Devil of Wolves

Chapter Thirteen (Stranger In a Strange Land)

"I dream of you almost every night and hopefully, I won't wake up this time."

^

Stiles shifted on his seat at the corner of the long bar he had claimed an hour ago. He was drinking one of the fruitiest, and probably most disgusting drinks they had since he needed a little pick-me-up if the three hours of sleep from last night left him with anything.

It also didn't hurt that his body was always looking for more sources of calories because of how little he could force himself to eat but he was trying, alright? Trying. Yeah.

The uneaten bowl of fries and a burger sat in front of him, almost glaring at him as if it were a challenge. All night he couldn't make himself pick up any more food, not when his stomach protested loudly, and the thought of puking was getting harder and harder to push down.

The lime green concoction and ice clinking together distracted him as he swirled the drink around, ignoring the tingling sensation of having his back unguarded and the prowling caress of his magic tickled his stomach.

He was being watched.

Sitting in a crowded bar with at least fifty other people it was bound to happen, his magic, however, didn't seem to get that memo.

Ever since he'd been out here on his own again with his newfound 'gifts' he felt like he was watching from every corner, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for himself to slip up.

The smooth country music of the bar made his head pound, and he could tell that his ratted clothes and general aloofness was causing angry murmurs he could hear beneath the thumping music. It was almost painfully obvious that he wasn't from around here, and was once again taking up too much space.

Stiles skin was freezing despite the shirt and thin jacket he had on, his nerves did nothing to help the tremor in his body, and he did his best to ignore the urge of his spark to do something about the stares.

He continued to keep his gaze down to look as uninterested and bored as possible; it was safe to say he was a little out of his element, but this was the only place open so late.

After draining almost half of his drink, Stiles tried to reach a shaky finger towards the heavily salted bowl of fries when somebody finally approached him.

It was odd being able to sense almost every presence in this room, from the heavy steps of feet to the startled breaths and the obvious gazes fitted to his back.

Stiles spark twisted angrily in his gut causing a bad ache as the person got closer. He set down his glass right as the newcomer leaned against the bar close enough that he had to stop a flinch when their arms nearly brushed. Stiles raised his eyes to look into the mirrored shelf behind the bar, watching without letting the man know he was under observation.

The man, clearly a little intoxicated if the faint smell of booze coming off him was anything to go by, was a lithe, blond wisp of a thing. Maybe half his size, but still tall. He had slightly curling hair that fell past his ears and framed his face fittingly. Glasses, simple wire things, perched on his nose, and a half-smile curled his lips.

Dressed in a simple gray, long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, he looked ordinary. Something safe. The drink in his hand indicate something other than a desire to fight, as did the smile in his light blue eyes.

Stiles spark rolled like a thunderous cloud under his skin, demanding and harsh, but Stiles merely gave his best smile when the man sat down on the stool beside him, setting his own drink down, their legs briefly brushing as he settled.

"Wow," the guy said, "you are definitely the freshest face I've seen in this bar." He shot Stiles a crooked smile, the light glinting off the black stud in his ear.