Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

tumblr  •  soundtrack  •  FAQ  •  cars

Chapter One

There's a crack in the mirror. When Stiles first saw it he'd been one button away from calling the department to complain, but managed to refrain himself. It's not like he's the one paying for the place, and if things go as planned he won't be spending much time here anyway. And even though it would've been a joke, he's got a feeling that his bosses wouldn't appreciate his sense of humor. Especially not tonight.

His reflection is pale in the stark white light from the LED lamp above the sink, casting dark shadows beneath his eyes. It stares back at him with much less nerves evident on its face than he would've expected. Inside his chest a heart is racing, but on the surface he looks calm. Ready.

"My name is Stiles O'Brien," he tells the man in the mirror for probably the tenth time tonight. "I grew up in Exeter, a small town up north."

It's rare; to be put undercover straight out of the police academy. Most departments advice all graduates to spend two-three years on the job as a uniformed officer before going undercover, to get familiar with the area and its local criminals before taking on the risks of trying to infiltrate their ranks. But sometimes, to avoid officers getting recognized after patrolling the streets, new faces are recruited fresh out of the academy.

Stiles knows he got the job for three reasons.

One: he looks young. He probably could've been sent back to high school and people had believed he was still a teenager. His life could've easily been 21 Jump Street. Young and reckless was what the department had been looking for, which pretty much sums up Stiles' exterior perfectly.

Two: the leader of this operation is his best friend's father. Scott was the one who convinced him to come to LA in the first place, and when Mr. McCall had needed a new LAPD officer to go under for his investigation, Stiles had been his first choice.

And three: he's an excellent liar.

"I'm Stiles O'Brien," he repeats, the statement growing more convincing each time he says it out loud. "Small town boy. Exeter."

Making his first name ‘Stiles' had not been his own idea, but he is forever grateful for it. Reacting to the wrong name out in the streets can get you killed, which is why most undercover agents keep their first name when being given their new identity. Stiles' real name is however too unusual when creating a low-key criminal out of thin air, and the chance of someone calling it out in his presence is very small—not to mention the likelihood of them actually pronouncing it correctly—so the department had decided to make ‘Stiles' his legal name.

His phone rings from the other room, and Stiles leaves the small bathroom with one last glance in the mirror.

The rest of the apartment matches the broken mirror perfectly. It's small and shaggy, reminding Stiles more of a cheap motel room than an actual apartment. Both the furniture and wallpapers have seen better days. Apart from the bathroom there are only two rooms: one bedroom and what must be considered a kitchen, separated by a wooden archway rather than a door. Needless to say: the place is only fit for one person.

It's not a home; it's a headquarters. Somewhere to go in case things go to shit and he needs to get the hell out of dodge. None of the criminals he'll come into contact with is supposed to know about it, which is why the department picked one of the shadiest places on the outskirts of the city. The owner has agreed to cooperate with them, in exchange for skipping jail time due to some illegal activities going down in his building, and has promised to keep an eye on the place whilst Stiles isn't there.

Stiles picks up his phone from the bedside table, checking the caller ID before accepting the call with a smirk.

"What's up?"

There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"You know, I was hoping you'd to start addressing me properly, one of these days."

"I'm in character," Stiles shrugs, despite no one being around to see it. "O'Brien has no love for the authorities."

"Neither do you, most of the time."

"Guess you really picked the right guy for the job then," Stiles points out, starting to aimlessly wander around the small room.

Another sigh.

"I sure hope so, Stilinski."

The two of them had never been especially fond of each other, even back in Beacon Hills. Before Scott's parents got divorced, Mr. McCall had been around just as much as Melissa, and yet he and Stiles never really got along. Stiles had been a pretty reserved kid after his mother died, and the man had simply never managed to earn his trust. Not that he'd tried very hard.

Stiles mostly remembers him as someone who came to pick up Scott after school on the days when Melissa couldn't get away from the hospital. Someone who stuck his head through the door when they were playing on Scott's bedroom floor to bluntly inform his son dinner was ready, or that Stiles had to go home. He was rarely ever home, and even then he spent most of the time hiding in his office which Stiles had never seen the inside of. He's not even sure if Scott had.

It had been strange to see the man again after all these years, and in a way it felt like meeting him for the first time. And when McCall had offered his hand to welcome him on the case, it might've been the first time they looked each other in the eye.

"Checking in to see how my nerves are doing?" Stiles asks.

"That's Deaton's job. Mine is to tell you not to screw it up."

"I won't," Stiles says, flopping down on the bed and staring up at the gray ceiling.

"You know this isn't just about street racing. I wouldn't be here if it was."

Stiles does know that. The department has been dealing with the city's increasing horde of common criminals long before the FBI got involved. Going undercover within the street racing world usually meant far less danger than trying to infiltrate most other gangs in a city like Los Angeles. In fact: some youths were even encouraged by their parents to get into the illegal sport that is street racing, just so they'd stay away from the drug dealings and guns. Stiles had found it strange at first, but later understood that most folks would rather see their kid going to jail than lying dead in the streets. In a neighborhood like this, everyone is looking for their thrill. For the cops, posing as a street racer is considered far less dangerous than mingling with gangsters.

But that was before one of the department's undercover agents was killed a little less than a month ago. The FBI had arrived, and Stiles had pretty much been snatched right from the LAPD's doorstep.

"I'm perfectly aware of what I signed up for," Stiles assures him. "Sir."

He thinks there's a huff on the other end, but he'll never be able to prove it.

"Remember to leave a report at least once a week over the phone, and only over the phone. Wearing a wire would be too dangerous in this crowd. Allison will be managing this phone from now on. It's the only number you're allowed to contact us on."

"Got it," Stiles affirms. At first he'd been mildly disappointed about not wearing a wire—because that's how they do it in the movies—but then he'd realized the danger of getting caught with it. "And if there's an emergency I got your personal number."

"You're not supposed to have that," McCall mutters.

"Emergencies only. Promise."

McCall sighs over the line again, sounding defeated rather than frustrated.

"Just watch your back and do your job, Stilinski."

"That's the plan," Stiles agrees.

"Good. Now get some rest."

A click announces the end of the call before he's got the chance to give a comeback, so Stiles just scoffs and drops his arm on the bed, phone carelessly slipping from his hand. Tipping his head to the side, he glances up at the clock on the wall. 11 PM. For a moment he wonders if Deaton will call as well, but decides it's unlikely. Deaton was the last person he saw before coming here; the one who gave him the keys to the apartment and his car.

Correction: O'Brien's car.

He should probably take McCall's advice and try catch some sleep, because he can't sleep in tomorrow. He's got a plan. With a groan, Stiles forces himself back on his feet and pads back to the bathroom, resuming his mantra while brushing his teeth.

Five hours later he's back in bed, this time between the sheets and dressed in nothing but briefs. The apartment is swallowed by the dark, save from the square of moonlight that still manages to slip through the thin curtains. It's illuminating an insignificant patch of the wall, about three feet from where the clock is hanging, and it's slowly driving Stiles mad. Not because he needs to know what the time is—he's reached over to check on his phone about a dozen times already.

It's past 4 AM and he's wide awake.

Groaning in frustration, he sits up in bed and rubs the back of his neck. A voice of reason tells him that he should stay in bed, that sleep will come eventually; but after so many hours of just tossing and turning he's starting to doubt it. His body is too tense, his mind in complete overdrive. Thoughts are practically colliding with each other, pointlessly trying to predict what his first day on the job is going to be like. He can't even decide if he's more anxious or excited. Probably a bit of both.

With a final sigh he thinks screw it and gets out of bed, trudging over to the desk to switch on the lamp. He grunts and squints at the blinding light breaking through the darkness, having to blink a few times in order for his eyes to adapt. There's a stack of police files on top of the desk, and he brings them to the center of the floor where he sits down, legs crossed. He opens all the files and spreads them out in front of him, making sure he can see all pictures and read all names from where he's sitting.

The faces staring back at him are so familiar to him by now, and though he's never met either of them in person, it feels like he has. On the nights when he actually falls asleep, he dreams about them.

Stiles lets his eyes sweep over the names he's come to know like the back of his hand. Derek Hale. Cora Hale. Jackson Whittemore. Erica Reyes. Vernon Boyd. Isaac Lahey. Together they make what the department likes to call The Hale Crew—or Hale's Crew for short—and are all possible suspects for the murder of the undercover agent who'd been trying to infiltrate the street racing world a few weeks ago. There are many more crews to investigate, of course, but next to Duke and his gang, Hale is the most infamous street racer in the entire city, and the department is convinced that if Hale didn't pull the trigger himself, he'll at least know who did. This world practically revolves around Derek Hale.

He pulls Hale's file closer, leaning down to take a better look at the mug shot. It was taken a few years back, at Lompoc's prison where Hale spent two years after nearly beating a guy to death. There are pictures of the tortured man's face further inside the file, but Stiles doesn't need to turn the page. He isn't just familiar with this guy's file by now—he's memorized it. He knows Hale's eye color is green. He knows he's six feet tall. He knows Cora is his younger sister. He knows the man he almost killed was his own uncle. He knows his criminal record includes both grand theft auto and assault, not to mention all the countless traffic violations over the years.

Derek Hale is his mark. The others—Whittemore, Lahey, Reyes and the rest—they're just common criminals. Small fry. Neither of them have faced even half the jail time Derek has, but Stiles will have to earn all their trust in order to get close enough to Hale to get the information he needs. Most teams are considered families, with bonds that run far deeper than just the blood in their veins, and Stiles is well aware of the challenge ahead of him. It's not easy to infiltrate a crew in this crowd, which is where most officers before him have failed.

This is gonna be one hell of a ride, he thinks to himself while tilting his head to return Hale's glare.

When his alarm goes off at 7 AM he's back in bed, though he can't recall how he got there. Rubbing his eyes and angling his head, he finds the case files still spread out on the floor. The sun is up, peeking in from behind the curtains, and the distant noise of traffic reaches his ears. Stiles groans as he looks back to the large numbers glowing on his screen. He couldn't have gotten more than a few hours sleep.

Off to a great start, isn't he?

He manages to roll out of bed and get into the shower, eager to cool off. The sheets are clinging to his skin, sticky from his own sweat. There's not much food in the apartment—just a pack of sodas and some fruit in the fridge—but that's alright. He wasn't planning on having a big breakfast here anyway.

With his hair still dripping from the shower, Stiles makes quick work of getting ready to leave. He puts the files back into a neat pile on the desk, knowing someone from the department will come and pick them up during the day. He puts his wallet and phone in a drawer, making sure his new ones are in his pockets. He picks up the small piece of paper left by Deaton yesterday, repeating the address to himself before making a ball out of it and tossing it into the trashcan by the door.

1234 Bellevue Avenue

Lastly, he hides his Glock and badge in the bottom drawer. No reason for O'Brien to be carrying a gun.

Grabbing his new set of keys from the table, he gives the place one final sweep of his eye before leaving the apartment. His heart is beating a little too fast to be normal, and he still can't tell the worry or anticipation apart.

The Eclipse is waiting for him in the parking lot, its lime green paintwork glistening in the sun, and Stiles takes a moment to appreciate its beauty. He'd picked it out himself from the LAPD's impound yard, stating that it'd fit his new identity perfectly. They'd had to change the plates, of course, in case the racer they got it from recognized it in the streets, as well as giving it a paint job. Stiles isn't too fond of the green—personally he would've stuck to the dark shade of red—but he understands the importance of the car's transformation. It's more or less just as important as the name on his fake driver's license, because it's part of his new identity, too.

Once he's opened all the windows and got the air-conditioning running for a while, he can finally slip behind the wheel. When driving out of the parking lot, he realizes the job doesn't start the moment he lays eyes on Hale; it starts right now. Up till this moment, Stiles O'Brien hasn't existed, and he'll need to make a name out of himself in this city if he is to approach his target.

He dutifully stays below the speeding limit until he gets on the freeway. There, he can't help but adding more weight on his right leg, his hand practically itching on the stick until he allows it to shift gear.

Okay, so there's a fourth reason he was McCall's first choice for this job: he's got a heavy foot.

As unbelievable as it may seem considering his career choice, he'd been a real troublemaker in his youth. Back in Beacon Hills he'd started racing before he even got his driver's license, and while Stiles and the few other kids who spent their Saturday nights leaving track marks all over town got nothing on the big community of racers in LA, it was enough for them. He'd some time in juvie, which is just a fraction of the punishment he would've gotten if his dad hadn't been the sheriff.

Why his father kept helping him out of trouble time after time was something he never understood, and never will.

Recognizing the sound of a HKS turbo, Stiles turns his head to see a car coming up side by side in the lane next to him. It's a Veilside Mazda, and its dual paintwork in black and orange would make it stand out even among other race cars. Stiles locks eyes with the driver, who gives the Eclipse an appreciating look in return of Stiles' ogling. He's Asian, and definitely passes the young and reckless-check. He gives Stiles a nod, tapping the gas a few times, and it only takes a moment for Stiles to catch up and understand what he's on about.

He's done a lot of research in the last three weeks—learning the language and ways within the street racing community. He even took a lesson in different types of handshaking, needing to adapt to this world to 100% in order to convince everyone he belongs there. Your attitude, vocabulary, personality—it all matters.

And one of the things he learned was what's going down between him and the Asian right now. Sometimes street racers will spot each other in the crowd, thanks to how their cars usually stand out from the rest, and they'll challenge each other to drive faster. It's not a race, per say: just two drivers who wanna show off their vehicles and have some fun.

It's dangerous, and Stiles knows he shouldn't, but when the Asian boy finally steps on the gas, so does Stiles.

They zigzag through the cars they pass, staying side by side almost the entire time. Stiles can't wash the grin off his face, his whole body tingling with the thrill of having to concentrate not to lose control of the car. It's like having extended limbs, and he has to pay attention to every little movement he and the Eclipse make together. He looks over to share a wide grin with the other guy, and for a whole minute he forgets what the name in his wallet reads.

When spotting his exit, he lifts his hand in a wordless gesture. The Asian returns it, and accelerates while Stiles slows down before making his turn. It's a bittersweet yet satisfying goodbye, and Stiles can't help but wonder if he'll see the guy around in the upcoming weeks.

He arrives at his destination right before 10 o'clock, and parks his car in front of some houses at one side of the triangle. The market is across the street, right at the corner of Kensington Road and Bellevue Ave. The banner reads Hale's market & café. Stiles has seen several surveillance photos of the place, and it feels strange to suddenly see it with his own eyes. Music is playing from somewhere inside, probably on an older stereo judging by the harsh sound of it. A few tables are set up on the pavement, with big parasols to shield the few customers from the blazing sun.

Stiles can definitely appreciate that idea; his shirt is already sticking to his skin, and he desperately longs for another shower.

Cora is sitting behind the bar, eyes dropped to her phone. Stiles recognizes her immediately, despite her hair being longer than in most photos in her file. If seeing the market in real life felt strange, it's nothing compared to seeing one of the criminals he's been studying for the past few weeks. His pulse quickens again, just like it had on the freeway, but he brushes it off and crosses the street without further delay.

"Please tell me you got curly fries," he pleads dramatically, sliding onto one of the bar stools across from Cora.

She lifts her gaze to lock eyes with him, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let me guess: you're actually looking for Jack In The Box," she suggests, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm looking for whoever's got curly fries. So if you do, I've reached my destination."

Huffing, Cora straightens up from where she's been hunched over the disk.

"You're in luck, kid. A friend of mine pushed me to make my own home-made recipe. I could heat some up for you."

"You're a saint," Stiles smiles, and she rolls her eyes as she moves over to the microwave.

As soon as she moves to the side, Stiles' eyes fall to the man sitting in the back room. Or rather: the back of a man's head, because all he can see from where he's sitting is a mop of black hair, but he already knows who it is, and the realization makes his heart flutter so violently it nearly steals his breath. It's Derek Hale. He's sure of it. Not that he's surprised to find him here—he'd been hoping to—but it still catches him off guard.

The market is a cover for his nightly activities, of course, but Stiles doubts it's fooling anyone. Only reason Hale isn't hauled down to the station in handcuffs already is because they don't have enough evidence. They know he's still racing—they've just never caught him in the act, and all racers are too loyal to rat each other out. Every single person who's been arrested for street racing within the last year has been involved with Hale one way or another, but none have provided any kind of information that could put him back behind bars.

Hale is clever, and he's got every fellow racer in the city protecting him. But while Stiles' main objective is to find out who killed the former officer, he still has orders to take down the Hale crew at the end of the investigation, if he's got enough evidence.

The sound of screeching tires and rumbling engines approaching pulls Stiles out of his thoughts, and he swirls around in his seat to see four cars lining up right down by the pavement, mindless of the 'no parking' sign only a few feet away. He's just about to turn back to the Hales when the first car door opens and a blonde whom Stiles immediately recognizes as Erica Reyes climbs out. Three guys emerge from the other cars, and Stiles can feel the pace of his heart speed up when recognizing all three of them.

Fuck me, he thinks to himself. The whole crew is here.

Isaac Lahey is only nineteen, and Stiles is not prepared for how goddamn tall he is. He looks even taller than Mr. McCall—and McCall is a very tall and full-grown man. Luckily the boy's curly hair still makes him look younger than the rest, so Stiles isn't too confused. He walks with a stride that's surprisingly confident for someone who presumably ran away from home at the age of fifteen, and Stiles suddenly finds himself curious as of how a boy like Lahey came to be a part of the city's most infamous racing crew.

Vernon Boyd looks just like he does on his photos, for which Stiles is grateful. He's wearing a sleeveless button-up with his shoulders and arms fully visible, and Stiles can't help but to admire his muscles. Reyes casually slips her hand into his, reminding Stiles of all the photos taken of them together. Their criminal records don't consist of much else than traffic violations, but he doubts that's their whole story.

Jackson Whittemore is exactly like Stiles imagined him: short-tempered and cocky. He can hear him complaining about a hole in his fuel map, appearing to blame Lahey despite it being his own car. Luckily the younger boy seems unfazed by his harsh tone, which leads Stiles to believe this is far from his first time lashing out like that.

"Here you go," Cora announces, and Stiles swirls back around to face her with what he hopes is a natural look on his face. "Obviously they're not as good as Jack In The Box, and they're pre-heated, so…" She shrugs with one shoulder. "You know."

Stiles scoffs, amused.

"Thank you. Miss… Hale?" He adds lamely.

She snorts, offering him a small smile.

"Cora."

"Stiles," he says in return.

Her eyebrows rise toward her hair line.

"That's a name?"

"Afraid so," he sighs, shoving some home-made fries into his mouth. "Oh my god," he groans. "These are awesome."

"I'm glad," Cora smiles proudly. Her gaze lifts to somewhere behind him, and her smile grows even wider. "Excuse me. Calvary is here."

Stiles just nods and pretends to direct his full attention to his food, when in reality it stays with the approaching footsteps from behind. Someone brushes past him, but he makes no move to see who it was. Reyes greets Cora with a bump of her fist across the bar disk while the guys walk straight into the shop, voices raised in intense conversation.

"Yo, Derek!" Boyd suddenly calls out, and Stiles can't for the life of him keep himself from looking up. "Want a drink?"

Hale doesn't even turn his head. In fact, he doesn't even use words to respond. He just raises an opened beer can above his head, not looking up from whatever he's reading back there. Boyd shakes his head to himself, turning around just in time to catch a bag of chips tossed by Lahey across a shelf, but Stiles can't stop staring.

A presence to his right is what draws him back. Whittemore has taken the seat across the bar disk and is currently watching him with a frown.

"I haven't seen you around here before," he drawls. "You new in town?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, meeting the guy's gaze steadily. He's got a feeling this isn't the time to play the innocent-puppy card. "Yeah, I heard you're doing some crazy shit down here."

Whittemore laughs, a mocking sound that makes Stiles jaw set.

"That so?" He asks, cocking one eyebrow while giving Stiles an unimpressed once-over. "And what makes you think you'd get to be in on it?"

"Jackson," Cora says from where she's standing with Reyes, both of them sending him warning looks.

He lifts a hand in a peaceful gesture.

"Chill, ladies. I'm just making conversation." Turning back to Stiles, he gives him a sly smile. "You race, boy?"

"I do."

"No," Whittemore immediately shuts him down, shaking his head. "No, you think that what you do is race. But trust me: you haven't seen racing until you've seen us do it on our streets."

"Well, that's what I'm here for," Stiles assures him, starting to get just a little bit sick of this guy. "Bring it on."

"Careful what you wish for," Whittemore warns. He throws a glance towards the back room. "You do know who we are, don't ya?"

"I know Hale," Stiles replies, daringly tilting his head to the side, "but I've heard nothing about you."

The flash of anger in the man's eyes is slightly terrifying, and for a moment Stiles is convinced he's made a terrible mistake and will be sent back to the station in a body bag. Whittemore narrows his eyes at him, jaw clenching like in a silent threat.

"You think I'd be riding with Hale if I couldn't drive?" He wonders, voice low. "You think he just lets anyone into his gang?"

Stiles digs out his wallet, deciding that it's time to go before anything bad happens.

"I think," he says, putting three dollars next to his plate before looking Whittemore square in the eye, "that you love the sound of your own voice, and once you got that fuel map fixed you can show me how much of it that's just bullshit."

He's pretty sure he hears Lahey and Boyd go "oohhhhh" somewhere inside the shop, but tries to ignore the satisfaction it gives him. He nods to Cora before turning to leave, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when heading for his car. Part of him wants to stay longer, maybe try and chat with Hale's sister some more, but he has to remind himself that this is going to take time. He's not going to win them over on the very first day; and he certainly won't do it by punching Whittemore in the face, which is exactly how things are gonna go down if he lingers.

The next second—right as he's about to cross the road—someone shoves him from behind, forcing him to throw his hands out and brace the fall against the hood of Lahey's car. Swirling around, he's not the slightest bit surprised to find Whittemore standing on the pavement, eyes gleaming with rage and hands closing into fists at his sides.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?"

"You better watch your mouth, asshole," Whittemore growls through gritted teeth. "No one insults me and walks away, you hear me?"

Stiles scoffs mirthlessly, straightening up and—forgetting all about what he should or shouldn't do—takes one step forward.

"Well," he sighs, "no one shoves me and gets away with it, either."

His first punch lands right across Whittemore's jaw, and its sharp edge makes his knuckles hurt. That doesn't stop him from taking a second swing, however, or blocking the following blow of revenge aiming for his cheek. Stiles manages to get two more hits in before Whittemore barges through his barrier of practiced techniques with sheer muscle strength, hitting him in the lower stomach that punches the breath right out of his lungs. Stiles stumbles backwards, trying to catch his breath in order to regain the upper hand.

But Whittemore doesn't fight like the trainees in police school, and is on him in a second. Stiles does his best to protect his own body, landing a few successful punches in the guy's ribs. It's enough to make him grunt, but not enough to stop the fist aiming for Stiles' throat. At this point they are just dancing around each other in the middle of the street, threatening to fall over at any moment. He hears Cora and the others yelling behind them, and it's enough to pull him back to the present.

I'm gonna get fucking arrested, Stiles angrily thinks to himself, gritting his teeth. Some cop.

Another fist hits its mark at his side, and just as he braces his arm to get his revenge, he's being pushed backwards with surprising strength. Stiles lands on Lahey's hood again, chest heaving and head spinning. He's just about to ask himself how the hell Whittemore managed to pull him off so easily when realizing it's not Jackson Whittemore standing over him.

It's Hale.

He's positioned himself between the two of them, one arm held out to his right where Whittemore is peering down at Stiles over his shoulder. The rest of the crew is standing on the pavement along with the other customers, though Stiles can't pay attention to either of their faces right now. He's too busy staring up at Derek Hale who's currently giving him the most murderous look he's ever seen, and Stiles can hear the rush of blood in his ears when his heart skips a number of beats.

Because despite the three weeks of hard training and late night research, nothing has prepared him for this.

Hale's eyes are not green. They're— Fuck, Stiles can't even tell. Hazel, maybe? Brown clouds swimming in an ocean of blue and green? He's got a full beard instead of the boyish stubble from his mug shot, and while Stiles knows that picture is horribly outdated, it still surprises him. He's wearing a button-up that looks as if someone tore its sleeves off with their bare hands, his toned arms on full display. And what arms he's got, too. The guy must've started lifting once he got out of Lompoc because his frame was much smaller in all the pictures Stiles has seen.

"He was in my face," tells him, pushing himself off the car and expecting Hale to take a step back.

He doesn't; he stays right where he is and doesn't take his eyes off Stiles for even half a second.

"And now I'm in your face," he points out, voice deep and challenging.

They're close enough for Stiles to feel Hale's hot breath in his face, and it's sending prickles down his spine. He desperately tries and fails to come up with a response that won't get him fucking killed, when Whittemore suddenly tries to move past Hale and pick the fight back up. His fingertips barely graze Stiles before Hale is shoving him back again, single-handedly.

"Don't push it, Jackson," He growls into his team mate's face. "You embarrass me."

Leaning back on the hood again, Stiles tries to catch his breath once Hale's piercing eyes aren't on him anymore. Boyd shows up and helps keeping Whittemore away from the scene, and then Hale turns to face Stiles again.

"Isaac," he says, holding out an open palm without averting his eyes. "Give me the wallet."

Stiles is just about to wonder what wallet? when Lahey hands Hale what looks like Stiles' wallet, and he instinctively claps on his pockets to discover it's been taken off him. How the hell did the boy manage that without him noticing? There was nothing in his file about him being a goddamn pocket thief. For a moment he panics, forgetting Hale won't find his real license in there, or any proof of him being a cop, but even once he remembers his heart refuses to slow down.

Hale frowns down at the card in his hand for a moment before reading out loud:

"Stiles D. O'Brien." With the frown still deep on his face, he looks back up. "What kind of name is 'Stiles'?"

"Mine," Stiles replies lamely, flopping his arms in a helpless gesture. "What, you're gonna bully me for it?"

"I'm not a bully," Hale says simply, closing the wallet with one hand and takes a step closer. He nods to where Whittemore is currently walking off his rage further down the street. "But Jackson over there has a very short fuse for amateurs, so I suggest you be careful around him."

"Perhaps you should put a leash on him," Stiles mutters before he can stop himself.

Hale narrows his eyes at him, and if humans had been able to smell fear, Stiles is fairly sure he'd be reeking of it.

"You probably shouldn't come around here again," he says, and his tone makes it clear it's not really a suggestion.

He holds up the wallet in a wordless offer, and Stiles snatches it from his hand. They maintain eye-contact even as Hale starts to turn around. Stiles' heart is slamming against his ribs, but he's confident he looks nothing but pissed on the outside. Hale walks back inside the shop, not stopping to listen to his sister or the rest of his crew. Whittemore looks as if he's considering throwing himself on Stiles now that Hale isn't there to keep them apart, but must've gather his wits in the end as he follows the crew and disappears into the back room.

Stiles is just about to let out a big sigh of relief when he turns around to find Lahey still standing on the pavement. His gaze travels between Stiles and his car, an unreadable look on his face.

"You're lucky you're not heavy," he says, nodding to the hood of his car where there's no trace of Stiles bracing himself on it. Twice.

And with that, he heads back to the market, too.

Allison picks up on the very first ring.

"This is Allison."

It sounds unprofessional, but that's kind of the whole point. Other than Stiles there is one other LAPD officer currently working undercover among the street racers, and they both have the same number to get in contact with the station. They are not allowed to save it in their contact list in case someone gets a hold of their phone, but even if they manage to find the number in their log: the first thing they hear probably shouldn't be: LAPD, how can I help?

"Hey, Al," Stiles sighs, happy to hear her voice. "It's Stiles."

"Stiles! How's it going?"

"Well," he drawls, scratching the back of his head. "Not very well, to be honest."

It's been an hour since he left the market, and he'd went straight to the Dodger stadium up on Elysian Park Avenue to let off some steam. The parking lot is huge, and when empty it functions really well as a race track. Stiles had gone pedal to the metal with the Eclipse, trying to get his shit together after the disastrous first encounter with the Hale crew. It hadn't worked.

"Why, what happened?" She asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

He supposes it's only fair—him being the best friend to her fiancé and all. Stiles lets out a heavy breath, drawing it out over the line.

"I fought Whittemore."

"You did what?"

"I didn't mean to," Stiles clarifies. "He threw a punch at me. What was I supposed to do—show him my badge?"

Allison sighs, but it doesn't sound nearly as disappointing as one of McCall's sighs. Those are the worst.

"What about Hale?"

"He's the one who broke us up," Stiles admits, kicking at an imaginary rock as he circles the car in the middle of the abandoned parking lot. "I don't think I got off to a good start with either of them."

"Understatement," she says, then sighs again. "Look, Stiles, I know these aren't the easiest people to work with—"

"Now that's an understatement," Stiles interjects. "They're almost-killers, Al."

"Not all of them."

"The only one who matters," Stiles mutters, remembering having Hale's eyes trained on him.

He shudders.

"You can't give up already. I don't think you've ruined it all yet."

Stiles laughs.

"Keyword: yet."

"Come on, Stiles. I know you don't want to tell Mr. McCall that you've screwed it all up. And neither do I."

Pursing his lips, Stiles takes a new, deep breath.

"You're right," he says.

"Of course I am."

Rolling his eyes, he 'rounds the car back to the driver's side.

"I guess you still need to inform McCall about the fight," he sighs. "Hopefully he'll think I managed to impress Hale."

"And did you?"

He shrugs to himself as he slides back behind the wheel.

"One can hope."

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Stiles is back at the apartment, devouring the chicken salad he's bought for lunch. He'd dug out his personal phone when he got back and found two missing calls from Lydia. She's another childhood friend from Beacon Hills, but unlike him and Scott she never got out of there. They don't get to see each other very often, which means their stubborn friendship is mainly built on their frequent phone calls. But even then Stiles can't tell her what he's up to. She knows he's out on a job and it'll be difficult to reach him most of the time, but that's about it.

"Hey, no," he protests, mouth full. "None of that. None of your bad feelings. Last time you had a bad feeling I crashed my car."

"I hardly doubt that was my fault?"

"Definitely had something to do with it," Stiles insists, nodding to himself.

It's not the first time it happened, either. Back when they were kids Lydia often seemed to sense something was about to happen before it actually did. This, of course, lead twelve year-old Stiles to believe she was a psychic. Today he's not as superstitious as he once was, but he's still convinced there's a link between Lydia's bad feelings and the unfortunate events that usually follow.

"How's Scott?" She asks, clearly trying to change the subject.

"I don't know," he admits. "I haven't seen him for about a week."

"You moved to LA for him and now you haven't seen him for a whole week? What kind of job is this?"

"Lydia," he sighs. "I can't tell you. You know that."

"And I suppose Scott doesn't know anything, either?"

"Scott is our coroner," Stiles points out. "Last time I saw him it was literally on the job."

"Fine," she says, defeated. "Just… Be careful, please? Whatever you're doing."

He smiles, suddenly missing her something awful.

"I will," he promises.

'When the sun goes down another world comes to life.'

That was the fancy introduction that Deaton had used when first telling Stiles about the case. Back then they had all treated him like someone who barely knew the front and back of a car, before he'd taken the Eclipse for a spin and made everyone on the squad drop their jaws. Everyone but McCall, that is. He'd always known what he and the other kids got up to back in Beacon Hills.

And despite the sun not being quite as hot back home, its departure had been the green light for their mischief to start, too.

It's closing in on midnight when Stiles receives a call from Allison, having spent the latter half of the day exploring town. He's kept an eye out for the Hale crew, but their paths haven't crossed. Not that it's to be expected; it's a bigass city.

"Parrish just called in to inform us that there's a gathering happening downtown tonight," she tells him, and it only takes a second for Stiles to remember that Parrish is the other guy currently posing as a racer. They've met a few times over the last three weeks, on the rare occasions when the man has been at the station rather out on the streets. He's a likable guy, but hasn't managed to infiltrate one of the crews despite having been undercover for several months before Stiles got here. "761 Terminal Street. You better try to impress this time, Stiles."

Stiles has every intention to impress, and not just Hale and his crew.              

He probably could've managed without the address, because he spots a group of race cars loitering in the parking of a rundown grocery store downtown, and follows their lead once they roll out. They head for the street between two of the big warehouses, and Stiles can see cars parked down the entire road on both sides. People are flocking on the sidewalk as well as mingling around the cars; music is playing from several directions, all by impressive audio systems that seem to make the ground vibrate to the beat.

It really does feel like entering a new world. Stiles feels excitement tug at his insides, and he only half-heartedly tries to suppress it. He's allowed to enjoy this, okay? He's still doing his job.

Finding a spot to pull up his car on the already crowded street is not an easy feat, but eventually he finds a vacant spot about halfway down. There are people watching as he puts the car in reverse, giving the Eclipse appreciating looks. It makes a proud smile tug at Stiles' mouth, and he has to remind himself that it's not actually his car. He climbs out and shoves both hands into his pockets, looking out over the packed street.

"Hey, white boy!"

Stiles spins toward the voice, having a feeling it was directed at him. At first all he sees is the crowd of people, but then he spots a young Asian boy making his way towards him. There's something familiar about him, but it's not until he stops right in front of him Stiles doesn't recognize him as the guy on the freeway. He also realizes he's definitely Korean.

"You're the guy from this morning, ain't you?" He asks, smiling wide. He gestures towards the Eclipse next to them. "I was hoping I'd find you here. I've kept an eye out for your car."

"I'm surprised I missed yours," Stiles admits, craning his neck to spot the Mazda further down the street. "She's a beauty."

"That she is," the guy agrees. He holds out his hand. "I'm Minho."

With his heart skipping a beat, Stiles finally puts his skills to the test and mimics the typical handshake.

"Call me Stiles," he returns, hoping to skip the part about it being his real name rather than just a nick name. Minho seems satisfied with the answer and simply nods. "So what's going on?" Stiles asks, putting his hands back in his pockets. "Y'all planning on racing tonight, or what?"

Minho scoffs, copying Stiles' pose and leans his hip against the front fender of the Eclipse.

"Just waiting for Hale," he says, gesturing widely to the people surrounding them. "None of these guys will move before he gets here."

Stiles nods, only rolling his eyes internally.

"Of course."

The potential race won't go down here, and the cops know it, which is why they haven't shown up to interrupt their little pre-party. If they did everyone would just clear out and find another spot, turning the night into a never ending cat-and-mouse game. Stiles has heard quite a few stories about those. LAPD's current strategy is simply to wait until the drivers have decided on a location for a race to be held, and try to catch as many of them as possible with their hands still on the clutch.

Parrish is probably around here somewhere, too, waiting to call Allison and tell her the time and place for the race. He might not be part of a crew, but he's still carved a place for himself in this community, and the other drivers trust him. Stiles will be happy if he even gets that far.

He's just about to open his mouth and casually ask Minho if he heard about that girl who got killed three weeks ago, but is interrupted by loud whoops and cheering from the end of the street. The sound of turbo engines approaching in the distance is unmistakable.

"What's happening?" He asks instead.

Minho just pushes off the Eclipse, his smirk growing wider.

"Looks like they're here."

Stiles watches as the people in the road scatter to leave room for the five cars rolling up. They're driving in formation: Hale in his red Chevrolet Chevelle in the lead with the rest of his crew following behind. Stiles can't help but being fascinated by how every single head turns to have a look, as if Hale's got his own gravity.

Hale doesn't even bother to find a free spot along the road; he just parks in the middle of the street and climbs out of the car as the people close in around them. Stiles feels himself moving closer on pure instinct, tilting his chin up to be able to see over the heads of the crowd. Hale is greeting some of the people coming up to him, using the same handshake Stiles had exchanged with Minho moments earlier. A girl pulls him into a hug, but Stiles is too far away to read Hale's reaction.

"You want me to introduce you?" Minho asks, and once Stiles averts his eyes from Hale he finds the guy watching him with amusement.

"We've met," Stiles says drily.

Minho lifts his eyebrows in what probably is disbelief, but Stiles has already returned his attention to the Hale crew. Lahey has emerged from his own car, and Cora must've been riding with him because she's climbing out of his passenger seat. Reyes receives quite a few looks once she shows up wearing heels—which Stiles can't even begin to imagine how she managed to drive in—but keeps her eyes steady on Boyd who strides up to her side without a word. Whittemore is the last one to get out of his car, and he's frowning as if someone's already offended him.

They're making their way through the crowd, happily greeting the flocking drivers. Stiles absently wonders if it's like this every time they meet up, or if there's ever a time when Hale can just blend in and become one with his people without turning heads. He doesn't seem to mind the attention, and Whittemore seems to thrive in it.

Eventually Hale lifts his gaze to where Stiles and Minho are standing next to the Eclipse, and you can see the exact moment he recognizes the guy he'd pulled off his henchman this morning. The smile on his face slowly falters, and he stops dead in his tracks. Whittemore seems to notice his change of pace and follows his gaze, his whole persona darkening once his eyes land on Stiles. He gives the guy he just greeted a pat on the back and heads straight for them.

"Whoa," Minho says. "I guess you really have met."

Stiles swallows hard, feeling his heart hammering inside his chest while hoping he remains calm on the outside. He half expects Jackson to greet him with his fist, but the guy stops a few feet in front of him, looking him over with clear dislike.

"Brian, was it?" He practically spits, starting to pace on the spot as if keeping himself from doing something stupid.

Like jump someone and beat them senseless.

"O'Brien," Stiles corrects him, keeping his voice guarded but not downright rude.

"Stiles." Hale strides up to stand on Whittemore's left, his gaze back on Stiles with a small smile resting on his lips. He's switched his button-up for a tight muscle jersey as black as his hair, and the silver chain around his neck is the only thing stealing one's attention away from his piercing eyes. "You know," he drawls. "I'm usually really bad with names, but yours was just too odd to forget."

Overwhelmed to suddenly be the center of Hale's attention, Stiles misses a short beat before scoffing in response.

"And here I thought it was my charm."

Laughter around them reminds him that they're anything but alone, and a small circle of bystanders has started to form around the Eclipse. Hale flashes his teeth, and Stiles' mind goes straight to a wolf baring its fangs before an attack. Whittemore just glares harder. Hale looks over to Minho who's been watching the exchange with interest.

"Minho," he greets, offering up his fist for the other racer to pump.

"Derek."

It feels somewhat strange to see someone who's on first name basis with the guy, because Stiles has grown so used to everyone just calling him 'Hale' back at the station. He makes a mental note to look up this Minho guy once he gets the chance and find out just how close to the gang he is.

"This yours?" Hale asks, pulling Stiles from his thoughts, nodding to the Eclipse.

Stiles shrugs with one shoulder.

"I'm standing next to it."

Hale huffs and shakes his head as he takes a few steps closer, eyes tracing the curves of the car in a way that can only be described as erotic. Stiles has no idea what to do with his hands. He glances back over the crowd and spots Cora standing with her arms crossed, meeting his eyes instantly with a smirk. He swallows, looking back to where Hale has finished his inspection. He doesn't check under the hood, and Stiles doubts he would without permission.

Looking under someone's hood is—as an asshole back home once said—like looking under a woman's skirt, and most racers respect other drivers' privacy. And considering the loyalty most street racers in his neighborhood has shown Hale even when facing years in prison, Stiles has no doubt he's willing to show them that kind of respect.

Just as he looks as if he's about to ask Stiles something, a guy practically elbows his way through the crowd towards them.

"Yo, Hale," he says, slightly out of breath. "There's a 187 up in Glendale. The cops are all over it. We should roll out."

Stiles barely manages to stop himself from letting the surprise show on his face, because 187 means murder and must mean these guys got their hands on a fucking police radio. Does the department know? Probably not. He'll have to call Allison in the morning and call it in.

"A'ight," Hale nods, turning back to the crowd flocking even tighter around them. "We'll race in Hawthorne. Prairie Avenue. Y'all know how it's done. Bets are made on the spot. Drivers," he calls out, eyes passing over Minho. "2,000 buy-in. The winner takes it all. You either pay up now or be left standing on the sidewalk."

The crowd laughs in agreement, and Minho doesn't hesitate to pull up a roll of cash from his pocket. He offers it to Hale but the man shakes his head while digging into his own pockets.

"My sister holds the money," he announces, nodding to Cora who steps forward to cheekily snatch the cash from Minho's hand.

"Why her?" Someone in the crowd asks.

Hale sneers.

"Because she'll bite the hand off anyone who'll try take them from her."

Cora playfully snaps her jaws together as if to prove her brother's point, and the crowd cheers encouragingly. Hale hands her another 2,000 from his own pocket, and so does another driver Stiles isn't familiar with.

"I'm in."

Everyone's head snaps in the direction of his voice, but Stiles himself is looking straight at Hale.

"This ain't no amateur race!" Someone shouts.

"And I'm no amateur," Stiles returns simply, pulling a paper from his wallet as he steps forward, heart in his throat. "I don't have the cash, but I do have the pink slip to my car."

"You're willing to lose your car?" Minho blinks. "Whoa, hold up, greenie—"

"Who says I'm gonna lose?" Stiles interjects, smiling faintly. "But if I do, the winner takes my car. Clean and clear."

He holds up the pink slip for Cora who hesitates with a glance at her brother. Hale studies him with those intense eyes of his, and Stiles does his best to return the stare. He can see Whittemore's disapproving glare in the corner of his eye, and he isn't the only one. The people around them speak their minds in hushed murmurs, but soon enough they all quiet down as Hale takes a step forward, tilting his head to the side.

"You're that desperate to show what you've made of?" He asks, his voice gravel-rough.

Stiles doesn't miss a beat.

"I am."

Hale's gaze flickers between Stiles' two eyes, as if searching for a sign of doubt in either of them. The corner of his mouth tugs up in a sly smile.

"Okay," he says. "You're in." He takes the pink slip from Stiles' hand and gives it to his sister. Stiles expects him back off then, but instead he takes another step forward, bringing them face to face with only a couple inches of air between them. "Let's see what you got."

With his heart beating so loud and fast he wouldn't be surprised if Hale could hear it, Stiles nods. Then Hale's gone, and he can breathe again.

They all drive southwest, making it to Hawthorne right below 25 minutes. You can tell the herd of racing cars would like to go even faster, but at the same time they don't want to attract the cops before the race has even begun. Chances are someone's already called in to complain about them roaming the streets, and they can't assume every cop in the city will be in Glendale.

Stiles keeps Hale within his line of sight, staying on the Chevelle's tail for the whole ride over. Whittemore stays close to him in return, acting like Hale's self-helping guard dog, though Stiles can't decide if he's being more loyal or rebellious.

Prairie Avenue is long and broad enough for four cars to line up next to each other, which is probably why Hale chose it. There's still some traffic despite the late hour, but with so many cars at their disposal they easily close off a big portion of the street. Stiles can't help but being amazed by how organized everything is. A girl flags in the four drivers with a red piece of cloth in her hand, and they roll up to the starting line made of spray paint across the road. People are standing on both sides of the street all the way down to the finish line, which Stiles assumes is exactly one quarter mile from where they're lined up. It's the typical length of a drag race, and with cars like theirs the race itself will be over in ten seconds.

Reason they call it a ten-second-car.

Hale is positioned farthest to the right, and Stiles got both Minho and the fourth driver between them. Not that it matters; hopefully he's gonna have the man's attention no matter which lane he drives in. He has no illusions of beating Hale—the guy is infamous for a reason—but he can't help but to entertain the idea. The competitive part of him is coming back to life, thinking about the level of respect the entire city would give to the person who managed to defeat Derek Hale.

Stiles inhales and exhales deeply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He hasn't raced since Beacon Hills, before he decided to become a cop to honor the memory of his father; before he started convincing himself that reckless kid was never who he was. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then, but he can feel the familiar adrenaline rush through his system now; the old reflexes and instincts being brought to the surface. Like they've been waiting this moment.

The girl with the red scarf steps out in the cleared street in front of them, and Stiles' heart immediately jumps in anticipation. She stops right on the white line in the middle of the road, all eyes watching the substitute-flag in her hand.

"Ready?" She calls out, and is immediately overpowered by the sound of engines roaring in response.

Stiles keeps his left foot on the clutch while tapping the gas with his right, joining in. The Eclipse is vibrating beneath him, waiting to leap, and his heart is throbbing hard against its cage. The crowd is cheering, hands clapping and waving in the air, and it's almost as if the street got a heartbeat of its own—pulsing through the asphalt in rhythm with the cars' engines.

"Set!"

His eyes are on the girl as she lifts both arms in front of her, the flag waving in the mild night air. Stiles puts more weight onto the gas pedal, his left foot itching to move. His hand is comfortably seated on the gear stick, the base of his palm ready to push forward. The moment the girl's arms move again, he shifts into first gear, knowing that all three drivers to his right are doing the same thing. She throws her arms down.

"Go!"

Stiles is pretty sure he's holding his breath while taking his foot off the clutch, the Eclipse taking off with screeching tires. Even across the hoods of two other cars, he sees the front of Hale's Chevelle lift into the air as it takes off, rising up on its back wheels like a wild horse. He takes the lead from the get go, all three components already facing his tail lights by the time the car's front wheels return to ground level.

It's the longest ten seconds in Stiles' life, and it feels half like a dream.

He passes Minho's Mazda in a blur, double-clutching from sheer muscle memory, his right foot getting bolder and heavier every time he puts it back on the gas. The people on the sidelines are just a blur of colors, his eyes fixed on the open road in front of him. And Hale. Stiles shifts into fourth gear by the time he passes the nameless driver, and then he's closing in on the Chevelle.

There's a moment, when Stiles tears his eyes off the finish line and looks over to catch Hale's gaze, that he forgets everything else. He forgets all about being a cop, or Hale a criminal. Forgets this man may or may not have killed someone. Forgets he's only here to put guys like Hale and O'Brien behind bars.

Instead there is just the urge to win; to drive faster, to break every rule there is, because who cares?

Hale averts his eyes and does something that makes the muscles in his arm twitch, and then the Chevelle crosses the finish line not even half a second before the Eclipse. With his heart beating inside his chest so hard it hurts, Stiles lets go off the gas and hits the break instead. The car spins, tires screeching, and comes to a violent stop right across Minho's lane further down the street. A cloud of smoke is rising from beneath the car chassis, but Stiles is too busy just catching his breath to worry about a fried engine.

Get your shit together, Stiles.

Once he climbs out into the open air, people flocking around Hale and his car further up the street. Minho and the fourth driver have made it across the finish line as well, and Hale's crew are joining their leader in celebration. Cora hands her brother the stack of cash, and a round of applauds surges through the crowd. Everyone's eyes are on trained on Hale.

Stiles' is no exception, and perhaps Hale even feels it because he suddenly turns his head to where Stiles is standing next to the smoking Eclipse, and a cocky smile settles on his lips. He walks through the crowd that's still cheering and congratulating him, heading for Stiles. The people move with him, like planets following their orbits around the sun, and Stiles supposes the man really must have his own gravity.

"Whatcha smiling about?" Hale asks once he's within hearing distance.

First then does Stiles realize he's got a grin etched on his face, and the race of his heart is far from over. He point straight at Hale.

"Dude, I almost had you," he says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice.

The group of bystanders gathering around the Eclipse and two drivers let out a vibrating laughter at his words. Hale cocks an eyebrow at him, looking highly amused.

"You almost had me?" He asks, drawing another wave of mocking laughter from the crowd. "You never had me," he explains, slowly starting to circle around Stiles and the Eclipse. "You never had your car."

Stiles knows he should probably feel more humiliated about the people around them whooping and agreeing with Hale's every word, but he's too busy just watching the guy. Hale moves like he belongs on this street, like he owns it, and in a way he probably does.

"What's the point of driving a turbo car if you don't know how to power-shift?" He goes on, eyes traveling between the crowd, the car, and Stiles. "You know how much time it could take off your quarter mile?" He asks, but doesn't wait for a reply. "Seconds. That's plural."

He 'rounds the car to step right into Stiles' personal space, and this time Stiles isn't as surprised. Getting up in someone's face seems to be his way of posing a threat, but Stiles can't say whether it works or not. All he knows is that his body goes tense and his heart jolts whenever it happens.

"Ask any racer," Hale says, voice clear for everyone around them to hear. "It doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile. Winning's wining."

The crowd erupts in cheering, all of them clearly agreeing with Hale. Stiles spots Whittemore grinning to his left, looking awfully pleased at having Stiles put on the spot like this. Lahey is standing behind Hale's left shoulder, smirking just like the rest of the crowd, though it doesn't look nearly as mocking as Whittemore's. Hale takes a couple steps back and raises his arms out towards the vocal crowd, tilting his chin up with that cocky smile if to emphasize his point.

Stiles is just about to open his mouth and defend himself when the same guy who'd informed about Glendale comes running.

"Cops, cops, cops!" He shouts, and that's all that needs to be said for the crowd to scatter.

Everyone is suddenly running for their life, either by foot or heading back to their cars parked further up the street. Stiles watches Hale duck into one of the dark alleys to his side and Cora climb behind the wheel of the Chevelle. The sound of sirens approaches quickly, and Stiles has to make a call as he gets back into the Eclipse. All cars rushes off in various directions, trying to get away, but Stiles heads straight down the alley where Hale had disappeared.

It doesn't take long to catch up with him, though it's quite impressive just how far he's gotten solely on foot. Hale doesn't turn his head even as he falls into the Eclipse's headlights, probably thinking it's either a cop chasing him or a fellow racer trying to get the hell out of there. Stiles purses his lips and accelerates enough to pass Hale running to his right, spinning the car to a sudden stop across the man's path. He halts, surprised, and Stiles ducks his head down enough to meet his gaze through the passenger-seat's window.

"Get in!" He shouts.

To his surprise, Hale doesn't hesitate to obey; he practically rips the door open and slips inside the car just as a police cruiser appears in the alley behind them. Stiles steps on the gas and takes a sharp turn down another narrow street, trying to think of the best way to shake the cops off. Hale turns to look behind them, his bare shoulder brushing against Stiles'—a solid reminder of how the two of them are sharing the small space of a car. Stiles' heart speeds up along with the Eclipse, but he can't possibly tell the fear of Derek Hale or the fear of getting caught apart.

He knows Deaton and McCall would step in to help if he was to get arrested, but Hale is a completely different story. If he got caught for something as insignificant as illegal racing for one night in Hawthorne, it might impact on their chances to solve the murder case. Which is why Stiles has been instructed to keep Hale out of handcuffs the best he can without blowing his cover.

Two more police cars appear in front of them, attempting to block the road. Stiles notices Hale tensing up next to him, but keeps a level head as he smoothly slides past both cars with ease—knowing just how they've positioned themselves according to police protocol. Once he's past them it's easy to disappear into the stream of traffic down Jefferson Avenue, and the sound of sirens slowly grow more and more distant.

Eventually Hale stops glancing at the review mirror and lets out a deep breath, shoulders sagging as he sinks further into the seat. Stiles' eyes are on the road, but he still observes the man in the corner of his eye.

"You're the last person in the world I expected to show up," Hale says after a moment, voice quiet.

He looks straight ahead. Still, Stiles smiles faintly as he glances over.

"Just delivering your car."

Hale snorts, looking out his window.

"Chances are the pigs will be looking for it after that stunt you pulled," he says thoughtfully. Stiles doesn't say anything, his eyes on the road. "Where did you learn to drive like that, anyway?"

"Told you I was no amateur," Stiles reminds him.

"What are you then?" Hale asks, suddenly angling his whole upper body toward him. He's got a curious look on his face that's making Stiles uneasy. "Car thief?"

"No."

"Ever done time?"

Stiles inhales and exhales through his nose.

"No, never."

Hale doesn't look convinced.

"You know," he begins. "I know a guy who could find you on the web in a matter of seconds. Whatever you refuse to tell me, I'll find out one way or another. So why bullshit?"

Sighing softly in defeat, Stiles rearranges his grip on the steering wheel.

"Two years in juvie," he admits. "For boosting cars."

When creating his new identity, McCall had given Stiles a significant look while suggesting to the whole squad that O'Brien should've been in juvie for stealing cars when he was younger. He'd said it was a 'typical crime record for this kind of criminal'. Stiles hadn't said anything other than nodding in confirmation as officer Mahealani typed it onto his computer. Few seemed to know it was his real track record.

Looking pleased, Hale sags further into his seat.

"What about you?" Stiles asks then, looking over with his hands steady on the wheel.

Hale doesn't meet his gaze, just watches the dark neighborhood swishing by his window.

"Two years in Lompoc," he finally says, and it's barely a murmur. There's a pause. "I'll die before I go back there."

Stiles feels his heart sink, though he's not sure why. Maybe because when the time comes to bring Hale in, he's going to remember those words, and pray for them not to be true.

Despite knowing Hale's home address, Stiles still has to pretend like he hasn't read the guy's file like a goddamn bedtime story for the past three weeks, and after following Hale's directions they eventually pull up on East Kensington Road. It's just a few hours till dawn, and Stiles' body is ready to shut down at any moment, but as soon as he spots the house he feels more alert. Everyone back at the station knows where Hale lives, but to actually sit in the street outside, looking up at it, feels just as strange as seeing the market or the crew members in person.

It's one of those Victorian style houses that had been popular in the 40's, and looks well lived in. Stiles tries to picture the Hale siblings growing up here, but it's difficult. It's hard to picture the big man next to him as something so small and innocent as a child when knowing so much about him and what he's done. What he might've done.

"Pull up in the driveway," Hale tells him. "I'll deal with the car in the morning."

Stiles nods as he parks the Eclipse behind what looks like Reyes' car. The rest of the crew must've made it back on their own, though the house is quiet and shows no sign of life.

"Looks like I'm walking home," he says as they climb out in the open air, offering Hale a tired smile.

Hale just huffs, sounding just as tired.                                                                        

"I could call you a cab," he offers.

"Nah," Stiles shrugs, hands sneaking down the pockets of his jeans. "I don't mind walking for a bit."

"A'ight," Hale says, and then they just kind of stand there awkwardly on the sidewalk.

Stiles looks for something to say, but for once his brain provides him with absolutely nothing. He just observes the way the streetlight above them is casting dark shadows across Hale's face, the way he looks with his hair slightly ruffled from the running and car chasing.

"Well," Hale eventually say, backing up. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Stiles agrees.

He turns around and starts to walk away, but barely gets halfway across the road before Hale's voice cuts through the night.

"Hey, kid." Stiles stops and turns back to see Hale standing on the porch of the house, leaning against one of the pillars. "Thank you."

Stiles can't help but snort, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not a kid," he protests, not sure how to go on about the rest.

The corner of Hale's mouth pulls up in a sly smile.

"You are in this world," he says before disappearing into the house.

Stiles remains frozen on the spot for a while before scoffing to himself, shaking his head in disbelief, and continues to cross the road. He makes sure to 'round two corners before digging the phone out of his pocket, typing in the number from memory. There are three rings before the call is picked up.

"You better have a damn good reason for calling me five in the morning, Stilinski," comes McCall's answer, voice thick with sleep.

Stiles smiles up at the gray sky.

"I'm in."