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While we've done our best to make the core functionality of this site accessible without javascript, it will work better with it enabled. Stiles traces his thumb over the engraved words, feeling the minuscule nicks and dents in the brass.
Like Stiles was some kind of damn pet up for adoption.The pair had stiffened, jerking back slackjawed and bug-eyed as if he had just slapped them. The question was whether or not he wanted to be.He had asked himself again when he heard the soft rumble of an engine slowly make itself known from the distance, followed by the squeak of car tires grinding to a halt in the driveway. Life at the Hale house was kind of dull, to be honest.Stiles spends most of his time in the room Derek gave him, which (despite his stubborn efforts to remain loyal his old room) was starting to grow on him. You watched as Kang Daesung, Alpha of the Pack growled, shoulders hunched, ready to leap at Seungri and the mermaid girl he had gone into the Maze with. The Blue man had been in the Maze for less than three hours and he had stayed in the same spot, thinking hard and waiting for the mermaid to wake up. He reached out, clasping your wrist and spinning you so your front pressed into the cold wall of the underground cavern. His hand slid down your stomach and between your thighs and he pressed two fingers against your opening.
Every time he said the word fucking you felt a wave of heat wash through your body and you panted slightly. You whimpered and squirmed against the wall, it was hurting your breasts and tummy but you barely noticed, his cock was sliding against your wetness so easily.
You scolded yourself for giving in to your desires and forgetting about the danger at hand. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father’s death.The bastard, he thinks bitterly. His eyes grow wide as he kills the engine and gazes up through the window: it's huge, a towering silhouette of outdated gloom against a foggy grey backdrop littered with barren trees. His lips quiver as they part, and he tastes salt as fresh tears slip between them and onto his dry tongue. A few agonizing moments trickled by where they stared at him like that, speechless while he internally panicked, willing himself not to twitch and betray his consternation or break away from their gazes. An unexpected apprehension had struck him just then, while he got up and strode over to the door, listening to Stiles slam shut the jeep and slowly make his way up the front porch.
It was quiet, spacious, and the bare atmosphere seemed to dampen his anxiety much more than a paper bag ever could.
He didn't know why the guy bothered, but a small part of him liked the notes anyway.It continues like that for about a week. He knows that not even a thousand showers could clean him entirely from the memory of that day, but in this moment it's nice to let go —just for a little bit— and let the water strip away the physical grime. Not personally, actually it seemed like he didn’t even notice you at all but you had fallen for him. He was such a strong intelligent man which a playful side to him, it was impossible not to fall for him. Your races were similar but the Blue Men tended to believe that they could control your women. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was.So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in? Intricate details are carved into the structure's frame— tiny spiral patterns that look like the triskele tattoo on Derek's back, only these ones are covered in a layer of grey ash and dirty rainwater tracks. They were hardly even on speaking terms let alone a friendship level, and every time he tried to talk to him the words always just turned into harsh growls the moment he set eyes upon that stupid face.So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?He had invited spastic, smartass, too-selfless-for-his-own-good Stiles to come live with him, and he wanted to kick himself for it. Good thing he had that down to an art.He sighs, softly snapping his book shut before setting it down in his lap. He had waited there, hesitating when he didn't hear a knock from the teen standing on the other side, and an equally unexpected twinge of hurt pinched him when he realized that Stiles was debating wether or not to bolt.As soon as the thought crossed his mind he had grabbed the brass handle and yanked open the door, making Stiles jerk back a bit in surprise.
In particular he took a liking to the bed, which was like like a plushy nest of downy feathers wrapped up in what he estimated to be seven-hundred thread count sheets. Small tremors ripple down his belly as the shower jets nibble his hairline and run through his scalp, cascading down his shoulders in watery ribbons that absorb the painful knot in his chest and take it down the drain. You stood up and made your way down the hallway, pulling your phone from your pocket as you went. Thankfully you had gotten used to be naked long ago, when you were apart of a race that hardly wore clothes it was something that needed to happen.
Your fists clenched against the wall, you wanted to grab something but your palms just slid down the wet wall. You wanted to know, it made you tremble just thinking about all the things that you could do together. It took very little touching on his part to have you screaming his name and your body shuddering with release. The windows are blackened and cracked in places, mirroring the charred wood splintering on the support beams and banisters.
For blurting, "I'll take him" in front of the McCalls at the funeral last Tuesday, after overhearing Melissa brokenly explain to Scott that they couldn't afford to have him move into their house. He guesses it was the way Stiles's face had crumpled after the Sheriff dropped lifeless and bloodied in front of him that day, followed by the agonized scream that tore from his throat immediately afterwards, as if it were his own chest that just been ripped open. He thought it was weird because before he left home it was impossible to get some sleep, but now sleep was impossible to resist. Soon he realizes that his own tears add to the wetness on his face, mixing with the dewy beads sticking to the fuzz on his cheeks before rolling off his jawline. The tattoos that were normally not visible on his smooth skin were beginning to trail over his chest. There were tiny snippets of crying softly in his dad's bed, pressing his face into the sheets as if the fabric could smother the reality of the outside world. He'd watched her squeeze him by the shoulders in the corner by the door, eyes going glassy as Scott protested and pleaded with frustrated whispers —but mom, no!
The others —Lydia, Allison, Isaac— quickly flocked to him and Scott, faces pale and eyes glimmering with hands clamped over their mouths in horror. Stiles looked like he had been left out in the rain for a week and then stuck in a toaster to dry. The ultra-soft pillows Derek provided him with only encouraged his droopy eyelids, and for the most part he would just knock back a couple of Advils, crawl beneath the comforter and conk out for most of the day. The silence filled the halls like an empty dream, stark in contrast to the vivid night terrors that plagued his mind during sleep, although for whatever reason those hadn't been reoccurring as often since he moved in.
Wretched panic attacks that reduced him to a quivering, hyperventilating mess on his bedroom floor until he passed out and woke up a few hours later on the carpet with gooseflesh and a headache, wondering if he would be able to endure another one the next day. The appropriate reaction.They had approached Stiles stiffly, like nervous deer hesitant to wander out into the open, but ventured closer anyway because Stiles needed them by his side.
It was easier that way, instead of being left awake with his grief.He cleaned up his messes, wiped the fallen toothpaste from the sink and all that jazz (after he caught Derek wrinkling his nose upon his arrival, he figured he'd better start brushing again).
He thought maybe it was the memory foam, because it certainly had nothing to do with the guy in the other room, who acted like there was an invisible wall between them.The yellow sticky notes keep appearing, and each time Stiles would shortly debate if he should actually take up any of the offers, but always shied away from the thought, leaving them untouched on the counter before quietly returning to the bedroom. It doesn't dislodge all of the pain, but it lessens it just enough so that he feels like maybe he would be able to wake up and endure it again tomorrow. He'll give him that.Stiles takes his time getting out of the car, stealing nervous glances at the weathered mansion.
He isn't eighteen yet, they're going to send him away to— and the next thing Derek knew he was standing in front of them, jaw tense and eyebrows drawn together with the words jumping out between his lips before he even realized it. But him? He had just stood off awkwardly in the middle of the wooded clearing, unable to make his legs move. If he came out again later they would be gone, added to the discarded pile in the kitchen wastebasket.
Gradually his blubbering runs it's course and dies down, leaving him lose and pliant like a wrung-out rag. McCall had stopped by a lot, knocking softly at the porch and reaching out to wrap him in a warm hug when he opened the door.
The place looks like it needs to be condemned, or at least commissioned as a haunted mansion for some horror flick.
They were dark and blank, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep instead of the warm amber they usually were.
In fact they hardly even saw each other outside the couple times a day when he would drag himself out from underneath the covers and stumble to the bathroom or wander into the kitchen for a glass of water, often passing the inscrutable werewolf on the couch or doing chin-ups on the bar by the front windows.Derek would always stiffen upon hearing him, often pausing briefly to glance back at him with those stupid furrowed eyebrows, but never uttered a word in his direction. It's a nice change, he thinks, instead of the rusty, machine-like quality his muscles had acquired.So maybe Derek had a point about taking the shower.


She would cautiously step into the house and glance around the living room, eyes going misty before she quickly reeled in her gaze and offered her best smile for him, as if his dad's absence didn't make the air thick and heavy and wrong. Then she usually murmured a stream of hushed, comforting words before leaving tupperwares of home-cooked casseroles and meals on the table. Werewolves were even included.He blinks hard, rubbing a heavy hand over his features as if ironing out a wrinkly shirt.
How his eyes went wide with fear whenever John was in danger, or the little disapproving lines that spilled out across his brow whenever he caught his dad eating fast food at the station. It both pleased and infuriated Stiles at the same time, because he never felt much like talking anyway, but it would still be nice to know what the hell the stubbly grump was thinking once in a while.Writing words, however, was apparently something the werewolf could deal with. It reminds him of a coming storm, and distantly he realizes that something is wrong— that Derek never goes out of his way to seek him out, or walks with such tenacity, that he must be angry— and then the door swings open and slams against the wall with a loud 'bang' as Derek suddenly barges into his room, looking pissed off and ready to break something.He jerks, limbs flailing in surprise because shit —angry, muscly werewolf suddenly in his room— as Derek strides forward with nostrils flared and eyebrows drawn, making a beeline for his bed."Whoa, h-hey! Hopefully the introductions wouldn't last too long because he hadn't been sleeping well, and conveniently it was catching up with him now. Comparably, he'd noticed the same crinkles run across the Sheriff's forehead whenever he looked at his kid, because John had eventually realized that there was no stopping Stiles from flinging himself into danger if it meant saving his friends, despite being the most mortal of them all.
Ever heard of knocking!" Stiles cries, scrambling backwards against the headboard as he frantically ransacks his memory for what he could have done to condemn himself to death by werewolf fury, because Derek is clearly about to kill him.
His limbs feel heavy as he trudges up the weathered front steps, and he cringes inwardly as the burnt wood creaks noisily under his weight. If that made John feel as helpless as he suspected, then it was something he and the Sheriff had in common.But the truth was, the Sheriff never trusted him.
But today his lips had been still and closed, as if life had startled him in a way where nothing else could shock him again. The school had given him the semester off, but the winter months would soon bleed into spring, which would then stretch into summer before reaching the next school year, and that was a long time to spend around the house with Derek Hale, whose primary method of communication was eyebrow-furrowing and cryptic expressions. When he reaches the massive oak door he hesitates mid-knock, knuckles hovering over the wood as he debates wether or not to bolt and live a life of peddling on the streets, promise be damned.
Not even after he stopped his reckless behavior after the fire, because the man equated Derek with the reason his son came home late beat-up and injured after crazy brawls with other packs, and he hated him for it.
It disturbed Derek, and he struggled not to let it show as he led Stiles to all the rooms, stealing curious glances at the teen's half-mast gaze, trembling fingers, and unruly hair, which was even messier than usual.
He wasn't sure how long he would be able to stand it before the tension and the silence and that stony, stupid face would get to be too much, but still— despite how they hardly uttered a word to each other, there was a small comfort derived from knowing that the guy was just down the hall. For dragging his beloved, human son into all the dangerous supernatural bullshit he and the pack got tied up in.
He kept getting whiffs of his breath, and it smelled like he hadn't brushed his teeth in a week.But most disturbing of all was that Stiles was quiet. But that was impossible, because he hardly stepped foot outside his—"H-hey— hey! What the hell, dude!" He squawks, heart hammering wildly as Derek marches over and grabs fistfuls of his comforter, violently ripping the covers from his body with a strong yank.
They had each other's company, but how much did that really matter if they never acknowledged it?He had inherited a nice chunk of retirement funds from the department, but he wouldn't be able to sign the lease on any rental until he was eighteen. His phone buzzed from dawn until dusk, the cracked screen lighting up with short phrases of 'how are you?' and 'I'm here if you need me' and 'come over for dinner, we'll pick you up' again and again until he couldn't take it anymore and finally turned the device off, because he knew that seeing any of their faces would only make it worse.
A few awkward moments slip by as Derek observes him, eyes narrowing a touch as they sweep curiously over his frame, features almost taking on a look of concern. And Derek didn't blame him, because a part of him hated himself for it too.He blinks down at his hands, perturbed as he remembers the blood that had saturated them a week prior. Not a single sarcasm-laced comment or witty jest was jabbed in his direction the entire time, which was unsettling considering how the kid's pride and joy was his ability to wield sass, particularly towards him. He yelps and curls in on himself as the cold air bites through his thin pajamas and grazes his skin, igniting waves of gooseflesh over his arms and legs.
At seventeen he was powerless, a mere infant in the eyes of the law. He sighs again, feeling the cool rush of his breath brush over his damp chest.
They would look at him differently now, with pity etched in their features and eyes filled with uncertainty.
Stiles uneasily shifts his weight on his heels, grip subconsciously tightening around the handle of his suitcase.
A couple times he thought he saw his lips twitch with the thought of a sardonic response, but then his eyes would dim and his shoulders would deflate a little, as if he didn't see the point. The small part of his brain that isn't panicking appreciates the fact that at least he has on a pair of sweats and a shirt over his boxers."What the hell is your problem!" He screeches angrily, absolutely bewildered as Derek haughtily kicks the comforter to the floor, just out of his reach.
Derek seems to notice and immediately snaps his expression back into an extra-broody scowl, stepping back so that he didn't block the doorway."You coming in?" He states bluntly.
He was an alpha, older than Scott and more experienced, and therefore should have been able to reach Kali in time, before her claws raked through the Sheriff's ribcage like razors to a sheet of silk. Derek found himself suddenly regretting all the times he had ever barked at him to shut up. He tries to sound intimidating, but his voice is raw and crackly from lack of use, and it's kind of hard when a big muscly werewolf is suddenly all up in your space ripping away your warm blankets."That's it.
He glances to the small shelf to his left, noticing the colorful lineup of soaps and shampoos. Get up," Derek spits flatly, eyes hard and scrutinizing as they sweep up and down his huddled figure on the bed, which makes Stiles feel very uncomfortable. There are several bottles, all of which are notably nice brands of conditioner, shaving cream, body wash, and something called 'l'essence de citron' body butter, which looks very fancy and also very tasty but probably wasn't for eating. It doesn't work very well."Hello to you, too," Stiles mutters, but he wipes his feet on the beaten-up mat anyway and cautiously pokes his head inside the doorway.
The crying had stopped.Hopefully Stiles had fallen asleep, considering how drained he'd looked upon arrival. There's even a loofah sponge hanging from a small hook to the side, and he'd never used one but he's pretty sure he had heard Lydia and Allison talking about them on more than one occasion.Tentatively he reaches out and picks up a slim bottle of mint shampoo, tightening his slippery grip as the weight tugs his hand down. The walk feels like he's dragging himself through water, body heavy and uncooperative as if dragging a fifty pound weight behind him.John Stilinski had been a man of sacrifice. He can't help but gape as he steps foot into the living room, faintly registering the door swinging closed behind him with a rough squeak.He had never actually been inside the Hale mansion before, but judging from his collective glimpses of the shoddy outside appearance, he never would have guessed the interior would look like this.
The cold, wild grin, as if the notion of his nephew housing Scott's human friend was biggest joke he had heard since discovering that Derek was the only other survivor of the fire."You're letting the little hyperactive toothpick stay with you," Peter had spat incredulously, amusement twisting the corner of his lip.
Throughout the entire tour he'd been dead on his feet, blinking heavily and swaying slightly with every step, as if he would tip over with the gentle push of a breeze. He had sacrificed his sleep the countless number of nights Stiles had nightmares or panic attacks in the early hours of the morning, when his dad would stumble into his room with crummy eyes and rub small circles against his back until he fell asleep. An intricate glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the spacious loft in a warm glow. Derek remembers how he had been the same after the fire, unable to catch a wink of sleep for weeks after it happened. You need to take a shower."Stiles blinks at him from his fetal position, face flushing violently.
His dad had sacrificed his integrity every time he fabricated a lie for the department in order to cover up some crazy, supernatural-related bullshit that Scott's furry side had dragged him into. Okay, rude.He wills the tremors in his body to die down (because hey, having Derek Hale unexpectedly barge into his room is mildly terrifying), but then he curls his fingers tighter into his sheets, clamping his lips together as a flood of defensive anger overrides his embarrassment. A rustic brick fireplace and large flatscreen are embedded in the wall across a cushioned leather couch and matching armchair, from which a simple maroon rug rolls out over the weathered hardwood floor.
He frowns, absently chewing on the inside of his cheek. How symbolic, that he happened to grab this book off the shelf before sitting down.
Sure, his hair was a little greasier than what he was comfortable with and had started to stick to his forehead, and he may or may not be able to smell something sour whenever he streched out his arms, but his hygiene was his business. Green gel oozes out onto his fingers, releasing a sharp scent of mint that stings his nostrils and reminds him of chilly mornings and fresh air, and he sucks in a deep drag of it before scrubbing a dollop into his scalp. The windows are plentiful, smudged with a light film of smoky charcoal residue that filters the outside light into scattered patterns on the faded buttercream walls, which have a few simple pieces of black and white photography placed over the larger cracks in the paint. A part of him knew that Peter was right— he was an alpha who ran around with a pack of misfit teenagers, lived in his family's old crispy-fried house because he didn't have the heart to move out, and as of late offered to take in a broken kid without any parents in hope that maybe —just maybe— he could help somehow.He was soft. He felt like he had lived one hundred years of solitude in the six years he had resided in his family's empty mansion, trying in vain to erase the echo of the silence in his ears and pretend that the rooms upstairs weren't really vacant. He would get up and shower when he was good and ready— that was no excuse for the asshole to invade his privacy and demand it."I do not smell!" He protests, biting his lip angrily as Derek's eyebrow shoots to the ceiling. The shampoo lathers his hair and leaves it squeaky and smooth as it rinses away, and he selects the body butter next, because why not. His dad was planning on paying it back within a few years, but fate never gave him the chance, which left his son with a small chunk of savings in a house that now belonged to the bank. There's a small dining table situated by the kitchen, which is old-fashioned and cozy with peeling pinstripe wallpaper and a white tile counter. The place is spotless and oddly beautiful despite it's rough edges, and the shabbiness is subtle, barely peeking out behind a layer of carefully-arranged furnishings.He dazedly walks to the center of the room, feeling slightly dizzy as he cranes his neck around, gazing at his surroundings.


When he steps out and dries off he glances at himself in the mirror, thinking that he looks different somehow from when he first undressed. He knows he's putting himself in dangerous territory by daring to taunt the guy like this, but the attitude spills over anyway like an uncontrollable gush from a blocked off waterline.To his surprise Derek's fuming gaze actually lessens a fraction at the remark, and Stiles forces himself to hold eye contact before turning over so that his body faces the other direction. He can't figure out what it is at first, but then it clicks that his cheeks are now flushed with color, and his eyes shine with a brightness he hadn't seen since before New Year's. Today, the house was to be foreclosed.Stiles clasps the cold door handle, dragging his suitcase behind him as he shuffles past the frame and onto the front porch. Feeling thoroughly ruffled, he buries his face back into his pillow and adds a muffled, "go away."There's a small pause. The change isn't that significant, but it's enough to make him mentally note to take more showers in the future.He shuffles out of the bathroom with a plush white towel wrapped around his waist, and another one draped over his arm that he used to rub the wetness from his hair. He pauses, fingers curling loosely over the brass knob as he turns back and drinks in the last view of the living room he grew up in, savoring the tiny details in hope that they'll embed themselves in to his memory for at least a little while. Derek wordlessly side-steps him from behind, motioning for him to follow with a small jerk of his head."Bring your stuff. His nose and cheeks are still hot and blotchy from the steam, and he sniffles a bit as he shakes the damp bangs from his eyes, noting with a frown how the freckled skin over of chest is pink as well. His features are taut and expressionless as his gaze flickers from the ugly beige couch he and Scott used to sit on for movie nights, the pale blue wallpaper dotted with tiny periwinkle flowers his mother had picked out long ago, and his dad's old leather reading chair, now forever unoccupied. Upon reaching his room he wraps a pruney hand around the doorknob, but stops instinctually and looks up, catching Derek staring at him from the kitchen. His coffee cup is still on the table, where it would stay until one of the realtors came in to sweep through the house and place sticky notes on everything that needed to be 'improved.'"Thanks for the memories, I guess," he mutters quietly, and surprises himself with how hoarse his voice is.
Instead he just silently follows Derek down the hallway, suitcase dragging heavily behind him. For a split second, he thinks that Derek will simply turn around and leave, and they'll go back to their daily routine of mutual silence and occasional side-glances, one wolf and one human living together in solitude under the same barbecued roof— but then a calloused hand wraps around his ankle and yanks his leg off the bed, sending him sprawling to the carpet with a very manly yelp. Then he swings the door shut, biting his lip as the hinges creak in agony against the weathered frame, protesting against the movement.
Derek glances back at him, eyebrows twitching a fraction before he turns away again, pushing open the first door with the palm of his hand. He never thought he could resonate with a door.He makes his way over to the jeep on autopilot, tossing his trunk in the passenger seat.
He hastily wipes the liquid off his skin with his sleeve, swiveling around to face the werewolf in the corner, whose nose is tucked firmly into a thick yellow-paged novel. Empty white walls frame a double-paned window, from which the overcast skies spill a cool light onto a large bed set with fresh pillows and a navy comforter.
Stiles didn't notice him sitting there in the chair by the bookshelf, clad in what looks like a comfortable grey v-neck and sweats. It smells clean, with a faint scent of shampoo wafting from the plush ivory carpet that looks too white not to be new."This is your room," Derek states. It's a kind of chill that no number of layers seemed to fix.He casts one last look at the house before finally ripping his gaze away, rolling out onto the pavement before tearing down the street. He jerks his gaze from the room to stare incredulously at Derek, who avoids his stare and spins on his heels to lead him back down the hall. It's true, that he isn't eating much aside from the occasional protein bar he fished out from the cupboard. His trips to the kitchen were almost always solely dedicated to fetching glasses of water or a Dr.
Melissa nearly worked herself to death with double-shifts every night, and with finances overstretched already they just couldn't afford to feed another mouth.
Lucky for him, his only local relative had passed away last year, and his remaining family members were located out in nowhere-ville Ohio and wanted nothing to do with him. Because there was no way that Derek rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth Hale just offered to buy him paint for his beautiful new bedroom. Honestly, he had expected to sleep on the couch. Food just hadn't appealed to him lately, making his stomach twist uncomfortably whenever he thought about the tastes and textures of anything more exciting than white rice. He hadn't even been bothering to open the fridge— God knows what kind of leftovers Derek was referring to? It was the face that haunted his dreams, showing up in reflections during the day and leaving imprints in his vision when he blinked.
Vaguely, he recalled collapsing boneless and screaming in Scott's arms after it happened, sucking in wretched gasps of air as the rest of the pack hovered uneasily by his side— but he had simply stood there, wide-eyed and stony from afar.The bastard, Stiles thinks bitterly. Derek leads him to the kitchen, which is just as warm and well-poslished as it had looked from the front door."Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge and cupboards," Derek announces, reaching up to open one of the wood cabinets for emphasis.
The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was.So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?Sure, Stiles wasn't sleeping much. Stiles spots several boxes of pasta, beef jerky, protein bars, pretzels, and even a half-empty jar of Nutella inside, which surprises him. He could hardly stand being in his old house at all since it happened, but he was pretty sure that sleeping there or even living on the streets would be more comfortable than residing in some giant, burnt-out mansion with a grumpy scowl-enthusiast whose main talent was flaring his nostrils in annoyance. He doesn't know what he was expecting (fresh rabbits, maybe?), but crackers and hazelnut spread just seemed so…Normal."If you want anything specific, just let me know before I go to the store," Derek adds nonchalantly, bending down to swing open a rolling drawer beside the sink.
God knows his dad would be rolling over in his grave if he knew, but for some inexplicable reason Melissa had held him by the shoulders and pinned him down with those big brown eyes that looked so much like Scott's, and made him promise to take the grump's offer."Good for you," she had said.
Living with Derek would be good for him, apparently.He huffs, curling his fingers tighter around the steering wheel.
But one thing for certain was that he didn't need to be coddled, especially not by an oversized grump who, last time he checked, didn't even have 'comfort' in his vocabulary.
It's almost too much for him, the way Derek was addressing him without a growl or barred fangs, offering to buy him paint and food of his choice all while maintaining that signature (annoying) monotone phrasing. His lips twitch as he thinks about blurting, "inflection is a thing, you know," But the words die again before they even reach his throat.Derek gives him another funny look, but the expression only lasts a second before the default scowl clicks into place again.
Much to his dismay Derek starts heading towards the living room, although Stiles really couldn't care less about the layout of the house. He has a headache, the same one that had stuck with him chronically the past few days, making sleep impossible while simultaneously reducing him to a sack of exhaustion. The fire had left scathing burns on most of the floors and wall space, but it looks like the guy had invested quite a bit of time artfully repainting and refurbishing the worst of the damage.
Derek is stiff and formal throughout the entire trip, speaking no more than what little words are needed. I'm not in it much, but try knocking if you need me."Stiles observes the closed door through half-lidded eyes, briefly wondering what the space looked like on the other side. Derek steps forward to lead them back down the stairs, but Stiles pauses, frowning a little as his gaze wanders down the dimly-lit hallway and catches on something."What about that room?" He asks, staring at a battered wood door nestled at the end of corridor.
It isn't renovated like the other doors of the house, instead splintered with scaly black burn marks.Derek halts, shoulders tensing slightly. A stretch of silence stings the air, and Stiles feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His features do that funny twitch again before he nods and walks away, adding, "If you have any questions, I'll be in the living room" over his shoulder.
For starters, "if you can't stand my existence, then why the fuck did you take me in?" He turns back to his room, shoving his suitcase inside before softly shutting the door behind him.It's even more spacious from inside, and every new detail he observes is like a slap in face. A mahogany desk sits across from the window, marked by a simple blue halogen lamp that matches the color of the curtains. He wants his old rug, cheap and faded and marked with the grape soda stain from seventh grade.
He fumbles with the outer zipper of his suitcase, fishing out the bottle of Advil he'd stashed there and knocks a couple pills back, swallowing them dry. Dazedly he staggers over to the bed and gingerly sits down on the edge, noting how the mattress compresses softly under his weight, undoubtedly memory foam. Get a grip, he scolds himself, but it doesn't help, and within a minute hot tears are slipping down his cheeks, dripping off his chin to the plush carpet below.
Reluctantly he he lets himself fall back and sink into the mattress, and hates the memory foam because his old bed had been a crappy box-spring. He doesn't even bother kicking off his shoes as he curls into a fetal position, stomach clenching painfully as silent sobs wrack his frame. The dented metal of his dad's badge digs painfully into his palm, but he only clenches it tighter, pulling it out in front of his face to examine it as if it were a piece of gold.



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