outsiderslogs | i found a liquor store (closed)

who. Stiles & York (

neverknocks)
what. Stiles is a slick motherfucker who can totally get drinks. Absolutely.
where. The Quad,
when. Saturday, after the Vorcha varren announcement.
warnings. Underage drinking.

So things with Lydia were awkward, to say the least. They may have been up front with each other, but he'd still been lying to her and she'd still resurrected one of the people Stiles liked the least of the werewolves. So it was awkward.

And then the showers had stopped working. After that, there'd been monkeys, and now there were alien fucking dogs eating the monkeys. And possibly people. It was carnage. Stiles hadn't even been on Omega a week and already he wanted to get off this crazy train.

Getting up on a bench to avoid a varren chasing a pyjak, he'd heard an advertisement for a bar in Zeta district. Something called the Quad, which a quick search told him was referencing a certain part of an alien's anatomy. (Really?) But they were talking about how they might not have water, but they still had alcohol!

And that lit an idea. Stiles had some credits left from the repair work he'd been (trying) to do. Sure, that was supposed to go towards food and protection money but - he could spend some, right?

Let it never be said he couldn't budget, ah-huh.

So he managed to get in the door - the place was bumping, it seemed, and smelled really bad, but he couldn't tell if that was the bar or the patrons. He wrinkled his nose but then attempted to act like everything was normal, and sidled his way on over to the bar top, cool as you could be if you were a sixteen year old attempting to get alcohol in a space bar. (It wasn't very cool.)

He managed to elbow his way into a seat and hoped he could catch the bartender's attention.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Stiles is pretty much feeling all of the shots hitting him at once. Considering he's a lightweight, they're hitting him pretty hard, but he appears to be holding them down, so far.

"Can't be a cops kid without the cops bein' around. Or the dad," He says, eyeing his empty shot glass a little mournfully. But he shakes it off again to look at York. "Yeah, we're pretty tight," he says, crossing his fingers to indicate as such. That might be something of a lie, considering he'd stolen a police van and cost his dad his job for a while - but after the lacrosse game, his dad had seemed proud of him again so that's what he was choosing to focus on.

"What about you, though? Like, parents, what about yours," Stiles rambles in an attempt to deflect.

York gives him a little smile, because she can tell he doesn't want to wax mushy about it, but he obviously cares about his dad. York can relate to that. "Yeah, we're close. Haven't seen 'em in a few years, but me and my dad have always been pretty tight. He was pretty livid when I joined the war effort, though." She laughs a little, mostly to herself. "I got two brothers, too. Older ones. They're all married with kids, by now."

"War effort?" His brain sluggishly reminds him about the war that's apparently going on in this place, the Peepers or the Reapers or whatever. He squints at her.

"Do I gotta worry about bein' drafted or anything like that?" He asks, words slurring together a little, before he remembers they're talking about her.

"'M an only kid. More attention for me though, right?" He laughs to himself. "Sounds like a good family, though"

"Yeah, I love 'em. That's why I joined up in the first place." Thirty years was way too long for a war to go on. She's at least got some comfort knowing it ends not too far in the future, from when she'd last been home. At least, it had in Wash's timeline.

York figures it's not worth elaborating on the war, not when he's drunk and is probably gonna forget he asked anyway. She's starting to feel a good buzz, too, but she's got plenty of judgment left to sweep the shot glasses off to the side, determining that at this point, Stiles probably doesn't need anymore. What was the point of this again?

"2011, huh? You're a few centuries behind me. So what's that like?"

He does listen to her explain, briefly, why she joined, but put simply? It doesn't stick in his brain. He leans one elbow on the bar, pressing his cheek into his hand, because it's that or flail around and hit a Krogan, and even drunk Stiles knows that's a bad idea.

He doesn't even notice the shot glasses get removed, but it's probably for the best.

He sits up a little when she addresses him. "Few centuries? Future girl," he laughs, mostly to himself, before he answers. It's a good thing he's used to keeping the werewolf secret a secret, or else he'd be tempted to spill his guts.

"Boring. Except for the part where mountain lions and serial killers have decided everyone in my home town makes a tasty snack." Belatedly, cheerily, "Aside from that, great! I've even played in a lacrosse game." Because his werewolf buddy was failing school, and some of the other players were missing.

"Jesus, kid. That almost makes the war sound good." At least when you were in a war, you were expecting some bad shit to go down. York had enlisted knowing full well she might not come back. But when that kind of stuff happens in your hometown, where you're supposed to be safe...well, that's just scary. Especially if you're just a teenager.

York gives him a critical look, drumming her fingers on the bartop. "You play lacrosse, huh?"

"Nah, it's fine," he says after a moment, like it isn't a thing. "You just," he makes a gun shape with his fingers, "And," he makes a gun noise with his mouth, raising his hand up like recoil.

If only it were that simple, a shot to the head. Hell, if Peter Hale ever showed up, he'd be tempted to do it anyway. But he looks up when she asks about lacrosse.

"Yup," he says, overenunciating the word. "Usually on the bench, but I actually have the championship game under my belt now," he adds, his ego visibly puffing up at relating that fact.

York knows teenage bravado when she sees it -- hell, she's done it enough herself -- and she can tell that whatever's going on at home isn't easy for Stiles. Hell, it wouldn't be easy for anybody. York leans against the bar, resting her elbow on the surface. "How you feelin', kid?"

"Mmm," Stiles says after a moment, because he's still in happily drunk, even if the subject isn't happy. "I'm feelin' like a hundred bucks. Aside from the smell," he adds belatedly, which gets him a look from a nearby Krogan.

"I didn't mean you dude," Stiles waves at him, but Krogan doesn't seem very happy about it regardless, and Stiles hunches down. "I think he needs something to drink, York."

"He needs somethin', all right," York mutters, giving the krogan a sidelong glance, but it's Stiles her gaze lingers on as her lips purse into a half-frown. "And so do you, kiddo. C'mon, I think it's time you headed home. Can you get home all on your own?"

"Kickin' me out already?" Stiles pouts, like it'll work again, but obediently gets up after a moment - nearly falls off his bar stool, actually, but he keeps his feet under him. It doesn't lend weight to his next words though.

"I'm fine," he insists, even though nobody likely asked, brushing himself off. "M'not too far from here, I'll be kay."

York raises an eyebrow, but she just gives him a small smile, shaking her head. He'll be all right. "All right then, kiddo, you get outta here, all right? I'll see you around, I hope."

She'd kinda meant to teach him a lesson -- she hadn't been in the best of moods when he'd shown up -- but in a weird way, she'd had some fun herself. Stiles isn't a bad kid, and he's just one more teenager stranded away from his home. Okay, so her heart goes out to him a little.

"Seeeeeya," he draws out the words, waving a little and almost tripping over a table. Was that table always there?

Either way, Stiles finally makes his wobbly way out of the Quad, happily intoxicated, as was his goal in the first place.

i found a liquor store (closed)

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wrappy wraps