Stiles just glares over at Dean, because yes, he's snuck into a bar before, and he's not even a little sorry that he's not too confident in his ability to blend in when he's stuck in a place where it's normal to carry a fucking tommy gun. He's not really worried about his age, but the powers that be could've stuck him in something a little less non-threatening. God.
He stays close to Derek when they're in the office, looking at the glass he's offered with suspicion before taking it and taking a sip. Because if he can't have his manhood back via wardrobe, he can at least drink the fucking whiskey. And besides, Derek can't tell him not to.
The stack of cash is impressive, and when he manages to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head, he looks at Dean and Derek for a split second before looking at the newsboy satchel he's got slung over his shoulder, then back at the money - which is more than he's seen in his life, really. In that moment, he makes an executive decision and starts grabbing the bricks of bills, trying not to look too eager, and shoving them into his bag, since he's the only one with any kind of bag.
"Pleasure doin' business witchoo fellas," he says in his best 1920's Chicagoan accent, carefully derived from the odd gangster movie and his own artistic license, before turning his back to look over at Dean and Derek and taking another drink of his whiskey with a look that clearly says he's ready to go.
no subject
He stays close to Derek when they're in the office, looking at the glass he's offered with suspicion before taking it and taking a sip. Because if he can't have his manhood back via wardrobe, he can at least drink the fucking whiskey. And besides, Derek can't tell him not to.
The stack of cash is impressive, and when he manages to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head, he looks at Dean and Derek for a split second before looking at the newsboy satchel he's got slung over his shoulder, then back at the money - which is more than he's seen in his life, really. In that moment, he makes an executive decision and starts grabbing the bricks of bills, trying not to look too eager, and shoving them into his bag, since he's the only one with any kind of bag.
"Pleasure doin' business witchoo fellas," he says in his best 1920's Chicagoan accent, carefully derived from the odd gangster movie and his own artistic license, before turning his back to look over at Dean and Derek and taking another drink of his whiskey with a look that clearly says he's ready to go.