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[For Jacob] Debut
Jun. 7th, 2012 08:08 pmThis is not where Stiles went to bed.
Bed being the operative word there, because there had been one—Nothing fancy, but more than adequate for sleeping and… probably other things, too, if Stiles ever actually gets around to those.
There's no bed now, adequate or otherwise, and Stiles thinks it pretty screwed up that his life has officially reached the point where, upon waking in a jungle in his jammies, his first thought is that someone, somehow turned him into a werewolf without his knowledge.
It's probably pretty screwed up, too, that Stiles just goes with it, stumbling gracelessly through underbrush as the panic steadily rises and then lodges in his throat. By the time he hits a pathway, barefoot and sputtering, leaves clinging to every part of his person as his arms attempt to flail them off like a Muppet, the anxiety has completely cleared away what was left of the cotton in his head.
This means he can look straight at the guy looming there on the boardwalk and immediately place him as Jacob Black.
So he's dreaming. That's a relief, because he was starting to think he'd been roofied and carried all the way to Mexico before his captors realized they'd grabbed someone of absolutely no value.
Stiles turns a wild eye to the trees on instinct, flotsam dislodging from his shirt and fluttering to the ground as he peers up, back, around both sides of the dude from Twilight. This is not unfounded paranoia, oh no. The night before his last big Spanish exam, Stiles been on the cusp of slipping his hand up Dream Lydia's shirt when Derek had sprung from the trees dressed like Pancho Villa and demanded that Stiles conjugate all forms of the verb morder. It had been utterly horrifying. Stiles still isn't over it.
"So, you're…" He turns his attention to Taylor Lautner with an abrupt swivel of his head and makes an aborted motion with both hands as he trails off. "What, Scott? That's what's going on here, right? You're bigger than he is, but it's sort of potato, potahto— Why are we in the jungle?"
Bed being the operative word there, because there had been one—Nothing fancy, but more than adequate for sleeping and… probably other things, too, if Stiles ever actually gets around to those.
There's no bed now, adequate or otherwise, and Stiles thinks it pretty screwed up that his life has officially reached the point where, upon waking in a jungle in his jammies, his first thought is that someone, somehow turned him into a werewolf without his knowledge.
It's probably pretty screwed up, too, that Stiles just goes with it, stumbling gracelessly through underbrush as the panic steadily rises and then lodges in his throat. By the time he hits a pathway, barefoot and sputtering, leaves clinging to every part of his person as his arms attempt to flail them off like a Muppet, the anxiety has completely cleared away what was left of the cotton in his head.
This means he can look straight at the guy looming there on the boardwalk and immediately place him as Jacob Black.
So he's dreaming. That's a relief, because he was starting to think he'd been roofied and carried all the way to Mexico before his captors realized they'd grabbed someone of absolutely no value.
Stiles turns a wild eye to the trees on instinct, flotsam dislodging from his shirt and fluttering to the ground as he peers up, back, around both sides of the dude from Twilight. This is not unfounded paranoia, oh no. The night before his last big Spanish exam, Stiles been on the cusp of slipping his hand up Dream Lydia's shirt when Derek had sprung from the trees dressed like Pancho Villa and demanded that Stiles conjugate all forms of the verb morder. It had been utterly horrifying. Stiles still isn't over it.
"So, you're…" He turns his attention to Taylor Lautner with an abrupt swivel of his head and makes an aborted motion with both hands as he trails off. "What, Scott? That's what's going on here, right? You're bigger than he is, but it's sort of potato, potahto— Why are we in the jungle?"
