Three million and six hundred thousand dollars, that’s how much they have transferred to a Swiss bank account. The bank’s security system hasn’t been too much of a challenge for Stiles and Derek has taken care of the practical part, taking down the two armed guards at the entry and making sure the bank staff wouldn’t try anything funny. It’s a proven routine by now and not even the police sirens approaching had them worried, they would be out and gone way before they got there anyway.
In short, everything has gone as planned, even the getting away fastest than wind part, with which Stiles has had a couple problems during the planning process and is still sure could have been managed differently - and in a more safer way - if only Derek wasn’t such an impatient show off who prefers using fast, pricey cars instead of flying under the radar like any other normal outlaw would.
Seriously, aside from the fact that Derek is kind of the love of his life, Stiles doesn’t really know why he still puts up with him.
Anyway, Chris Argent’s face on a TV screen is something neither Derek nor Stiles wished to include into their plan. “The FBI is breathing down their necks, it’s just a matter of time before we catch them,” the man is saying, a pair of sunglasses darkening the sharp blue of his eyes. Eyes that both Derek and Stiles know even too well since, in the last five years, Chris has been a constant in their life almost as much as building plans and expensive hotels booked under fake names have.
“Fucker,” Derek spits from where he is sitting onto their (but only temporarily) king-sized bed, his grey wife-beater peeping from between the open collar of his black shirt and creating an almost antithetic contrast. “If I had a quarter of dollar for every time he’s said that, I’d be rich.”
Behind him, Stiles crawls onto the bed until he’s sitting right against Derek’s warm, broad back. “But you are rich,” he says, a shit eating grin widening his lips as he pecks the base of Derek’s neck with small, tempting kisses.
“So not the point,” Derek mumbles, tilts his head to the side so Stiles can suck a red, wet mark on the inviting portion of skin where his neck meets his shoulder. “He just wishes for us to make-” but his words die in his mouth as the camera shift over a large, white building with a sumptuous, marble fountain lazily sitting on its front.
“We have many witnesses confirming that this hotel is the last place they were seen before the robbery,” Chris’ voice is saying as the Hotel’s images run on the screen.
The lobby decorated in gold and dark wood, the bar where Stiles had prompted a last toast the evening before they got the job done, even the room where they had slept, where Derek had pressed Stiles on the mattress with his body, fingers gently clutching his wrists has he’s sunk into Stiles, everything is there on the screen, not so much for people’s entertainment but more to let Stiles and Derek know that the FBI knows how to get the job done, that this hide and seek game ain’t gonna last long.
The images have them up and packing in the span of a second, there isn’t much to grab, seen the fact that they never unpack to begin with, but it still makes Stiles feel a little nauseous, the earlier lazy playfulness gone in favor of steady coldness. He makes a mental list of the nearest airports, doesn’t even need to check to know when they can catch the next flight, which road they have to choose and how much it’ll take before they are boarding. Safely, he hopes.
Derek is on the other side of the room, bent over one of their suitcases, and Stiles watches him with focused eyes as Derek folds a jumper with way too much care, his shoulders stiff in a way they weren’t just a minute before. Stiles hates to see him like this.
They move silently into the room for a few minutes, don’t even bother cleaning their fingerprints since they are sure the FBI must have them anyway by now. Chris’ voice becomes the weirdest soundtrack ever.
By the time they are done, the interviewer seems to have given up asking question and to be happy just staring at Chris’ perfectly white teeth as his lips move around words. Stiles wishes he could bang her head against a wall of concrete. Instead- “What do we do, now?” he asks, grabbing his leather jacket from the desk.
Argent has the face of a dog who’s just found the juiciest of the bones and has no intention of letting it go, even if this means chasing it all across the State. It makes Stiles’ fingers itch with the need of reaching for his gun, close around its grip and let the steadiness of the steel comfort him. Instead he imposes himself to breathe, and waits for Derek’s answer.
Derek doesn’t even advert his eyes from the screen, the heat of his hand closing around Stiles’ making Stiles shiver. They haven’t many options and, when Derek’s mouth opens, Stiles already knows what he’s going to say. Nonetheless, Derek’s words still send a shiver of excitement running down Stiles’ spine.
“We run,” he murmurs. It’s what they always do.