A chill begins to wind through his limbs, chasing away the alcohol’s tepid warmth. Arms falling back to his sides, he abruptly desists in any attempt to escape from the closet and instead plasters himself against the wall. His smartphone is in his hand before he’s even aware of it, and then he’s sending out a text to Scott—call me in 15 minutes and if I don’t pick up get my dad to contact London police. But there seems to be some kind of interference; the text doesn’t go through. Naturally.
Skull thumping against the inside paneling of the closet, he tries to gather his nerves. It isn’t easy.
“Abominations? Yeah, okay Hitler. You need some serious counseling.”
Okay, maybe he gathered the wrong kind of nerves. Let’s not piss off the magical hunter any more than you already have, Stiles.
“Whether or not I’m here, I’m already involved. This world—the one you think needs a few less witches and stuff? That’s my world, and theirs. It’s the same, which means everyone belongs on it.”
Stiles thinks about Scott, thinks about a world without him. He’s sick to his stomach.
"Do I seriously need to go all Mr. Rogers on you about this?"
no subject
Skull thumping against the inside paneling of the closet, he tries to gather his nerves. It isn’t easy.
“Abominations? Yeah, okay Hitler. You need some serious counseling.”
Okay, maybe he gathered the wrong kind of nerves. Let’s not piss off the magical hunter any more than you already have, Stiles.
“Whether or not I’m here, I’m already involved. This world—the one you think needs a few less witches and stuff? That’s my world, and theirs. It’s the same, which means everyone belongs on it.”
Stiles thinks about Scott, thinks about a world without him. He’s sick to his stomach.
"Do I seriously need to go all Mr. Rogers on you about this?"