Dead bodies are fucking heavy.
Stiles isn't quite sure how this particular dead body came to weigh so much, given that the guy didn't actually eat—but he doesn't think too hard about solving the mystery, given that the answer can only be found in complex biological science, which is way too advanced for his high school education and fickle attention span.
Fucking vampires.
It also doesn't help that the body he's carrying over his shoulder is also slippery from the steady drizzle of rain that's currently soaking through Stiles' patchwork jacket. Luckily, it's raining and it's midnight, meaning that no one can actually see him stumble around with a dead guy—a dead guy, Stiles might add, that's still trying to use Stiles' trench coat as some sort of macabre Slip 'N Slide.
He grunts, stepping out of the building's window and onto the third-floor fire escape. Stiles makes his way down, carefully gripping the body with one hand and the handrail with the other.
Safety first.
He makes it down to the first-floor escape and dumps the vampire over the edge of the rail. The vampire's impact onto the ground below doesn't really make a sound because the ambiance of the city—the sirens, traffic, and ever-present heavy bass—all combine to create a vacuum. A constant buzz in the background that consumes most noises. Including the sound of a body falling ten feet onto cracked asphalt.
Beacon Hills can also be considered a vacuum because, at least for everyone that Stiles knows, it fucking sucks.
Stiles kicks the fire escape's ladder until it unfolds—yet another noise lost to the vacuum—and hauls himself up and over. He shimmies down the slick surface, gliding with sure hands and landing on even surer feet.
Glancing down the alley, Stiles spots his jeep, and thankfully, no eyewitnesses. He gives himself a breather, and then picks up the vampire and tosses him over his shoulder once more, staggering a little as he does it. Stiles walks as casually as he can to his jeep, unlocks the trunk, and then plops the guy onto the layer of thick plastic sheeting covering the backseat. He rolls the body up like a particularly gruesome burrito, ties each end tightly with cables, and slams the door shut when he's done. Stiles takes a moment to slick the rain from his eyes and then hops into the cab. Pulling out of the alley, Stiles merges onto the street and takes off.
Stiles makes his way through Beacon Hills' late-night traffic, watching as the buildings slowly go from "crack-den" to "ew" to "seedy"—the aesthetic of each neighborhood's buildings is usually a good indication of where you're at.
And once Stiles hits the "club/goth curious/desperate for sex" district, he knows he's in vampire territory.
He makes a left on Clarkson Ave. and spots his destination.
The name Wonderland beams in neon red, casting a ghoulish glow onto the large queue of people waiting to get in.
Stiles snorts to himself as he drives past the line, taking in all of the fishnets and leather and—yep, that's a velvet top hat.
Stiles sighs.
Baby vampires are the worst because they've read too much Anne Rice to comprehend how stupid they actually look.
Stiles cuts around to the back of the building, backing up his car in the employee lot and putting her in park.
He jumps out quickly, hoisting up the body—hopefully for the final time—and making his way over to the backdoor.
Stiles pounds on the door, steps back, and waits.
The little hatch on the door slides open and a pair of glowing red eyes peek out.
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One More Time Around (Might Do It)
Fanfiction"That was just another fun little quirk of the world-not only was the majority of the population juiced up on magical mojo, but pretty much everyone had a soulmate mark. Sure, a lot of people don't actually find their soulmate-statistical probabilit...
