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 wakes up to a sticky note on the counter.
He stands in the kitchen and stares at it, probably longer than necessary. It's Sunday morning and he isn't sure wether to laugh, scowl, or be worried because Stiles was usually a zombie before 10:00am, let alone up and out of the house before him. He goes over to start the Keurig and contemplates texting Scott, but stops when his ears pick up faint rumblings from outside and what sounds a whole lot like a sneaker kicking the bumper of a jeep. A glance out the window confirms that Stiles never made it out of the driveway.
The front door opens with a creak like it always does, but apparently Stiles is too preoccupied bending over the hood of the car muttering profanities to notice. February was drawing to a close, marking the peak time of winter for Beacon Hills. The year had yet to see any snow, but regardless a crisp chill breaches the air like a wintery plague, leaving a trail of bitter frost upon every surface that coats the porch and nearby trees in intricate sewings of icy lace. It's cold, evidently cold enough to cause car trouble.
"Come on, don't do this to me," Stiles mutters and drops to a crouch, shoving against the bumper with his shoulder and then his hands when the jeep doesn't budge. "Fucking fuckity fuck, you useless piece of junk, fuck you. Fuck winter, fuck everything!"
Derek leans against the doorframe and watches for a minute, amused as Stiles switches from colorful curses to cooed apologies and strokes a palm soothingly over the hood, as if the car were a fussy infant. He chews his thumb and bounces on the balls of his feet, fingers drumming against the back of his head as he studies the front tires. Derek tries to roll his eyes but ends up repressing a tiny smirk instead, because Stiles looks so much like his old self.
It had been a couple weeks since their little heart-to-heart in the woods, an event that seemed to have shaken lose some of the slump from Stiles's shoulders. He had been more animated recently— just subtle quirks like scratching his cheek or twitching his nose, but the small actions spoke volumes. In addition the sass level in the house had jumped from nearly nonexistent to full on sarcasm war, almost like old times. The only difference was that the invisible wall of tension seemed to have crumbled in more ways than one, which was new and unexpected but not uncomfortable.
It isn't until Stiles kicks the bumper and grabs his foot with a yelp, hopping and cursing colorfully that Derek decides he should probably get in there before the kid hurts himself.
He comes down the porch and the steps creak obnoxiously, although the noise is lost beneath Stiles's muttering.
"I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean it. Please move for me? Come on, I'll take you on a nice drive, yeah? Fill you up with that expensive deluxe gas just the way you like, if you'll just fucking—"
