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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S I G H.

Seriously, she's sighing over here. "Stay here, don't move." Rising again, she moves to the kitchen, preparing a bowl with soap and warm water, and a clean towel. You're gonna get magiced, Stiles.

Back at the couch, she kneels at Stiles' feet, and, carefully, rolls up his trouser legs and begins to inspect them for damage, cleaning as she went. It would do not good to get any injuries infected. She could do magic, but not that much magic. She was better with simple healing magics, rather than bone regrowth and the like.

Once his feet were dry, she carefully swept her fingers along the bruises and marks, the skin coming back healed as she went. It was a silly thing, she knew, rather intimate, even, to wash his feet. But they were dirty, there was blood, and she wanted to make sure he was safe. That seemed to be the worst of it, anyway.

Setting the bowl and towel aside, Nancy began to get Stiles settled on the couch again, urging him to lay down, to put his feet up. Thinking quick, she brought in a pillow from her bed and a large fluffy blanket and placed them accordingly. "I think sleep is best for you and me both. Try to close your eyes. And I'll see you in the morning." Softly, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek gingerly.

Morning would find her curled up in her own bed, hair a mess and a bit of last-night's makeup on.

You didn't really think she'd be a morning person, did you?

Morning arrives and Stiles is slow to wake. This isn’t unusual, so he doesn’t think much of it until he realizes that there’s a wall against his back. That’s a bit weird; Stiles always sleeps in the middle of the bed. It’s kind of a thing. Grumbling, he rolls over to reposition himself—and falls right to the floor. He’s lucky he didn’t brain himself on the coffee table.

“…What?”

Mouth thick with cotton, he pries open his eyes to stare at his surroundings. He doesn’t immediately place them, so the next twenty seconds are dedicated to him internally panicking. Once he realizes where he is, he hastily climbs to his feet and readjusts his sweatpants. Stiles remembers absolutely nothing. Did he get drunk? Why is he at Nancy’s? What the hell is going on?

“Nance…?”

Uncertain, he trails off in the direction of her bedroom. He’s never been inside, but she’d showed him the layout of her apartment before. When he sees her tousled hair from the rise of her comforter, he guiltily hesitates. In the end, anxiety ushers him on; hopefully she’ll forgive him for waking her up.

“Nance. Nancy.”

Creeping closer, he gently shakes her shoulder.

Someone's calling her name. Groaning, she shifts under Stiles' gaze. "No- Kenz- The old devil can wait." Various reasons she was usually shaken awake.

There's an empty glass of wine by her bed, a mystery novel next to it, her clock. She grumbles again, and tries to turn around, but someone's shaking her. There's another groan as finally she opens her bleary eyes and- Stiles.

Stiles is here. Why is- She closes her eyes for a moment, scrunching her forehead, then opens them again. Right. She'd gone off work early to bring him here. And he was awake. Now she was, too, and he was sitting on her bed and she was in a simple purple nightie. Sometimes she liked feeling pretty when she slept, okay? "G'morning- d'you want tea?"

Because he was American and probably had no idea how to do it right. And it was always tea-time.

The purple nightie might have been admired under different circumstances. As it is, Stiles is too anxious to pay much heed to what Nancy is wearing at the moment. There are deep, dark bruises under his eyes that would suggest insomnia, despite how heavily he apparently slept the night before. Once he’s certain she’s fully awake, he moves away the bed to pace for a few seconds.

“No. Thanks, but—”

He’s perturbed. Stiles doesn’t remember how he got here and blackouts are not an experience he’s accustomed to.

“What am I doing here? What happened?”

"Well I want tea," she grumbled, sitting up a bit more, but not bothering to move. Rubbing her eyes and forehead before pushing her hair back from her eyes, Nancy rolled her shoulders. Right.

"Sit if you want, I won't bite. It's nothing sinister, I promise and you probably know better than me. I found you wandering, near 2 in the morning. You weren't responding to anything, so I brought you back here, cleaned you up." This is too much too early. At least she hadn't had much to drink besides the wine she'd had after coming home. and before she'd gone out.

"I didn't want you to get hurt, and I didn't know where you lived." So, she kinda kidnapped him. A friendly kidnapping.

At the suggestion that he sit, he does so mechanically. Not even twenty seconds later and he’s on his feet again, startled into movement by the explanation. From the sound of it…there’s no doubt he was sleepwalking—something that he hasn’t done in several years. Stiles drags a hand down his face, anxious and fatigued. Thank god he wasn’t back home, with access to the jeep or any other vehicle. Who knows where the hell he would have ended up. Really, he’s beyond lucky that Nancy found him instead of a famished vampire or pissy werewolf. Just as he’s about to trip over himself thanking her, he realizes something.

“Oh my god, my grandparents. Oh my god, oh my—can I use your phone!?”

Chances are, he didn’t shut the front door behind him.

He's up and Nancy rises forward on to her knees, reaching out for him.

"Stiles- what's--" His grandparents. Shit. "Yeah. Here." Reaching over to her bedside table, she tossed him her cell-phone. Ignore texts from Cooper and Kenzi and the like please.

Fortunately, Stiles is far too distracted to snoop through the cell phone. If he weren’t so upset, he’d very likely take a peek at her text messages. Instead, he hurriedly dials the number to his grandparents’ landline and waits; maybe he should leave the room for privacy, but he’s not even thinking about it at this point.

“Babciu,” he breathes when his grandmother answers. “It’s me— …I’m fine, I promise. …I’m sorry. …No, I wasn’t drinking. …Is dziadziu—? …Okay. …I’m at a friend’s. Really, I’m good.”

The rest of the conversation moves along slowly. Stiles makes an apologetic look at Nancy before wrapping it up. After his grandmother is satisfied and reassured, he finally hangs up and gives the phone back.

“Thanks. They were…really worried.”

Nancy's too tired to bother to eavesdrop. Instead, while he speaks, she works on actually waking up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and getting situated. So Stiles was here. Juliet was somewhere. It wasn't too late, and she was in her pajamas. Alright. She can deal with this.

"No problem. Do they need you home any time soon? I could get you cab fare. Or at least something for the tube." It only seemed polite to offer. She'd had men offer her, on the rare occasion when they paid for the night.

"Your grandparents alright?

"Yeah! No. I mean, my grandparents are fine. Pissed that I didn't shut the door behind me on my way out last night, but just relieved everything is fine. And no, you totally don't have to do that. But thanks."

Granted, he's not really sure how he'll get home, but... Well, if he walked around last night, surely he can walk back to Sutton. Speaking of which, his feet don't hurt nearly as bad as they could.

"You said you cleaned me up? I...seriously can't thank you enough, Nance. I swear I wasn't...stoned or anything."

"Yeah," she says, and this time, grabs a large hoodie from the foot of her bed and starts to stand up. "I brought you in, you were bleeding something awful on your feet. You shouldn't thank me, though. I'd do the same for anyone." Magic was just very handy.

She pauses for a moment, standing right at the edge of her bed. "I wouldn't judge if you were. What was it, then? You weren't responding at all."

She rolls up the sleeves of the hoodie. "C'mon, I'll make us some breakfast. Coffee, then, if you don't fancy tea?" Gosh, she was British.

Brow furrowing, he wonders what kind of point she’s trying to make by saying she’d do the same for anyone. Even if it was a typical gesture for her, it definitely wouldn’t be for most people; he thinks it deserves gratitude, whether or not she wants to accept it.

“Coffee would be great, yeah,” he confirms, following her out of the bedroom. “I was sleepwalking. I used to do it a lot when I was younger. My dad even installed security cameras and locks at one point because of it.

He sits down in the kitchen, taking a moment to lift up his feet and inspect them. If she hadn’t told him, he never would have guessed they’d been broken and bleeding several hours ago.

There was no point to make. Just Nancy being Nancy. She was a kind woman, who, if she took a liking to you, cared as much as she could. Nancy Fagin, everyone's mom at eighteen. Even Kenzi, and that girl was 7 or so years older than her.

"I can do coffee, then," she says, and starts to put a pot on. If he wants coffee, it's easier to drink it herself as well. She busies herself around the kitchen as she listens to Stiles. "Really? Bloody- that's awful. I'm just glad you're alright, didn't wander into the Thames or traffic or worse. You're really lucky, I hope you know."

Maybe there was some sort of talisman she could make for him. Something to stop the sleepwalking. Or at least, keep him confined to his grandparents'. Once he left, she'd get to researching. "But he was right to install locks, your father sounds like a smart man." She smiles tightly.

"I hope you don't mind, but I just healed you completely last night. It was easier than waiting, and I didn't really want you to bleed on my couch. If that's not alright, I promise I won't do it again." But it was healing magic. that had to be okay, right?

Nancy presses the 'go' button on her coffee maker. "Right, so we've got coffee. What else're you going to want? Cereal? I could do pancakes, I'm sure I've got bagels somewhere... You're the guest, so you best decide."

The comment about his father elicits a distant, faraway grin from Stiles, like he’s recalling over instances to either support or oppose the assessment. As much as Stiles thinks and chats about Scott McCall, he’s come to miss his old man desperately. He worries how his dad has been taking care of himself, if Melissa has been able to check in on him from time to time. With a slow inhale, he returns to the conversation at hand.

“I don’t really eat breakfast.” Usually because he doesn’t wake up until the afternoon. “I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

And as for the other matter… “Don’t worry. About the magic. Seriously, it’s fine. More than fine. It’s actually really cool. I wish I could have seen it.”

"No breakfast, then." She usually just had coffee or tea.

"Next time you have an injury that needs healing, then, I'll do what I can. But don't use that as an excuse to get hurt, you." She pointed at him as she winked. The very idea coffee was already helping her wake up.

"I just don't want to force it on you, if it was something you really didn't want."

Content with just coffee, he accepts the change in plans with a slight smile. He’s still coming down from the high of panic, heartrate only just now beginning to slow, but minute by minute he returns to himself. Nancy is easy to be around, which helps.

“Is that an issue with people?” he asks, genuinely curious.

"I've heard stories," she admits. "Some people who think it's the bad sort of witchcraft."

Stiles blinks, beginning to realize how little he understands about magic and witchcraft.

"Oh. Was it like...dark magic?"

His tone is anything but judgmental.

"No. There's dark magic and all that, but there are people who just consider all magic to be evil. That we're satanists. Which couldn't be further from the truth." She sighs.

"That's one of the things we were talking about at dinner. The two sides of the Witch community here. Circle Daybreak and Circle Midnight. Daybreak is Redbright's territory." Which, process of elimination, was not Nancy's.

"People consider Pokemon cards evil too," he says dryly, with a roll of his eyes. "It isn't a problem with me. Not the dark stuff either, not necessarily."

"I'll keep that in mind." Genuinely, as the coffee pot signaled it was done, "thank you, Stiles. Now- milk or sugar?"

"Suuuugar, please and thank you."

Stifling a yawn, he breathes in the aroma of coffee in the air and sighs happily. There's nothing better in the morning.

"Sorry again about all this. You don't have work or anything, do you?"

"sugar it is." she adds a good heaping to his coffee, pushing it towards him. Nancy, meanwhile, takes hers black.

"no- I work nights, so there's no need to fret." she had her own schedule. did what she needed when she wanted. no usual client had called for her services during the day today, so she was free. "I'm just glad you're safe."

The coffee halts the flood of questions, but only momentarily. Hissing quietly as the drink burns his tongue, he blows on it dramatically before settling back.

“Night, huh? What do you do?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Shiiiit.

She couldn't come out and tell him what she really did. That she was a prostitute. That she was a blood worker, or any of the nasty names that either job came with. But she couldn't lie to him.

What she needed was a time out like Saved by the Bell. But, unfortunately, that wasn't something she was capable of.

"I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you." She took a sip of coffee as casually as she could. Damn it, now he was really going to ask questions.

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