rubyredhoodling

A low whistle above him cuts through the ringing in his ears. He's broken something, maybe a lot of somethings. Stiles is pretty sure he's snapped a rib and shoulder is definitely dislocated. He can taste blood and ichor on his tongue, his lungs burn like he inhaled glass, and his hands are slick with some sort of goop that he doesn't really want to think about right now. 

He takes a series of short breaths, trying to steady himself to wait for Derek to find his way out of the blocked sewer. It shouldn't take much longer, the wolf already missed all the exciting bits. The nearest manhole should only be a few blocks away. Stiles takes another cluster of breaths and squints up at the dark canopy of crisscrossed telephone wires and branches, to distract himself, only to have it blocked out by a hooded figure with glowing eyes.

“What’s a nice looking boy, doing in a place like this?” 

The combination of his concussion and dim lighting play over the stranger's face, forming it into someone impossibly familiar. For an instance, a memory flickers of dry heat and guarded hopefulness. Stiles can remember the harsh afternoon sun in his eyes as they watched Kira's figure vanish into the red canyon, followed by the grim figures of the skinwalkers. 

Gradually, the golden light fades and the stranger squats beside him pulling back the hood and allowing him to inspect the details of her impression. The mask is nearly perfect, her face is untouched by the last seven years for the exception of the harshness set around her eyes. Kira's curiosity and wonder have crystallized into the same wariness he has always felt. 

"Nice trick." He wheezes as pain splinters over his rib cage. 

"I picked up a few over the years." The woman tilts her head, studying over his injuries. "You got tail whipped pretty hard, wouldn't be surprised if your ribs are bruised." She gently presses against the slash on his destroyed button-up causing him to hiss and flinch. 

The stranger tuts to herself and pulls a small leather pouch from her oversized jacket and begins rummaging through it. 

"What are you doing?" Stiles eyes her warily. His left hand is slowly coaxing a rune blade from his pocket.

"Looking for something to help with your injuries and stop trying to go for your knife, it's distracting." She rebukes smugly. He glares back at her, trying to think up a response but his brain is swimming in his skull. Eventually, she produces a vial of glittering liquid and uncorks it. "It's a little unpleasant going down but this should set you right before your partner arrives." 

"I'm not drinking anything you give me, I don't even know you!" 

Her eyebrows raise and she gives him a chiding look. "You got your ass handed to you by an acid-spitting, nine-foot-tall, woman with the body of a snake but you doubt it's really me?"

"Yeah, because things are always what they seem." Stiles finds it difficult to be properly sarcastic when he's struggling to stay conscious. 

"Look at me, Stiles." Her expression sobers. 

The street lamp above them suddenly flickers to life and cascades until the entire lot is illuminated. Stiles can feel his breath catch as the temperature dips and stretches thin, crackling as if making room for something. Gold rises into her eyes and the outline of a fox bleeds around her head. Scott had always described Kira's fox as a protective wildfire, but this is like a second skin of armor.

“Do I look like an imitation?” A harmony of voices questions him as woman and fox stare through him. 

"How is this possible? The sword was destroyed when--goddamnit!" Something pops in his shoulder and blisters another ripple of pain through his chest. 

"I didn't need it." The fox light fades and the shadows settle over them. Kira huffs and gently props his neck against her thigh. "It took me seven years to claw my way out of the wastes. I became my own sword." 

"Does Scott know?"

"No, he seems content to play house." The response is too quick and even in his compromised state, Stiles catches the downward twitch of her lips.

The rim of the stout bottle feels cold against his lips and the smell is so noxious it makes his eyes water. He flinches back but Kira holds him steady.

"Don't be a baby, I've seen you eat gas station tacos." 

Stiles grimaces at the memory of food poisoning and reluctantly opens his mouth. He tries not to gag as the liquid burns down his throat and into his stomach. The first blush on his tongue is oddly sweet but quickly evaporates into something worse than bathtub moonshine. Once he's swallowed a few mouthfuls, Kira slips the bottle back into the bag and stuffs it into her pocket.

"You know you're supposed to outgrow chasing monsters not turn it into a career. Everyone else has moved on with their lives. You and Derek could be sitting on a cozy beach somewhere, instead of chasing snake women out of the sewers." 

"With my type-A personality and delicate skin complexion?" He coughs, grimacing at the lingering taste in his mouth. "We wouldn't get through two weeks of retirement before we were chasing after something. Besides, you're literally down in the muck next to me. You've got no room to judge. Why are you snaking sewer women--I mean sneaking swearing--wait why do I feel so fuzzy?"

"A pleasant side-effect." Kira grins down at him. "The ice brandy helps distract from your organs and bones moving around." 

Stiles glides his hands over his stomach and feels his ribs knitting back together. It would be disturbing if his muscles weren't so blissfully heavy and relaxed. His entire body feels like a fresh soap bubble, climbing further and further away from his body.

“I'm drunk?” Stiles slurs incredulously.

"Only for a few minutes until you fall asleep." 

"You're leavin me here?"

"I have a feeling your back-up is close by." She props his body back on the ground and dusts the gravel from her jeans as she stands. 

Stiles barely begins to mount a protest before a familiar howl interrupts him, followed by the distant wail of sirens. 

"Right on cue." Kira says to herself. 

"You should stay. Work with me 'n Derek."

Surprise colors her features, softening for a split-second before becoming carefully neutral. "While I wouldn't be opposed to a steady paycheck. I don't take orders well, these days. Especially not from another McCall."  She tucks her hands into her jacket. "Take care of yourself, Stiles and try not to get yourself killed." 

“Wait, Ki–”

The street lamps flare back to life, brightening far beyond their capacity causing their bulbs to sing loudly. Stiles is unable to keep his eyes open, an oppressive invisible force pushes him against the asphalt, the air pulls then snaps, plunging the parking lot into darkness once again.