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“Ohana means family,” Stiles says with an annoying grin and extends a grimy, dust covered hand to pull Danny to his feet. “I’m not leaving you behind.”
Danny blinks against disorienting dizziness and pushes one foot flat on the floor to steady himself. “I hate you so much right now,” he rasps, but lets Stiles hook his arm over his shoulder and drag him through the shaking, groaning building. The pain in his right leg is crippling; it’s almost definitely broken. From the feel of it, he may have busted some ribs, too. He’s flushed hot and something - sweat or blood or god even knows what - is dripping down the side of his face. It itches. There’s a dull, menacing roar surrounding them, but he isn’t sure if some new threat is closing in or if the clamor is all in his head.
Danny’s no lightweight, and soon they’re both grunting and panting with exertion. Despite this, Stiles gamely hauls him across the quaking floor. Wave after wave of vertigo makes him wobble in Stiles’ grip, and he’s having trouble focusing his eyes. A sharp crack cuts through the roar; Danny ducks his head fruitlessly as a shower of plaster and bits of wood rains down on them. Stiles stumbles and coughs.
“Just go,” Danny gasps and pushes at him. “Go.”
“I said I’m not leaving you,” Stiles hisses. He practically carries Danny the rest of the way to the room's only window. Stumbling along with pain shooting up his leg and into his side, Danny grits his teeth and does his best not to slow Stiles down. It takes every bit of his wavering concentration to drag one foot in front of the other. With his arm draped over Stiles, they’re able to make their way slowly around the worst of the debris. Danny ignores how much it hurts and tries not to think about what this means for his high school lacrosse career.
When they finally get to the window, Stiles eases him to the floor. It's easier to breathe, propped up against the splintering wall. The air seems... cleaner. Stiles crouches in front of him and turns his head to the side with gentle fingers. Cautious, careful, he probes at the tender skin above Danny’s temple. The fluid dribbling down to his jaw must be blood because the agony that lances through his skull at Stiles’ touch pulls a ragged, gasping yelp right out of him.
“God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles breathes and Danny blinks at him blearily, trying to gather his shattered thoughts. “Sit tight,” Stiles orders, “I’m going to get you out.” With a parting pat on the side of Danny’s neck, Stiles takes a deep breath and stands. His fingers curl against the window frame and he shoves. Nothing happens. He pushes and pulls but it’s no use. It won’t budge. “Fuck!” he yells and slams his fists against the unmoving frame. “Fuck!”
Danny rests his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. That doesn’t sound promising.
The peeling wallpaper catches and rasps against Stiles’ shirt as he slides down next to Danny with a resigned plop. Even with his eyes closed, Danny can practically see him leaning forward and gripping his head in his hands with his usual dramatic flair. “All of this supernatural shit,” Stiles moans, “and we get taken out by a stupid house. My dad is gonna kill me.”
“What happened?” Danny mumbles. He remembers Derek telling them to stay at the Hale house where it was safe while he, Jackson, Scott, and the rest of the pack ran off to do... something. He remembers sitting on the beat up couch Boyd had scrounged from somewhere, working on his econ homework, and listening to Stiles bitch about alphas and trouble-magnet best friends and werewolves in general. There had been a distant boom and an ominous crash and then... that’s it. That’s all he can dredge up.
Stiles leans close, Danny can feel his breath on his face, but he doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes. “The whole upstairs bedroom fell on you, man,” he says. “I thought you were a goner for a second there.” He can’t see it, but Danny can tell that Stiles’ smile is tight and very, very fake.
A soft, “Ah,” is the most he can manage in reply. He breathes in slowly, through the pain, trying to center himself, and catches an acrid, charred taste on his tongue. His brow furrows and he struggles to pry his eyes open. “Are we on fire?”
“You just now noticed?” Stiles asks incredulously.
Danny’s throat itches, and he wants more than anything to hack out the thick, stinging air in his lungs. The ache in his ribs warns against it. He swallows against the cough building in his chest and concentrates on taking slow, steady breaths.
Without warning, the wall opposite them caves in, crumbling into a swirling cloud of smoke, ash, and flame. The sudden wave of heat hits like a hammer, and flying embers char tiny black marks into the fabric of Danny’s pants. They both watch in stunned silence as tendrils of fire lick up towards the ceiling and creep across the floor in their direction. Every passing second it gets harder to breathe. An eerie, detached calm fogs Danny’s thoughts, probably a result of the concussion that he’s starting to realize has majorly scrambled his brain.
“This sucks,” Stiles says, matter of fact.
“It’s not exactly how I would have chosen to go,” Danny agrees. He wonders idly how Stiles is managing to stay so composed. If he’d ever thought about how Stiles would react to imminent death, he would have imagined a lot more screaming, flailing and general flipping out. Too much time spent with werewolves must have made him used to this kind of thing. That’s a scary thought.
Now that he thinks about it, Danny probably should have seen this coming.
“Derek’s going to be so pissed that his house burned down,” Stiles grumbles, voice rough, “...again.”
“I don’t think losing the house is what he’s going to be upset about.”
There must have been something in his voice, something more broken and exhausted than he intended, because Stiles turns to him, eyes bright. He’s pale, smudged, and struggling to breathe. Wheezing, he hides his eyes behind a shaking hand and says, “Fuck, Danny.” Stiles doesn’t say anything else. Maybe there’s nothing more to say, or maybe there’s just way, way too much. His voice is both resigned and overwhelmed, and he suddenly looks so young. They’re both too young to die like this.
Everything is hazy, muddled. How did they get into this mess again? Danny can’t remember. His head feels heavy. It seems like only a second passes, maybe a minute, but Danny blinks and suddenly the fire is several feet closer. The bottoms of his feet are blistering hot, the thick rubber soles of his shoes are softening as they start to melt and wow, now would be the perfect time to pull his feet up and away from the flames. There’s no way he’s going to try that, though. Not with the agony in his broken leg still throbbing in time with his heart.
Stiles is standing again, the neck of his shirt pulled up over the lower half of his face. The shredded shirtsleeve around his elbow is stained with blood and a few glittering shards of glass are caught in the fabric. When did that happen? Weren’t they just sitting next to each other? One of the window’s small panes has been shattered, jagged splinters still stuck in the frame. Cautious but resolute, Stiles is reaching through, trying to tear off pieces to widen the opening. The resulting hole is nowhere near big enough for them to climb through, but the sudden rush of cool air is like a gulp of ice water after running for miles. Clean and pure and cool and Danny just wants to lie there and drink it in.
There’s an ominous groan from the floor above them and Stiles drops away from the window to kneel beside him. Undeterred by the rising heat and thickening smoke, he curls protectively over Danny, positioning himself to take brunt of the damage. Danny appreciates the gesture, he does. But it’s not going to help any. Barring some kind of miracle, there’s no way either of them is going to survive this.
Regardless, he tangles his fingers in Stiles’ shirt and holds on. Glass crashes, shattering above them, peppering them with debris. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck,” Stiles curses into Danny’s ear. Wood, too close to be the ceiling caving in, splinters and cracks. Danny grits his teeth. If he’s going to die, and it sure as hell looks like he’s going to die, it’s not going to be cowering under the scrawny body of his friend. He’ll face it head on. Fully expecting to meet a vision of fiery death, he tilts his head back and looks up. With another loud crunch, the window implodes inward. Clawed werewolf hands grip the wooden frame and literally rip it out of the wall. Impossible. Impossible. Unbelieving, Danny tucks his face against Stiles’ shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, and takes a deep breath. Then looks again. A head appears through the gaping hole, blue eyes blazing. Jackson.
“Stilinski.” Jackson’s wolf voice is rough and growling in a way Danny hasn’t quite gotten used to yet. He squints into the billowing smoke, then reaches through the window to Stiles, beckoning him forward, expression twisted with anxiety. “Where’s...”
“Here. I’m-” Danny coughs suddenly, and oh shit, yeah, those are broken ribs. It feels like his lungs are full of ground glass. He’s gasping, struggling to get his breath back, but it’s not coming. Close, they’re so close to rescue. To fall apart now... he can’t give up, he needs to... he needs... this must be what drowning is like. Danny’s vision starts to dim.
Out of nowhere, Stiles grabs him, panic plain on his face, and hauls him up again. “Jackson! Fuck, help me get him out!” Not thinking, desperate to get away from the encroaching fire, Danny makes the mistake of trying to brace himself on his bad leg. It hurts so badly that everything stutters to a stop and he just... whites out.
When he comes to, he’s on his back on the grass several yards from the burning, collapsing wreck. Stiles is lying next to him, coughing his lungs out, and Jackson is ranting about something being a distraction and how only douchebags target the vulnerable part of a pack but Danny doesn’t care. He hurts everywhere and he needs to go to the hospital, but they’re alive. Something, a noise he made or a change in his breathing, alerts Jackson and suddenly he’s crouched over him, peering into Danny’s face worriedly.
“Dude,” he says, “are you okay?”
“A little broken,” Danny wheezes, “but still good.”
Stiles barks out a surprised, squawking laugh, and Jackson gives him the look that means he thinks Danny’s being an unbearable dork but loves him anyway. Faintly, howls echo in the distance. Derek, and he thinks he can recognize Scott and Erica, too. Their pack is coming for them. Despite the pain Danny can’t help a small smile. Family.
Yeah, he’s still good.