"It's got a good safety rating," Derek mutters, ears pink.
Stiles makes an effort to stop laughing.
"Extra cup holders for every seat," he agrees, looking the Toyota's interior up and down. "Soft-rock Pandora station preset on the radio. Room for a carseat. It's like Crowley's Aston-Martin from Good Omens, except instead of Freddie Mercury, any iPod left in the car will inevitably fill itself with Nickelback songs."
"Shut up," Derek says, glaring at the complicated and completely unnecessary GPS system and wondering if he should forego safety for a cooler option, like a Vespa. Fucking Stiles. At least this car has a decent-sized back seat, he thinks, and immediately pretends he didn't. "And put on your seat belt."
"Bentley," Derek says, low enough Stiles nearly misses it.
He's trying to lose the monster of the week in a freaking Toyota with Derek bleeding out in the backseat and Derek's mumbling under his breath and the freaking GPS woman keeps recalculating because she doesn't know shit about car chases, but he catches it, even if he has no idea what Derek's trying to say, since the unicorn is named Brian and he teaches Calculus when he isn't going absolutely insane for Stiles' hot virgin bod. Because that's a thing Stiles needs to worry about these days, apparently, since there won't always be a knight in shining Toyota there to fight the dude's horny horn until Stiles drags his still-fighting carcass into the car and drives like he's in a Bond movie.
"What?" Stiles says, making a sharp turn that has Derek wincing and Stiles hating the entire freaking universe for allowing unicorns to exist.
"It's not an Aston-Martin," Derek says, too pale and too quiet. Stiles slams his foot down on the gas. "Crowley's car. In Good Omens. It's a 1926 Bentley."
Stiles stares at Derek through the rear-view mirror. Unicorn-man's like six cars back and Derek looks like death, but for the moment, this holds his attention. "You read Terry Pratchett?"
"Obviously more than you," Derek returns, which Stiles chooses to take as a sign that he's healing and not a sign that he really wants to have that argument about who between them has read more Terry Pratchett. Derek will lose.
"It was off the cuff," Stiles says, faking left and sneaking another glance behind them. "I was thrown off by the soccer mom car, okay? I think my brain short-circuited."
"Maybe that's just your brain," Derek says, smirking slightly, but there's actual color in his skin, so Stiles can't really be anything but relieved.
"Yeah, you're hilarious. But no, look, I kind of see your life as a series of increasingly dangerous escapes, y'know? And this is not a runaway car. This is the car of the runaway's sweet but naive girlfriend who doesn't realize she's dating Ryan Gosling from Drive, not The Notebook."
Derek doesn't say anything for a while, and Stiles turns back again to find him just… looking at him.
"What?" he says, uncomfortable. Derek's eyes are sea-glass green and intense.
"What if I'm sick of running?" he says, low. Stiles swallows hard, palms damp around the steering wheel.
"I don't think we get to decide. Hold on," Stiles says, making a sharp turn again. Brian's still just behind them, freaking unshakable.
Derek stills.
"I'm probably going to die like this," he says. Stiles stares at him, alarmed.
"What? What, are you not healing? I thought-" he spins the car around, punches the dashboard. "Fuck!"
"What the hell are you doing?" Derek shouts.
"Not fucking hiding behind you," Stiles spits, and then he mows Brian the Calculus-teaching unicorn down, the stupid horn impaling the dude on the dash.
"I didn't mean that time specifically," Derek says, refusing to let Stiles even try to open the door. His claws snag against the warped metal and force the frame back into shape, and then he's dragging Stiles to his side and away from the smoking heap. Stiles touches his face appraisingly, grimacing slightly.
"Well clearly the airbags work," he says, glancing back at the wreckage. "No face-full of windshield for Stiles, so," he gives an awkward thumbs-up with the hand not plastered to Derek's side and doesn't comment on the arms holding him steady at all. "Good safety rating. I get it now."
"Shut up," Derek says, but there's no life in it. Stiles follows his eye-line to the unicorn-dude searing on Derek's trashed car.
"Sorry," Stiles says, because it's suddenly obvious that, in the course of saving their lives, he has completely fucked up Derek's new ride.
"Don't be an idiot, Stiles," Derek says. "It was stupid. Runaway can't drive a soccer-mom's car."
"You didn't have to get involved," Stiles says, because Derek's right, and Stiles refuses to admit it. "This one had nothing to do with you."
"He was trying to-" Derek starts, then changes tracks. "It always has to do with me."
"You can't save everyone," Stiles says.
"I know," Derek says darkly. "Everyone around me gets hurt. I've noticed." He breathes out harshly through his nose. "Maybe I'm trying to minimize the damage."
"Yeah, sorry again about the car," Stiles says, feeling like shit. He's becoming more and more aware of the side of his body pressed against Derek's as the adrenaline wears off. His hands are cold, pits sweaty, he's shaking, and Derek's arm is warm and strong around his shoulders.
"I don't care about the stupid car, Stiles," Derek says. "You're not- That's just money, it doesn't matter."
"I know if it was my Jeep-"
"It's not your Jeep. It was never anyone's, it doesn't mean anything to me. It's just a car."
But it isn't, is the thing. Because it's Derek trying to be something other than a runaway, and it's practically on fire, like some kind of sick joke about his life.
It makes Stiles want to go and rebuild Derek's stupid soccer-mom car by hand.