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[ stiles hand falls short, his middle and index finger tapping out a quick, sporadic rhythm. this is probably not a good idea for more reason than stiles actually wants to consider. it's not that he doesn't trust rosalind to know what she's doing, because he does. from what he can tell, she's incredibly intelligent. a batch of prescription medication seems like it should be nothing in comparison to floating countries and parallel universes.

it doesn't mean stiles isn't paranoid about it. it's in his nature to question things, to cast doubt where others refuse to, to remain skeptical because trusting blindly always seems to land his friends in trouble. rosalind is... well, stiles likes her, if he's honest. she's interesting and straightforward and surprisingly easy to get along with, but none of that means she's trustworthy. none of that means she couldn't or wouldn't pull one over on him.

stiles presses his lips together, thinks of scott, and how easily he trusts that people, for the most part, are good. he thinks of how all of his friendships nearly fell apart not too long ago, half of them because stiles wasn't sure if he could trust them, if he could trust himself.

rosalind seems... nice. she seems good. scott would probably like her, and that's enough for now to convince stiles to just pick the damn pill up. he glances up, wets his lips again, absently rolls the pill between his fingertips. ]

Just - curious: what kind of side-effects are you maybe expecting might... occur. Outside of the typical list of fifty-things-that-are-probably-worse-than-your-ailment. [ he doesn't wait for her answer, though, and just tips his head back, dumps the pill into his mouth, and swallows it dry. probably not the best idea, but.

neither is making adderall in lab. ]

[Rosalind is not nice. Rosalind is not good. But nor is Rosalind sadistic or cruel-- and more to the point, nor are her intentions anything less than what he thinks they are. There's a vast difference between being cold and direct (which she is) and taking gleeful pleasure in someone's pain (which she does, but only when they deserve it). So he'll be perfectly safe as he pops that pill, though she pulls a face as he does it dry.]

A sore throat, for starters. Honestly, the sink is not a room away.

[But that's very mild chiding, spoken as she watches him carefully. There doesn't seem to be any immediate adverse effects, which is good.]

A mild sense of euphoria. A headache or stomachache. Possibly some nausea.

[It's the first one she's expecting, honestly, although she'll make note of any he complains about. This is only batch one; she'll improve the longer she does this.]

Come sit.

[There's a couch, albeit surrounded by lab equipment. There's a few books scattered around, though given the nature of this city, their subjects all tend to veer in one particular direction.]

[ when compared to the number of actually-shitty people stiles has had the great displeasure of running into, rosalind is an angel. one who led him into an alley way once and left him cuff-free but with weird feelings— one who makes prescription drugs in a makeshift lab probably with no actual clearance or authority to do so, but. all of that is neither here nor there and stiles wouldn't really have the attention span to argue any of it, anyway.

he shrugs off the gentle chiding, mostly because there's no point in arguing about that, either. what's done is done, the pill is gone, and stiles is more concerned about what could happen to him on the highly-unlikely but still not impossible chance they got this very wrong. so far, the possibilities seem tame. on par, really, with side effects he's experienced before on his actual meds.

well, not the euphoria, really, but that hardly seems alarming. it could be worse. ]

So, the youge, [ he says it casually, mouth turned down a little as he shrugs. youge, short for usual, probably. ] Minus the... euphoria. That could be— well, not terrible.

[ stiles smiles a little, huffs a small laugh. he doesn't make to move right away, though, just standing there, one hand on his hip, tongue pressing into the space between his bottom teeth and his cheek.

he's restless, and kind of annoyed with himself for it, which just makes him kind of anxious. it's a vicious cycle, and he is aware, and he convinces himself to sit down and just... let whatever happens happen.

stiles rests his hands on his thighs, slides his palms up to his knees and then back down, like he's wiping them off. for a moment, he just sits there, his left thumb lifting and lowering in the slowest of taps against his leg. ]

Is that— [ he says rather suddenly, lifting his hand off his leg so he can pick at his jaw for a second before splaying his hand out lazily. it would seem he's jumping back in the conversation a little. ] I've never heard anyone say that before. 'Take in' a movie.

[She lifts a shoulder.]

We don't have them properly, not when I'm from. We had-- oh, nickelodeons, really, short films, but those were for promotional pieces, not like the ones you have here. They were silent things.

[ stiles sinks down a little, seems to relax just slightly, turns his head a bit so he can look at rosalind. he seems a little amused. ]

Nickelodeon is actually like, the name of a whole channel now. When... [ he pauses, only because it's weird to say ] I'm from, anyway. Also maybe where I'm from? I dunno.

[ also a weird thing to consider. weird and interesting, but not the strangest thing he's had to consider the possibility of, by far. ]

I honestly thought that word was made up until... just now.

Today has been beneficial in more than one way, then, hasn't it?

[Dryly said, as she settles back and regards him. It's a little odd to be sitting on a couch with a boy at least ten years younger than her, but not entirely unpleasant. He's clever, and she always values cleverness.]

You've learnt how to surpass a pharmacy and you've learned something about the nineteen hundreds. Next, perhaps, we'll work on dressing you properly.

[ stiles' mouth drops open a little and he just... blinks at her, for a solid few seconds, like she's just committed the greatest offense against his person. after a moment, he closes his mouth, teeth clicking quietly. ]

What? [ the disbelief! the audacity! his brow furrow slightly, and he leans his chin forward a little, nose wrinkled slightly as he plucks at the front of his dark blue-green flannel, unbuttoned so the graphic tee (advertising some kind of soda stiles has never heard of before) is on display as well. ] I know it's not a—

[ he lets go of the front of his shirt to wave his hand uselessly as he tries to think of the fashions, in general, in the 1900s. it's a struggle at best, but he's not entirely clueless ]

— a three piece suit with like, a waistcoat and everything, but plaid is very 'in' in this century. It's the in thing. Even Scott wears plaid now, like, all the time. Seriously, all of my shirts keep going missing more and more frequently and what do you know? Scott.

Stiles, your justification is that it's popular, and therefore it must look good. That's a very poor rationale.

[She says it coolly, her eyes studying the graphic on his shirt for a few moments before meeting his gaze again.]

You'd do well in a waistcoat.

[ he holds up both hands as if to say, no no, hold on, wait, brows lifting a little. ]

No, what I'm saying is I've been wearing plaid since before it was... cool. And now it's cool, sooo [ he drags out the vowel, like he's expecting her to understand the conclusion he's drawing here, but he continues on anyway ], you could say I set the trend. I am a trend-setter.

[ false. he doesn't really seem all that serious about it though. he drops his hands, shrugs his shoulders, blows out a heavy sigh through his nose. ]

Anyway, the closest I've come to wearing anything even close to a waistcoat is when my dad let me wear his bullet-proof vest for like thirty seconds when I was, like, twelve. It was too big and heavy and uncomfortable, and basically I'm not into waistcoats. [ the briefest pause for consideration. ] On me.

But on others?

[She caught that, thank you. And though she's wearing a blouse now, it's not as if a vest was a foreign part of her wardrobe. Or, hell, perhaps he means that he enjoys them on men; it's not as if this city cares about what people like.]

[ who the hell knows if stiles even knows what he means. he shrugs again, his expression somewhat thoughtful. ]

I mean... sure? [ truthfully, he hasn't actually seen a whole lot of people wearing waistcoats in real life. the last time was probably at winter formal in his sophomore year, and his memories of that dance are a little tainted with darker shit so if he did happen to catch a glance of someone in waistcoat, he most certainly does not remember or care. before that, maybe at his mother's funeral, but for similar reasons, he also does not remember. ] I always thought they seemed kind of hot.

[ stiles pauses to swallow, scrunching his nose a little. absently, he brings his fist up, presses the side of it to his mouth briefly, then drops his hand again. after a second, he blinks, then jumps to clarify. ]

As in temperature. Hot as in. Temperature. Like you've got the dress shirt and then the vest and then maybe a jacket on top of that. Side note: feeling a little bit nauseated.

[ which is no cause for alarm and kind of what he would expect from his regular script, and he knows that, but that doesn't stop him from feeling a little anxious about it because it's not his regular prescription so. it's probably nothing. probably. maybe. it's fine. ]

[She raises an eyebrow, watching him for a few seconds, before standing to grab the garbage. It's a plastic thing, so he can vomit away as he needs to. Slinging it in front of him, she takes a seat, one leg crossing over the other.]

It isn't, if that's what you truly meant.

[And she's not entirely certain it was.]

All those layers, regardless of gender, were lighter than they looked. Which isn't to say they were never hot, but people seem to think they were far more stifling than they were.

[ stiles slides the trash can back a couple of inches, but definitely not far enough away that he'd have to scramble for it if worse comes to worst. it's just so he has room to sit forward a little, elbows resting on his knees, fist back up in front of his face again, hovering near his mouth, but not blocking it.

he probably won't actually be sick if he can help it, but he's not writing off the possibility just yet.

stiles turns his head slightly, lets the edge of his jaw rest against his loose fist as he looks at her. ]

Okay, sure. But wasn't everything also mostly form-fitting? Where does the body heat go if nothing is breathable? It sounds like - like a wearable sauna. Just seems like it'd be uncomfortable as an every-day thing.

T-shirts, though. [ he points lazily with his other hand ] All day every day.

Edited 2018-11-18 06:17 (UTC)

Yes, but you look as though you were interrupted mid-way to tending a bizarrely cheerful coal mine.

[She doesn't care for his look, in other words.]

Don't you think looking decently and striking the impression that you want to is more important that comfort?

[ only the slightest moment of hesitance, only so he can look at her as if she's crazy. the expression possibly doesn't mesh well with nausea. ]

No? No. I'd rather be comfortable than worry about who thinks what about me because they don't like the look of my clothes. It's one thing to look nice for a job interview or whatever, but if I'm just like... going to school, or hanging out at a friend's house, or grabbing a burger at midnight, then who cares?

[ he shrugs, looks away long enough to reach out to inch the trash can a little closer. ]

High-ho.

[She watches him in return as he yanks the trash closer. She's pleased, though she doesn't look it.]

And when you go to school, say . . . do you not want to strike a certain impression?

I have, like, a four-point-oh GPA. [ he rolls the plastic of the bin liner between his thumb and index finger, wrinkling his nose against a slow wave of nausea. ] What I wear isn't indicative of that. A three piece suit might make someone look smart, but that doesn't mean they are.

[ the corner of his mouth curls a little, very briefly ]

If anything, it just means they wake up earlier in the morning to put on all those extra layers. I like sleeping in. And not throwing up, oh god.

Hush. It will pass, in one way if not another.

[She leans back, still watching him. Her fingers slide idly against her thigh, tapping out an idle rhythm.]

No matter what happens, Stiles, someone will judge you based on how you're dressed. It would be nice if that wasn't true, but it is. They will always, always look at you, see what they see, and fill in the rest of your personality based solely on that.

And if you want people to take you seriously, you have to dress like it.

Or— [ he stops for a second, curls his hand over the edge of the garbage bin like he's going to pull it in. he breathes out instead, but keeps his hand where it is. ] Or. I can just continue to wear what I like since people are going to judge me either way. If they're wrong about whatever conclusions they draw from - stripes and khakis and thrift-store Adidas, then they can figure that out on their own.

[ and with that, he sits forward, and vomits into the trash. ]

Edited (forgot a word ugh) 2018-11-19 04:14 (UTC)

[Well, better out than in. Rosalind pats his back twice, attempting to be comforting, before getting up to get a glass of water. She sets it down on the table, ready for whenever he finishes vomiting.

She also has a small notebook, in which she writes down that symptom.]

I suppose that's the benefit of being a white man: you don't have to worry about what you--

[Whoop, there's another retch.]

--what you wear, or how others percieve you.

[Just saying.]

[ stiles spits into the garbage as elegantly as he can manage - which is not at all - once he feels like he's finished, closing his eyes for a second just to be sure. ]

That's... fair. [ he looks thoughtful for a moment, still leaning over the trash as he opens his eyes slowly. he cringes slightly, maybe gags a little because he's just looked at his own vomit, and blood is not the only thing he has a weak stomach for, apparently.

rosalind comes from a time where things are very different than they are when stiles comes from. they're also from entirely different worlds, which is also something to take into consideration, but even across universes it would seem that some things remain the same. like prejudice against women and persons of color, etc.

stiles lets go of the garbage, slides it away, drags the glass of water closer, but he doesn't drink from it just yet. instead, he turns his head to look at rosalind, quiet for a moment. ] I think that's really - shitty, for what it's worth.

[ a pause, just so he can take a couple sips of water. ]

I think you'd be just as smart in plaid. Maybe even smarter.

[ is he serious? maybe. maybe not. probably not but he's just thrown up and he feels kinda gross an slightly weird so who knows what his brain is actually doing at this moment, aside from trying to make her smile with dumb remarks. ]

[She scoffs lightly, but it's a friendly sort of scoff. Amused, really, because he's trying to be sweet. He is being sweet, and though his attitude doesn't change anything, there's something gratifying about hearing it spoken out loud.]

Perhaps someday you'll even get the chance to find out.

[Why not? Stranger things have happened. Now, finally, she offers him a slight smile, quick and meant.]

Is your stomach settling?

[ he'll think about that comment later and what it might mean, but for now he just looks far more amused than anyone should be about someone agreeing to maybe give plaid a chance sometime in the future. he sits back, drinks some more of his water, gestures toward her a little with the cup.

he almost spills, but seems to realize his error before he can embarrass himself. ]

Deal. But I'm still not gonna wear a waistcoat. [ except he probably will, at some point. who knows. stranger things have happened.

stiles slouches a little, rests his glass on his ribs. he lifts his other hand, palm face down and parallel to the ground as he wobbles it back and forth slightly. ]

Eh. I guess. I don't think I'm gonna hurl again, if that's what you mean.

All right. Tell me if you think it'll happen again.

[In the meantime, she rises again, prying open a window. The smell of vomit is not precisely pleasant.]

Are you always so emphatic when it comes to your fashion, or do you just like a good fight?

[ stiles takes a hint and nudges the garbage a little further away from where they're sitting with his foot. it hardly makes a difference, but it's the effort that counts? ]

Both? It's not really about the clothes, though.