chapter nine {edited}

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why can't i find a cute guy with fluffy hair that actually notices my existence?
probably because i'm ugly. lmaooo

edit: why can't i marry renee rapp?

sunday, july 19
ten a.m.
third person pov

"Holy shit, Nat! I have no idea what to do. I've never been on a date before," Stiles grabbed her shoulders, shaking her as he stared at her with wide eyes. "What do I do?"

The red head just laughed at her flustered little brother.

"Stiles, just be yourself."

He took in the advice. Stiles nodded, shook out his shoulders, and reached for a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform that hung in his closet. Natasha swatted his hand away.

"Let me rephrase," she said, "be yourself in normal clothes."


sunday, july 19
the tea shop on fifth avenue
third person pov

Thomas Sangster has been an overachiever his entire life. He got his medical degree at the age of seventeen, he had an IQ of 187, and now he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.

He was bullied as a kid. What ten year old wouldn't be bullied when they're a senior in high school? Not only was he smarter than everyone, but his thin frame made him the perfect target, at least until he started fighting back.

Not physically, no, he fought with words. He became quite the snark, with his sarcastic comments and witty comebacks.

Gradually, as his comments grew bolder and bolder, the bullies backed off. He still had the occasional black eye, but for the most part, the bullies preferred their targets silent and that gave Thomas a running chance. To make it through high school and college, pass go and collect two hundred dollars—or a M.D.

He was recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. fairly recently. It was a year after getting his degree when the grave faced, eyepatch wearing Nick Fury showed up on his doorstep. He had been looking for a new head for his medical ward, and Thomas, or misfit orphan with crippling debt and no friends, fit the bill. The next day he moved into the Helicarrier.

Now, almost two months later, he sat in his favorite New York tea shop, a city that was just saved from the brink of chaos. During his short time at S.H.I.E.L.D, he heard of the legendary Agent Mischief, but until this week, he had never actually met the man.

His hands wrapped around a steaming mug of vanilla and honey chamomile, chilly despite the July heat.

He checked his watch for the fourth time in the last two minutes. It still read: 10:59 a.m.

Stiles Stilinski had exactly forty seconds to walk through that door or he'd be late.

Thomas looked down at his watch once again.

Thirty seconds.




Three. Two. One.

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