Long, Long Way From Home || Stiles & Dean
"So." Stiles' voice was sardonic as he paused in front of the glass doors leading into the shop. Where he would be gainfully employed for his stay here in New York. "It's gonna be cool. It'll be fine." His fingers crimped the slip of paper in his hand; it was printed with meandering paw-prints with a happy cartoon puppy face on the lower right-hand corner. Deaton's precise writing only showed the address, and the man had been vague, as usual, when Stiles had asked for more details. Deaton had told Stiles to ask for 'Amelia' and that she would know he was coming. "Well all right." The shop was called 'AMELIA'S', so Stiles figured he was at the right place. There was a small crinkling noise as the paper was shoved into his pocket and Stiles sighed before lifting a hand to grip the door handle and pull it open.
A pleasant fragrance wafted out from the shop as Stiles entered, which wasn't surprising since this was a goddamn florist shop. Deaton had sent Stiles to work at a flower shop, without a word of warning, and the damn shifty man had made it sound like Stiles was headed to work at some dark, dusty, musty magical bookshop of secrets. Deaton was probably giggling with glee in his little white veterinarian's coat right about now. Bald head glistening in the lights, mouth turned up slightly in mirth. Damn mysterious fucker.
Amelia, for it had to be Amelia, turned to him with a smile as the small bells at the top of the door stopped chiming. She was tall and willowy, her slightly greying hair tied up in a bun, with hands that moved deliberately with no wasted motion. She had a nose that demanded to be noticed, strong and prominent, but here was a woman that fully knew who she was, and she moved with a grace and self-assuredness that was only present in those that fit completely inside their skin. "Stiles." Because of course he was, why else would a young man bumble into her shop and then gape at her like a fish seeking air. Stiles felt gawkish and young, inexperienced. "I'm Amelia." Stiles nodded and let the door swing shut behind him. "We have work to do, you and me." Stiles nodded again.
He felt that it would become a habit, and snapped his mouth shut, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.
By 'work' Amelia had actually meant 'Go water about 500 plants in the back room, that's a dear.' but work was work, and Stiles was going to be getting paid, and hopefully eventually get promoted from watering and pruning boy to druid-in-training… boy. He'd work on the title later. His eyelids drooped and his footsteps fell heavy as he exited the back door of the shop with a wave at Amelia, ready to dead home. Stiles' mouth stretched in a yawn and he flexed his hands, several small cuts from thorns throbbing slightly as he turned out of the alley and… into another alley. Huh. He turned around, ready to walk back the way he had come when a slow cruel laugh cut through the air.
"My, my, my. Little sparks shouldn't be allowed to wander all on their own after dark." The voice was flavored with a mocking edge. Feminine. Stiles swallowed thickly and forced his breathing to stay even as he looked to look at the woman. She looked normal, aside from the sharp nasty smirk twisting her expression. Blonde. Short. Medium weight, pencil skirt. Yet something was off. After several years of dealing with mystical bullshit, Stiles' radar for the strange and supernaturally weird was a finely honed machine. This woman was not what she appeared to be.
"Look, lady. I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but I don't want any part of it." Stiles hand sliced through the air in a quick sideways motion as he quickly looked her over, trying tog get some idea of what she could be. She looked human, she looked completely human and that meant Stiles was left with very little information to work with here.
"Hmmmm, oh, no problem. No problem at all." Stiles had just a moment to bite out a curse as the woman ran at him and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him and slamming him bodily against the wall. "In fact, you're just what the doctor ordered, kid. You're going to make the perfect meat suit."
Stiles didn't know what that meant, but one thing he knew for sure; he desperately did not want to find out.