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fourteen
warnings: grieving, mentions of death, suicidal themes, panic attack, angst.
★
Stiles
"Now, the rest of you – don't think we're gonna miss this meet because of a slight traffic jam, a minor tornado warning... Jared. We're gonna make this thing! Nothing is gonna stop us!" Coach looked around the bus. "Stilinski put your hand down."
I put my hand down but talked anyway. "You know, there's like a food exit about a half a mile up. I don't know if we stop, and then maybe traffic-"
"We're not gonna stop," Coach insisted.
"Okay, but if we stopped-"
"Stilinski!" Coach blew his whistle. "Shut it! Seriously! It's a little bus! Stop asking me questions!"
"I hate him," I said, leaning back in my seat. I heard Scott groan out in pain beside me, and my concern instantly grew. "Did you call Deaton?"
Scott sighed. "I keep getting his voicemail."
"That's it," I said, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "I'm calling Lydia and Allison."
"How are they gonna help... back in Beacon Hills?" asked Scott.
"They're not. They've been following us for hours." I looked out the back window to emphasize my point. "Pathetic."
"Hey, Stiles!" Lydia's voice rang out of my phone. "Yeah, we're just about to walk into a movie, uh, you know, the popcorn and-"
"I know you guys are right behind us. Put me on speaker."
"Yo-kay."
"Okay, look, Scott's still hurt."
There was silence for a few seconds until I heard Allison's voice cut through it. "What do you mean still? He's not healing?"
