Stiles planned to use a kitchen to make a sandwich. That was the goal, when he set out from his room. Sandwich with stuff on it — leftovers, maybe, if there were any. That salty soy paste if there wasn't, it went surprisingly well with hard bread and the fake margarine. These days he was the master of the delicious space sandwich.
Finding a dude smoking up is, of course, way better.
"Yo, McFly," he says with a grin, the left curl of it only the slightest bit judgmental because this is the second time they've met and the dude has been getting stoned both times. But then, Stiles can't really begrudge him that. Even better, he's doing it somewhere that won't get back to the bunch of pseudo-parental figures he's adopted. His experience with pot is still limited to the few draws last time: even breathing in the hothoused kitchen makes him a tough dizzy, though that could just be the lack of oxygen. Still, he can't let this opportunity pass him by.
"Got enough to share if I make you a sandwich?" he asks, going to one of the big industrial fridges.
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Finding a dude smoking up is, of course, way better.
"Yo, McFly," he says with a grin, the left curl of it only the slightest bit judgmental because this is the second time they've met and the dude has been getting stoned both times. But then, Stiles can't really begrudge him that. Even better, he's doing it somewhere that won't get back to the bunch of pseudo-parental figures he's adopted. His experience with pot is still limited to the few draws last time: even breathing in the hothoused kitchen makes him a tough dizzy, though that could just be the lack of oxygen. Still, he can't let this opportunity pass him by.
"Got enough to share if I make you a sandwich?" he asks, going to one of the big industrial fridges.