milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Grace is pissed.

For the moment she's hiding it well beneath her casual disregard for anything around her other than the Budweiser in her hand, but her friends would notice something simmering under the disinterest.

Good thing they aren't here.

She'd left the bar and the surprise family cabal only to find Earl sitting at her counter with the freaking brochures she'd just thrown away. Belching, she deleted her sister's messages and ignored Earl's latest attempts to impress upon her the importance of family values. It was a relief when he flashed the wings and disappeared to Vegas or the Titanic or wherever the hell he said he was going. She doesn't care. She never cares.

But she doesn't feel like being alone. These days, that means finding Mike and making some trouble, so here she is, lurking around the main bar with a beer and a somewhat vacant expression, waiting for trouble. Yee-haw.

[OOC: Also for car keys, all are welcome, slowtime likely, etc.]

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He doesn't look like a turtle, ninja or otherwise. Or like a Renaissance painter, for that matter. Too bad.

"I'm Stiles," Stiles answers. "Stilinski. Babysitters used to hate me."

He always plays it off like it was he unique personality that drove them away, when in reality it was more that the average teen babysitter is ill-equipped to deal with a nine-year-old with frequent panic attacks.

For somebody who habitually vibrates with unrestrained energy, Grace does an exceptional impression of a statue. She does just that while watching this exchange, nothing but her eyes moving back and forth.

A small smile curves her lips at last: kids love it when Grace babysits. There's always a ride in the squad car.

"Mike's brother," she says to Stiles, gesturing to Raph with fingers itching to hold another lit smoke. "You know, the Barman?"

Raph should thank his lucky whatevers that she doesn't elaborate.

"Congrats," she tells Raph, "I hear you got hitched."

Best. Story. Ever.

Edited 2014-10-06 02:15 (UTC)

Raph flinches when she says that last bit, eyes sliding to look over at Bar.

"Thanks."

It's not that Raph dislikes being married, quite the opposite in fact. A very strong opposite. It's more that he still hasn't told his family and now it's getting to the point where having not told his family is making it harder and harder to tell his family.

And Bar? Well...she's about as family as a sentient slab of wood can get without already being his brother Leo.

"So werewolves."
It's like a smokebomb...

Ah, there's family drama in the air. An excellent distraction. Stiles is about to offer his own sincere, very heartfelt congratulations when Raph turns the subject back to werewolves.

Oh well, at least talking creatures of the night won't get Stiles in trouble for the beer.

"Yep, werewolves," he confirms. "I've got one back home I should probably talk to soon. You know, fill him in on the dead bus driver, possibly even more werewolves out there trying to kill us if Derek doesn't kill us first."

Scott's probably not going to like any of this.

Grace gets enough family drama at home, thanks. Ever more aware than she lets on, she takes note of Raph's reaction and files it away to pick at another time.

Back to werewolves.

What the hell, man.

"I'm not crazy 'bout you takin' all this on alone, kid." Grace's voice gets huskier with concern. "You're quick, I'll give you that, but unless you've got some major firepower in reserve, your soft teenage skin's no match for a werewolf's pointy fangs of death."

She does the accompanying hand motion. Of course.

Raph snickers at the pointy fangs of death remark.

"She ain't wrong kid. Bring back up."
It's important to be noticing here how he's not offering to be said backup, only that such a thing should exist.

Stiles has no wish to come in contact with said pointy fangs of death. He's seen Scott's, and that was a closer encounter than he really prefers.

"I don't need backup just to talk to Scott," he insists. It really was only that one time Scott tried to kill him. And that was a full moon adjacent problem.

"I'm not suggesting we go hunting for a pack of werewolves, just share some info with Scott that helps him, you know, not get hunted."

They would never use that information to do anything reckless. Nope.

"You just want to have a heart to heart with your BFF? Braid each other's hair and talk about crushes? What happened to getting Derek arrested?"

Grace turns to Raph.

"He said he wanted to get this Derek guy arrested. That sounds like hunting werewolves. One, anyway."

Stiles gets a narrow-eyed look.

"One's all it takes. You need backup."

Oh, right. Yeah. He may have said that about Derek.

Because the guy is creepy as fuck.

And probably a murderer. He should be arrested.

Again.

"And I already told you, I'm not telling Dad. And as hard as it may be to believe, Scott and I don't really have anyone else to enlist."

Or, uh, even pick up their phone calls.

"Your Dad's the police, I take it?"

This is Raph not getting involved.
Because he's not getting involved.
At all. No involvement. None.

He shakes his head and sighs.

"Cops ain't usually much help against the outta-the-ordinary anyway."

He should know.

"Hey," Grace butts in, holding out a finger like Raph's about to get schooled. "Not all cops."

If Grace spent more time on the internet, she would find her own protest hilarious. As it is...

"Some of us are used to weird shit," she finishes with a grin.

"Used to ain't the same as helpful. I'm used to computers, but that don't mean I'd be any good at helpin' with one," he says a playful smirk hinting at the corner of his mouth.

Unless that computer needed punching. Raph'd be really helpful with that.

Stiles turns to Raph.

"Dude, if she wants to volunteer herself as backup, don't talk her out of it! What's the use telling me it's too dangerous to go alone if all you can say is you're not helpful?"

Adults, man.

"And Dad... Sheriff or not, I can't tell him."

Not happening. Except maybe when all of this blows over.

"Hey," Grace repeats, nonchalant, "If he's out,"

she points at Raph

"so'm I."

"Fine," says Stiles. "Whatever."

See, this is why he and Scott only need each other. Other people are useless.

"Then I—"he gestures towards himself"—am going home—"and then waves his arm back toward the door"—to talk to Scott, so he doesn't get murdered while we discuss this in committee."

Scott'd better get back from his date soon—less time for Stiles to think up disastrous new werewolf scenarios. Maybe he'll just wait at Scott's... that's probably less annoying than texting him every five minutes. Definitely.

"Hold up." Grace is fast. Her hand snaps up and grabs the scruff of his neck; it probably doesn't feel so good, given that teenage boys are not kittens. "The committee rejects your proposal and puts forth another."

Beat.

"We go."

Beat.

"We all go." Grace shifts to give Raph a very meaningful side eye, tugging Stiles along for the ride. "Because, hey. There are worse things than werewolves."

Beat.

"Like pictures of smiley face boxers. Lots of pictures. There's some crazy shit back there behind the bar, man. Just sayin'"

Raph opens his mouth to object, but then snaps it shut just as quickly.
And glares.
Oh how he glares.
Raph has a blackbelt in glare.

With a slow exhale that comes out more as a growl than anything, he turns towards Bar with a barely audible. fuckin' michaelangelo.

Raph taps Bar's top twice, and a pair of sai appear, along with a long black trench coat that seems way too heavy to just be standard issue.

Whoa. Who knew new badass allies were only a tiny bit of blackmail away? Not that he has any blackmail material on Raph... yet. (Thanks for that one, Grace!)

"Okay," says Stiles, nodding. "We all go."

Beat.

"Do I get weapons, too?"

He's not sure he could really pull off the Neo look, but he does know how to handle a gun.

Raph turns and looks at the kid, sizing him up again.

"Here," he says finally, handing Stiles a packet of three black steel throwing knives.

Cool.

Stiles fumbles around trying to figure out what to do with the knives. Can he just stuff the whole pack in his pack pocket?

Grace snorts.

"You give grade school kids scissors to run with, too?"

Do they make safety knives?

"Let's get this show on the road," she says, heading for the door.

"Well yeah, how else are they going to learn it's a bad idea?"

By just telling them? Psssh. Like that ever worked for him and Mike.

Raph then gives Stiles another biff upside the head.

"Careful with those, they're sharp."

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