[ Derek's patience is as transient as British weather. eyes rolling upwards, he stares at the roof of the car as though it will grant him to will to endure the heavy weight of Stiles' mortification. his hands curl tight on the wheel like he's imagining throttling someone. eventually, he tips his head, eying Stiles significantly. you're an idiot, his expression seems to say, as it often does around Stiles, and I hate you.
still, the prospect of answering has his shoulders rolling uncomfortably. he gaze flicks away, evasive, before he stares back at Stiles with no small measure of defiance. ]
Put your weight on your feet, [ he says, flatly. ]
no subject
still, the prospect of answering has his shoulders rolling uncomfortably. he gaze flicks away, evasive, before he stares back at Stiles with no small measure of defiance. ]
Put your weight on your feet, [ he says, flatly. ]