sofapillows (on tumblr): au where isaac and stiles are criminals/occasionally killers in love anyone?
Word Count: 1075
See, Stiles can pick up the signal from a police radio pretty easily. It comes from being the curious kid of a small-town sheriff. "They're all the same," he told Isaac once, while they sorted through the money they'd taken from the cashier at the gas station.
Actually, Isaac was sorting, because he liked the order. He liked the ones to be together, the fives, the twenties, each pile wrapped in a single rubber band. Stiles said he had OCD. Isaac said he didn't care, and could you please stop messing with that pile, he just sorted it.
Those were the days when the operation had been small. Stiles parked his Jeep down the block, idling while Isaac tugged on a mask before going into the store and making his eyes glow yellow. No identification possible.
"Your slumping is actually a good thing," Stiles told him.
It's different now. Stiles is still the getaway driver, but he waits with the windows down and a gun in his lap. His aim is impeccable, and if anyone tries to chase after Isaac while he runs down the stairs with a duffel bag of money, he shoots; doesn't miss.
"No killing," Isaac had suggested once, when Stiles bought the gun. The other boy had shrugged and agreed, but as the stakes get higher, he cares less and less.
Both of them quit caring, that is.
Right now, Isaac estimates that he has ten thousand dollars in cash sitting on his lap and Stiles is driving and tuning the police scanner all at once. He finds the width the police are talking on and takes a sharp left. He calls this part ghosting—giving the police short glimpses of them to freak 'em out before getting away from them.
"Headed toward main," the voice over the scanner says, and Stiles takes a sharp right.
They make it out of town long before the police catch up to them.
A voice over the scanner says, "We lost Bonnie and Clyde, captain."
"We are not Bonnie and Clyde," Stiles mutters rebelliously, and switches the scanner off.
"No," Isaac agrees. "They weren't as hot as us."
Stiles leers at him.
They drive in silence for a while, Isaac sorting the money on his lap, Stiles lazily checking the rearview mirror every once in a while. By now it's like clockwork. They won't get caught, and even if they did, Isaac could use his werewolf strength to get them away from getting arrested.
"We need to ditch the plate in a few," Stiles says after about twenty miles.
"Mm," Isaac agrees. He likes robbing banks more than he liked robbing gas stations. Most of the money is in twenties, though there are a few hundreds and fifties in the mix. It makes the bills easier to sort, makes it easier for him to breathe and relax. He tells Stiles as much.
"Yeah, I like it, too," he agrees, looking over at Isaac. "Your hair is weird right now."
"It always is," Isaac reminds him. The ski mask mattes his curls down and sweat makes them stick to his forehead.
"I'll fix it," Stiles says, and then he's pulling over and getting out of the Jeep.
(Once Isaac suggested a less obvious car. Stiles had rolled his eyes.)
He walks around to the back to take the license plate off. Isaac keeps sorting. He's almost done.
After a few minutes, Stiles finishes up and moves around to open Isaac's door. "Are you finished yet?" he asks. He's holding the old license plate in his hands loosely.
"No," Isaac says.
Stiles drops the plate and leans forward. He cards his fingers through Isaac's hair until the curls stand up again, loose and piled high. "There's your fro," he says quietly, his breath ghosting the shell of Isaac's ear like he ghosted through town earlier. "You looked so damn sexy today," he continues, leaning closer. "I watched you with the gun and the teller. He was out of his mind, wasn't he? Terrified."
"Yeah," Isaac says, snapping a final rubber band around a stack of twenties. He calmly zips the bag up and throws it into the backseat before looking at Stiles. "Yeah."
The teller—a man in his thirties, wearing a business suit, looking bored—had frozen when he'd seen Isaac walk in. They don't bother with subtlety. Isaac goes in with the mask on, eyes glowing. He aims the gun calmly at anyone who gets too close.
It's a rush, knowing that the most dangerous weapon he possesses isn't even the one he's holding, it's just him.
He'd walked up to the glass case, pointed a gun right at the speaker and said, "Fill 'er up."
The man didn't need to be told twice, though Isaac had watched another teller press the button. He didn't mind, just grinning and waiting. He'd hear the sirens long before they arrived at the bank.
To Stiles, he whispers, "Did you like that, hmm? Watching me threaten him? Too bad I can't just go in there all wolfed out, yeah? That would be best for you."
"Yeah," Stiles agrees, climbing up to sit in his lap. "I guess my real question is," he begins, talking into Isaac's neck before catching skin between his teeth and then sucking. "Why they call us Bonnie and Clyde. It's not like I do this—" he licks a stripe up Isaac's neck— "while you're robbing the place."
"Dunno," Isaac agrees, gripping Stiles' hands tightly. "And I know this is really something that works for you, but I'm not having car sex again. I couldn't walk straight for like two days."
"It was three hours," Stiles says, sitting back with a pout. "Don't exaggerate. Anyway, you know I'm just going to take this as a challenge and wreck you tonight. On a bed. You'll be messed up for at least five hours this time." Under his breath, he mutters about werewolves and their stupid fast healing. He walks back around the car and points at Isaac's neck. "This is what I mean. They're already gone."
Sure enough, any hickeys Stiles might have left are gone. "You can put them back later," Isaac offers.
Stiles grins and drives the speed limit, not a mile over, the whole way back to their motel. After all, it would suck to get pulled over for something as boring as speeding.
Anyway, Stiles likes to take his time.
A/N: Why are they criminals? I don't know. Because it really works for Stiles?