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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Stiles awakes to the smell of different.
It's not a bad smell, it's just... Not his.
Muzzily he registers the faint sound of rain breathing against the window, the warm sigh of the comforter against his sleep-heavy body. His eyelids are stuck together in that way that only happens after a good night's rest, and his limbs are cradled like stone between the soft fuzz of morning blankets. He breathes deep through his nose and squooshes his face deeper into his pillow, dragging in the scent of dryer sheets, redwood and—
Derek.
His eyes snap open, only to find that it's not his room. It's Derek's. He's in Derek's bed. Under Derek's bedspread, which is folded over him.
He may still be dreaming.
With a jolt he rolls over and scrambles up onto his elbows, nearly falling off the matress in the process. He blinks, winces at the puddle of drool on Derek's pillow, and listens to his heartbeat pound in his ears as he spies the stuffed rabbit flopped over on the sheets.
Pig.
He scoots back against the headboard and gingerly picks it up. For fur so charred, it's remarkably soft in his hand, faded in a way that suggests it was once bubblegum pink. He stares at the black burns on it's ears as the events of last night hit him— the storm, Chinese food, creeping up the stairs in the dark, playing candy crush on his phone and putting it down to close his eyes for just a second, and then... Nothing. He must have fallen asleep.
Which he doesn't really have time to be embarrassed about, because next is the small pang when he remembers that Richard came by and took the badge. And after that, a moment of confusion when he realizes his eyes are grainy with sleep. Sleep, because he didn't have any nightmares. Not even the nightmare. He glances back to the stuffed rabbit in his hands, which stares back at him unblinkingly, tiny smile stitched beneath it's charred nose.
Huh.
"Thanks, buddy," he mutters. Then he licks his lips and scratches his head, because he's talking to a beanie baby.
Plink, plink, plink
He swings his head around. The source of the dripping is a mug on the floor, nearly filled to the brim with a steady line of water leaking from the ceiling. But this only captures his attention for a few seconds, because that's when he registers the low hum of faint voices coming from downstairs.
First he freezes, because they never have guests unless it's Scott or Lydia, but the muffled tones don't match either of them. He strains his ears to tune in, and fails to make out the words.
He gently sets Pig down on the nightstand and throws his feet out of bed, creeping over to the door. He opens it quietly, placing a palm against the hinge to muffle the squeak, and tiptoes across the hall and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots the fifth and second steps. As he travels closer to the living room the voices grow more distinguished, emanating from the kitchen. On the third to last step he halts, gently pressing his ear against the wall to listen to the voices around the corner. One is Derek's, low and calm in the way he only uses when he's trying to keep a lid on his anger, and the other belongs to—
