The trip hadn't been too terrible, in Stiles' opinion, no matter what Isaac said about the music. If there had been any hope of them forming a friendship, it had surely been shattered and ruined when Stiles had put on The Ramones.

"This isn't even music. It's noise."

"Watch your mouth, you heathen! You sound like a grandpa, by the way."

"The guy can't even sing."

"Heathen Grandpa!"

"Stiles, if you don't put on something that doesn't sound like cats being set on fire, I'm going to shut you in the trunk."

Aside from that, though (and a memorable incident at the Arby's drive-thru when Isaac had drawn the girl at the window into a three-way debate about the merits of Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, and Stiles totally would have won if they hadn't ganged up on him), the drive had been mostly quiet. Isaac seemed content to curl up in the passenger seat and watch the scenery pass by, only piping up to insult every third song that came on, leaving Stiles to his thoughts. Which, considering his usual state of mind (what Melissa liked to call Howler Monkeys Arguing), were fairly calm.

Being on the road did that for him sometimes - there was something hypnotic about road trips that Stiles liked. He wasn't sure if it was the steady slip of the lines on the road, the sight of the pavement stretching out in front of him, the thought of being able to go anywhere, do anything. Whatever it was, it eased his mind, and save for the persistant tap-tap of his thumbs to the beat of whatever was playing, he was more relaxed than ever.

Of course, that changed when they started to approach Nevada.

"Dude, we have to stop in Reno!"

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Stiles, we're not on a scenic tour, remember? We have a mission, and we can't make detours to every interesting tourist trap you spot."

"Reno," Stiles ground out, white-knuckled grip on the wheel making his hands ache, "is not a tourist trap."

"No, it's worse. The last thing we need is you betting your soul against a fiddle of gold when we're in the middle of something important."

"Oh, so it's okay if I bet my soul when we're not on a schedule? Besides, what do you think this is, an episode of Supernatural? And did you just quote the Charlie Daniels Band at me?" Stiles eyeballed Isaac sceptically, but the other teen gave nothing away. "Dude, you totally did. You just quoted 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia' at me. I don't know if that earns you awesome points or takes them away."

He made sure to whimper as pathetically as possible when they passed the Reno exits, though, because he knew that when he did that, some wolf-y instinct in Scott just melted into a big, woobie puddle. It didn't seem to have the same effect on Isaac, who merely raised an eyebrow and went back to nibbling on cold Arby's fries.

Gross.

They stopped in Elko to eat again some time later, Isaac agreeing to take over the driving once they'd eaten until they got to their motel in Salt Lake City. It looked like a nice enough place to Stiles, open and bright. He liked that about the southwest - how big the sky seemed, how everything seemed to stretch on forever. He could get used to it.

The restaurant was called Cimarron Way, and it was a nice, clean spot with fairly slow service, but decent food. It reminded Stiles a little of Denny's, and the coffee wasn't tar, so he was chalking it up as a good choice on his part. It would have been a lot better if they hadn't been accosted by a group of ye olde minstrels just outside the doors, strumming mandolins and singing folk songs at the pair of them in a worryingly aggressive manner.

"Are they actually wearing tights?" Isaac looked horrified for their sakes.

Stiles snorted, snapping a couple of pictures on his phone. "Their life choices are their business. So long as they don't try to guilt me into giving them money, they can get on with their Greensleevesing in peace."

That had earned him a small grin, something he hadn't expected out of Isaac, and with it, a sort of ease settled over them as they slid into a booth.

"So," Stiles began when their drinks had arrived, twisting his straw paper between his fingers absently until it was one long, thin rope, "college."

"Mmhmm." Chin in hand, Isaac gazed out at the troubadors as they (for lack of a better term) frolicked, fingers of his other hand drumming along with whatever tune they were mangling.

"Where are you going?"

Isaac paused in his drumming, eyes sliding to the side briefly as he considered his reply. "UC Davis," he mumbled finally.

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles swallowed, twisting his straw paper tighter. "That's where Scott's going. Vet med."

"Yeah, he's the one who suggested I apply."

Awkwaaaaard, Stiles' brain supplied as he dipped his straw in his Sprite and pressed his thumb to the open end. Carefully, he dripped the soda on the straw paper at random points, causing the paper to wriggle and writhe like a snake as it absorbed fuild and expanded. He glanced up, watching Isaac watch Stiles' straw paper. "How about you?"

"Pre-med."

Stiles sat back, eyebrows flying upward. "Really? You're gonna be a doctor?"

This got him a wry smile. "You sound surprised. Don't think I can do it?"

Shrugging, Stiles went back to making his straw peper snake wiggle. "No, it's not that. I just...I don't know what I was expecting," he admitted, "but it wasn't that."

"I wasn't expecting it either," Isaac said, picking up his own straw paper and twisting it like Stiles had. "I didn't know what I was gonna do. I never really thought I was going to college, not until Derek started asking about applications and stuff. So, yeah, it wasn't really my..." He trailed off, fingers stilling against the paper, eyes distant.

"Your...?" Stiles prompted, lifting his straw and taking his finger off the end, sucking the rest of the soda out of the end.

"It was Erica's thing," he finished, voice nearly a whisper. "She wanted to be a doctor."

Stiles shoved the straw back through the ice and took a swig of his drink, because really, what was there to say to that? 'Sorry your friend died horribly before she could achieve her dream'? Yeah, no. Stiles was an ass with no verbal filter, but that was pushing it, even for him. And he'd liked, Erica, despite her being terrifying. He didn't even sort of want to disrespect her. Even as he swallowed the words, a sudden thought came to him, unbidden and unwanted and uncomfortably sympathetic.

Isaac's friends were dead.

And, oh, Stiles didn't like how he felt about that, all soppy and concerned, understanding a little better just why Isaac was clinging to tightly to Scott, the only other werewolf his age in town. He was actually fairly surprised at how long it had taken him to make the connection. Isaac and Scott had been getting along before Boyd and Erica had tried to leave Beacon Hills, but they hadn't really connected until afterwards. It made Stiles feel a little rotten for the way he'd behaved, the uncharitable things he'd thought. But just a little. A smidge. A teensy-weensy, barely-there bit. Not really all that rotten, actually. Just kind of...less-than-stellar.

Stiles needed desperately to start thinking about something else.

"I'm hoping to go to CSU for criminalistics," he offered tentatively, shoulders twitching in an awkward shrug. "'Cuz, you know, it's all puzzles. I do love a good puzzle."

"You'd be good at it," was the reply, which was the nicest thing Isaac had ever said to Stiles. Definitely a win. "Thought you'd want to be a cop. You know, because of your dad."

"Yeah, no. Too much running around, getting shot at. Or, if I follow my dad's lead and get a job in a small town, too much rousting horny teens from badly-concealed makeout spots with threats to tell their parents at the Fourth of July community picnic. Nah," he lisped, chewing on his straw. "Give me a lab somewhere where I can nail perps to the wall with cold, hard facts without having to go around getting shot at, and I'll be happy."

As he said it, a flash of brightly-colored movement caught his eye through the door. The herd of troubadors (or was it a troop? a flock? a pod?) was stampeding...to their van...from the Oldsmobile with his and Isaac's bags and the backpack holding the hex box holy fuck.

"Band on the run!" Scrambling up, Stiles threw down a couple of bills for the food and grabbed Isaac by the shoulder of his jacket, dragging him out of the booth. "Band on the run! They have our stuff!"

"Wha-?" Stumbling out into the parking lot, the pair gaped as the Volkswagon van peeled away. Or, tried to. It didn't have great pickup, apparently. Isaac growled. "Come on."

They slid into the car in tandem, Isaac wrenching the keys from Stiles and flooring it as soon as he got it started. Aretha started belting 'Respect' as they roared up behind the van as it careened onto the on-ramp.

"Dude, easy on the curves! We're not gonna catch them if you put us through the guard rail!"

Sniffing haughtily, as though Stiles had mortally offended him, the werewolf eased into the flow of traffic. "I know how to drive, Stiles."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"Of course. Derek made sure I learned, got my license, all that. I wouldn't be driving at all if I didn't have one." Isaac took the time to signal before changing lanes, accelerating as he weaved in and out of traffic.

"Well...well, yeah. Pfft. Of course."

"I've never chased someone before, though, so this is new. Fun, too."

Stiles rolled his eyes, then squeaked, throwing his hands out in front of himself as though he could ward off a crash. "Semi, semi, semi!"

"I see it, Stiles," Isaac sighed, squeezing in front of a Prius whose driver honked at them. Of course, it was a Prius, so it really only made the duo snort in unison. "Werewolf reflexes, remember?"

"You say, but if we die, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so'."

"Fair enough."

Stiles gestured wildly. "There! Middle lane, five cars ahead!"

As they pulled up alongside, Isaac and Stiles both blinked.

"Ye Olde Jongleur Boogie?" Isaac groaned. "I don't even know what to do with that."

"Hate it with a burning passion," Stiles suggested as they came even with the driver. Rolling down his window, Stiles poked his head out and shouted, "Hey! Sir Fuckface! Pull over or we'll make you pull over!"

The driver glowered at him and, in a supremely stupid move, jerked the steering wheel to the left, intent on running the Oldsmobile off the road. Stupid because Isaac, with his keen werewolf badassery, hit the brakes long enough for the van to go flying past them, up over the median, and slam into the highway partition with a cringe-worth crunch.

Pulling over, Isaac flung himself out of the car and, with a snarl, tore the back doors open, setting the troubadours to screaming and cowering. "Stealing," he said as Stiles scrambled into the vehicle to gather up their belongings, "is for knaves."

"Verily," Stiles agreed, kicking the nearest minstrel in the shin, slightly-hypocritically stealing his feathered cap and shouldering the backpack. He tossed the other two bags to Isaac, who gave the troop another mighty glower (that Stiles suspected he'd learned from Derek) and slammed the doors shut again.

They pulled back onto the highway as sirens started wailing in the distance, grinning at each other like morons as they booked it out of there. There was a jittery feel to things now, adrenaline pumping through both of them as they giggled quietly, Stiles setting the cap on the dashboard like a trophy. Isaac even sang along when Stiles put 'Respect' on again, and Stiles decided that being friends with the werewolf might not be so impossible. After all, they were already having all kinds of fun.

"So," he said when they fell into silence again, turning the radio down. "That was pretty awesome."

"Yeah."

"We totally just chased a travelling Renn Faire band down I-80 and ran them off the road like badasses."

"Technically," Isaac put in as he relaxed back against the seat, "they ran themselves off the road."

"True, true. Still, we kicked ass."

Isaac's lips twitched again. "Yeah, we totally did."

"As did Paulina here," Stiles added, running a conciliatory hand over the dashboard.

Brow scrunching, Isaac shook his head. "Paulina?"

"She looks like a Paulina, don't you think?"

"No. Stiles, no, we're not naming the car Paulina. Nobody should ever be named Paulina."

"But-"

"We are not naming it. Anything. Especially Paulina."

"Her, Isaac. Paulina is a her."

"Oh, God." Reaching over, Isaac enthusiastically turned up the music again. "Just shut up."

Stiles snickered, watching the signs fly by as they made their way to Salt Lake City.