar with, but he refuses to think about that right now. Which is easy enough, as fighting to stay in control of the jeep is taking all of his concentration.
“Depends what you think it is,” he responds, jaw tense. And he doesn’t even want to think about what hell he must be wreaking on his neck and shoulder muscles.
“I think it’s the wheels’ rims scraping against the road.”
“Then you would be correct. The hunters shot out one of our tires a mile or so back” He pauses, taking a turn far faster than advisable, even if the jeep was in complete working condition. The harsh scrape of metal across the road fills the air, and if it’s loud to him, he can only imagine how much more piercing it is to Scott.
In the passenger seat—an unusual spot for him these days, as the jeep has been officially his for years—Scott groans. “Two tires.”
“Two tires. Great.” Not immediately in any danger of hitting a car, building, or stray civilian out on a midnight stroll, Stiles chances a glance over at his friend.
He immediately wishes that he hadn’t.
Scott’s alert, which is a good sign—it’s when he loses consciousness or starts to forget where he is that you really have to worry—but he’s incredibly pale. All-blood-drained-away-from-his-face pale. Pale enough that Stiles can tell in the dark, even with his inferior human vision.
Scott’s hands are clenched around the source of all this shit: a metal rod jutting at an angle out of his chest, more like a harpoon than any other weapon Stiles had seen before. Black veins are already climbing up his chest and neck, visible above the neckline of his heavily sweat and blood-stained shirt.
He glares back at the road. They need to get somewhere safe—fast. Two pairs of headlights swing into view in the rearview mirror, and he tries to keep his muttered ‘ fuck ’ quiet, but he knows Scott can hear him anyways. Maybe even sense the hunters—if they even are hunters, and not just his paranoia—behind them.
Damn werewolf senses.
He swerves again, this time down an alley so completely dark that he barely sees it in time. Metal grinds and screeches against asphalt. Scott groans.
“Stiles, we can’t keep this up.”
“Yeah, well, there’s two trucks full of Monroe's fanatics behind us. Don’t really think we have a choice.”
“And they can hear us from 5 blocks away. We can’t run.”
Stiles laughs, almost wild. “They’ll hunt you down and kill you in the street if we don’t, so, yeah. Pretty sure running’s the only option here” Another turn. The jeep’s leaning to the left, and he has the sudden, sinking suspicion that the rims are bent.
That’s a problem for later. Preferably when they’re not running for their lives at 2 AM in an unfamiliar city.
Scott, however, apparently didn’t get that memo. “The jeep won’t—”
“It’ll make it.”
Partially to prove the statement, he yanks the jeep into another far too tight turn to the right, immediately followed by another to the left. He isn’t sure if they’re navigating deeper into the city, or if they’re nearly outside it.
At least the headlights aren’t behind them anymore.
A pause. He thinks maybe Scott’s listening for the hunters as well. After a moment, he accelerates again, but more cautiously this time. If they can just lose these assholes and make it out of town—
“Stiles…”
“Scott, no. Just… don’t.” He glances back at the rearview, expecting at any moment to see the lights swing back into view. His foot presses a little harder on the gas pedal. The scraping is joined by the whine of metal on metal, but he can’t think about that right now. The jeep just needs to get them a little farther. Just a few more streets—
“Stiles!”
He stomps on the break, and the jeep grinds to a halt.
Scott pitches forward, gasping and trying not to put any weight on the metal spike in his chest, and Stiles immediately regrets the impulse. He winces, a combination of sympathy and guilt. “You okay?”
Scott nods. “I’m good.”
It’s almost certainly a lie, as his voice is noticeably weaker than it was just a few seconds ago. “Sorry.”
Scott shakes his head, and it looks like he’s fighting to take a breath. “Thank you. For stopping.”
It definitely doesn’t feel like a thanks he deserves, and Stiles swallows. “What do you want us to do, Scott? We sure as hell can’t stay here.”
Scott winces, and tries to sit up. “If we’re on foot, we can hide from them.”
“What, and leave the jeep?” Except he’s pretty sure Scott’s right. With the racket the jeep’s making, half of the city probably knows where the jeep is, not to mention what would happen if some well-meaning bystander calls the cops.
These days, the odds that the police department houses at least a few Monroe sympathizers is very, very high. And the last thing they need is more guns in the equation tonight.
“Yeah, okay.” Course of action set, Stiles yanks the keys out of the ignition and grabs any identifying documents he can find out of the glove box, shoving them into a pocket. He crosses to the other side of the jeep only to find Scott on his knees in the street—one hand supporting the harpoon, the other planted heavily against the curb.
“Fuck.” Because of course Scott wasn’t being entirely honest about how bad it was. He rushes to Scott's side, crouching down beside him, and letting him lean back against his chest. “Okay, bud, I’ve got you. Okay.”
They both sit back heavily against one of the wrecked tires.
“We can’t stay here,” Scott says, finally, and just gathering the strength to talk sounds like an effort.
Stiles almost laughs. “Pretty sure that’s my line.”
Scott snorts. It turns into a cough. “Yeah,” he whispers, once he has his voice back. “Guess you were right.”
Lights pass a block away, and they both tense. The seconds tick by in complete silence, and Stiles expects any moment that they’ll come back and turn down their alley. Maybe bring along some friends.
But the moment passes, and Scott breaks the silence. “Sorry.”
Stiles half-glares down at him, stunned. “What the hell are you apologizing for?”
A chuckle, or at least as much of one as Scott can muster. “Getting you into trouble again.”
“Yeah, well, we take turns. Plus, tonight’s little escapade was based on my lead, so I’m pretty sure this was my fault.”
Scott shakes his head. “My decision.”
“Agree to disagree.” He scans the street, pointing out a building just a few yards away with ground level, mostly smashed in windows. “What do you think about that one?”
Scott focuses, then nods. “Seems empty.”
“Think you can make it?”
Another nod, and Stiles half-supports his weight, half pushes off against the jeep as they both struggle to their feet. An abandoned building isn’t much, but it might solve at least one of their problems.
Which still leaves them with about a dozen more to figure out before the night’s up.