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 knows something is wrong when he reaches the porch.
It's just the subtle way his neck prickles when his boot hits the first step, the tiny knot in his stomach— but it's enough to make him pause and barge into the house a little faster than normal.
Stlies jerks when the door opens, eyes wide and glassy as they fly up and meet Derek's own. He's sitting on the floor by the kitchen sink, arms wrapped around his knees, bare feet curled against the tile. He quickly drags an arm across his lashes and shakily fumbles to stand up, but his knees don't seem to work and he just plops back down against the cabinets.
"Stiles," Derek blurts in alarm, abandoning the 7-eleven bag on the counter. He quickly drops to a crouch and scans for injury, but he doesn't see or smell any blood, and the sharp tang of grief is thick and heavy.
"Hey, hey! What happened?" He demands, and grips Stiles's shoulders to make him look up.
Stiles furiously wipes his cheeks and digs his teeth into his lip, blinking at him with pained eyes. He's still damp from the rain in his wet clothes, arms pale and cold with gooseflesh beneath Derek's fingers. Sour notes of embarrassment roll off of him in waves.
"They—" Stiles bites out, clamping a hand over his mouth to quiet a hiccup. "They took it back."
Derek's heart sinks like a stone. Stiles doesn't even need to specify— there's only one thing "it" could be.
"What, who took what back?"
"Richard," Stiles stares at his knees and licks his lips, which are angry red and shiny with moisture. "The department. The badge, they— they took the badge back."
The kitchen pitches into heavy silence apart from the rain outside. Derek grows still, mouth falling slack before he clamps it shut again. His nostrils flare soundlessly.
"What?" It slips out quietly, soft and dark. He studies Stiles intently, who bunches his hands into fists and picks at his thumbs.
"He came here, right after you left," Stiles explains, eyes jumping between Derek and his knuckles. He twitches with little residual sniffles, mouth pinched tight. "Payback for last night, I guess. He said it belonged to the station and filed a complaint to get a warrant, and he... I c-couldn't do anything. I didn't have a choice."
The last line is barely audible, like his lungs ran out of steam. He wipes a hand down his face and rubs his forehead, as if trying to erase the wrinkles there. It doesn't work, and it's eerie how similar the action is to what the Sheriff used to do. Derek looks to the floor, quiet with rage. He releases his grip on Stiles's shoulders, gently leaning back to rest his weight on his heels.
