it’s supposed to be a quiet night out; quietness of the supernatural variety, though there’s nothing to be said for adrian’s loud choice of evening misadventure. isaac, ever the babysitter during his friend’s touring of the states, is enthused enough to go along to many a karaoke bar, trailing behind with hands shoved deep in his pockets like a cool football dad standing on the sidelines. it’s supposed to be a fun, normal night out — but it doesn’t last.
( it never lasts )
three hunters find them, and he forgot how incredibly disadvantaged werewolves are in the greatest country on earth. he forgot the ease of access for all manners of wolfsbane; bullets, bats, knives. adrian is hit, but isaac’s faster. the three knocked unconscious, isaac finds an abandoned warehouse, gentles as the young guy grips at his shirt, blood blooming red in the middle of his stomach.
he calls @hacion, because chris provided him with her number in case of emergencies. they’ve never met ; never crossed paths despite the years he’s had her as an emergency contact. he calls her, because he doesn’t know who else to call. it’s a tightrope bordering on hysterical, the closer her phone comes to ringing out, longer and longer waiting as his free hand presses to adrian’s wound. and then she picks up. thank god she picks up. there’s a low-level of panic tinging his voice when he finally has the luxury to speak.
‘ is this dr. cho? ’ the phone presses between his ear and shoulder, hard hazard to balance as a second hand seeks out the source of his beta’s pain. veins bleed black as he provides what little comfort he is able. ‘ i’m isaac— i got your number from chris. chris argent. i need your help. ’
