between the drinks and subtle things [Rebekah]

[Matthias Walker]

While Matthias has a plethora of complaints about Boston as a whole, he finds that none of those complaints extend to the Boston Public Library, which does not, predictably, have too many bars or attract large crowds of people of dubious sanity and hygiene (but then, maybe that’s just the bars). In fact, he’s actually slightly in love with the Boston Public Library, in pretty much the same way he falls in love with every library. He’s kind of predictable like that, and when it comes to libraries, Matthias cannot bring himself to give a single fuck, primarily because it’s big and wonderful and full of books, and he may or may not get completely distracted from picking through scavenged and often ripped up newspapers for untimely death by werewolf.

For, uh, about eight hours.

Which, okay, it’s not something he means to do, because even if untimely death by werewolf doesn’t lead him to Silas he’s still a hunter, and that requires, typically, not burrowing into a stack of books approximately the size and weight of Mount Everest and a lot more waving around a gun, but it’s been ages since he’s let himself read for fun, not research. So he tells himself that he deserves it, thanks very much, and somehow it’s not at all a surprise when, eventually, the librarian comes over to where he’s sprawled in the middle of a small minefield of books, and tells him very kindly that the library’s closing, sir.

And so Matthias finds himself kicked out of the Boston Public Library, blinking at the night sky, wandering down the sidewalks with his hands in the pockets of Silas’s hoodie. He ends up back in the city proper, drifts like lost seaweed into a miniature excuse of a park, which is basically one square block of grass with a curvy path and a few park benches sprinkled liberally under the scraggly trees, and drops himself down onto a bench. It is, because his luck is nothing if not constant in its total gleefulness at screwing him over, wet.

“Oh, nice,” he mutters to himself, more dryly amused than upset (Matthias blames the library—books always put him in a good mood, which, while it sounds nice, is not actually a kind of mood that’s remotely helpful to him, most of the time). “The night just isn’t complete without sitting in a puddle.”

Then he mostly feels like an idiot, because talking to himself out loud just does not work, ever.

You are an idiot is the kind of thought that gets him back onto his feet, tugging the hoodie down in a vague attempt to hide his ass, and has him strolling back into the street again. It’s not very late, just after nine, and the streets are, while dark, still well-stocked with people. So Matthias tilts his head, leans meditatively against the stairwell to some stranger’s house, and decides that he may as well have his pick of them; he figures that talking to himself is always a sign that he needs company badly, and he totally accepts that he’s a thoroughly shallow bastard.

He’s also completely lost, because relocating cheap motels isn’t as easy as it may sound, and if he’s going to get someone to help him get back, they very well aren’t going to be ugly.

See: Thoroughly shallow bastard. Thoroughly shallow bastard with very high standards, though; Matthias lingers for a couple minutes, people-watching, before he spies a girl who looks about his age, maybe a bit younger. Pretty. Alone. He smiles, hooks his arm around the railing and swings his weight around it like a kid, and once she’s close enough to hear, Matthias ups the wattage of his smile a notch, says cheekily, because Silas is busy being stupid and there’s no clause in being a stalker that states you cannot hit on other people, “Hey, I was wondering if you’ve got a moment to spare for me to hit on you? Or, y’know, if you don’t, a map to spare would be nice, too.”