originallutece | (no subject)

[ 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.

So tell me what it is about.

[Yeah, no, she's just gonna give him a new bag, she can't sit in this smell. It's not his fault, sort of, but she isn't going to just sit here and pretend there's nothing wrong. He can stay seated, though, she'll just move around him, leaning over him to grab the bag and tie it up.]

[ stiles has half the mind to stop her, insist that he can take his own sick bag out and dispose of it somewhere else, but... well, she's already doing it by the time he even realizes that's what she's doing, so it's past the point of sparing himself the embarrassment of someone else cleaning up his vomit. he'll just have to... owe her, or something.

he takes a couple of long seconds to think instead, lips pressed together. he sits up a little, chooses his words carefully. ]

In sophomore year, there was this guy. I mean, there still is this guy, he's still around, but that's not the point. I'd only just met him back then. Didn't know him very long, but he wanted to... change me. [ stiles wets his lower lip, lifts his free hand to absently pinch at the skin at the edge of his jaw. ] He wanted me to become something I wasn't. And it was tempting. It was really tempting, what he was offering, if I'd just let him change me. He said I could be just like him — and that's what stopped me.

I didn't want to be like somebody else. I didn't want to become some other person because it's what someone else wanted or what they thought I should be, or because I thought other people might like me better if I changed. I like me. I like who I am — most of the time, anyway. If other people don't, well.

[ i mean. there's a difference between putting on a plaid shirt and accepting the bite from a psychotic werewolf, but there's only so much of a point he can make without giving away other peoples' secrets. ]

Edited 2018-11-19 05:56 (UTC)

[The good news: she absolutely doesn't suspect what he's truly alluding to. She might someday, because she's sharp and clever and she knows more than most about the supernatural, but it isn't today. The bad: she absolutely thinks he's talking about being offered opium or some other kind of drug.]

That I can agree with.

[She sets a new bag in the can and settles back on the couch. Her posture is just a touch more relaxed; this is fun for her.]

But perhaps we're misunderstanding each other. How do I put this . . .

[Hmm.]

Tell me what you want to do in your life. Do you have a particular passion you want to follow?

[ if only stiles' life were that... normal, but stiles traded your usual teenage experiences for... werewolves and banshees and all other manner of supernatural creatures. cheating death. submitting to it. it's a wonder he's actually still alive.

stiles stretches to set his water down, his left knee bouncing lazily. he twists his hands together loosely, then crosses his arms over his chest, expression thoughtful. recently (before he ended up here, of course), he and his dad had discussed his future and what it might entail as far as careers go. he'd just helped to save a lot of people, his friends, and it'd felt great, but— but it wasn't enough, didn't last long enough to satisfy him. he wanted more.

stiles blinks, still a little caught in the memory of the last real conversation with his father. he wonders, briefly, if he's doing okay. hopes he's not making himself sick trying to find stiles. ]

Law enforcement. My dad's a sheriff, so I've always kind of been - around all of that. [ he pauses briefly. ] Maybe the FBI. I like research, investigating. Helping people, I guess.

All right. So . . . tell me how those in law enforcement look. I'm not talking about uniforms, I'm saying . . . what sort of image do they try and cultivate?

[Will this translate? She's not sure. If it fails, she can always simply tell him outright, but she likes to teach.]

[ stiles presses his lips together, mouth pinching slightly for a moment. he's getting a little frustrated, but not enough to say anything just yet. sure, he's not modeling world-famous designers down a runway, but he's never been critcized this much for frickin plaid. for being comfortble.

there are people that go to the grocery store in their pajamas rosalind. slippers, hair in rollers, in the middle of the day. plaid and khakis and gently-used brand-name sneakers are basically high-fashion in comparison.

he says none of this, though. just exhales through his nose, looks at her pointedly. ]

My best friend's dad is — he works for the FBI. Wears a blazer, sometimes — not a uniform, but a personal choice, I guess —, and you know what? It doesn't make him a different person. He's still an asshole no matter what he wears. His image is still 'hey, I'm kind of a dick, like, 99% of the time'.

[ to be fair, rafael mccall has... well, he hasn't redeemed himself entirely, but he doesn't deserve as much of stiles' hate as he used to, and stiles is aware of that. rafael might have fucked up once upon a time, but he also saved stiles from taking a bullet to the head, and he's been more than helpful the few times it really mattered. ]

He's also still... really good at his job, too. Fancy clothes or not. People know he's good at his job because he's good at his job. [ he leans his head back against the back of the couch, breathes out. ] Can you just — say whatever it is you want to say? Because I'm pretty sure we're just not going to agree so just—

[ he waves one hand vaguely. ]

[All right, fair enough. She'd been thinking of dropping this anyway, and it's clear he's getting annoyed.]

My point is simply . . .

[. . .]

In my field, in order to be taken seriously, I had to be perfect. I had to be better than anyone else, because everyone assumed I was worse, thanks to my gender. I was funny when I was in graduate school; I was a threat when I entered the field. So I could give them no room to criticize me-- my work was flawless, I knew they couldn't get me there, and so they'd look at the other parts of my life.

So I dressed perfectly. I was feminine enough to remind them of what I was, yet masculine enough to fit in. I wore my hair fashionably, I painted my nails . . . and I kept my emotions under lock and key. I made sure they couldn't label me as anything but a perfect scientist, because that was all I was.

People will take any excuse they can to tear you down, Stiles. That is my point. And that success often comes at a price, especially if you're different in any way. So subvert them from the start, and don't give them a chance.

[ stiles listens. he considers. he understands, for the most part, where she's coming from when it comes to her experience, and he's not looking to discredit that, or her, in any way.

but he doesn't necessarily agree that holding herself up to some ridiculous standard was the only move she could have made to get herself the respect she so obviously deserves, but he doesn't have to agree, and he knows that too. his approval or disapproval of the way women were regarded back in her day (and even now, in stiles' time) does not and will not change the past.

it's not that surprising that she's reminded him of lydia again, even if the parallel is somewhat opposite. lydia used to be so caught up in being the perfect girl that she hid her intelligence, played the part of the glamorous, ditzy, team-captain's girlfriend. but stiles saw through it, recognized her mask and pulled it away.

stiles tilts his head a little, drums his fingers against his ribs, and ignores a minor wave of nausea that ebbs away just as quickly as it comes. ]

... You remind me of this girl I know. Back home. Like, sometimes it's like looking at future-Lydia, and it's — weird. Kinda cool, too. She's really smart, too, only she pretended not to be for a while, because she was — I don't know, afraid people might look at her differently, I guess. [ he sits up a little, turns slightly to face rosalind more directly. ] There's this... belief, or. Or, just, this dumb assumption that beautiful girls can't also be smart, or smart girls can't also be beautiful, so she picked the option she thought —, well, I don't really know what she thought.

My point is, once she realized that being herself was more important than worrying about what people might think about her, she stopped caring. And nothing changed. She's still Lydia. She's still smart. She's still beautiful. She's still going to win a — [ shit, what was it? ] — a fields metal, because nothing anyone can say about her makes her any less qualified.

[ he may have lost his actual point there in all that, but he tries to bring it back around, at least. ]

Why did it matter what people could have said about you? [ he leans into the back of the couch, props his head in his hand. ] You do know I'd have to change a whole lot more than my clothes to avoid judgement, right? Like, flannel shirts are the least of my worries.

[God, but that sounds . . . it sounds ideal, honestly. A world in which she could be whatever she wanted, say whatever she wanted to say and wear what she'd like, and yet still succeed? It sounds almost impossible, frankly, and she has her private doubts as to whether Stiles has really grasped the whole truth, but that's a debate that will go nowhere. At least his Lydia had succeeded enough that he hadn't noticed any significant drawbacks.]

It mattered a great deal.

[She says it simply. She'll elaborate if he asks, but--]

You can dress as you like. But I suppose my other point is that . . . it helps to control your reputation, molding it as you like.

[She tips her head, watching him for a few seconds, and then:]

What is it you're alluding at, that sets you apart.

Edited 2018-11-25 06:32 (UTC)

[ stiles considers his reputation. does he even have one? he's known for being sarcastic, he's known for being smart, a little bit of a mess. distracted, sometimes. logical, practical, as realistic as one can be when your town is a literal supernatural beacon (it's in the name). his reputation is different, depending on who you speak to. jackson would probably say he's an idiot, a nerd, a loser. isaac might say he's weak and annoying. scott might say he's the smartest, funniest guy he knows. his dad might say he's a nuisance, but with a fondness that suggests he loves him for it.

it's all a matter of perspective, and how much he takes to heart.

stiles shrugs. there's no point in arguing this anymore right now. he likes his plaid and his print screen tees and a little judgement from people he likely doesn't know very well isn't really on his radar. ]

Uh, nothing that... spectacular? I mean, like — I have ADHD, for one, so people just assume I'm a - spazz, or whatever. My dad's the sheriff back home, so that automatically makes me a snitch, right? When in reality I've lied to my dad more times than I've probably told him the truth. [ he pauses, doesn't seem particularly proud of that, but then keeps going ] I have anxiety, and sometimes it gets really bad to the point that it interferes with—

[ stiles stops, waves his hand dismissively, leans back into the couch. ]

It's just, lots of stuff. Lots of stigmas, but I know what I'm capable of.