With a lot of their files in the hands of a creepy organization in the bowels of one that was supposed to keep the whole of Earth safe, Colby and Bryan figured it was a good time to pack up, and stay (relatively) off the grid.

With access to Stark's computers, they pored through every possible city they could, until they came across one: Beacon Hills. Apparently plagued by a string of murders, some mostly unsolved, while other info was still classified off the net. It was probably a paper file.

Interesting.

Slowly, Lydia opened her eyes, even though she didn’t want to. The first thing she saw was Stiles looking right at her, it wasn’t the most despicable view, at all. She was lying on his lap. Trying to give him a smile, she didn’t move from where she was because first, she was still too tired to do that and second, she was feeling good and safe, but something at the back of her head was telling her that they were supposed to be doing something else. “Hello, Stiles.” 

it is clear that stiles is not the one with fast reflexes when he finds himself caught by lydia's emerald gaze, unable to look away in time. color stains his characteristically pale cheeks, and after a second of what has to be the longest stare of his life, he blinks and looks away. her uttered greeting softens his palpitating heart, and he replies likewise quietly before refocusing his gaze on the building in front of the parked jeep.

nonsexual acts of intimacy

♗ -- your muse falling asleep with their head in my muse's lap.

sleeplessness drags stiles through a state far below the line of absolute coherency; despite this, he knows it's late in the night. so late, perhaps, that it may even be early morning. if he reaches forward and twists the key in the ignition, bringing his jeep to life, he'll be able to find out from the clock what the time is.

he doesn't, though, for he doesn't want to awaken the sleeping banshee finding a pillow in his thighs.

the yellow moon ( waning, currently -- they still have twenty-four days until the next full moon ) is casting a pale light over her face, sliced with darkness where the dashboard blocks the rays and throws a shadow over her instead. her red hair sticks out haphazardly from under her squashed cheek, the sight far from inviting, yet it doesn't alter his perception of how beautiful she is.

they're supposed to be on a stakeout. he's supposed to be watching the side door to the warehouse, waiting for someone to enter or exit the building. he's supposed to be on guard in case they're caught.