He meets her in a bar a few towns over. She's startlingly beautiful, yet easy to overlook; she blends perfectly into the background unless she wants to be seen. He knows what that means, and it piques his curiosity.
In the dimness of the establishment, he catches her eye. She meets his gaze unflinchingly, her icy blue eyes hard and wary. As the shadows play across her features, he can't help but think she looks inhumanly dangerous.
And, also, incredibly sad.
He saunters up to her, trying his best flirty smile. She appraises him coolly, her gaze moving slowly over his body. To any casual onlooker, it might just seem like a precursory "to screw or not to screw" assessment. Stiles sees it for what it is- an assessment of the threat he might pose: of what he knows or is or has done. He just smiles back, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. He's good at that. Practice makes perfect, after all. Finally, she seems to make her decision. With a flip of her long blonde hair and a dainty crossing of her even longer legs, she motions towards the bar stool beside her. He was planning on taking the seat, whether he had earned her initial approval or not, but the invitation is exciting all the same. He scrambles into the seat, nearly knocking them both to the ground in the process.
"Hi!" He grins eagerly, and she purses her lips like she's wondering if she made the wrong choice. She repeats the greeting, eyes locked onto his own, searching. He knows that she will find no real answers within their depths, but he appreciates the effort. "My name is Stiles Stilinski."
She nods, glancing down into her glass. With an easy flick of her wrist, she swirls the amber liquid inside before downing it all without so much as a wince. "Rachel." she returns, eyes still locked on her cup. Stiles stares at the glass as well, and he can't help but note just how heavy it looks. She holds it like a weapon, out of place in her delicately manicured hand, but deadly just the same. He swallows, and her eyes move to track the bobbing of his adams apple.
"What, no last name?" he prompts playfully, trying to keep the mood light even as he attempts to get his answers. "Are you in Witness Protection or just a fugitive on the run? After all, your beauty's got to be criminal!"
She glares, but there's a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "That's the lamest pickup line I think I've ever heard." she states before turning to call the bartender over for a refill. "And trust me, I've heard a few."
"What can I say?" he shrugs, grinning broadly. "Not everyone has the charm of a..." he trails off, not certain where his brain had been leading him. She doesn't comment, just sips her drink and watches the bar's patrons. Stiles frowns before turning to order a drink of his own. (He's not surprised when he's carded. He still looks young, even though one would think he'd be covered in wrinkles and grey hairs from all the werewolf shenanigans he had to deal with everyday.)Rachel watches him from her peripheral, smirking. He frowns at her and takes a swig of his own drink. She laughs out loud at the face he pulls, and even though it's at his expense, Stiles would be lying if he said that that laugh, as brittle and unnatural as it was, didn't boost his confidence about 75 percent. He turns to her, grinning.
"So, Rachel, where are you from?"
"Just a small town, here in Cali." she responds, licking her lips. "I doubt you'd know it's name."
"I'm not so sure about that!" Stiles counters. "I've traveled enough that I think I know every backwater, two-buildings-and-a-gas-station town in the country." He makes a face, trying for humor. The words came out just a little too bitter, though; Just a little too worn. That happens sometimes. He tries to continue on, like it never happened, to direct her attention elsewhere so as not to spoil this chance. She doesn't let him, locking on to those words and that tone, eyes on him like he's suddenly far more interesting than before.
"So you travel a lot, then?" she murmurs, leaning in. He tries to keep his eyes above her chest, locked on her nose so it seems like he's looking at her eyes instead. He sees her lips curl into a predatory smile. "What are you running from, Stiles?" he averts his gaze, and hey, those ceiling tiles are actually very clean. Who would've guessed? She reaches out a hand and rests it on his thigh. "Or are you running for someone, perhaps?" she continues, and suddenly he wants to retaliate in some way, so he leans forward until they are just millimeters away, their breaths mingling, heavy with alcohol between them.
"I'm running from darkness." he whispers. "The darkness around my heart." the words are bitter, but strangely familiar upon his tongue. She blinks those ice-blue eyes of hers, seeming a little taken aback. Then the walls are back up and Rachel is smirking, cocky and strong and more than a little dangerous. But Stiles knows how to be dangerous, too. He returns her smirk, and before his opponent can continue, he counters with, "And how about you, oh Warrior Princess? What kind of darkness awaits you when you stop running?"
He sees her falter, watches her eyes darken and her lips part. For a second, he almost feels bad.