January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father's death.
The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it very obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove...
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Derek sits stiffly on the couch in the living room, absently rubbing his thumb over the page of one of the yellowed books he was pretending to read.
He could hear Stiles crying softly from the bedroom, breaking the usual silence of the house with tiny, muffled sobs. It had started just as soon as he sat down against the leather, and hadn't ceased in the twenty minutes that had dragged by since. It was agony— not because the noise was irritating, but because of the internal storm each quiet hiccup exacerbated.
He thinks about going in. To offer a glass of water or mutter 'there, there' or something, but he keeps beating away the thought. What was he going to do— Console him? Hug him? Read him a bedtime story? He wouldn't know how to comfort if the step-by-step instructions punched him in the face. He'd proven that to himself within five minutes of Stiles walking though the front door, demonstrated by his inability to address him like a normal human being, especially someone who just lost their father. Instead of soft condolences and sensitive affirmations, he'd just spat out blunt, choppy sentences and instructions, like the big heartless brute Scott and the others thought he was.
He never even said "sorry for your loss."
Idiot.
He huffs dourly, gaze stationary and unfocused upon the small print of the page. He would probably just embarrass Stiles, anyway. 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. 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'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! They're going to take his house! 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.
I'll take him.
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. 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. Good thing he had that down to an art.
