triskehale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
triskehale) wrote2013-08-08 11:17 pm
triskehale) wrote2013-08-08 11:17 pm
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it is the prohibition that makes anything precious
Derek was bored.
At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.
But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.
Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.
Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.
“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.
Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”
Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.
He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.
The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.
Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”
Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.
Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.
“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”
Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”
At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.
But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.
Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.
Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.
“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.
Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”
Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.
He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.
The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.
Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”
Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.
Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.
“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”
Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”
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He listens as Castiel speaks, but he's looking at Stiles the whole time. He can practically see the gears turning in that frustratingly brilliant head of his. He leans towards him a bit, taking off his fedora and dropping it on the table. "What are you thinking, little beta?"
He uses the fond nickname despite their company, mostly to ground Stiles so he doesn't get too lost in his thoughts.
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If Dean and Castiel weren't there with their experience with Darrow, he'd worry that they were just stuck like they were in Darrow. He never thought he'd miss the place, but he guesses stranger things have happened.
He looks up when Derek talks to him, blinking a few times to clear his head before reaching up and taking off his cap, tossing it by Derek's fedora and sighing. His shoulders sag and he throws his hands up, feeling a bit helpless. "I don't... I dunno, man. I mean, the weirdest shit that's happened to me so far before this was killer creepy stuffed animal robots. I've never been Deloreaned."
He looks over at Dean and Castiel, sighing. "So it's like... is it an experiment? Do we get rewarded when we find the cheese?" The thought makes him a little sick, but he pushes past it. "I mean, we weren't doing anything special when we got here. Just leaving the Coffee Bean. What about you, where were you?" He looks over at Castiel, trying to fit things together even as he talks it out.
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Crossing over to the bed, Dean sits at the edge, grimacing as half his body pops and groans. "Derek, Stiles, and I, we walked through a door and ended up here. Cas, you were leaving for work. That's a lot more clean cut than last time, when the world changed everytime the ash rained down - that's almost like we walked right into it, whether we meant to or not."
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"Well that's great," he mutters, looking at the cars along the curb, thinking of the one they left behind that held the hooch. "So we're here for who knows how long, until whoever gets whatever from us? Shit." He leans back against the wall, thunking his head solidly to it, staring at the grimy ceiling while he thinks, Dean's words stirring something at the back of his brain.
He pushes away from the wall and starts pacing the room slowly. "So... okay. So we were all going somewhere. We walked out of one place and popped into another. We were going through the door, like you said... Cas, were you actually walking out, too? Coulda been a door, a hallway, an elevator?" Because holy shit, can it be that easy?
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He rubs his mouth and then looks back up at Stiles again. "Maybe you could wield it?"
Stiles has enough power to wield mountain ash. He crackles with it sometimes, usually when he's angry or scared, but it mostly lies dormant. He has no idea what Stiles is capable of. "Okay, we have a hunter, a fallen angel, a werewolf, and a - " He doesn't want to say witch, because he isn't that. Nor is he quite an emissary, but he's something. He's important, and he gets that across with his tone. "A Stiles. We can figure this out."
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With a worried pinch already between his brows, he takes in Castiel's tired face. "Yeah, we need a fresh start. Who knows how long we can stay under the radar here, might as well grab rest while we can."