undergrounds | OTA; various locations and times

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OTA; various locations and times

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: )

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The shopkeeper bell at Justice Law Offices rings merrily as Stiles enters, having just returned from a suspiciously short lunch break. There is a white box tied with red ribbon tucked under his arm, which he promptly sets down on his coworker’s desk. Then, holding up a hand to forestall any impending questions, he fishes out matches and a candle from his jacket pocket.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you, so I just went with vanilla.”

Stiles is about to tear off the ribbon and open the box, then seems to remember that maybe Sasuke should get that privilege. Bouncing from foot to foot, he stares at the other boy expectantly.

“C’mon, dude, I’m hungry!”

Dusk’s setting sun paints the mill in harsh, menacing colors against a backdrop of the waterway. Stiles stares at it from a distance, anxiety eating away at his gut, and then glances toward the sky. The waxing moon has nearly reached its conclusion, only a day away from zenith. According to an online almanac he’d browsed, this period of the year is referred to as “dog days.” He smiles thinly, but there’s no real humor to the expression. Just about a month has passed since he chewed Derek out over the phone. A long, exhausting month. Now he’s a week away from a 4am flight back to Beacon Hills—back home. Back to high school, pretending that there’s nothing truly extraordinary about the world beyond greasy curly fries and college acceptance letters and convincing fake IDs. Really, he should be happy; there are no words to describe how desperately he misses his father and Scott.

Except he isn’t happy. Instead, it feels as if he’s about to lose something precious. Something powerful, something meaningful, something that he can only get in the Underground. He painstakingly built a niche for himself here, and he has to abandon it before it’s fully formed. There are too many threads that he’ll need to drop: Fagin, the Widdowson family, Aradia’s murder, the Night Council’s lack of werewolf representation. Too many friends. No, Stiles isn’t happy at all. Stiles is wounded.

But he isn’t the only one. If there’s a single loose end that he’s determined to wrap up, it’s Derek Hale. Stiles can’t let things lie the way they have. The guilt would haunt him all the way back to California, back to the charred remnants of a massacred family and a broken legacy still standing in the Beacon Hills Preserve today. All because he lost his temper, projected his own sense of failure onto Derek, and then took out his angst on the guy. There’s a line he crossed, and Stiles doesn’t know if he deserves the chance to make things right. Fortunately, he’s selfish enough to try anyway.

Under the cover of darkness, he slips through a tight gap in the brick wall encircling the mill. He’s observed the pack den for hours, is cognizant that the security up ahead will require more than dumb luck. Things would be a hell of a lot easier if Derek would return his calls and simply let him into the building. There’s Malia, of course, but it would feel wrong to request her help after what he did to her cousin. So he utilizes every tool available to him—namely, his wits and his questionable charm. Even the outfit he donned was considered in a strategic light. The ill-fitted jeans are held up to his narrow hips by a belt, while a red hoodie has been pulled over the v-neck shirt; Derek’s clothes, lent to him during a meeting in Bexley. Though it’s definitely bad etiquette, he hasn’t washed them. But that’s the point. The stronger any scent of pack, of Derek, clings to him, the better potential confrontations with the werewolves will go. At least, that’s what he’s banking on.

Eyes bruised with deep, ugly shadows from sleepless nights, Stiles approaches the main gate. The electronic keypad watches him innocuously. Cute, but nothing compared to the security he learned to crack at the Sheriff Station. So he gets to work, single-minded and nimble. After several minutes, the keypad chirps and admits him into the building. Stiles hefts his backpack higher onto his shoulder, takes a steadying breath, and enters the East End Pack’s den.

He makes it to the elevators before he’s stopped. Trying to ooze cool confidence, he smiles in pleasant confusion at the werewolf who has grabbed his arm. It’s a pointless effort, since there’s no doubt that she can smell his apprehension. As soon as he realizes this isn’t going to work, her lips curl back in a silent snarl of rage. No wonder, what with the encroaching full moon fueling her temperament. Thinking fast, Stiles slowly and cautiously slides the backpack off as if demonstrating a desire to cooperate fully. Then, as her eyes dart down to the bag, he hits the button for the highest level of the building—it has to be Derek’s, please let it be Derek’s—and goes boneless as she yanks him ruthlessly out of the elevator car. After a brief moment, the elevator doors slide shut and the car begins an ascent with its package. If Derek isn’t here, if Derek doesn’t live on the top floor, if Derek doesn’t notice the backpack delivered there…well, Stiles is screwed.

Others have gathered around him in the lobby, growling dangerously. Stiles puts both hands up, heart hammering in his chest, and breathlessly informs them that he’s a friend of Malia’s, that he knows the alpha. They’re suspicious, with good reason, though some kid stoops to sniff at his clothes. Well, hopefully that’ll buy him time. He starts in surprise as a hand pats down a pocket, and then his inhaler is being taken from him.

“Whoa, hey, no—! Okay, hi, yes, what lovely teeth you have. How about moving them away from my throat? Just give me the—hey, paws off!”

When the elevator dings behind him, signaling a new arrival to the lobby, Stiles almost sobs in relief. But he has his back turned, neck seized in a particularly brutal grip, so he can’t check to see if it’s salvation or damnation bringing up the rear. Should it actually be Derek Hale, it's probably both.

“…Are we there yet?”

Leaning forward, he blindly and clumsily ruffles the fur between fox ears, just to illustrate the question was in good humor. They haven’t been traveling long, though Heiji’s request that Stiles keep both eyes closed has blunted the human’s sense of time. It undoubtedly speaks volumes of their friendship that he would acquiesce so readily. Stiles is defenseless at the best of times, but now he’s essentially target practice in the Other Realm. Still, he trusts Heiji.

Okay, so maybe he’s peeking. But that has nothing to do with trust and everything to do with impatient curiosity. It’s Stiles, after all.

to be written at a time when my eyes arent falling out of my skull

"Are you peeking? Don't blame me if someone puts the whammy on you." Stiles, he had your number.

Nevertheless they were nearly there. Heiji decelerated, trotting to a stop in a field of light green grass. The house itself was of traditional Japanese build, with an enclosing wall built around it -- more to keep the trees and small pond in than to keep visitors out, it seemed. Though it was summer, the cherry trees all along one side of the house were still in full bloom.

As soon as they came into view, the grass around the house rustled. Suddenly, there were little red blurs coming at them from all sides. Four fox kits hopped off the ground and onto Heiji's back, sniffing curiously at this new stranger. Their paw pads, as well as their noses, were soft and velvety; they made little gekkering noises as they crawled excitedly onto Stiles's shoulders, head, and back.

Few people in the world knew just as much as Nancy did that 2 AM on the London Streets was a very, very strange time.

Having just finished up with a client, Nancy's planning on getting to the nearest bus stop, and making the trip back to Bexley. The bus wasn't due to arrive for some time, she saw, when she arrived at the stop. Carefully, she leaned up against the metal bar, and began to look through her cell when she heard someone screaming.

Oh, hey, she knew that scream. That scream was-

"STILES!"

Enter, pursued by a bear.

It's late when Maera begins to head home after a long day of relaying messages back and forth. And of course, she's found herself in Circle Daybreak territory. There's really nothing more irritating than have to walk all the way through a borough to get somewhere private where she can open a door to the Other Realm.

Her impolite internal monologue, directed towards stupid witches and the stupid Night Council, is abruptly interrupted by a ball that rolls across the street in front of her. It's almost instinct to chase after it and pick it up, looking around for who might have dropped it.

Once she spots Stiles' window open, she comes closer, craning her neck to look up at him. "Excuse me, sir, is this ball yours?"

Mab had been making her way southward through Newham on her way to Lewisham. It was better to open the gate in a fae or wolf territory than try it in the others. Less bother overall. So she was making her way down the street, heels clicking like metronomes on the sidewalk when the dogwalker came around a corner.

Dogs can be unpredictable with fae. They have an innate sense of danger and some of them started quivering and growling low in their bellies. But others sensed something far more dominant than they and there was some whining and ducking of heads. The little one didn't seem to have the same sense of self preservation the others had though because he was still cockily looking back at Stiles and trotting around peeing on things.

Mab paused, her steps stopping for the moment as she stared down at the little dog coming her way, ballsy as you please not even paying attention to what he was marking. There are some things you don't even pretend you're going to pee on. Mab was one of them. The Shih Tzu had long white hair like hers but caught up in one of those little barrettes on it's head. Mab watched it approach, the walker clearly out of his element and snapped her fingers once. Her voice cracked like ice. "Sit." Anyone who could remotely feel power would have felt it roll out of Mab at that point as every dog on a leash and one down the road sat.

It was better than freezing the little brat solid. Probably. Less fulfilling though. The Shih Tzu sat but it quivered for a moment and let out a tiny yip of defiance that Mab quelled with a glare. After she was convinced the dog was going to behave she looked up at the walker, finally.

Stiles has had all of five seconds to appreciate the stunning view before they are ambushed. With a squawk of surprise, he windmills his arms—lightly though, so as to not accidentally dislodge the kits. When one of them hops into the hood of his sweatshirt and drags it backward, he tries valiantly not to choke. What a lame way to die that would be.

“Mayday, mayday!” he cries, pausing to sneeze as a tail tickles his nose. “We’re under attack! Man your battle stations!”

Even through the haze of abject panic, he recognizes Nancy’s voice. He runs straight to her bus stop, leaps up onto the side of the shelter, and then scrambles up on top of it. Without preamble, Stiles then leans down and hauls the witch bodily onto the roof of the shelter with him. The bear slams into the shelter, causing it to tremble dangerously, then growls up at the two teens.

“Oh. My. God.” Each word is punctuated by harsh gasping for air. Just how long has he been running? “This thing…isn’t gonna hold. We need…a plan. Or a…magic carpet.”

He glances at her hopefully.

The ball has been abandoned to its fate; too grumpy to chase after it, Stiles watches it roll into the darkness before sighing melodramatically. If he were a poet, he’d compose a sonnet about the trials and tribulations of lacrosse balls and gravity. For now, though, he simply returns to stargazing—or, attempted stargazing. The light pollution here doesn’t really allow for it.

When a voice pierces the night, he starts violently and nearly falls out of the window. Then he does, in fact, fall out of the window. Thank god there’s a tree to help break his fall. And possibly break his nose.

“Yep,” he says eventually, splayed on the ground with leaves in his hair. “Yep.”

It’s unclear if he’s actually responding to the woman about the ball.

Stiles blinks. One second he was frantically apologizing to a man whose daughter was now soaked from the knees down in dog urine. The next he’s sitting on the ground in a loose circle of submissive dogs. Apparently the command, magic or otherwise, had enough of an authoritative pull to reach Stiles’ unconscious. A dog, the Argentine Mastiff, whines and sticks her head under his armpit.

“Wow. I’m not sure if I’m impressed or terrified. Maybe both?”

Definitely both. At least that guy and his kid have stormed off, leaving the mysterious dog whisperer and Stiles. Her shoes earn a wide, intimidated look.

“Can you teach me that?”

"Oh my god!" Maera yelps, then runs towards him, crouching by his side and rolling him to face her. She takes notice of any injuries he does have - but she doesn't want to use her magic to heal him, especially considering he might be human and she's in Circle Daybreak territory.

"Are you alright? Do you need me to get you to the doctor? --Is your nose broken?"

Everything is happening quickly, and Nancy's following it as fast as she can. Somehow Stiles got on top of the roof, and she vaguely remembered kicking a bit hopelessly in her high-heeled boots at the lamp post to get up, and grabbing on to the side of the shelter for dear life.

Nancy's got a hand on Stiles' back, and one on his chest, helping steady him as he breathes. "Just breath. Just breath, we can- no such luck." No magic carpet.

The glass from the bullet-proof shelter was starting to splinter and crack. Right. Get them to safety. She could so do this. She could so do this. Flicking her head towards the side of the shelter towards the bear, she turned, her hair ungracefully hitting Stiles in the face because this is real life, kids. Rising up slowly, she brought her arms out in front of her, palms splayed, fingers outstretched and pointing towards the bear, who was coming back for seconds. The bear began to charge again but bounced back as if running into an invisible wall of solid metal. They had a little time.

"What the hell is going on, Stiles?" She's still got the barrier up, and can't even look at him.

Edited (words) 2015-07-30 18:58 (UTC)

"Back off."

It comes, of course, from the elevator, and every pair of eyes but one moves from Stiles to the alpha. Derek's tone is a shot taken at nonchalance, but it falls a little flat as it so often does, lent a too-hard edge by his irritation, his anxiety. It's something he doesn't want to admit, that dark ripple of worry, but it's as much a part of his body as bone and sinew now, something he's come to accept even if he doesn't want it. Naturally, the memory of their last conversation has stuck in his mind. He has spent the weeks since followed by Stiles' voice, dogged by strict accusation that fell across his shoulders whip-sharp and scarring. Like a cornered animal, Stiles has revealed a viciousness that would be - is, in fact - admirable, but the uncomfortable truth that hung in every word has left Derek hesitant to allow such a thing as respect. In the wake of that phone call, Stiles' presence only begs more questions.

He lingers in the lift before his heavy steps bring him forward. A nod, and Stiles is released, forcing Derek to wonder if he prefers it this way, if he shouldn't have kept him exactly where he was until the message sinks in. This has nothing to do with you. For as long as every silence has been filled with the human's words, Derek has been intent on keeping his distance and, this time, sticking to it. The elevator ride back downstairs had been enough time for him to school away most of the surprise that struck him when the doors had opened and he'd been faced with the bag - the scent that had grown all too familiar all too soon. It occurs to him that Stiles almost definitely planned that. Once again, his admiration is tempered by his anger. Nerves tremble in his limbs - thankfully, it's a lot easier to save face when he's surrounded by his pack. And, thankfully, they're on his territory.

Small victories. Time has taught Derek to be resourceful, to make the most of what he gets. Given the chance to set the board as he chooses this round, he stands with his bare feet apart and shoulders square, bag dangling down his back from one finger, other hand in the pocket of his jeans. Seconds bleed by slowly as he stands rooted where he is, staring Stiles down, jaw held tightly closed in a manner that's forbidding, commanding.

Stiles has a backbone, he'll admit. But he's not stupid. He won't mouth off, for the moment.

The time spent in this stasis is maintained not merely for effect - Derek uses the period for two things. Firstly, he is taking his time as he thinks over what to do, questions what Stiles could possibly want here if not a fight - it's stalling, but Derek refuses to think of it that way. And, more importantly, his gaze slides from Stiles', not in deference or submission but in a slow, thorough study of the flimsy human form.

His brow knits, the furrow deepening the longer he looks. Despite the immunity he'd claim to anyone else's plight, it is impossible for him not to notice how Stiles has changed in a few short weeks - and not for the better. He's wearing Derek's clothes (clever, even if ineffectual) and they were never going to fit him, but now they hang from him far more visibly than they did before. His face is weathered as though he's much older than his years, and Derek recognizes the sight and scent of exhaustion, of a harrowed, fruitless weariness. Derek has spent enough time of his own searching to understand the marks it leaves.

Looking back up, resolutely, to meet Stiles' eyes, he hardens his jaw and tilts his chin up - it's a strangely, unnecessarily defiant gesture, but one he doesn't correct. He refuses to slake his curiosity, his growing concern.

Something isn't right, but Derek forces himself to think it is merely the human in his territory.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

But he's unwilling to do this here. Much as he wants Stiles out, tempting as it is to toss him into the street himself just to see if he's smart enough to get that, he refuses to have whatever is going to follow out in the open, in front of his wolves. He reasons that Stiles would not care coming here if something important hadn't happened. He notes that Stiles' appearance is ragged, worn thin. And, in some hushed, private part of his mind, he thinks that if Stiles intends to make an ass out of him, he's not getting the chance to do it in the den.

In the end, he jerks his chin back towards the elevator doors, glancing away from Stiles briefly, only enough to reassure his pack. Thankfully, they do not doubt that he can handle one human. Not the way he does.

"Go."

When Stiles moves, he'll fall in behind him. The stare fixed on his back is an unwavering demand.

Edited 2015-07-30 19:27 (UTC)

"Hey, you guys behave!" said Heiji, craning his neck to fix the little foxes with a look. Two of them jumped down at once and were replaced by young girls in brightly-colored yukata. The one in Stiles's hood wriggled out a bit reluctantly, but did the same. The last, obviously the cool kid of the bunch, hopped off Stiles's head and onto his shoulder, tail wrapping around the back of his neck like a fuzzy scarf.

"Is this Stiles?" the others cried. Apparently, Stiles had something of a reputation.

The low baritone of that voice sparks a charge in the air. Stiles ceases his struggles almost as instantaneously as the werewolves hone in on Derek. Still held in place, he takes the moment to glance askance at their expressions. He’s unnerved by what he sees: singular intensity and regard conferred to a man whom Stiles has challenged adamantly. It’s a sharp reminder of just how powerful Derek’s position in the Underground is. If any of these men and women were aware of what he’s said to their alpha in the past…well, Derek may tolerate his idiotic audacity, but he knows the pack wouldn’t be so generous. Shame darkens his features, and he drops his gaze to the floor as he’s eventually released. The pack steps away from him. He thinks that he might prefer to be strangled as opposed to facing Derek, an uncomfortable impression of vulnerability creeping down his spine. Yet he forces himself to swallow that trepidation, turn around, and look up.

Stiles doesn’t flinch when their eyes meet, but it’s a near thing. Never has there been a point in time where Derek has stared at him like this, with the cold hostility and contempt of a stranger. It scalds him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the sudden, unbidden hurt except to bury it. The stark knowledge of how unwelcome he is here, of how blatantly he doesn’t belong—Stiles’ meager self-confidence erodes until it has been utterly extinguished. He feels so young, so stupid. Breath caught in his chest, choking him, he stares back at Derek helplessly. The alpha inspects him thoroughly, presumably incensed that Stiles would dare break into the mill wearing these clothes. A terrifying prospect occurs to him; what if Derek demands he strip immediately, return the shirt and jeans? Right in front of the pack, like some little bitch who deserved to be put in his place. He wants to trust that Derek isn’t so cruel, but he can’t reconcile the man he knows with the alpha of East End.

“Do you really think you have a place here?”

When he’s finally addressed, Stiles finds that he has nothing to say. Melancholic insecurity seizes him, squeezing vocal chords shut tightly around the heart lodged in his throat. What is he doing? Why did he come? Does he seriously believe he’ll be forgiven, be accepted? “You’re pushing me, Stiles!” the Sheriff had screamed during one of their last arguments, back in that outdated kitchen. “You’re really pushing me!”

Eerily quiet, Stiles goes as he is directed and enters the elevator car. The four walls are too crowded, igniting a shiver of hysteria in him that he savagely stomps out. His inhaler has been abandoned, left behind with the vigilant pack. He doesn’t ask for it back, doesn’t dare to open his mouth. Rebuked severely by his own conscience and anxiety, Stiles remains desperately silent.

“No, it’s fine,” he denies, though said nose is in fact bleeding profusely. Reaching up, he tries to stem the flow with a sleeved hand. “I’m okay. Sorry for scaring you.”

While he's going to need painkillers for how sore he'll be, Stiles managed to escape largely unharmed. The nose isn't broken, fortunately.

"Oh, don't worry about me, sir," she says easily as she rummages through her huge bag. After a few seconds, she pulls out a couple handkerchiefs and presses them into his hand. "Pinch your nose with those for ten minutes, and you'll be fine. Trust me."

And hopefully, the little magic she's used in those hankies - just to stop the bleeding quicker - is subtle enough to avoid him noticing.

Behind them, the doors slide shut, rickety and worn as so much of the place is. Derek hasn't minded that; slowly, he has been learning this place as home - at least, as close to such a thing as he can surely ever come. London is a far cry from Beacon Hills, and when Laura had been killed he'd been struck with a flight response, but - thankfully, he was given responsibility, and thankfully, that kept him here, grounded, stronger. At least, he's hoped as much. Over and over again, Stiles' words have rang in his head, until they feel imprinted on him like a motto. Even now, they hang in the air between them. Heavy. Stifling. Derek wonders, again, why he's driven to do this, to lead Stiles deeper into his sanctum, to hear him out on whatever offer or suggestion he might have. His bitterness is severed by the change in the air, the desperate sense of something that rolls off Stiles. Glancing sidewards at him, Derek breathes in, knows he is terrified.

His brow furrows. On their first meeting, their second, he'd only been too happy to evoke terror in the human, a fool's hope he'd held of protecting him. Now, he's forced to wonder. An unmistakeable urge to reassure flourishes in Derek's ribs, but he does not yield to it, too angry and intent on maintaining his control to show a suggestion of softness. At his sides, his fingers flex, but do not reach.

It's for the best, anyway - he's never been great at support.

It isn't a long trip, but it feels like it. Stuck in the little room with the scent of panic roiling around him, sweat cooling on his skin, time becomes something thick and slow, syrupy. Derek balls his hands into fists and endeavours to wait it out, fixing his eyes on the shifting floors. Awkward is a mild term for the atmosphere, confining and uncomfortable as it is. Derek tells himself it's on his terms. He's controlling it. It's fine.

Eventually - a relief, honestly - the doors creak open again, and Derek steps out. The space is not as big as the ground floor, but is nevertheless wide and open. There's a wide wooden table. A few chairs. A few doors. A leather jacket hanging by the lift. Aside from that, nothing fills the room but light.

Derek thinks this suits him better.

He strides forward, and only when he's reinstated comfortable distance between them does he turn, does he acknowledge Stiles' presence outwardly. The quiet that lingers in the wake of his movement is, this time, not for effect - he's just at a loss. It contorts his expression for a breath, a blink, and then he tosses Stiles his backpack.

"So, what? You're returning them?" He nods at Stiles' ill-fitting attire. At any other time, it might be amusing, but right now he just itches with the desire to get this over with.

There's yelling come from the dead room in the back of this police station, snippets of the conversation passing into the main lobby. Or at least one side of the conversation: a decidedly angry, definitely American voice, carrying on without an ounce of self-consciousness.

"It wasn't a goddamn heart-attack! Any fool can see it! It was deliberate attack-- just look at the wound on the man's head! That ain't just a knock to the noggin', that's a burn. The entry point for the electricity that stopped his heart."

There's several beats of quiet, before the door opens with a bang.

"There's no workin' with a simpleton," Jackson curses out, slamming the door shut even louder. He doesn't stop to pause, as he storms out from the medical examiner's office, through the station, into the front lobby, where he slams right into Stiles.

"A kid shouldn't be wanderin' around a station unsupervised."

Like he really cares, but Stiles is currently the target of his anger. Annoyance is pouring off of him in palpable waves, as he casts a frustrated glance at the youth.

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OTA; various locations and times

CLOSED; Sasuke (July 23)

CLOSED; Derek (July 30)

CLOSED; Heiji (August 2)

CLOSED; Derek (August 9)

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no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

C.