Derek had a weird sensation around the area of his chest. It was … warm. And cozy. Like Christmas morning. Not the kind he'd had last year, with a dodgy present that he was pretty sure came straight from a dumpster and a sister who could barely hide her tears. The real kind—that feeling you have as you are between sleep and awakening, knowing there are presents waiting for you under the tree, a stove and oven filled with so much food it'll last for weeks, and a family just waiting to hug you the second they see you. Derek barely had time to recognize the feeling before it was slipping away, replaced by the usual dread of a new day.

"So, what's for breakfast?"

"My face in your fist." Derek forced his eyes open as he remembered what had happened last night. It was too early for this. As his eyes glanced over the half-wrecked room, he realized it wouldn't have made a difference whenever he'd woken up—there wasn't exactly an ideal time of the day to remember that everything you ever did was meant to fail horribly and to prove it, you were trapped inside your demolished room with what might be the most annoying person to ever exist ever.

"Pretty sure you meant to say 'my fist in your—'"

"Shut the fuck up." Derek hauled his body up and leaned against the headboard. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was only 6.40 in the morning, but yet, there that kid was, seemingly ready to face the day.

Ugh. Derek hated morning people. Well, Derek hated all people, but morning people were on top of the list.

"Why are you up already?" he growled. "The professors won't be missing us for at least another hour and a half."

Stiles' rumbling stomach answered the question for him. "My dad always gets up early for work," he said. "So, do you have anything edible in here?" He was sitting at the end of the bed, skinny legs crossed and red hood up, pulling at the strings so that his face was barely showing.

If he hadn't been so tired, Derek would've come up with a snarky remark about a 70-pound-kid being a perfect snack for a werewolf, but he had a feeling that he'd mess that up too.

"There should be some pumpkin pasties in the trunk," he said instead, bobbing his head towards the big piece of furniture in front of the door. Laura had packed them, even though she knew perfectly well that Derek hated anything pumpkin-flavored. Not that he'd ever said it in so many words, but you'd think that the growls and frowns would be enough.

Stiles skipped off the bed only to half-stumble on the torn-down curtains, and he tried to not-so-smoothly cover it up by getting on his knees in front of the trunk.

He threw away Derek's parchment and quills and the itchy woolen sweater Laura had found at a flea market, along with the few other personal items Derek owned.

"Aha!" Stiles said, finally finding a few pasties at the bottom of the trunk. They were crumbling at his touch, but he looked like he'd found gold. He threw one of them at Derek, who flinched, but still managed to capture it. Being a werewolf had some perks.

"I don't want it," he said, throwing it back at the kid, who'd stuffed his face with a pasty of his own.

"You gogga ee," Stiles answered, crumbs flying everywhere.

"I'm fine," he said, pulling the covers over his head, only to have his feet exposed to the cold, cruel air. He'd engorge the linens had it not been for the fact that his wand was several feet away from the bed, which meant that he'd have to get up completely. He settled for covering his feet at the moment.

Stiles swallowed loudly. "Ri' you ah'," he said, clearing pasty from his teeth with his tongue. "You're basically the poster wolf for hanger." Putting a finger into the mouth as well, he tried to reach a particularly stubborn piece of pasty, and dug around, pulled his finger out of his mouth with the goo stuck on it, looked at it, only to put it back inside his mouth.

Derek glared at him, not entirely sure what the kid'd just said, but pretty sure it was something insulting. "You're disgusting," he retorted.

Stiles shrugged. "Well, I try." He glanced at the rejected pasty at the end of the bed. "You sure you don't want that?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

"Yes."

"One hun—"

"Is the concept of yes too hard for you?" Derek interrupted. "Just take the god damn pasty!"

"See, this is why I think you should eat it. I don't want your low blood sugar to be the cause of my death."

"I'm. Fine."

Derek stared at Stiles. Stiles stared back at him, one eyebrow raised. Derek frowned, knowing he'd win this stare down—if there was one thing he was good at, it was staring. He'd had his fair share of practice, and you learn to say a lot with your features when you don't really wish to say anything or have anyone say anything to you at all.

Derek was momentarily interrupted by a familiar gush in his guts. Oh, no. Not now. If there was a god or any higher deity, please, don't let him be proven wrong by an eleven-year-old. He'd do anythingto—

His stomach growled loudly.

"Ha!" Stiles said, pointing excitedly. "There, you arehungry. Now you have to eat it."

Derek crossed his arms. "I so don't."

"Would you rather put my life at risk?"

"I'm considering it."

Stiles paused to look at him, looking slightly worried, before he started laughing. "Right." He picked up the pasty and tossed it at Derek. "Have some breakfast and then we'll figure out a way to get out of here."

Derek picked up the heinous little pastry and put it to his lips, keeping a glare on his face while he contemplated whether this day could get anyworse.

And of course it could.