+ BLAIR
Growing up, Derek always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with Indiana Jones-- but damn if he doesn’t empathize with the shit hands the guy gets dealt.
Hunters. Why does it always have to be hunters? He’d take snakes any day.
Of course a weekend trip to New York--a much needed break from Beacon Hills, for all it aches in the weights of his bones with a sense of home--turns into a fucking nightmare barely hours after his plane lands. He has no idea what gave him away, but a trio of rogue hunters caught his figurative scent on the subway and have been tracking him relentlessly since.
( They almost had him when he took a detour and switched from the G to the C, hoping to stop-hop until he could get lost among the crowds of tourists and commuters; cornered him in an alley and got a few good jabs in before he could strong-arm his way back out into the streets and swarming masses. )
One of the cuts sliced through his shirt sleeve on his left arm, and it’s yet to heal over. Probably not a good thing, he knows, from experience.
Oh, so much experience.
But he can’t bring himself to care about a little wolfsbane poisoning, anymore. With how freq- uently he ends up on death’s door, he can’t let himself get all worked up every damn time. One of these days it’s actually gonna knock him off, and a small part of him would be lying if he said it wouldn’t be a relief.
The longer he walks, the darker it gets. The soles of his shoes chafe against the dirty pave- ment, and as he’s getting dizzy enough to accept that okay, maybe he should be a little more concerned about the state of his health right now-- just on the edges of his slowly distorting senses, he hears them.
Fuck.
His first instinct is to text Scott, Stiles, Cora, his pack, but his fingers are clumsy and in the jump from moment to moment he’s not act- ually sure he ever pressed send.
Up ahead bright lights flash and pulse in time to a syncopated beat as a heavy door swings open and closed, a stream of stylish, hot young people constantly coming and going. It’s distracting, and it’s certainly not helping with the headache he’s got going.
Derek groans, but not because of the wolfs- bane poisoning his blood. If there’s anything he hates more than hunters, it’s parties.
Not entirely sure he’s making the right decision, he goes with the assumed lesser of the two evils, following a group of rowdy guys into the building, the door closing heavily behind him.
