[The hunter doesn't waste time with hesitating, asking, even saying hello: he slides into the booth across from Stiles, heavily but smoothly, and doesn't stop until he's fetched up against the inside wall again. He scoops the bottle of Wild Turkey and the other glass with him, pulling the latter down into his lap while he opens the former, but he doesn't actually drink yet.
He glares at Stiles. It's not really a specific, pointed expression so much as just how his features are set at present, openly wary and with an almost routine, ready hostility. This is the man that lead a camp of twitchy apocalypse survivors, that made them afraid of him even in the midst of a world overrun by rage-rabid Croats. This is the man that came out of Hell with sulfur cracking through the brittle edges, but no one recognized that out of context. They were all, after all, trapped in Hell once the demons were done with discretion, once the angels gave up all pretense of protecting them as a species.
He waits, settling back a bit in the seat, not so much as glancing at the peanuts and not moving to drink any of the whiskey just yet.]
[ Spam ]
He glares at Stiles. It's not really a specific, pointed expression so much as just how his features are set at present, openly wary and with an almost routine, ready hostility. This is the man that lead a camp of twitchy apocalypse survivors, that made them afraid of him even in the midst of a world overrun by rage-rabid Croats. This is the man that came out of Hell with sulfur cracking through the brittle edges, but no one recognized that out of context. They were all, after all, trapped in Hell once the demons were done with discretion, once the angels gave up all pretense of protecting them as a species.
He waits, settling back a bit in the seat, not so much as glancing at the peanuts and not moving to drink any of the whiskey just yet.]