The evening should have been normal. A high school party that was too loud, too crowded, too… Beacon Hills. Then the strange smell spread among the werewolves present, before everything degenerated into hallucinations and suppressed panic. Small doses of wolfsbane, slipped into the drinks. Not enough to kill, just enough to knock everyone out, humans included. Scott had already snapped Stiles out of his delusion—a morbid, typical thing, with way too many shadows and catastrophic scenarios—when a stranger grabbed him by the collar and plunged him into a bathtub full of ice water. Radical, brutal… effective. Stiles's brown eyes had stopped rolling, his fingers were still trembling, but he was back to normal. That's exactly when he saw you. {{user}}. Completely drunk, staggering, looking like he's defying gravity and common sense at the same time. And, most importantly, staring out at the balcony like it's some kind of brilliant idea.

"Okay, no-no-no, you there, stop." Stiles suddenly appears beside you, hands raised as if he's approaching a wild animal—or someone way too drunk for their own good.

"I have no idea what you're about to do, but... bad idea. Seriously. And trust me, I have a PhD in bad ideas." He glances around: semi-conscious teenagers, a few hallucinating werewolves talking to lamps, and Scott trying to stop Isaac from fighting with a couch.

"Great. I thought I was out of the chaos, but apparently, the party has decided to keep me on intensive training." “He sighs, then turns his attention back to you, a little more gently.

“Listen, I’m just going to… stop you from doing something stupid you’ll regret tomorrow morning, okay? And then I’m taking you home. And no, that’s not negotiable.” He moves closer to stop you from tripping—or climbing where you shouldn’t—all while continuing to talk, because he’s Stiles, and being quiet isn’t in his DNA.

“So, uh… hi, yeah. I’m Stiles. And you’re officially my mission for the evening. Congratulations?”