OTA; various locations and times

[mensrea]

A) You know when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out.

There is a bear. There is a bear chasing a screeching human boy. There is a bear chasing a screeching human boy who is hurtling toward you at Mach 5. This is happening. This is actually happening. 2AM in London is a strange time.

B) It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding.

( PRE August 8 )

Located in downtown Sutton, there is a string of terraced properties. One of said properties happens to belong to Stiles’ grandparents, both of whom immigrated from Poland decades ago. This is where the American teen has been staying for the past three months, though the trip is due to end in only a few days. Soon, he’s expected to return home to Beacon Hills, to high school and feigned normalcy and the only friend he ever knew before London.

The hour is late. Stiles sits in an open windowsill of his makeshift, temporary attic bedroom. There’s a lacrosse ball in his hand, which he tosses up and down while gazing sightlessly up at the sky. Maybe he drops the ball, only for it to roll over to you on the sidewalk or street. Maybe you know him personally and decide to call up to Stiles. Maybe a print-out of his flight itinerary flutters to the ground. Maybe the window is empty yet open, and you pay him a visit by climbing the nearby tree.

He could probably use the company tonight.

C) Then when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting.

( POST August 9 )

The days blur by after August 9th for Stiles. Sherriff Stilinski is beyond furious that his underage son refuses to return home, and has threatened to get a court order. In response, Stiles has threatened to vanish without further contact. Shockingly, this did not instill his dad with the confidence that Stiles is mature enough to live alone in a foreign country. But the damage has been done; as a dual citizen of the United States and Poland, Stiles has all the rights in the United Kingdom of an EEA resident. Unless his health or safety is compromised, there’s little the Sheriff can do. During a somber Skype call, Scott told him that the Sheriff even contacted Rafael—Scott’s absentee father in the FBI. Stiles is worried, is sick to his stomach at the thought of how much this must hurt his dad, of how emotionally taxing the ordeal must be for the overworked man. If anything happened to the Sheriff because of this…

Diligently he researches the steps for settling in the country for the long term, pays an extraordinary amount of money he doesn’t have to submit forms and paperwork. Fortunately, he qualifies to reside in the EU for an extended period because he’s working for Apollo. Small mercies.

Stiles can be found in libraries, police stations, governmental buildings, and cafés. You’ll likely find him poring over documents, scrambling to fill them out and organize them in cheap, manila folders.

D) It’s not scary anymore, it’s… it’s actually kind of peaceful.

( POST August 12 )

Spring heralded the arrival of Stiles Stilinski in London. Then, he had expected to remain in the United Kingdom only through summer before returning to California for his senior year of high school. Now, he has made concrete plans to settle here in the Underground by becoming a member of the East End Pack and eschewing a high school diploma. The decision to stay had not come easily—and the cost of that decision will likely haunt him for years to come. But Stiles is determined to put aside his dread and doubt. Dogs can smell fear, after all.

And Stiles is currently walking seven of them. Dogs, that is. Honestly, it’s more like they’re walking him.

See, the thing is…werewolves? Not particularly quick to put their trust in some skinny, fidgety human who dared break into their den. Derek may have brought him into the fold, but Stiles knows it’ll take more than an alpha’s word to soothe the pack’s ruffled feathers—er, fur. Gaining respect in East End, however, has proven troublesome. No one is willing to bring him along for territory patrols because he’s such a liability. In fact, no one is willing to give him any responsibility at all because he’s such a liability. It totally sucks, though he supposes he can understand the reasoning. Still, he’ll need to integrate somehow. What better way is there to worm into someone’s heart than to help take care of their dog?

Abbott Mill has many dogs. Like, a stupid amount of dogs. Since werewolves have a natural affinity and influence over canines, they make excellent guardians of pack territory. The choice breeds are fairly predictable: German Shepherd, Rottweiler, Doberman Pinscher, Great Dane, Tosa… There’s even a breed that’s illegal in the country without a license, which is tucked in the back of Stiles’ pocket. Of all these large and powerful breeds, it is unsurprisingly the tiniest dog that poses the most problems—a goddamn Shih Tzu, the beloved pet of East End Pack’s biggest, burliest member. This dog was sent to Earth from the bowels of hell itself, born with a mission to personally drive Stiles to insanity. He thinks it’s some kind of Napoleon complex, really. Or maybe it’s the name. Boo-boo, the Shih Tzu in question, turns to look at him with black, beady eyes as if aware of his thoughts. Then the dog lifts a leg and pees on an old woman’s foot. All while staring at him.

You can find Stiles “walking” these dogs in any of London’s eastern boroughs. The dogs have as much respect for the human as their owners do, which is to say they’re yanking him along like he’s a flesh-and-blood toy slinky. If you’re a vampire, you may want to keep your distance. These hounds can easily tear their leashes out of Stiles’ hands if they catch a whiff of the undead.

( If you prefer brackets over prose, I’ll follow suit! PM me if you’d like to plot out a specific starter for your character! c: )

Comments

[viduation]

It's not the first time that Derek hears something in Stiles' tone, sees something in his demeanor, that makes him suspect he's been misunderstood. By now it's reflexive, almost expected, the way it is with just about everyone these days. The sediment of recognition sinks, settles, and Derek's eyes cast wildly up and down Stiles' form as if somewhere in the worn, weary lines of him he'll find a response that works.

Naturally, there's nothing. Although he is still waiting - largely due to stubbornness and hard-learned experience - for the kickback, the question, the realization that it will not be coming makes itself more and more apparent, no longer a slow, hesitant possibility but a rushing avalanche, unavoidable. Derek feels his shoulders run tight with his urge to turn away. Right now, his expression is too telling, his stance too deceitful of emotion - but turning around won't fix that, and while Derek tells himself he owes Stiles nothing, he has to acknowledge that it's not strictly true. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Derek wonders how in the hell he's meant to respond to this.

Thankfully, Stiles has given him an out. He does turn now, though it's with a short, beckoning wave of his hand, a silent order to follow. The tattoo on his back is a stark black brand on his skin. Bare footed, he pads up the staircase. The old metal is sturdy and without rust, but creaks underfoot all the same.

It's a space equally sparse as the first. There's a wardrobe, a bed beneath the tall window, another door - the only thing marring the minimalism is a bookshelf, almost full.

Derek jerks his head towards the door. It's easier than speaking.

[mensrea]

The sudden movement forces him to finally refocus his eyes. Blinking owlishly, he looks up to watch as Derek walks away. Brown eyes hone in on the tattoo, the symbol dark and harsh against even the man’s relatively tan skin tone. He wets his lips, studying it intently as muscle ripples beneath it. From what he understands on werewolf healing abilities, that tattoo shouldn’t be possible. Fascinated, Stiles commits the simple lines to memory. The sight of the symbol has piqued his curiosity, though he knows he’s lost the right to interrogate Derek about anything right now.

Stiles gazes in the direction the man is walking, spots the spiral staircase, and then hesitates. Unease wrinkles his forehead. All the closed doors on this level, and he’s to believe that none of them lead to a guest bathroom? Temptation to strip right where he stands very nearly wins him over. He can employ the clumsy, albeit impressive tactics he learned in boys’ locker rooms to avoid showing more skin than necessary. Take off the shirt without removing his sweatshirt, sit down behind his backpack to remove the jeans. This way, at least, he doesn’t have to follow Derek, doesn’t have to travel deeper into the wolf den.

Bottom lip nursed between his teeth, Stiles moves. He trails after the other man gingerly, wincing as his sneakers squeak loudly on the metal steps. When he reaches the next level, he examines his new surroundings only long enough to realize this is Derek’s bedroom. His anxiety spikes yet again. It feels like an invasion of privacy. Like he’s intruding on the man’s personal life. Normally he wouldn’t be bothered by such social faux pas. But Derek has made it abundantly clear that he’s not welcome here.

Stiles skirts uncertainly around the werewolf to enter the only adjacent room. In the bathroom, he gives the space a cursory inspection before glancing back at Derek.

“Right. Uh, I’ll just—”

A pause, and then he slowly closes the door, as if half-expecting Derek to stop him.

[viduation]

And as the door closes, Derek watches, as if half-expecting to stop him himself. No protest comes, however - just before Stiles' watchful, tired eyes disappear behind the door, Derek turns away again. For a moment, in the not-quite-silence that follows, he stands and does nothing, merely curls his hands in a small show of fidgeting. His shoulders roll, the shrug tight with uncertainty. He glances back at the door. It remains closed, and provides him nothing. From behind it, he can hear Stiles shuffling around.

Sucking down air, and giving a decisive nod towards nothing in particular, Derek heads back downstairs. With Stiles' presence now out of sight, even his own sprawling loft feels claustrophobic. The words I'm sorry stick in his head just as insidiously as Stiles' accusations had in the first place - but Derek feels even less capable of handling this. Anger, viciousness; these are things he knows intimately well. By comparison, an apology might as well be kid gloves. Despite his reflexive desire to be away from people, away from everyone right now, he knows that going down to see his pack will do him good. At least make him feel like he can clear his head. And besides, he doesn't doubt that they're still milling around, curious about what happened.

It's heartening, he thinks, but when the elevator opens on the ground floor and he sees that, yeah, most of them are still around - some even attempting to look nonchalant - he doesn't say as much. Instead, he keeps it simple, swift. Stiles isn't a threat, had told them the truth. It crosses his mind to say that in future, he's allowed entry, but in the end he keeps it to himself because right now he just doesn't know.

And, when the inhaler is presented to him, he gives them a chewing out for being stupid - they're not animals, they can recognise basic medical equipment. God.

It's a welcome, but largely ineffectual distraction. Even if the subject was not Stiles, Derek finds his mind returns to the human repeatedly, up all those floors and changing in his bathroom. He apologized, and Derek is getting annoyed that he keeps denying expectation. In the elevator ride back up to his floor, he huffs to the empty space and glowers at his murky reflection in the old metal wall. It's exasperating how often he's having to wonder what to do with Stiles Stilinski, especially when he never just takes the easy option.

In the moments before the doors shift open, Derek seriously considers just hitting the down button in order to stall for time. But the idea is distasteful in its cowardice, and this is his own damn apartment, and Stiles had apologized and Derek is left feeling stupid about it.

Inhaler in hand, he heads back upstairs, and this time he goes quietly.

[mensrea]

Click. The door is shut without interference, and yet Stiles lingers there. Long, pale fingers splay flat across the frame, a flimsy blockade against a werewolf. Only once his head stops swimming drunkenly does he back away, bag held before him like a shield. But it seems that Derek is content to leave him to his own devices. Exhaling wearily, Stiles drops the bag and then leans heavily against the vanity. The Adderall is beginning to kick in, signaled by a wave of drowsiness he rarely experiences when taking medication; he probably shouldn’t have skipped lunch. He glances up at the haggard young man in the mirror and grimaces, hurriedly dropping his gaze to the sink.

While Stiles may be an anxious individual by nature, this evening has been an extreme example. It has to be due to fatigue and guilt, he decides, knuckles white where he clutches the edge of smooth marble. Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix, or a month’s worth. With a shaky sigh, he rakes a hand through his disheveled hair before turning on the faucet. The cold water helps wake him up a bit, helps ground him in the present. It occurs to him that he should have taken off the borrowed t-shirt before splashing water on his face, but he figures this is the least of his crimes against Derek Hale.

He strips, pulling on a spare outfit he packed in the bag. This, more than anything, comforts him; tugging his own shirt up, he breathes in the scent of Beacon Hills, of his dad and of Scott. Just a few more days, then he’ll be home. The reassurance rings hollow, for reasons he refuses to examine too closely right now, so he occupies himself with needlessly folding Derek’s jeans. He’s stalling and the knowledge of that rankles.

“C’mon, Stilinski,” he hisses at himself, shouldering the backpack. “Get a goddamn grip.”

There’s no one in the bedroom. Unsure, Stiles hovers in the threshold as if unwilling to enter the space again without permission. Where the hell did Derek go? The clothes are dumped carelessly on the foot of the bed in a bout of aggravation. Not even ten seconds later and he’s refolding them, grumbling under his breath. Be the bigger person. What does it matter if Derek didn’t wait? Stiles said his piece. Figuratively (and literally, on second thought) washed his hands. Okay, maybe it stings that the guy has so little regard for Stiles that he couldn’t be bothered to stick around. That’s life. Time to move on.

Except he doesn’t. Impossibly curious despite the circumstances, the teen makes a slow and thorough circuit of the bereft room. If the bed wasn’t obviously broken in, he might suspect Derek never even uses this level of the loft. Stiles rubs at his chest, an absent and unthinking gesture. He can’t help but think that the empty and naked space isn’t actually a minimalist style. No, this…this is a reflection of Derek’s own emotional state—reminding Stiles why he’s here, what he said to the werewolf, how much the man has lost. I’m sorry. It really isn’t enough.

When Derek returns, his arrival goes unnoticed. Standing in front of the book case, Stiles holds Heart of Darkness in one hand and a piece of jewelry in the other, which he has raised to the light.

[viduation]

It isn't surprising, really, to find Stiles rooting around what little effects he has on show. Derek would be angry, but he finds himself reassured by the sight of Stiles studying his things - he may not have seen him in a position like this before, but he knows him well enough by now to know that he's prying, observant, nosy, and if he's honest with himself it's heartening to see Stiles acting like Stiles, rather than some muted imprint, paper thin and paper white. The silence stretches on as Derek stands, unwitting and unthinking in his watchfulness. He's hesitant to break the stillness, largely thanks to his own cowardice. Even if Stiles isn't at ease right now, the quiet is so much less tense.

But, it can't last - Derek can't allow it to. He has Stiles' inhaler, and Stiles is looking at his stuff, and besides, he's not going to be kept out of his own room by fear of conversation. The huff of breath may be enough to announce his presence. It may not. Either way, Derek doesn't care to go unnoticed any longer.

"That was my mother's. Moonlight jewellery only works for one werewolf."

There's a softness in his voice, a lowness, that speaks of hesitance, of something tentative. Derek isn't sure why he says this; Stiles doesn't need to know and therefore, why bother? Maybe it's to assuage some of his own guilt, some of the sense that he now owes Stiles in response to his apology. Derek still can't determine how to respond to that, but this - this is easier, at least. Something to focus on, to work with. As he crests the stairs, he does not stop walking, does not maintain the carefully measured distance of before. Instead, he walks towards the human, his expression still and searching.

When he's within reach, he draws to a halt, awkwardness settling in his limbs as though his skin doesn't quite fit. He feels, almost, like a gangling teenager again, all uncertainty and restless nerves. Truth be told, Derek isn't sure how far he's come from that stage of his life, but the breadth of responsibility is greater now. Even where Stiles is concerned. Do something, he tells himself.

Slowly, like he's remembering how to move, waking from sleep, he holds out the inhaler. A peace offering, maybe. He does not look up.