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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"I'm just saying, anyone who owns three blowdryers clearly has something to hide."
"Yes, your body in case you break another one."
The afternoon shines grey through the window, diminished by the warm lamps of the living room. Derek is currently on the staircase setting new buckets (twenty-two of them, Stiles counted) beneath the leaky spots in the ceiling, and Stiles is working on drying the last of the books. They had gotten back from Minton's last night to a house soggy with flooded puddles, result of Derek never getting around to setting up the apparently needed 'rain prep' before last night's downpour. They had stayed up past midnight mopping it up together, and Derek had gotten up at five to switch out the buckets. For such a shitty, falling-apart house, he sure treated it with care.
