Of Stilinskis And Voids (And Nogitsunes).

Stiles nodded in response, following her out of the room, keeping a cautious eye on both directions the corridor went down. “Yeah,” He agrees, sticking close but out of the way of the very sharp weapon she has in her hands. “Keeping close, gotcha.” It rankled a little, that he wasn’t properly able to defend himself, but it always rankled - this was nothing new. and no matter if he ever trained, or took up… some kind of something, Stiles is always going to be at a disadvantage. No super senses, or strength, or what have you. 

Stiles hands clench, uselessly, at his sides, into fists, more from a lack of something like his bat to grip than as preparation to fight. “It was left, right?” He mutters, considering. He’s trying to back-track in his memory, but it’s spotty. 

She was ready for defending him if the situation called for it. Arms straight as her gaze peered over their surroundings, the bulge of them almost threatening to pop out of her head. Despite how brave she tried to be, Kira couldn’t deny that fear was blooming in the pit of her stomach, worrying about the unknown threat that could pop out in any minute. However, she wouldn’t permit herself to show that. Stiles depended on her, she promised to lead him out safely.

“Let’s go with left,” she agreed, steps cautious as she continued to walk in the direction. Her eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, not even daring to take a look at Stiles, afraid to lose sight of anything. “You holding up all right back there?” she murmured.

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Allison had a rough time ending things with Scott. She had fallen hard for him and it was always a rocky with their families. Now she was alone and trying to deal with the emptiness. It didn’t help having the new girl come around and catch his eye, I guess Scott had a type. Most of her time was now spent with Lydia or just at home alone.

“Oh, I know that,” Stiles said, nodding. “Your dad had absolutely no idea - I mean, he suspected, but he didn’t know,” Stiles shrugged. “I’m… not sure about your mom. Sorry,” He added, “I’ve just only met her the once. Likely had no idea, either.” Stiles chuckled, lowly. “Oh, he was doing that with everyone, I don’t blame you for that. We did the right thing in the end, far as I can tell.”

Stiles sighed, and looked over to the seventeen year old. “Stigma’s hard to break,” Stiles settled on saying, after a pause. “I don’t know, I don’t know what to tell you. God, I don’t know. Hunters - hunt. And… werewolves… are people. But a lot of ‘em are feral, or evil in some other way, and there’s no way to keep them in a prison or anything. So… what else can you do, but police more permanently?” Stiles shrugged. “What’s the code, again? ‘We hunt those who hunt us?’ Sounds reactionary. Whoever came up with that - they weren’t the bad guy - or, woman - in that situation, I’m figuring. Probably bereaved. I don’t know. Certain people leave… stains, on family names.” Stiles, for a moment, thought of his grandfather. “Sometimes you’ve just gotta reclaim it. Turn it into something better.”

She put in a few coins so that she could play with him. “My father grew up with her, he knows her games. They never really talked to me about what happened. I wasn’t supposed to know about their job.” She made a face and rolled her eyes. “Eventually it would become obvious with all of the meetings and armory in the basement.” She started to pick her player.

“I can tell you that if it wasn’t for Scott I wouldn’t believe that there are good werewolves out there. If we removed him from the equation then its just the crazy animalistic Hales run around trying to kill people.” She bit her lip as she focused for a second. Allison paused and turned to look at him. “I’m thinking about changing the code. It doesn’t really fit us anymore. I’m not sure about fixing our name. Its going to be awhile till that’s fixed.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Stiles said, dubiously. “Look, if they really wanted to keep it secret, they’d have hid it better. I’m thinking maybe they wanted you to find out, but like, drip-fed information. So it’s not all one big, ‘surprise! Werewolves exist! Also we murder them!’ Type reveal all at once, you know?” Stiles sighed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem - practical. Either all in or all out, that’s - how I think about it, anyway.” 

“Yeah, see, I guess that’s reasonable,” Stiles said. “I mean, my only real exposure were old horror movies, like The Wolf Man. I’ve watched Buffy. So it was all, murdering people without knowing about it, type deal. Like the person is innocent and the werewolf is a hijacking monster bastard that takes over and does stuff without your input. And you can mitigate the symptoms, or whatever, but the only real cure is death. Which sucks. So I guess I was looking for any - like, any aspect that didn’t suck. I mean, I still told Scott about all the bad stuff, not that he wanted to listen. You know, full moon bloodlust, and everything. He listened to Derek long before me, which makes sense, obviously, what with Derek being a werewolf, but - like, didn’t really make any sense, because Derek was a total creep. And I stand by that. Lurking around everywhere like he wanted us to think he was evil.” Stiles sighed. “But... I don’t know. Only Peter was really crazy, you know, and I don’t really... I mean, he got burned alive and then left alone to stew in his own personal hell for six years. That’d drive anyone around the bend, I’d say. Doesn’t excuse the murder, though, obviously. Peter was weird.” Stiles grimaced. “Did not enjoy being forced to be his chauffer for an evening or he’d bite my head off. Probably.” 

“You’re thinking about changing the code?” He asks, eyebrows raising. He turns to look at her, considering. “Honestly? I think that’s a really good idea. Change has gotta start somewhere. The roots is generally a good plan. I gotta say some of the problems with hunters right now are foundational - and your whole code thing is a foundation. Changing that’s a - it’s a good start.” He attempted to encourage, offering a smile alongside his words. 

“My first instinct was to shout ‘lycanthropy’, so…” Stiles shrugged. “Here we are. It is kind of… questionable how everything’s managed to keep itself so hidden, though. I mean with CCTV and everything… even just word of mouth. With all those stories actually being true, you’d think more people’d be superstitious if not outright just aware.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” He said, wryly. Stiles’ strength had never been languages - failed attempts to teach him polish (even just to pronounce his own name) can attest to this fact.

Stiles laughed, lacking in genuine mirth, just to try and make the heavy topic feel less oppressive. “Tell that to Hansel and Gretel. But, uh, yeah, it’s - more a witch’s broth than a witch’s pie. Maybe they’re branching out, though. Make a witch’s bakery.” He grimaced, followed by his lips quirking up in dark humour. “Might franchise it. Make the whole coven in on the business.”

“You are smarter than most - I am glad we have you on our side.” 

“Don’t give them business ideas,” she joked, flicking through the pages, for far finding nothing that would actually help them - unless they wanted to be come witches themselves.”

“Thanks, Lyds,” Stiles says. “You too, obviously. Factually, you know, pretty sure you’re the smartest of all of us.”

“Oh God, no,” He laughed. “Imagine! What would they even call it? Coven Confectionaries?” He shook his head, dropping the topic. He grimaced at the book he was flicking through. “Oh, wow. Some of these spells are really screwed up, aren’t they?” He pointed to one, tapping the page. “I mean, look at that. Eye for an eye type shit, except you’re liking two different people’s ‘life energies’ and when you drain one, the other person dies. Yikes. Last resort, you think?”

“Actually, yeah, I read up on that.” He nodded. “I mean, you know me. Research spiral the instant something new pops up out of the blue. Anyway, I also read witch, or wixen or whatever, was a gender-neutral type thing - like, a third of all witches burned were men. Which, uh, isn’t how the movies portray it at all.” He paused. “So, that makes it around - statistically, anyway - 200 thousand guys to 300 thousand girls, right? Jesus. I mean, it’s no 9 million, but that’s still a lot of people. Makes you wonder how many were actually witches, ‘cause the supernatural population doesn’t reach anywhere near those numbers nowadays.”

copying real people when blind: an experiment in imagination.

“Well, it’s not the end of the world - well it might be the end of the world but not yet, so, first, we can… read some books, basically.” Stiles said. “Only advice Deaton could offer, which - for the record - was my plan anyway, so. I know you know Latin, one of the books is in Latin, I don’t know Latin, so - you could do that part of the research?” He offers. 

Stiles shakes his head. 

“Man, witches. Did you think we’d ever be dealing with witches?” His tone is wry, as he hands her a couple old tomes - one Latin, and the dubiously sourced translation, circa 1600s, maybe. Stiles, for the record, does not trust a book where most words just look like strings of ‘oooo’. Repeatedly. Genuinely awful font and handwriting, from Mr. Renaissance Monk. 

“We kinda need to do it quickly, too,” He adds. “Cause, you know, witches. I’m waiting on the children in ovens shoe to drop, personally.”

Lydia never wanted to hear that there was any chance that this might be the end of the world - unfortunately, it was frequent enough that  thought that it didn’t fill her with complete dread. 

“A couple of years ago I thought that everything we deal with on a weekly bases was the stuff of folklore, myth or fairy stories but here we are.” She took the book and the translation, scanning quickly and sighing. “For a dead language - Latin really isn’t that hard.” A poorly done job almost frustrated Lydia more than a job not done. 

“My first instinct was to shout ‘lycanthropy’, so...” Stiles shrugged. “Here we are. It is kind of... questionable how everything’s managed to keep itself so hidden, though. I mean with CCTV and everything... even just word of mouth. With all those stories actually being true, you’d think more people’d be superstitious if not outright just aware.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” He said, wryly. Stiles’ strength had never been languages - failed attempts to teach him polish (even just to pronounce his own name) can attest to this fact.

Stiles laughed, lacking in genuine mirth, just to try and make the heavy topic feel less oppressive. “Tell that to Hansel and Gretel. But, uh, yeah, it’s - more a witch’s broth than a witch’s pie. Maybe they’re branching out, though. Make a witch’s bakery.” He grimaced, followed by his lips quirking up in dark humour. “Might franchise it. Make the whole coven in on the business.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world - well it might be the end of the world but not yet, so, first, we can... read some books, basically.” Stiles said. “Only advice Deaton could offer, which - for the record - was my plan anyway, so. I know you know Latin, one of the books is in Latin, I don’t know Latin, so - you could do that part of the research?” He offers. 

Stiles shakes his head. 

“Man, witches. Did you think we’d ever be dealing with witches?” His tone is wry, as he hands her a couple old tomes - one Latin, and the dubiously sourced translation, circa 1600s, maybe. Stiles, for the record, does not trust a book where most words just look like strings of ‘oooo’. Repeatedly. Genuinely awful font and handwriting, from Mr. Renaissance Monk. 

“We kinda need to do it quickly, too,” He adds. “Cause, you know, witches. I’m waiting on the children in ovens shoe to drop, personally.”

@musamulta​ cont from our thread on incolubrum, as per dms :)

Stiles woke up. 

Not unusually so, at least at first notice. Quickly, as he’d grown accustomed, so he wouldn’t get accosted by various individuals of varying intentions while sleeping in the driver’s seat of his jeep, or - occasionally - lain across the backseats. And then there’s the disorientation he’s grown used to, from never waking up in the same place twice (except on certain occasions, when he got stuck in one town or another - but it never lasted long enough to allow him to adjust - and if it did, then he most definitely scarpered the hell out of dodge), and the mild headache threatening to brew from an inconsistent sleep schedule and poorly maintained consumption of water. 

Stiles raised a hand, blearily, to his eyes, and massaged at those two spots, up in the corner under your brow, where you can relieve pain. This allowed him some moments to adjust, before the memories of yesterday came crashing down upon him. 

“Fuck,” Stiles sighed out, dropping his head back on the armrest of the couch. “Shit.”

Fuck, shit, indeed. Stiles was situated on the venerated couch of one Theodore Raeken. Brilliant. He was back in Beacon Hills. Brilliant-er. This might as well be happeneing, he supposed, vaguely. Since, somehow, for whatever dumb fuck reason he’d concocted in his head, he’s here, and all - nothing to be done about it now. Just have to deal with it.

Stiles had let go of the naïve notion that you could just… ignore your problems until they eventually went away on their own when one of said problems tried to throw him off a bridge. That was a fun day. (Not. Clearly.) 

Stiles groaned in annoyance, as he forced himself to sit up, swinging his legs off the cushions and planting his feet on the floor. He looked around, checking if Theo was awake or not. Well, either way, he’d be able to hear Stiles, so… 

“Do you have coffee?” He asked, making his way over to the kitchen to search for it. “Because I’m having some coffee.” When access to his actual medication was low, coffee was… not a good substitute, but it helped a little. Stiles didn’t know the science of it, or anything, but it worked… vaguely, so he wasn’t going to waste time not using something that does at least a little to manage his issues. If there wasn’t any here, he had some in the jeep he could go get, at least. 

He’s got too many not to try and mitigate a few, at least. The mitigatable ones, anyway. Not that any of them are mitigatable. Whatever.

Theo had left Stiles to sleep on the couch. He’d been given blankets and a pillow, though. Honestly, he’d somewhat insisted Stiles not sleep in his jeep… he could remember all too clearly sleeping in his own truck. If he didn’t have to do that, why should he? Sleeping on the couch, he’d have access to things and more comfort. 

He was up by the time Stiles woke. He was always up early these days. He’d gone on a run and taken a shower already. That was just what he did. A morning routine not easily broken, even by having a guest. He’d held off on some things, though. His once-friend had needed the rest, so Theo had gone out of his way not to wake him, choosing to stay in his own room until he heard Stiles’ voice.

Coffee? A fair request, sure. The chimera sighed a bit, emerging from his bedroom to wander into the kitchen without a word. Coffee was set beside the pot, then a fair sized mug. “Knock yourself out. Didn’t brew any this morning because of the noise.” That could have woken Stiles. Or the smell of it could have.

“... Right,” Stiles said in response, proceeding to ‘knock himself out’, as it were, by brewing up some coffee. Simple, strong, black coffee, because it did the best job of dealing with his unmedicated ass, and he’d gotten used to rationing things. Coffee itself was expensive - buying sugar as well? Forget it. One luxury at a time. Not that medication is a luxury, Stiles is very well aware of how downright necessary it is, but - when you can’t get actual medication, and you’re using coffee as a substitute, it might as well be. 

“Well enough,” Stiles replied, shrugging his left shoulder half-heartedly. The right one stayed exactly where it was, because - given how poorly he’d treated the wound - Donovan’s old bite still stings when the skin gets stretched. It’s a weakness that’s been used against him, and though the pain is dull and mostly passes Stiles by these days, other, supernatural people always notice - it’s the chemosignals. Stiles hasn’t met a single supernatural that isn’t a nosy fucker, so... he’s careful, just on instinct. Attacks tend to come at his right, because they judge it the weaker side, due to the old injury. They’re wrong - but you know. It is how it is. 

“Uh, you?” He asked, remembering vague notions of politeness. It’s not that Stiles is polite, or even that Theo would’ve expected it of him - hah - but. He did sleep on the guy’s couch, and all, so it’s only fair not to be massively rude immediately. Stiles figures he’s just still a little sleep... you know, addled, or whatever, and his usual prickly sarcasm will come knocking any time now. There’s also the dead body they buried in the woods to think about, which Stiles is slowly recalling, and the memory scrunches his expression up into something unpleasant, souring his mood quick-flash. Fucking kanimas. Stiles supposes the whole justice thing fits, though - if any supernatural creature were to kill him, the judge’s jury and executioner makes the most sense. Stiles wonders who he’d hurt to warrant it, and then snorts. Probably any number of people he’s come across in his life - too many to count and figure out. It doesn’t really matter now. Guy could’ve just been feral, after all, and he’s dead. It’ll probably bite him in the ass later, but later is later, and right now, well, there’s no point dwelling. He’s gotta get used to talking to someone who actually knows who he is again... daunting, but, not impossible. Just... well. As he said. 

Daunting. 

we just broke up and you came over to get a box of your stuff from my place but wtf the power went out because of a really bad storm and you shouldn’t be driving in this just … chill for a couple of hours, okay?

we broke up years ago and both moved away, lost touch. now our friends each suggested a blind date and shit, you’re my date apparently. 

we moved into a little apartment together while we were dating and then we broke up but neither of us could really afford to get our own place so now we’re stuck as roommates, watching each other bring home random one night stands or dates.

you were my brother/sister’s best friend and that’s how we met, and started dating. now we broke up and you’re obviously still friends with them, and you spend nights at my place but now it’s just awkward to run into you in the hall way at 1 am right after my shower.

we broke up right before a giant roadtrip our friends planned and we don’t want to bail on everyone and ruin the trip so yay, looks like we get to spend a five hour drive and a weekend in a cottage together.

we were our high school’s golden couple but we went to different colleges and the distance broke us up. fifteen years later, i’m in the middle/just getting over a bad marriage and you’re having your own relationship problems and it’s the high school reunion.