hyperactive | ic contact || deerington.

okay, slug boy you got a ride already, huh? give me thirty you want a pizza? i'm picking up a pizza anyway

Sure do. I brought her from home. She's my baby.
Her name's Roscoe. You've gotta say hi to her when you stop by or you're not getting past the front door. I'll literally forbid you from entering my house.

I do want pizza.
Wait. Okay. Hold on. Age old question:
Pineapple? Y/N. Don't give me any of that "I can take it or leave it" shit, either. I want hard-hitting answers, Amara. I want you to take a stand.

are you gonna be mad if i tell you we have hover cars back home? y i wasn't able to be picky when i was growing up it means i'll eat basically anything now except ratch burgers i have to draw a line somewhere

No! Condescending. Roscoe is perfect as she is, Marty McFly.
I'll be worried about your safety, though. Hovercars seem wildly dangerous.
Everything about your life seems wildly dangerous, frankly.

That's a noble answer and I'm sorry for saying something insensitive, but also, eat my butt. Pineapple on pizza is a fool's choice.
Get me something meaty.
I can pay you back in, like. Two weeks? When my next allowance comes in.

the galaxies are a dangerous place

[evidently she has nothing else to say to any of that, but she's knocking on his door about 45 minutes later, holding a bag in one hand and two pizza boxes balanced on the other.]

Open up, slug boy! I got your pineapple pizza, because that's what you love to eat!

[ forty-five minutes pass relatively quickly when you're running on very small amounts of sleep and all your hours awake just kinda blur together. the conversation dies and stiles lets it go, even though a near-full hour of waiting alone in the quaint yet very clearly haunted townhouse fills his stomach with knots. when he gets through it without his tv doing anything weird or breath fogging up any windows, he's incredibly relieved.

he opens the front door and lets amara inside, though, like, the second he sees her, he's already wincing. ]

Please don't call me slug boy.

[ he nods his head towards the front room and invites amara in, closing the door behind her and trying to take, like, everything she's carrying at once. the bag, the boxes. super rude to make a guest carry the whole load. ]

[she almost texts him a few times while she's waiting for the pies to be cooked, but the times goes in quickly for amara, too. there's a lot on her mind, and while she hasn't had any problems sleeping... it's hard enough not flipping out at every little thing. she's still feeling incredibly tightly wound after learning of louis's fate, but that's not something she wants to burden stiles with.

when she comes in and he tries to take the boxes from her, she just holds it up above him. not hard to do, considering how tall she is.]

Your complaint has been noted. [she's an ass, sometimes.] Meaty one on top. Soda in the bag.

[fortunately, she's not so severely injured that it's affecting any of this. he can probably see both her arms wrapped up with a little bit of red leaking through, but not enough for it to be concerning.

at least, that's what amara thinks. she's not bleeding everywhere, so it's fine.]

Don't worry about paying me back.

I mean, I'm going to pay you back, but sure. Noted.

[ he's doing an impression of amara with that noted, but his impression of her largely involves trying to make himself sound tough and cool and radical, so it's actually not all that insulting, as far as insults go. making the most offended noise possible, he swipes at the boxes and steps up on his tippy toes, if he has to - she's got a couple of inches on him, but he's spindly and determined - and when he eventually wrestles the food from her (presuming she doesn't just pity him enough to hand it over), he huffs and takes it all into the kitchen, getting the two of 'em some cups for their soda as he starts dishing up. ]

Sit down. We're gonna eat, and I'm gonna take care of you.

[ he's an animal, so they're just gonna eat from the boxes with their hands in the living room. stiles points amara to the sofa and gets their lunch ready, setting it all on the coffee table and disappearing to the bathroom to get his medical supplies. he calls out to her from down the hall. ]

So, uh, hey - did you really try to fistfight a fire?

[she rolls her eyes-- but otherwise acquiesces. stiles gets the boxes off her.]

A good plan. Thank you. [amara does appreciate it. she can wrap her own wounds, but she trusts stiles to do a better job of it. she's never much had the patience for it. you don't have to worry much about infection or shoddy jobs when you always have enough money on hand to get a few health shots from zed's machines. healing the slow way is almost a foreign experience.

at least her immune system isn't for shit. sirens are made of tough stuff.

at his question, she answers simply:] No.

[then doesn't say anything else. seems like she's none too keen on telling him why she's actually burned, but given how the burns follow her tattoos - now glowing again - stiles can probably work out the gist of it himself.]

Don't worry about it. I'm not quite that stupid.

ic contact || deerington.

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