“You… you…” Stiles can’t believe his eyes. There must have been something seriously fucked up with his cheerios. That’s the only possible explanation. Maybe he blacked out and poured Clorox on them instead of milk. Even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t mind having a swig of that particular bottle right now.
Derek doesn’t even look at him, just slams the door to the driver’s seat shut and locks the vehicle with his remote. Blip blip.
“I what? I came as fast as I could.”
Stiles turns his head to stare at Derek, mouth open, then to the monstrosity in his drive. Then back to Derek again.
“You traded in the Camaro… for this?”
Derek bristles visibly but then seems to force himself into a state of calm indifference.
“It’s fuel efficient. And takes more than two people.”
Somebody’s gonna have to do reconstructive surgery on Stiles’ face, because he’s never going to get his jaw off the ground. He takes two steps forward, stopping just shy of the shining black surface. He reaches out, pressing the pad of his index finger against the window. It’s real. It’s actually real.
“Did you hit your head?”
Derek’s face breaks into a frown. “What?”
“Did you fall and hit your head? Are you feeling well?”
“Stiles.” It’s a clear warning but Stiles is so beyond caring.
“There are other cars, Derek. Millions of cars that have those things, and when did that even become a priority for you? No nevermind, the point is, there are millions of cars that aren’t this complete boner killer. What even possessed you, is there a poltergeist outbreak I should know about?”
Derek folds his arms over his chest and the glare he levels at Stiles would put the fear of God in most. Unfortunately for Derek, when coupled with the beet red tips of his ears, the effect is lost completely.
“Oh my god, I’m judging you. I’m judging you so hard.”
Stiles turns around and stalks up the driveway.
“I’m not getting in that. We’re taking the jeep. Also, I’m not blowing you until that’s been returned.”