#maliararepairweek

“What the fuck!” The rake hits him on the way down, knees and then toes, and embeds itself prong-first in the ground. His weird, oblong labor of love is scattered out for several feet in every direction and he has a leaf in his hair. He whips his head around in both directions, looking for a witness to his outrage – someone to hold his hands out to in open-mouthed, wordless disbelief.

He never said he wasn't dramatic, okay?

Scott is coming down from the porch, leaving behind his mug, the huge one they all share in the mornings in the car when they're on the run. His rubbed raw palms sting at the thought of the heat that he's usually so thankful for, his hands wrapped over Malia's so they can share the warmth. The closer he gets, Stiles can see that he's grinning, sleeves of his too-big sweater pulled over his fingers. “What happened?”

“I just finished,” Stiles tells him, swinging an arm at the scattered mix of orange, deep reds, and browns. Scott picks the leaf out of his hair and tosses it toward the pile, still grinning as it gently floats to the ground about two inches from their feet instead. “I worked my ass off.”

“It's October, Stiles,” Malia's disembodied voice reminds them, exasperated. She's literally disappeared beneath the leaves.  Way to commit to being one with nature. “You didn't even break a sweat.”

Stiles looks to Scott for support and gets a friendly shoulder pat. “I left you alone for like forty-five minutes. Did you forget how to have fun?” It's not clear whether that's meant to be a challenge – Stiles Stilinski is the king of fun, he is the human equivalent of the Tilt-a-Whirl, fun until you puke! - but it becomes one when he grapples for a hold on Scott's shirt to shove him into the leaves and gets taken down with him. There's a sharp yelp when he lands on Malia's hand before she pulls it from under him and digs her fingers into his ribs in retaliation, leaving him shrieking and flailing his legs into Scott's shins.

They roll around for what feels like ages, until the sun sets enough for the sky to go pale purple. Stiles has leaves down his track pants and still-watery eyes from the tickling and the later bout of sneezing; Malia's hair is in tangles, threaded through with bits of orange and red like hair ornaments. Scott is flat on his back, shirt ridden up so far it's almost obscene, breathless still with laughter. Happy breathless. He'd spent his childhood – and then all of senior year – terrified of Scott not being able to catch his breath. Now the crinkles around his eyes and the spread of his mouth around a silent laugh are everything.

It takes a while to get themselves together and pile into the porch swing, Scott in the middle with his mug of only slightly less scalding cider. He offers it up to Stiles in sips, holding it for him in his sweater-covered hands before he passes it back to Malia. With his hands free, he starts to carefully unknot the ends of Malia's hair, leaving behind the leaves when he can. Normally Kira would take care of this, but she's asleep inside, gearing up for a night shift. Malia leans into the touch, eyes closing as she takes the comfort of being groomed by her alpha.

Their feet knock together over the edge of the swing, Malia's swaddled in the lumpiest woolen socks her cousin could possibly find for her last birthday gift, Scott's bare and still tan from the long summer. Stiles eyes the inches of uncovered ankle above them and slowly lifts an eyebrow. “Are those your girlfriend's leggings?”

Scott glances down like he's forgotten what he's wearing at all and laughs when he spots his hairy ankles out in the open air. “These would swallow Kira. Malia put them in the donate pile and I thought one less thing to pack up and drive to Goodwill was a smart idea. We are going to do that eventually, by the way. No excuses.”

“Scott,” Stiles whines, except it's more like Ssscoooooott, because as nice as it is to imagine all their junk going to people who might need it, he doesn't really want to let most of it go. There are things from the apartments in those donate piles, even stuff from back home in Beacon Hills. “We just moved in.”

Malia snorts, lifting the mug from where it's wedged between her thighs and taking a long sip. “Four months ago. I think you're pushing it.”

“Okay, well, you can talk when you finally decide on curtains so I can stop getting woken up at the asscrack of dawn.” He raises his hand before she can start up all over again on how she doesn't care about curtains. “Scott and Kira and even Lydia gave you stuff to pick from, and I know you're just going to pull them down again if I pick them and you don't like them.”

“You could always just move into my room,” Scott says lightly, Malia's quiet growl enough to know exactly how she feels about that idea. Scott spends most of his nights in his shared bedroom with Kira and some with Malia and Stiles, especially when Kira has to work through the wee hours. “We'll get you one of those plastic blackout things in the meantime. Can't let you miss out on your beauty rest.”

Things quiet again, the mug being passed back and forth now cool from giving up all its heat to Malia's chilly legs. The sky is deep purple now, almost black, and Stiles finds himself suppressing a yawn even though it's early still. He feels Scott shift and notices him keeping an ear out for the inside of the house – Kira must be awake. Stiles nudges him with an elbow. “You better go catch a shower,” he says, winking, and gets a kiss for his troubles. Malia lets him brush the apple of her cheek with his lips, too preoccupied now with picking twigs and grass out of her socks to look up.

Stiles slides over when Scott heads inside, taking the empty mug with him, and starts working on what's left of the mess in Malia's hair. He's never been great at this like Scott is, too fidgety and impatient, but after a split second when her body stiffens at the unfamiliarity, she melts against him. They work together, her carefully extended claws picking anything pointy or with the potential to rot out of the yarn of her socks and his skinny fingers separating tangles. He tugs a little too hard some time, enough once for her to snap her teeth at him. There are some things they're all still getting the hang of, even after years.

When Scott and Kira return, more cider comes with them – four cups on a tray this time – and they squeeze in to fit themselves on the swing. It's chilly, Scott's damp hair sending shivers down his spine that make Malia whine in sympathy, plastering herself to him. Stiles smiles at Kira over the two of them and she beams back, at least three times more chipper than anyone about to be off to work should be. It's not long before she has to go, pressing her mouth to Scott's neck first and his mouth after, peppering kisses on Malia's forehead and hugging Stiles. They watch her down the long driveway, rolling right past the carnage of the leaf wrestling match.