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nnyTeen Wolf fic snippet. This is not what I'm writing at the moment, but it is developing a plot. Dammit.
He cast one final look around the room, making sure there was nothing he’d forgotten. The closet door swung crazily on broken hinges, the clothes inside (yanked haphazard from hangers) old and freshly washed and rewashed. The drawers were pulled out from the chest and emptied all over the floor, crushed pens bleeding ink out over the threadbare carpet and pieces of a wrecked cell phone; papers covered in crabbed writing revealed nothing of any importance. He’d been thorough. With latex-gloved hands he piled the ampules in the middle of the room and then crossed to the window, tossing a huge textbook at the pile from as much distance as he could manage in the small room. It didn’t prevent him choking as the mingled musk-floral-sharp-thick scents rose from the pile of broken glass, and he breathed into the back of his wrist for a moment, eyes streaming, before climbing out onto the fire escape.
The molotov cocktail he threw in afterward was just insurance, really.
It was easy after that. A quick climb down the rusted metal fire-escape, long unused, the soft crunch of his sneakers over the weed-overgrown pathway, a quick glance left and right before he joined the stream of human traffic that flooded the sidewalk. The direction was less important than the fact that he was three blocks away before he heard the first sirens.
He adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, flipped his hood up over his head and kept walking.
This hadn’t been his first choice; he honestly hadn’t meant it to go this far. He was - he was just so fucked, right now, and he had to slow down, time his breaths to his footsteps and use that to push everything else out of his head so he didn’t have a full-blown nervous breakdown in the middle of a street, because that sort of thing wasn’t easy to ignore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets so no-one could see them shaking.
Leaving right away was too dangerous. There was probably a window, a brief time-frame where the authorities were too busy checking out the scene of the crime to cover the routes of escape, but when it involved practically one of their own - he wasn’t risking it. If he was stuck on a Greyhound that they chased down, or if they managed to close the bus station before he could - it was safer to hole up in a Motel 6, at least overnight, at least until the first desperation had died down.
He checked in as Ben Greenberg - safely anonymous - and spent the next couple of hours just pacing back and forth in the bare space between the door and the bed, running hands over his close-cropped hair until his palms tingled and he was in danger of wearing himself a neat tonsure bald patch. This was just so bad, so far beyond his control now that he had no idea how to even begin digging himself out. He brought his hands down to cover his mouth and groaned faintly into his fingers.
When the first faintest wailing of sirens sounded in the distance his head jerked towards the door like a cornered animal and he grabbed his backpack and hauled it onto his back without even thinking, looking around frantically before heading for the window.
The moonlight was damningly bright as he ran hunched over, breathing already dangerously uneven, and headed straight for the darkness under the trees that bordered the parking lot. As soon as he was far enough back he covered his mouth with both hands, to cover any pale reflection from his skin, to muffle the juddering panting of his breathing so he could hear - there. They were getting closer. He’d lived here all his life, long enough to know that there was nothing else out here, just the Motel 6 and the freeway out of town, and he was under no illusions that he deserved any good luck.
The only bright side here, the only possible light at the end of this nightmare was the hideous jumble of scents still drenching his hoodie - they wouldn’t know who they were looking for. He whirled and ran through the woods, faster than he had ever dared through the unpredictable woods before, pounding noisily through the undergrowth until he couldn’t any more. He pulled of his sweatshirt and flung it into the trees before abruptly altering course. He was moving more quietly now, slower by necessity as well as design. He pressed his hand into the cramp in his side and watched carefully where he was placing his feet, concentrating so hard that he didn’t even realize what the twin pale blue lights were when he first looked up. He was curious for one brief, blissful second before it hit him.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit they had a Hound how did they even -
His feet moved faster than his panicked brain, skidding over dried leaves at his sudden sprint start and almost sending him over. He rebounded off a tree, barely noticing the pain of it in his panic, his sudden desperate and helpless and hopeless need to get away. Breath he couldn’t spare was escaping him in an almost sub-vocal panicked whimper, leaking out of him with every pant and he couldn’t find it in him to care; it wasn’t like it was giving away his position, it wasn’t like the Hound couldn’t track him by heartbeat alone.
That didn’t stop him trying to run. Every second he expected to get slammed to the forest floor, his shoulders hunched uselessly to fend off teeth from his neck; he was so busy listening to what was happening behind him that he lost his balance as the ground fell away from him, his ankle jarring agonisingly as his full weight fell on it.
“No,” he moaned, “no, no, shit, no - “ and he flipped over onto his back, shoving himself away from the ridge with both hands and his good leg pushing desperately.
“Whatever - “ he called, his voice wavering, “whatever they told you, I swear I didn’t do it.”
There was a scuffle at the crest of the ridge and the wolf appeared, its eyes glowing eerie blue in the faint starlight. He muffled a panicked sob in the back of his wrist and took a couple of gasping breaths.
“You can - you can smell lies, right? I didn’t, I - “ his voice sped up, wound itself higher as the Hound started picking its way towards him. “I swear to you I’m innocent, I swear, this is all a mistake.”
He was edging dangerously close to a panic attack now, he could feel it curling itself tightly around his chest. He tried desperately to steady his voice, to put as much conviction into it as he could.
“I swear,” Stiles said. “I swear to you I didn’t kill the Sheriff’s son.”
He cast one final look around the room, making sure there was nothing he’d forgotten. The closet door swung crazily on broken hinges, the clothes inside (yanked haphazard from hangers) old and freshly washed and rewashed. The drawers were pulled out from the chest and emptied all over the floor, crushed pens bleeding ink out over the threadbare carpet and pieces of a wrecked cell phone; papers covered in crabbed writing revealed nothing of any importance. He’d been thorough. With latex-gloved hands he piled the ampules in the middle of the room and then crossed to the window, tossing a huge textbook at the pile from as much distance as he could manage in the small room. It didn’t prevent him choking as the mingled musk-floral-sharp-thick scents rose from the pile of broken glass, and he breathed into the back of his wrist for a moment, eyes streaming, before climbing out onto the fire escape.
The molotov cocktail he threw in afterward was just insurance, really.
It was easy after that. A quick climb down the rusted metal fire-escape, long unused, the soft crunch of his sneakers over the weed-overgrown pathway, a quick glance left and right before he joined the stream of human traffic that flooded the sidewalk. The direction was less important than the fact that he was three blocks away before he heard the first sirens.
He adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, flipped his hood up over his head and kept walking.
This hadn’t been his first choice; he honestly hadn’t meant it to go this far. He was - he was just so fucked, right now, and he had to slow down, time his breaths to his footsteps and use that to push everything else out of his head so he didn’t have a full-blown nervous breakdown in the middle of a street, because that sort of thing wasn’t easy to ignore. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets so no-one could see them shaking.
Leaving right away was too dangerous. There was probably a window, a brief time-frame where the authorities were too busy checking out the scene of the crime to cover the routes of escape, but when it involved practically one of their own - he wasn’t risking it. If he was stuck on a Greyhound that they chased down, or if they managed to close the bus station before he could - it was safer to hole up in a Motel 6, at least overnight, at least until the first desperation had died down.
He checked in as Ben Greenberg - safely anonymous - and spent the next couple of hours just pacing back and forth in the bare space between the door and the bed, running hands over his close-cropped hair until his palms tingled and he was in danger of wearing himself a neat tonsure bald patch. This was just so bad, so far beyond his control now that he had no idea how to even begin digging himself out. He brought his hands down to cover his mouth and groaned faintly into his fingers.
When the first faintest wailing of sirens sounded in the distance his head jerked towards the door like a cornered animal and he grabbed his backpack and hauled it onto his back without even thinking, looking around frantically before heading for the window.
The moonlight was damningly bright as he ran hunched over, breathing already dangerously uneven, and headed straight for the darkness under the trees that bordered the parking lot. As soon as he was far enough back he covered his mouth with both hands, to cover any pale reflection from his skin, to muffle the juddering panting of his breathing so he could hear - there. They were getting closer. He’d lived here all his life, long enough to know that there was nothing else out here, just the Motel 6 and the freeway out of town, and he was under no illusions that he deserved any good luck.
The only bright side here, the only possible light at the end of this nightmare was the hideous jumble of scents still drenching his hoodie - they wouldn’t know who they were looking for. He whirled and ran through the woods, faster than he had ever dared through the unpredictable woods before, pounding noisily through the undergrowth until he couldn’t any more. He pulled of his sweatshirt and flung it into the trees before abruptly altering course. He was moving more quietly now, slower by necessity as well as design. He pressed his hand into the cramp in his side and watched carefully where he was placing his feet, concentrating so hard that he didn’t even realize what the twin pale blue lights were when he first looked up. He was curious for one brief, blissful second before it hit him.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit they had a Hound how did they even -
His feet moved faster than his panicked brain, skidding over dried leaves at his sudden sprint start and almost sending him over. He rebounded off a tree, barely noticing the pain of it in his panic, his sudden desperate and helpless and hopeless need to get away. Breath he couldn’t spare was escaping him in an almost sub-vocal panicked whimper, leaking out of him with every pant and he couldn’t find it in him to care; it wasn’t like it was giving away his position, it wasn’t like the Hound couldn’t track him by heartbeat alone.
That didn’t stop him trying to run. Every second he expected to get slammed to the forest floor, his shoulders hunched uselessly to fend off teeth from his neck; he was so busy listening to what was happening behind him that he lost his balance as the ground fell away from him, his ankle jarring agonisingly as his full weight fell on it.
“No,” he moaned, “no, no, shit, no - “ and he flipped over onto his back, shoving himself away from the ridge with both hands and his good leg pushing desperately.
“Whatever - “ he called, his voice wavering, “whatever they told you, I swear I didn’t do it.”
There was a scuffle at the crest of the ridge and the wolf appeared, its eyes glowing eerie blue in the faint starlight. He muffled a panicked sob in the back of his wrist and took a couple of gasping breaths.
“You can - you can smell lies, right? I didn’t, I - “ his voice sped up, wound itself higher as the Hound started picking its way towards him. “I swear to you I’m innocent, I swear, this is all a mistake.”
He was edging dangerously close to a panic attack now, he could feel it curling itself tightly around his chest. He tried desperately to steady his voice, to put as much conviction into it as he could.
“I swear,” Stiles said. “I swear to you I didn’t kill the Sheriff’s son.”
