Stiles is the type to roll with what life gave him. Lemons? Make really sour lemonade ‘cause he used the last of the sugar for a Youtube challenge he'd rather not get into. Best friend’s girlfriend a slayer of vampires? Alter research habits to include vampires, incubi and lagoon monsters and not just google searches of Selena Gomez. You know every day things. Living in Beacon Hills and finding out it’s a Hellmouth? Well it certainly explained a lot. Being slammed into a brick wall by a surly leather jacket wearing stranger? Not cool.
“Hey, ow. Mr. Manners you are not,” he quips and tries to subtly butt dial Scott. Because Allison needs to get here ASAP and rescue him. Or they are out of the only guy who is willing to read Latin outside Allison’s dad, who still disapproves of her dating, socializing and generally acting her age. And telling people about her night time super hero destiny gig. This will be the fifth almost death he's experienced since knowing Allison. He knew he should have whittled a stake in shop class instead of that bird house.
“Where is she?” the guy growls. Actually growls. He has this intenseness that Stiles can't get a grip on. Like he has the fate of the world on his shoulders. His right hand digging into Stiles' hunter green jacket, pining him to the alley wall.
“Urgh, dude, I can’t help you. I kind of swing the other way, if you need a lady, you should try not lurking outside in alleyways, sends off the wrong vibe,” Stiles rambles and he swears the dude’s eyes flash red. “But you know, maybe some chicks go for that in the post-Twilight age-“
“The Slayer,” the guy rumbles and sends a shiver down Stiles’ back. Crap, Stiles is going to die a virgin. And it is all because of Scott. Or Allison. No wait, he likes Allison. She laughs at his jokes.
“The who?” he asks instead, not breaking eye contact with the surly unshaven guy because he's not going to betray his bro's girl. The Nancy Drew to his Hardy Boy, in a platonic way.
“Don’t lie to me.”
And Stiles balks at him, because he is an expert liar, nay, king of misdirection. Scott still believes Canadians live in igloos. And his dad still thinks the five year old up the street is the one who spilled bird seed all over their lawn.
“You reek of the Slayer.”
Stiles chokes back a laugh unsuccessfully. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the glint of a familiar compound bow.
“Yeah, I was kind of bummed I fit into her clothes too. But I was covered in sewer ooze. And not the cool kind.”
Whatever the guy is going to say is cut off with him catching the arrow aimed for his back. Stiles smells the smoldering flesh as the arrow burned his hand. The guy drops the arrow and is gone in a feat of gymnastic prowess. Vanishes like a ninja.
“Stiles!” calls Scott, rushing from the fire escape and followed by Allison.
“Are you ok?” Allison asks, checking him down for any other injuries.
“Yeah,” he says shakily. “Thanks for the vampire save. That arrow really burnt him.”
Allison frowns at him. “Burnt?”
“Yeah, you pissed off Surly Hotpants,” says Stiles.
“My arrows shouldn’t burn vampires, Stiles. They’re only dipped in-” she trails off and her eyes widen.
“What, Allison, you’ve got that “I’ve Got A Bad Feeling” face,” demands Stiles.
“It’s a sexy face,” adds Scott looking at his girlfriend.
“Wolfsbane,” she whispers. “My dad always soaks my arrows in wolfsbane.”
“So werewolves? Motherfucking werewolves? That’s a thing?” he declares incredulously.
And to think, he thought his life couldn’t get any weirder.