Chapter Text
Stiles is driving in his jeep when it happens. When the horrible, no good, very bad thing happens. It's night, because of course it's night, and the road is deserted, and he's singing at the top of his lungs to Shoop (What? Salt N Pepa were totally awesome shut up.) It's not even raining for fuck's sake, but out of nowhere a bolt of lightening strikes, so close and bright that he's temporarily blinded. He slams on his brakes and throws his arms over his eyes and when his vision finally clears there's a crack in the middle of the road and -
Bodies.
There are two fucking bodies in front of his jeep.
He throws the jeep into park, and clamors out, grabbing for his cell while chanting please don't be dead please don't be dead interspersed with oh my god how is this my life what the absolute fuck? He slides to his knees by the body closest to him, and an immense wave of relief crashes through him as the kid – and it is a kid, probably his own age, Stiles thinks – coughs and groans and rolls to his hands and knees.
Stiles really can't deal with any more dead people this month.
His hair is blond, and just unkempt enough that it curls at his ears, and even though Stiles' doesn't recognize him, he's wearing a Beacon Hills' letterman's jacket so they must go to school together. He coughs again, and shakes his head like a dog, and Stiles grabs his shoulder to steady him.
“Hey – hey, man, you okay? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?” The guy woozily turns his head toward him, blue-green eyes not quite focused, and Stiles isn't sure he's actually seeing him. “Hey...hey. My name is Stiles. Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me what happened?”
The kid blinks, and wobbles, and Stiles tightens his hold. And he definitely doesn't know this guy, but there's something about the way he narrows his eyes and purses his lips that is weirdly familiar. “I don't...no, I...My name is Chris. I live just down...Why is it night? It shouldn't be night.”
Stiles shrugs. “It's night, dude. Do you remember how you got here? Like seriously, anything? I'm gonna call 911, okay?”
Chris shakes his head again. “No, no, I think I'm...I don't remember...Peter and I were just walking home from pra--” He stiffens at about the same time Stiles remembers the second body. Chris scrambles up before Stiles can stop him, almost falls, then rights himself. “Where's Peter? Where's Peter?” He follows the direction of Stiles gaze and makes a choking sound. “Oh God, nonononono.”
He darts across the road, and by the time Stiles gets there, he's already on his knees, cradling the other kid's – Peter? – body in his arms. “Hey, Petie. Hey, Petie, come on.” He cups Peter's face in his hands and presses his thumbs against his cheeks. “Come on, baby, wake up. Wake up. I can hear you breathing, asshole, so just open your eyes for me, okay?”
Peter is wearing a letterman's jacket, too, and Stiles can see a basketball pin glinting on it. Which is weird, because he's pretty sure he knows the whole basketball team, and this kid isn't on it. His black hair is just a little bit shaggy, too, and he's gangly and long legged, and just when Stiles is giving in and dialing 911, he groans and coughs and opens some of the bluest eyes Stiles has ever seen. The only person he knows with eyes that naturally blue is –
Stiles takes a step back, slowly mouthing oh my God, and starts dialing an entirely different number.
Peter reaches up and trails his fingers over Chris' cheek, his lips curving up sweetly. “You called me an asshole, you jerk. When I could have been dying.
Chris wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck. Stiles can just make out the muffled “Oh my God, you fucker, don't you ever scare me like that again.”
Stiles is pretty sure he's going to vomit. He clears his throat and the couple – oh yeah, those two are definitely a couple – snap their heads around to look at him. “So, ah, what did you say your last names were again?”
Peter rolls his eyes and mother of God, that he definitely recognizes. “Cute. As if anyone in this town doesn't know who Chris Argent and Peter Hale are. But it's adorable that you tried.”
The other end of the phone line finally picks up with a cheerful “Hey man, what's up? Thought you were coming over to watch movies with us?”
“Hey, yeah, about that, Scott. I'm thinking you'd better come out here and meet me instead”