Lightning of Her Skin

“Stiles” first-name-unknown Stilinski was being watched with faint amusement as he threw himself dramatically to the grassy knoll on the school grounds. For once he was apart from Scott and Allison and was muttering to himself. His head wobbled like a nodding dog when he imitated whoever he was having the imaginary conversation with, “why can't I just be Batman?” He groaned, flinging himself backwards and throwing an arm over his eyes.

“You don't wanna be Batman.” An amused voice told him from his side.

“I think maybe I do.” He was too annoyed to temper his tone or even check who the unfamiliar, British voice belonged to. Whoever it was gave a throaty chuckle. He heard the grass rustle beside indicating that the girl had sat down beside him. A girl willingly sitting beside him? Well now he knew he was definitely in an alternate reality. That had always crossed his mind when he sat and thought about werewolves. Could he be Batman in this alternate reality please? Just give him something.

“Nah, you wanna be Iron Man. So much cooler. I mean he's richer than Batman, his sidekick is James Rhodes aka War Machine, who just FYI is way cooler than Robin. He's less whiny too. I mean, his parents were killed in a freak plane accident and you don't hear him going on about it like Batman. Also, in the comics, all this man gets is stick and he doesn't complain as much.” This girl clearly was not a fan of Batman, the disdain was obvious in her voice. But the fact that she even knew enough about comics to compare Batman and Iron Man with any modicum of efficiency was impressive. Impressive enough to make Stiles gingerly lift the arm from his eye and peek at this rare breed of female. Talking to him. About comic books. Comic books. Beside him, with her arms tucked under her bent legs and her head resting on her knees, was a girl he was sure he'd never seen before. To be fair, he wasn't aware of most people at the best of times, but he was sure he'd remember her if they'd spoken before. Especially if she was suddenly speaking so friendly to him now. She was British. Her eyes peered at him through her glasses, light with amusement.

“Your argument is sound.” He nodded sagely, as if having this type of discussion was normal for him. His sense of normality was screwed at best though. What was normal for him and what was normal for everyone else weren't all that similar any more.

“I'm Sophia.” She extended one of the hands that were tucked underneath her leg.

“Stiles.” He shook her hand, squeezing unintentionally firmly in an attempt to look the tiniest bit sane and not distracted at all.

“Nice to meet you. So. You wanna tell me who you were having an argument with? Seemed pretty heated.” Sophia suddenly laid herself out next to him, shimmied down so that their heads were level and twisted herself to lay on her stomach. Those eyes now bore in to him like she was genuinely interested in what he was about to say. Well... that was new. Usually it was a half-interested, half-exasperated look that he received and he's grown used to that. Having someone's full attention (having his Dad's or Derek's angry full attention didn't count) was unnerving. Stiles bit the bottom of his lip, contemplating her for a moment.

“Okay so...” He launched in to his story, twisting around so that they were both lying parallel on their stomachs.

About ten minutes later Stiles had accidentally spilled his guts about his entire inferiority complex, his insane crush on Lydia Martin and the feeling of being left out. Naturally he didn't mention the entire werewolf business, the Kamina or feeling scared all of the time as that would just raise more questions. Sophia nodded along, never laughed or judged and took everything in her stride. Her face didn't even once betray that she might be finding all of this boring or not important. Finally he heaved a massive breath. He felt better after getting it off his chest. Speaking about everything in an unspecific kind of way, like he was outside of the situation, helped. Everything was just piling up on top of him and he couldn't talk to it about anyone.

“So yeah.” He ended lamely, like he did with almost every presentation he'd ever done in school. Sophia let a tiny smile cross her face before her forehead knitted.

“You're too pretty to feel inferior.” This was said in all seriousness, earnestness and honesty. Stiles could hear it in her voice. He blinked.

“That's not – wait. You think I'm pretty? Like, as in attractive pretty. As in possibly attractive to gay guys?”

Her face fell quickly, “you're gay?”

“No. Wait – do I look gay? Cos I can tell you now I'm not gay. Not that I have anything against it.” He was rambling. Someone shut him up. Please? Adderall.

“Oh well then. Yeah to all those questions.” With a tiny shrug she foisted herself up to standing. The bell for next period rang as if on cue. With a smirk she glanced down at her new friend, or who she was going to make certain was her new friend, “Stiles. If you ever want to feel 'human' again,” she referred back to the words that he'd used. He'd said it in a general-feeling-yourself sense for her, “then I like to go to arcades, movies or just general everyday adventures. Look me up. I also really like ice cream.”

And then she walked away with a wink, her floral dress swishing around her. What was that? Was that a proposition? Stiles gawked after her, not caring that most of the student body were filing inside reluctantly. He just sat there.

He was shocked.

He was confused.

He was War Machine.