[A waspish retort burns his throat like stomach bile. Gathering information is how I protect myself, he wants to snap. But Stiles bites his tongue. As prone as he may be to mouthing off, there are too many dangerous unknowns at play. He hasn’t forgotten that this kid managed to somehow force his assailant away without physically interacting with the thug. Worse, Stiles is still thinking about the pointed way that the stranger glanced at his pocket. That latter observation shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. So what if it was obvious Stiles had been in the process of drawing a concealed weapon? He was defending himself.
“Was I supposed to let him?”
“You weren’t supposed to do this.”
“You think I had a choice?”
“There’s always a choice.”
Anger, black and fathomless, begins to swell in his breast. Is this kid, this total stranger, going to judge him from some self-righteous throne too?]
Don’t decide what’s relevant to me, [he grits out, teeth still stained red.] What do you know about the gold pins?
no subject
“You weren’t supposed to do this.”
“You think I had a choice?”
“There’s always a choice.”
Anger, black and fathomless, begins to swell in his breast. Is this kid, this total stranger, going to judge him from some self-righteous throne too?]
Don’t decide what’s relevant to me, [he grits out, teeth still stained red.] What do you know about the gold pins?