undergrounds | OTA; various locations and times

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OTA; various locations and times

A) One’s An Incident

“—listen to me!”

Somewhere near you, whether it’s at the park or on the sidewalk or in the café or riding the tube, there is a young man engaged in a heated conversation. The identity of the person he’s arguing with may not be readily obvious to those without supernatural hearing; the discussion is taking place over the phone. Should you attempt to tune Stiles out, it’ll quickly prove fruitless. His voice rises in volume the longer he’s on the call.

“I’m telling you, it’s fine. …No! I’m not sending you a picture of it. There’s nothing to see! …No. …No. It was just an accident, okay!?”

Distractedly, Stiles turns in your direction. There is an ugly, swollen bruise taking up half his face, clearly the work of someone’s fist. You may be able to infer that this is what the fight is about.

“—oh my god, don’t. You were the one who shipped me off here. You don’t get to pull that card on me, not now. …Dad. …Dad. Would you— …Would you just TRUST me for once!?”

Whatever his father responds with, it elicits an immediate reaction from Stiles. Expression twisting miserably, he seems to lose all energy for continuing the exchange. His voice is wooden, weary.

“Fine. I gotta go. …Yeah, I will. …Alright. Love you too.”

The call ends. Maybe you make eye contact with Stiles awkwardly. Maybe you decide to talk to him. Maybe you try to pretend you hadn’t overheard.

“Sorry about that,” he says to you, light and cheery. His smile is tight. “You know how it is. My old man always has to get his say in.”

B) Two’s A Coincidence

If you venture to the library, you’ll likely find Stiles buried nose-deep in an oversized tome. He’s piled high a wall of literature around him, to the point where it might be difficult to see him from the front. The titles of the books? All on mythology and mythical creatures. On occasion, a particularly interesting passage has him muttering under his breath and jotting down a few notes in his journal. Feel free to pull up a chair and harass him; he could use a break.

C) Three’s A Pattern

Guess who just drove his shitty used bicycle into you or your vehicle? This guy. Eyes wide, he hastily stammers out an apology, then loses his balance. Both bike and boy crash to the ground in a mess of whizzing gears and muffled groans. Maybe he took you down with him.

D) Four’s A Warrant

Night in London isn’t kind to humans—not that that’s ever stopped Stiles from exploring the city at inappropriate hours. However, there’s something different about the young man tonight as he wanders the streets aimlessly. For one, he’s clad only in a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt with no shoes in sight. He doesn’t even have his trusty lacrosse stick on him! If you get close, you’ll see the unfocused, glassy fog to his eyes. Hopefully your intentions are well-meaning. Or maybe you’re looking for an easy snack. Either way, Stiles doesn’t seem to be in a position to argue.

( 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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"you say that like I've got a bloody choice." She still won't look at him.

"I hate it. I hate him- but there's so much at work that you don't understand. it's not a simple situation." Anther drink is taken.

Stiles absolutely cannot understand. Mouth dropping, he struggles for emotional purchase.

"Explain it to me then. Is he threatening you? Is he hurting you?"

Nancy's eyes harden.

"don't ask questions you don't want answers to, Stiles. please don't."

"I want the truth!" he snaps, and then he's pacing in her kitchen, bare feet slapping loudly on the floor. "This guy is using little kids to push his drugs? You're not stopping him? Something's going on. You need help, Nancy!"

"no you don't!" now she's standing. behind her, the coffee pot starts to shake.

"you don't know anything stiles! not about this." Drawers were rattling, but she paid it no mind. "this man- no. I can't tell you. I won't tell you. you won't understand. you don't understand!"

Mouth thin, he glances beyond Nancy to warily eye the various kitchen implements now trembling. But he doesn’t think the witch will hurt him, not consciously at least, so he presses onward.

“You’re right! I don’t know anything about this. That’s why I’m asking! God, if you won’t tell me for yourself, do it for those kids!”

"you don't get it!" her bathroom door slams of it's own accord and Juliet hops off the couch to go hide

"I'm doing what I can for them! I'm there when I can be to protect them! they get all the money I can give, that I can make for them. and they love him- adore him. I did once, too." she sighs, and the shaking slowed.

"he's a dangerous man. and he owns us."

Countenance twisted in dismay, he balls up his hands at his sides and stamps down on the urge to reach out to her. Stiles isn’t sure the physical contact would be welcome.

“How does he own you?” he presses insistently, drawing closer. “Nancy, I want to help. There’s got to be a way to figure this out.”

Because Stiles knows enough about Stockholm Syndrome from his father’s cases. He knows the danger those boys are in, emotionally.

"there's no way you can help. I wish there was- but not even Kenzi can help." she didn't want to make Stiles a part of this.

"I can't tell you. you'll get yourself hurt and I won't have that." she took him under her wings to protect him. telling him would do the opposite of that.

The reality of his uselessness in this world stings, though he knows she’s right. Looking away, he tries to think of another approach.

“He’s a fae, right? What about another fae? A stronger one. Would they be able to do something?”

"he is. old, too." Nancy sighs, settling back into the chair.

"I wish you could help. I do. and I love the thought, but..." Eames hated the man, so there was that at least. "but you don't want to be in debt to the Fae. they have ways of twisting things... that's how I wound up with him." she'd been a baby.

Stiles fiddles with the chair he abandoned, rocking it onto its back legs while worrying at his bottom lip. He hates this. He hates this so much.

“There’s got to be something,” he whispers, because it isn’t in him to give up, to leave a friend or innocents to suffer.

She takes a long drink of coffee. "there isn't, Stiles" she feels so much older than eighteen. "I'll-" sleep with him so he doesn't touch the boys. the idea made her stomach churn.

"I promised myself a long time ago I wouldn't leave unless I could get the boys out too."

Powerlessness is a state of being that Stiles is intimately familiar with. And yet this situation manages to make it worse, so much worse. Because usually it’s a case of him, a human, getting in over his head where the supernatural are concerned. But this? This is the kind of shit that his father deals with. If Fagin weren’t fae, it’d be sickeningly normal. That truth hurts him the most—that even when a scenario is closer to home, so to speak, he still can’t help.

“If things…ever get bad, I want you to know you can count on me.”

Stiles feels sick, saying as much. Count on him for what? What the hell could he do that Nancy couldn’t?

“I’m just… I’m here.”

Nancy pauses for a moment, reaching her hand out to hold Stiles'. Green eyes search for his dark ones and she manages the smallest, saddest of smiles. It's not many people that would say something like that to a girl like her. He didn't even know the full story, but he just seemed so...

Genuine. Worried.

This was what happened when she tried to keep the truth from him...

"Thank you, Stiles," she said finally, giving his hand a soft squeeze. "I won't forget it. Your... everything, it means the world to me. Truly." To prove her point, she leaned over with coffee-and-vodka laced lips and gently kissed his cheek.

"You're a wonderful friend to have. Don't ever forget it."

Stiles nods once wordlessly, subdued. The soft hand in his is squeezed in return, but he has nothing else to offer. This is a shock, one he barely can process so suddenly and on so little sleep. But he refuses to brush aside what Nancy has told him; no, as soon as he is able, he’s going to do some researching. There’s got to be information on this slimeball somewhere. There’s got to be a way Nancy and the boys can be freed from their indenture. There’s got to be a solution.

“I should get going,” he murmurs, though the last thing he wants to do is leave Nancy now. She shouldn’t be alone. She should have someone with her, to support her. “I’m going to crash hard soon, after last night. But I’ll text you.”

She knows exactly what he's doing, and she's almost glad he's doing it. Get out of there, because it's awkward, and his mind was probably running wild with what exactly he'd done to her and the boys, which she wished he would just leave alone. But if he suspected it at all, it had likely happened.

"Right," she said, pulling her hand back and into her lap. "Good idea. Sleep in your own bed. D'you want a few quid for a pair of flip-flops or something? I don't want you walking barefoot. At least take a cab." She was going into her purse already, starting to pull out money before she immediately regretted it. She hadn't cashed anything yet. God damn it.

"Here's 20 pounds, take that, yeah?" She was pushing it into his hand.

"No, no way."

Putting both hands up in the air, he takes a step back. There's a firm expression on his face.

"I'll get a cab and pay when we arrive at my grandparents'. I can run up to get the money then. But I'm not taking your money. You've already done so much for me."

"Stiles-" she tries, still holding it up. "Please? Just take it so I don't think you're pitying me."

The suggestion has him staring at her in horror. Clearly, he hadn't even thought to consider it in that light. Countenance contorting, he hesitates before ultimately refusing a second time.

"Nancy, if I take that money it'd be out of pity. Your history has nothing to do with this. I'm just..."

Sick of people constantly needing to take care of his useless ass. Except he isn't familiar enough with Nancy to admit that much. Unhappy, he shrugs.

Her history. She winces, and puts the money down, sighing. "At least take a fiver."

Her coffee is suddenly so much more interesting than anything else.

It's in no way a reflection of Stiles, so much as it is a reflection of Nancy. She has to be the mother she never had.

"Alright," he agrees, because compromise seems best. "Let me pay you back in the future though."

Stiles watches her for a moment, chest tight and uncomfortable.

"Hey," he says softly after a minute. "This doesn't change anything, okay? It just makes me want to punch this guy in the face. Or the nuts."

She relaxes, trading the 20 note for the 5, handing it over to Stiles.

"Alright. You can pay me back. Text me when you get there, and when you wake up, alright?" She gives him a tight smile. "And I'm serious. When I tell you not to go looking for him. Please."

But somewhere, deep down, she knew he would.

Accepting the money, he nods solemnly and then lies, "I won't look."

But he will. Because he cares too much, because little kids are involved, because he can't just sit by idly and let this injustice continue. Stiles leans down, pets Juliet fondly, and then waves to Nancy.

"I'll text you in a bit. Thanks again, Nance. For everything."

And then he's on his way.

"Of course," she says, smiling until the door is shut and she can hear his footsteps down the hall. That's enough for Nancy, who turns back to the kitchen counter and foregos her coffee for drinking right from the bottle of vodka. After a long pull, she wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her robe, and marches back towards her bedroom, still holding the bottle.

She can start the day again, later.

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OTA; various locations and times

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