Elliot didn't bother to notice him struggling with what to do, because he was too busy closing his eyes and trying to force mended bones to heal faster. Of course, watched pot never boils. Stiles' voice startled him out of his concentration. "No." Elliot rasped out at the question, just barely loud enough to be heard. And then -- really? That's what he chose to say? Either way, he didn't mind too much for the time being, he sucked in a deep breath, feeding off the energy that surrounded Stiles. Maybe it was rude, maybe it was good for his health somehow, maybe it wasn't either. It didn't stop him from stealing energy the boy wasn't using.
The back of a tattoo'd hand wipes at his mouth, wiping blood away. "May I help you?" Elliot recognised the accent that Stiles had to be something other than South African, it made him scoff, and then wince. Fucking tourists. Maybe he should have been asking Stiles for his help, instead of being stand-offish. Goood, his head hurt, and his back. His bloody hand moved to dig into his pocket, shakily pulling out a metal cigarette case, the front decorated by a black ouija board. Someone thought they were funny. Elliot dropped it on his chest and it took him a moment to get it open one handed, but when he did, he pulled a cigarette out, putting it between his lips. It was a perfect time to smoke a fag apparently. His other arm - broken - was healing at least. There'd be no need to call Magdy or Kit to scrape him up off the pavement.
He groaned a bit when he had to search for his lighter, but when he found it, it was smooth sailing from there. Sucking down nicotine and tobacco smoke, he finally turned his full attention on Stiles. Almost black eyes started from the top of his head, sliding down each of his features as if he were committing them to memory. "Want a fag?" Okay, and maybe he wouldn't normally offer one of his cigarettes to some rando, but the guy wasn't leaving, and maybe he was kind of cute in a weird, pale, deathly sort of way. He held the case out towards Stiles, open so he could take a cigarette if he wanted one.
Though he was about as far from being a doctor as he was a pole dancer, Stiles figured that the ability to talk was a good sign. The fact that this man wasn't dead was partially explained by tattoos of unfamiliar design but familiar purpose—Stiles had gotten enough work of his own to pick up a thing or two from his artists. The tug on his magic strengthened as well, and it didn't take a genius to work out that the necromantic witch was taking some silent assistance. Stiles didn't mention it, just pushed from his end a little to encourage their planes to harmonize and help with the healing.
Chuckling at the question, Stiles settled down on the curb and rested his arms on his knees. "I think that's my line, but you've already helped yourself to this walking death buffet." He watched him struggle with the cigarette case, not bothering to help; he'd been there before, when all you want is a bit of control and agency when the rest of the day has gone to shit. Clearly, this man just wanted the simple pleasure of lighting up a cigarette without a tourist trying to do it for him. He barely blinked at the exhaled smoke that engulfed him, silently reaching out for the offered cigarettes to take one. He imagined a time he would have freaked out about the word—fag, said so casually compared to in the States—but his time in Europe had conditioned him to all sorts of unfamiliar slang. "These things'll kill you," he said with a smirk as he waved the peace offering in silent thanks before reaching for the lighter.
He took a deep draw on the cigarette, feeling the thick heat of smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling. "You're Elliot Richards, right?" he asked, figuring there's no reason to beat around the bush. It was obvious what they were, even if his only visible tattoo was turned away from Elliot and hidden by the collar of his jacket. Stiles was always cold, and the sleeves of his leather jacket were cut a perfect inch longer than the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm.
Walking death buffet. Elliot liked the sound of that, and he let out an appreciative hum. Even if he was slightly wary that Stiles knew what he'd been silently up to. It didn't go unnoticed that Stiles tried to help, offering it silently - and Elliot took it, but he had no intention of saying thanks. He could have easily sorted this shit out on his own. Another groan passed his lips, around the cigarette as ash fell on his face. Lazily, he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it away to burn and rest by his side. He exhaled another large puff of smoke. Ash rested on his cheek, unbothered.
"They can certainly try," he mumbled, eyes drifting from Stiles to the sky. "Worse things have tried before." And it was true, he's seen a whole of a hell lot worse than a cigarette. A chuff of a laugh, that was certainly painful if the wince that followed didn't give it away. He was really hoping this guy wasn't some sort of killer, and then his name startled him out of his thoughts. That, made Elliot think that maybe he was some sort of serial killer. Elliot Richards, his own name, this stranger, this tourist stranger knew his name. He closed his eyes, keeping his facial expression schooled into his annoyed neutrality.
"Who?" And, silently, he was thankful for the acting classes he took when he was younger, and the theatre experience he'd had. "Is this some weird pickup line, mate? I'm not interested. You haven't got the right bits for my interest." It was a flat out lie, but one that didn't waver or sell him short, but dark eyes fixed on Stiles again. They didn't hold any nervousness in them at all. "Name's Jack." Oh, Magdy would be pissed if he learned of that little lie. At least with Jack, he couldn't track it to Magdy or himself. If someone knew his name, that was probably bad. If another witch knew his name, it was definitely bad. He was feeling alive enough he could attack him if he had to, and run. Instead of moving, he waited, settling for bringing his cigarette back to his lips and sucking in another deep breath.
Stiles noticed the ash on the man's face but made no move to brush it away. Something about the grey peppered over pale skin, that bit of imperfection, satisfied the void buried behind his sternum and quieted the voice deep in the back of his mind. "Worse things like whatever threw you out of that window?" he asked, tilting his head back and up to eye the shattered glass several stories up.
Studying his face for a reaction to the name, Stiles is pretty impressed by Elliot's ability to dull the natural microexpressions most people aren't even aware of. By the time he meets Stiles' eyes, he's calm and collected. Stiles just sighs, taking another drag on the cigarette rather than arguing. When he exhales, the smoke is thick and black, looking more like a suspended oil slick than tobacco smoke. Stirring two fingers through the stuff, a scrap of paper solidifies between his index and middle fingers.
"Funny, Max Kiesler spoke of you fondly and in great detail." He drops the card onto Elliot's chest for him to inspect when he wants to, or when the bones in his arms fully heal, whichever might come first. The handwriting is distinctly Max's, at least to anyone who knew him, and since it's likely that Elliot doesn't trust him enough to read it, Stiles dictates the description he'd memorized. "Skinny as hell. Hair's always a fucking mess. Looks like a rainbow shat all over his clothes. Mandala on right hand. Smokes self-rolled death sticks from an ouija board case." He pauses, cocking his head to one side, and adds, "Max couldn't spell ouija, isn't he adorable? Anyways, where was I... Black eyes you could fall into. Will probably try to steal your fucking watch if you're not careful."
Elliot let out a wheeze of a laugh, a sardonic burst of noise, the action shaking his entire body. "Nah, that was nothing," he replied behind a frown that overtook his features. His own dusky eyes trailed up the offending building, lingering on the shattered window that he'd fallen out of. But then he moved so that his head was pressed into the concrete, Adam's apple pointing to the sky as he looked behind him. Definitely looking for an escape route, away from the other witch. He could make it if he bolted for it, even if his bones screamed at him for the idea.
Stiles' movement had Elliot's eyes back on him, picking at every little movement for information. Though, watching his hands, or how his lips wrapped around the cigarette or how his chest expanded when he inhaled probably wasn't helpful at all. But then something else happened, something that really shouldn't have, and Elliot watched, morbidly curious. Maybe he was the one that died in the horror movie after all... Stiles looked like he exhaled pure death itself, but Elliot knew it wasn't, no matter how much the thought made him hungry from deep in his soul. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, it wasn't a trick he'd seen before.
The mention of Max caused Elliot to narrow his eyes, a piercing and calculating look for someone who looked fifteen. He glanced down at the letter before back at Stiles. Well, fuck. The suffering sigh that escaped him was met by him bringing his own cigarette back up to his lips to inhale. He didn't want to give away that he was curious about the note, or that he even knew Max, so instead he stayed still aside from smoking.
Fondly? Sounded fake.
Honestly, it was a great description, and it had him down to a t. The Mandala on his hand felt heavy against his skin, and he knew, if it wasn't everything else that gave him away, that was certainly the straw that broke his back. Boy, was he getting tired of strangers knowing more about him than he did himself sometimes. "And you think that description fits me?"
Eyes tracking Elliot's, Stiles didn't make any motion to keep him in place. It was pretty obvious that he was assessing the area, probably looking for a way out as soon as he was healed up enough to make a break for it. Stiles knew something of his magic, and even if his own would provide energy for the necromantic, he wagered that he could hold him in place if needed. It would be worth the risk, knowing that these streets were Elliot's backyard and he could easily lose Stiles with enough distance between them. Feeling eyes heavy on his skin, he focused back on Elliot and his reaction to the thick black smoke. Even among witches, Stiles' brand of magic was neither common nor enjoyable to be around.
He huffed out a laugh at the harsh look in Elliot's eyes, enjoying the juxtaposition of his youthful exterior and decaying interior. Though Elliot was still keen on denying his identity, Stiles was certain that he'd found his man; now all the had to do was convince him not to run off the second his legs stopped jutting out at impossible angles. "Necromantic witch with a protection mandala on his right hand? Yeah, and the neon pants sort of give it away," he replied with a crooked smile just wide enough to show one sharp canine. "I mean, he also told me you were a bitey bugger in the sack, but I'm not fucking you just to find out if you can help me. Maybe after," he added with one raised eyebrow.
Elliot scoffed, turning his head away from Stiles, making note to punch Maxwell in the face when he saw him next. "You're not my type, mate," he said smoothly, even if it was a lie. "I don't help people." With a groan, he finally pushed himself up with his arms, so that he was at least sitting up. His cigarette case and the letter fell into his lap, ignored for the time being. "I wouldn't steal your watch either, it's shite." Ah, there it was -- an actual truth.
"What is it you need help with then? I'm not a doctor, I can't sort out whatever terminal illness that's killing you." It was a blind guess, one that he was shaky about at best. His posture was hunched, spine still hurting. His legs were still busted, he wasn't going anywhere for a little while. "Uuurgh." His hands moved to his hair to ruffle it in his own frustration. His own sharp teeth were pressed together, jaw tensing and relaxing in thought.
"I need a bloody pint. Haven't got any hidden in your weird black portals, ay?"
Stiles rolled his eyes before examining his nails—bitten short but surprisingly clean after being knuckle-deep in the floating sludge of his portal magic. He chose to ignore the jab, neither believing nor caring if it was yet another comment on Elliot's sexuality. Straightening up a bit, no longer needing to loom over Elliot just to meet his eyes, Stiles took another pull on his cigarette, exhaling normal smoke a few seconds later. "Yeah, think it's dead anyways," he said as he glanced down at the watch face. His dad had given it to him for his birthday freshman year of high school in an effort to keep him from missing classes, and he hadn't been able to part with it.
"Nothing that easy or boring," he replied with an annoyed click of his tongue. Rationally, he knew that Elliot didn't know him nor owe him anything, but he couldn't help wishing he'd be less of a dick to the witch he was siphoning energy from. "Max is a friend from school," he explained as Elliot groaned and appeared to take stock of his legs. "He told me about Nyaminyami," he added, hoping that it would at least get Elliot to take him seriously.
Elliot didn't bother comment on the other guy's watch, not emotionally invested in the situation. Fuck, a ghost could stroll by any time so he could fuck off back home... His lips parted, mouth about to open and rattle off something cocky and sarcastic - the other guy was bringing it out in him - when he hears the word Nyaminyami. Everything he was about to say died on his tongue, leaving it a graveyard. His hands busied themselves with stuffing his cigarette case back in his pocket and actually grabbing the note, finally. With mild hesitation, he opened it, looking at the message that Stiles had relayed to him.
He stayed silent for a good thirty seconds before finding it in him to speak up. "You've got a possession problem? Isn't that what Max does. Vessel things? Did he tell you he was the one to pull the fucking thing out of me? Well, him and his weird gran." It was the most he'd said all night, probably, which probably meant the rest of his night was going to suck too. "Is that what's killing you? A spirit or sommat?" Eyes that looked black in the night scanned over Stiles, not looking for much of anything other than answers. "Came an awful long way to be told to ask for Max's help." Elliot was eternally grateful that Nyaminyami hadn't begun feeding on his soul whilst possessing him, he hadn't had to cut any decay out of himself, or puke maggots. He'd just been left with a horrific fear of the water and far too many experiences of drowning.
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The back of a tattoo'd hand wipes at his mouth, wiping blood away. "May I help you?" Elliot recognised the accent that Stiles had to be something other than South African, it made him scoff, and then wince. Fucking tourists. Maybe he should have been asking Stiles for his help, instead of being stand-offish. Goood, his head hurt, and his back. His bloody hand moved to dig into his pocket, shakily pulling out a metal cigarette case, the front decorated by a black ouija board. Someone thought they were funny. Elliot dropped it on his chest and it took him a moment to get it open one handed, but when he did, he pulled a cigarette out, putting it between his lips. It was a perfect time to smoke a fag apparently. His other arm - broken - was healing at least. There'd be no need to call Magdy or Kit to scrape him up off the pavement.
He groaned a bit when he had to search for his lighter, but when he found it, it was smooth sailing from there. Sucking down nicotine and tobacco smoke, he finally turned his full attention on Stiles. Almost black eyes started from the top of his head, sliding down each of his features as if he were committing them to memory. "Want a fag?" Okay, and maybe he wouldn't normally offer one of his cigarettes to some rando, but the guy wasn't leaving, and maybe he was kind of cute in a weird, pale, deathly sort of way. He held the case out towards Stiles, open so he could take a cigarette if he wanted one.
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Chuckling at the question, Stiles settled down on the curb and rested his arms on his knees. "I think that's my line, but you've already helped yourself to this walking death buffet." He watched him struggle with the cigarette case, not bothering to help; he'd been there before, when all you want is a bit of control and agency when the rest of the day has gone to shit. Clearly, this man just wanted the simple pleasure of lighting up a cigarette without a tourist trying to do it for him. He barely blinked at the exhaled smoke that engulfed him, silently reaching out for the offered cigarettes to take one. He imagined a time he would have freaked out about the word—fag, said so casually compared to in the States—but his time in Europe had conditioned him to all sorts of unfamiliar slang. "These things'll kill you," he said with a smirk as he waved the peace offering in silent thanks before reaching for the lighter.
He took a deep draw on the cigarette, feeling the thick heat of smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling. "You're Elliot Richards, right?" he asked, figuring there's no reason to beat around the bush. It was obvious what they were, even if his only visible tattoo was turned away from Elliot and hidden by the collar of his jacket. Stiles was always cold, and the sleeves of his leather jacket were cut a perfect inch longer than the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm.
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"They can certainly try," he mumbled, eyes drifting from Stiles to the sky. "Worse things have tried before." And it was true, he's seen a whole of a hell lot worse than a cigarette. A chuff of a laugh, that was certainly painful if the wince that followed didn't give it away. He was really hoping this guy wasn't some sort of killer, and then his name startled him out of his thoughts. That, made Elliot think that maybe he was some sort of serial killer. Elliot Richards, his own name, this stranger, this tourist stranger knew his name. He closed his eyes, keeping his facial expression schooled into his annoyed neutrality.
"Who?" And, silently, he was thankful for the acting classes he took when he was younger, and the theatre experience he'd had. "Is this some weird pickup line, mate? I'm not interested. You haven't got the right bits for my interest." It was a flat out lie, but one that didn't waver or sell him short, but dark eyes fixed on Stiles again. They didn't hold any nervousness in them at all. "Name's Jack." Oh, Magdy would be pissed if he learned of that little lie. At least with Jack, he couldn't track it to Magdy or himself. If someone knew his name, that was probably bad. If another witch knew his name, it was definitely bad. He was feeling alive enough he could attack him if he had to, and run. Instead of moving, he waited, settling for bringing his cigarette back to his lips and sucking in another deep breath.
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Studying his face for a reaction to the name, Stiles is pretty impressed by Elliot's ability to dull the natural microexpressions most people aren't even aware of. By the time he meets Stiles' eyes, he's calm and collected. Stiles just sighs, taking another drag on the cigarette rather than arguing. When he exhales, the smoke is thick and black, looking more like a suspended oil slick than tobacco smoke. Stirring two fingers through the stuff, a scrap of paper solidifies between his index and middle fingers.
"Funny, Max Kiesler spoke of you fondly and in great detail." He drops the card onto Elliot's chest for him to inspect when he wants to, or when the bones in his arms fully heal, whichever might come first. The handwriting is distinctly Max's, at least to anyone who knew him, and since it's likely that Elliot doesn't trust him enough to read it, Stiles dictates the description he'd memorized. "Skinny as hell. Hair's always a fucking mess. Looks like a rainbow shat all over his clothes. Mandala on right hand. Smokes self-rolled death sticks from an ouija board case." He pauses, cocking his head to one side, and adds, "Max couldn't spell ouija, isn't he adorable? Anyways, where was I... Black eyes you could fall into. Will probably try to steal your fucking watch if you're not careful."
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Stiles' movement had Elliot's eyes back on him, picking at every little movement for information. Though, watching his hands, or how his lips wrapped around the cigarette or how his chest expanded when he inhaled probably wasn't helpful at all. But then something else happened, something that really shouldn't have, and Elliot watched, morbidly curious. Maybe he was the one that died in the horror movie after all... Stiles looked like he exhaled pure death itself, but Elliot knew it wasn't, no matter how much the thought made him hungry from deep in his soul. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, it wasn't a trick he'd seen before.
The mention of Max caused Elliot to narrow his eyes, a piercing and calculating look for someone who looked fifteen. He glanced down at the letter before back at Stiles. Well, fuck. The suffering sigh that escaped him was met by him bringing his own cigarette back up to his lips to inhale. He didn't want to give away that he was curious about the note, or that he even knew Max, so instead he stayed still aside from smoking.
Fondly? Sounded fake.
Honestly, it was a great description, and it had him down to a t. The Mandala on his hand felt heavy against his skin, and he knew, if it wasn't everything else that gave him away, that was certainly the straw that broke his back. Boy, was he getting tired of strangers knowing more about him than he did himself sometimes. "And you think that description fits me?"
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He huffed out a laugh at the harsh look in Elliot's eyes, enjoying the juxtaposition of his youthful exterior and decaying interior. Though Elliot was still keen on denying his identity, Stiles was certain that he'd found his man; now all the had to do was convince him not to run off the second his legs stopped jutting out at impossible angles. "Necromantic witch with a protection mandala on his right hand? Yeah, and the neon pants sort of give it away," he replied with a crooked smile just wide enough to show one sharp canine. "I mean, he also told me you were a bitey bugger in the sack, but I'm not fucking you just to find out if you can help me. Maybe after," he added with one raised eyebrow.
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Elliot scoffed, turning his head away from Stiles, making note to punch Maxwell in the face when he saw him next. "You're not my type, mate," he said smoothly, even if it was a lie. "I don't help people." With a groan, he finally pushed himself up with his arms, so that he was at least sitting up. His cigarette case and the letter fell into his lap, ignored for the time being. "I wouldn't steal your watch either, it's shite." Ah, there it was -- an actual truth.
"What is it you need help with then? I'm not a doctor, I can't sort out whatever terminal illness that's killing you." It was a blind guess, one that he was shaky about at best. His posture was hunched, spine still hurting. His legs were still busted, he wasn't going anywhere for a little while. "Uuurgh." His hands moved to his hair to ruffle it in his own frustration. His own sharp teeth were pressed together, jaw tensing and relaxing in thought.
"I need a bloody pint. Haven't got any hidden in your weird black portals, ay?"
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"Nothing that easy or boring," he replied with an annoyed click of his tongue. Rationally, he knew that Elliot didn't know him nor owe him anything, but he couldn't help wishing he'd be less of a dick to the witch he was siphoning energy from. "Max is a friend from school," he explained as Elliot groaned and appeared to take stock of his legs. "He told me about Nyaminyami," he added, hoping that it would at least get Elliot to take him seriously.
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He stayed silent for a good thirty seconds before finding it in him to speak up. "You've got a possession problem? Isn't that what Max does. Vessel things? Did he tell you he was the one to pull the fucking thing out of me? Well, him and his weird gran." It was the most he'd said all night, probably, which probably meant the rest of his night was going to suck too. "Is that what's killing you? A spirit or sommat?" Eyes that looked black in the night scanned over Stiles, not looking for much of anything other than answers. "Came an awful long way to be told to ask for Max's help." Elliot was eternally grateful that Nyaminyami hadn't begun feeding on his soul whilst possessing him, he hadn't had to cut any decay out of himself, or puke maggots. He'd just been left with a horrific fear of the water and far too many experiences of drowning.