Teague caught up without trotting -- something he was particularly proud of, since Jack was nearly six-feet-four, and Teague was a bandy-legged five-nine. Damned kid -- it also didn't help that at twenty-three and eight years Teague's junior, Jack's joints hadn't started to creak yet.
"Coming, old man?" Jack paused at the porch and hid a grin as he zipped up his fraying camo-fatigue jacket against the bitter wind.
"Journey, Buttercup? Did you have to play Journey?" Teague pulled the collar of his beat-to-shit leather bomber jacket up around his ears and wished for a scarf or a hat or something, because the night was pretty damned vile. "Was there not a band on that play list that would guarantee we wouldn't be a shoo-in for the ass and pony show at twelve o'clock?"
"Just didn't want you to get too cozy, there, cuddling up to the ex-wife," Jack said back, but there was something in his banter that forced Teague to look at him soberly.
"Not a problem," Teague replied, in a rarely serious moment, not sure why this would be so important to Jack, but not wanting him to have any doubts, either. "Let's just say that my half of the divorce settlement was the title 'cocksucking faggoty race traitor'."
Jack let out a low whistle. "Nice. What was his share?"
Teague grinned. "Notice that missing tooth he kept spitting through?"
Jack grinned back at Teague then, his dark blue eyes dancing and worshipful. "Nice."
On that, they both ducked their shoulders and hustled through the wind-whipped rain, coming to a stop in front of Teague's baby, a candy-apple-red/Ford-white Mustang fastback, circa 1970, with a 386 V-8, suicide seatbelts, wink mirror, and a stereo system that would loosen your fillings if you played Nickleback too loud. Teague insisted that this was the only way to play it. When they'd gotten in out of the rain and Teague cranked the engine and the heater, Jack asked, "Where to?"
"Back to the hotel to call Green," Teague replied tersely, squinting through the rain.
"Teague -- she's in pain..."
"Yeah -- she's in pain, she's pissed off, and she's still a werewolf on the night of a full moon..."
"You're not doing me any favors by protecting me!"
"I'm not protecting you, damn it! If Green says go, we're going!"
"But why ask him in the first place?"
"Because what I don't know about werewolves would crash a computer, book-boy. You're the one who keeps telling me that going in prepared doesn't hurt. Now drop it!" Teague huffed out a breath and hoped that Jack would, because the truth was, that two years ago, Teague would have gone to do the job. Of course two years ago, the job would have been killing the werewolf and not saving her, but he would have gone anyway. Hell -- a year and five months ago he would have gone in alone to do the job and probably gotten killed in the process. But a year and four and a half months ago, Jack Barnes had walked into a dive bar a lot like Dervish to tell Teague that his sister had been shot because she was a werewolf and Green had told him about a hunter who helped folks like Sara Barnes.
Teague had been living in fear ever since.
"Teague?" Jack asked now, pulling him from the past, where he'd met the eyes of a hurt kid through a dim room and bled a little at the thought of how that kid had gotten hurt.
"You never did tell me why you switched sides."