#ahyira

“Sourwolf!” He called, as he stumbled back towards Derek’s spot at the bar (from which he had not moved since he’d claimed it). “Why so grumpy?! It’s my birthday!”

Derek winced as Stiles pretty much bellowed into his ear.

“It is your birthday, Stiles. I know it, probably the whole bar knows it.”

Stiles beamed.

“I’m tweeeeeenty ooooooooone!”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Hence the alcohol.”

It had not been a great night for Derek, so far.

Don’t get him wrong, Derek didn’t mind celebrating Stiles’ birthday with him. Even had he not been the only option, if Stiles had gone out with somebody else, new college friends, whatever… Derek could quietly acknowledge that he would have been very unhappy and also maybe would have followed them. Anything could happen, you know? And Stiles was never great at caution when he was sober so…

Yeah.

So Derek was mostly exactly where he wanted to be.

He just wished where they were was… someplace else. The bar was noisy and crowded (was this a new thing? Was Thursday the new Friday? Who behaved like this and then got up to go about their lives on Friday?). It smelled like sweat and old food and alcohol and bodies. He could smell the bathrooms even from the bar (the fact that there was a strong smell of cleaning product made him feel both better and more nauseated). And the flashing, changing, obnoxious lights from the dance floor hurt his eyes.

But Stiles seemed to be having a good time.

Derek was perfectly happy to hold the bar up and guard Stiles’ drink while he danced.

Which he did.

Quite a bit.

Derek passed Stiles a glass of water this time, and Stiles cheerfully knocked it back. Stiles looked breathless and flushed and happy and grateful… and then he trundled back out towards the press of bodies. Derek gave everyone his best Wanted Felon glare and returned to waiting.

He didn’t like the venue, but waiting and watching wasn’t exactly are hardship. Quite apart from all the other attractive folks on display, Derek was reveling, just a little bit, in getting to see Stiles like this. Stiles had been out of Beacon Hills for several years now: going home for holidays, but mostly just letting the town go. It seemed to have been just as good for him as it had been for Derek, and Derek had taken it upon himself to ensure it stayed that way…

But it was still rare to see Stiles this uninhibited. He was loose and relaxed and happy, casual with his affection where he’d been so guarded for so long.

Derek was truly happy to see him like that… but he was also, he could admit to himself, jealous. He had no desire to dance, to insert himself into that fetid press of flesh on the floor… but he couldn’t help but wish he was on the floor. He tried not to imagine it, warm and relaxed, pressed up against Stiles’ sweat-soaked shirt as they moved together, creating their own, intimate rhythm that the DJ could never…

Yes, Derek was aware he was a little bit hopeless. Conveniently, none of their mutual friends and acquaintances were around to notice his staring and mock him. Or worse.

The hair suddenly stood up on the back of his neck and he looked back towards the dance floor. In a moment he had Stiles picked out again… and was standing, pushing off the bar, and cutting through the crowd. Stiles was backing up, heading for the wall, shoving off the guy he had been dancing with. The guy followed for a moment, trying to slide his hands over Stiles’ shoulders, around the back of his neck, to keep him in place, but Stiles finally slapped the hands away, ducked down, and forced his way off the dance floor.

Derek cut straight through, ignoring the people he jostled, and the hands that started touching him and caught up with Stiles on the other side. He was leaning against the wall, hands folded across his chest, breathing hard in a way Derek thought he recognized. A very labored, pre-panic attack kind of breathing. He put his hands in front of himself in what he hoped was a very non-threatening posture and approached Stiles from the front and side, careful to let Stiles see him coming and not to trap him.

“Hey, Stiles!” He had to shout a little to be heard over the music, even no longer on the dance floor.

Stiles looked straight through him and edged away.

“Stiles!” Derek held his hands up in the universal ‘no harm’ gesture. Stiles didn’t respond. And then Derek had what was probably a McCall-level bad idea. He stepped a little closer, trying to ignore Stiles’ slow attempts to get away, laid a hand on his shoulder, and flashed his eyes.

Stiles’ own eyes went wide and a sharper breath interrupted the tight rhythm he’d had going.

And Derek suddenly had an arm-full of drunk twenty-one-year-old.

It wasn’t the first time Stiles had hugged Derek, not really. They’d mastered the shoulder bump, and the half-hug, and the couch slouch. But they almost never hugged full-on. They were far more likely to accidentally hug while fighting some supernatural baddie, Derek pulling Stiles in tight to his chest and turning them so he’d take the brunt of the attack, or them stumbling into each other, all over each other, as they pulled each other through woods and rough terrain to escape the same critter.

But this was…

Stiles buried his sweaty face against Derek’s neck (too tall, now, to lean on his chest while they were both standing). His arms went under Derek’s and came up behind him to fist Derek’s T Shirt over his shoulder blades. He pulled Derek tight to him, tight enough to squeeze the breath out, had Derek been human.

Derek was not human. He could smell the sweat and scent of other people on Stiles, the alcohol almost like he’d bathed in it. Underneath, he could smell chicken wings from dinner, and peanut butter m&ms, and Stiles’ soap and detergent, and the natural smell of his body.

Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles in response, and Stiles relaxed a little. They stood there a few moments while Stiles’ breathing evened out and the tension slowly slid from his frame. But as he loosened his grip on Derek, his hands began to sooth the places they’d dug in, began to wander. Derek was both surprised and extremely tempted to just… see where it might go. Werewolves were at least as touch-oriented as humans, and Derek knew he hadn’t had much of that, even (maybe especially) platonically in a very long time. As Stiles’ fingers traced the veins on his forearms, dragged against muscle and hair and skin, Derek felt himself melting into it.

Were he a regular canine, he might have rolled over and presented his bell for more.

Finally, though, one of Stiles hands began to make its way down Derek’s core towards his belt, and he worked up the courage to call a halt. It had to be the alcohol. It was too far outside Stiles' usual behavior. Stiles didn't... He'd never acted as if... If he woke up tomorrow and had to remember...

Derek was just as bad as everyone else in the bar.

He firmly planted his own hands back on Stiles’ shoulders and drew away… but not before Stiles leaned in a planted a solid, slightly wet, very alcoholic kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Even as he pulled away the rest of the way, and made the executive decision they were done, nodding to the bartender and steering Stiles out towards the parking lot… Derek was torn. There were few thing in his life, he thought, he was going to both treasure and regret as much as he did that left-of-center vinegar-and-hops flavored kiss.

He took Stiles home.

- -

He took Stiles to his home.

- -

In Derek’s defense, his place was much closer than Stiles’, and much bigger, and he knew he had eggs and orange juice and could feed them in the morning. Not things he had faith would be present in Stiles’ tiny disaster apartment.

Stiles didn't make it very far, at any rate. Derek hardly had him seated on the edge of the bed drinking water before Stiles was out, completely, making little snuffling almost-snores against Derek’s pillow.

Derek would have preferred to have a clean Stiles in his bed, rather than track in all the bar smells… But beggars take their blessings, or whatever. And it wasn’t like Derek particularly deserved it. The bar smells actually served as both warning and reminder to Derek that this was not some kind of dream.

He stripped Stiles down to his boxers, though, and piled his clothing in the bathroom. Returning with a warm wet washcloth, Derek did his best to scrub Stiles down a little, at least. And then he stripped himself, putting on pants and a Tee for propriety’s sake (also because he might actually die if he actually had that much actual skin-to-skin contact with Stiles) and crawled into the other side of the bed, arranging covers over both of them.

It was only logical, after all. Even with his werewolf hearing, Derek wanted to be close enough to Stiles to help, in case something went wrong (he had another panic attack, he suffocated himself, whatever).

And it was totally a big enough bed for both of them. Purely altruism. Not at all creepy.

He figured the jokes And innuendos Stiles would inevitably make would be punishment enough, in the morning.

Stiles had no idea.

- -

Stiles woke up around 4.

Derek felt the bed shift and heard Stiles groan. Sitting up in bed, he looked over to see Stiles slowly shoving himself to his feet, one hand clutching his head. Derek slid out of bed himself, guided Stiles down the hall to the bathroom, and went to rummage in the kitchen. When he returned, quietly triumphant with Gatorade and ibuprofen, Stiles was stumbling back to the bed. Derek got him to take the pills and drink half of the bottle, and then he passed out again.

- -

Derek woke, finally, in the daylight, to Stiles snugged in front him, curled into the hollow of his body. He pulled his head back a little and saw Stiles neck was a little red where he’d, apparently, been nuzzling him in his sleep.

Mortified, Derek quickly but carefully extricated himself and headed for the bathroom again, and then the kitchen, allowing himself just one last glance at Stiles in his bed.

It didn’t occur to him until he was halfway through a mug of coffee, fifteen minutes later, exactly what Stiles was going to think when he woke up.

Stiles was smart. If his brain was functioning anywhere close to capacity when he woke up and he remembered anything about the night before… Derek had left such an incriminating trail. Between A: Derek definitely having a couch, and one of them could have slept there, B: Derek taking his role so seriously the night before that he brought Stiles to his own home and even got up with him in the middle of the night, C: Derek stripping him to his boxers and tucking him in why did he do that oh god, and D: Derek tolerating all Stiles’ intoxicated ramblings and behaviors that night before (including a kiss! Kind of…) and never giving him shit for them, as was their usual routine...

Yeah. Stiles was going to figure it out.

Fuck. Derek was the worst.

- -

Stiles, apparently, figured it out. Derek made it about a foot into his bedroom, mugs of coffee in hand, when Stiles was suddenly there, greeting him with a kiss.

Derek was floored for half a second.

And then he just couldn’t resist. He kissed back. Stiles had his hands on either side of Derek’s face, long fingers playing across his temples, his ears, his skull. Stiles tasted like Derek’s toothpaste. Derek wanted to grab Stiles’ face back, to tilt his head, to chase Stiles’ own flavor deeper into his mouth-

The coffee sloshed a little, and the short sting of pain reminded Derek he was holding them. That was stupid, so he held them out to the night stand, slid them quickly into place, just back from the edge, kissing Stiles the entire time, and then pulled his hands back, going for Stiles shoulders on the way to the back of his head.

And then his hand on Stiles sparked a sharp memory, holding Stiles in place and flashing his eyes the night before.

It came crashing down.

“No,” Derek forced out, breaking the kiss, untangling Stiles arms from his neck, and taking a step back.

“... What why not.” Stiles was breathless, but tried to follow Derek right back towards the wall next to the door.

“Just stop, Stiles.” Derek tried to sound firm and not like kissing Stiles was the only thing he ever wanted to do again in his life.

“Just… you stop!” Stiles looked a little indignant. “Kissy-Mc-Kisser-back!”

Derek stared.

“Shut up. Anyway, you were into it, weren’t you? You reciprocated! With interest!” Stiles did sound genuinely confused. “If you want it too, then why not just-”

“The last time someone tried to get this close to you, you panicked and I had to take you home.”

Stiles did take a step back at that, and Derek immediately regretted his phrasing.

“Well if I’m too much trouble-”

Yeah, no.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. I just… Stiles. I never want to be the cause of you getting hurt-”

“I’m not hurt-”

“Or even feeling uncomfortable. Of all people, I know how shitty a person can feel during... During. When you’re not 100% on board. Or ready. Or whatever.”

Stiles stepped forward again to put a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Dude, I’m seriously fine. That was probably a one-time freakout-”

Derek tried to step back and shrug Stiles’ hand off, but he’d finally hit the wall.

“Stiles, I wouldn’t be okay!” Derek could see the expression on Stiles’ face shift. Maybe he was starting to get it. “If I made you uncomfortable, I am the one who wouldn’t be fine with it... So unless you can explain to me… and you don’t have to say anything, that’s not what I’m trying to do here. But I am not willing to go any further without some kind of… Stiles I can't make you feel…”

Stiles blew out a breath.

“I get it. Okay? It’s okay. I get it.”

“Are you sure?” Because Derek just couldn’t… “Because I don’t want-”

“It’s ‘cause I was drunk, okay? I’m pretty sure it was because of the alcohol.” Stiles sighed, and gave in. “I was fine for a while, it was fun. Hell, Derek, I’ve gotten that close to other people, done things, and not freaked out.

“But last night, yeah, last night was a bad decision. I… I drank too much, and I’ve never had that much to drink, not since… Not since Beacon Hills.”

'Since before the Nogitsune’ is what Stiles didn’t say, but Derek heard anyway.

“Suddenly, everything felt like a dream, like I… like I was moving through water. The fog made everything sound weird, and the lights and probably the booze made me dizzy and I felt… kind of out of body for a minute? And then that dude’s hands were like… I don’t know. Like he wanted into my body while I wasn’t using it. Or something. I don’t know!” Stiles’ flailing hands were in danger of taking out the coffee mugs on the bedstand, and Derek wanted to reach out and stop them, but he also wanted to hear whatever Stiles wanted to say.

“But it just… everything felt wrong and I couldn’t clear my head and I had to get away…”

Derek frowned.

“And then I pinned you to the wall and you really couldn’t get away.”

Of course he fucked it up.

“No, Derek, you pinned me to the ground. As soon as I worked out that it was you, I felt anchored, not stuck. You… you kind of rescued me dude. Or do you think I fall all over everyone like that when I’m drunk…?”

Derek relaxed a little. Maybe he didn’t fuck it up.

“Well… no.” That was mostly true. “But I didn’t want to presume-”

“Derek.” And Stiles carefully put his hand on either of Derek’s shoulders. “I’ve never been that drunk. And I don’t think I’m going to do it again in a hurry. Seriously… I’m really glad you were there.”

It was almost too much, Stiles that close and intense and his hands holding Derek in place, safe. Derek… Derek looked away.

“C’mon, Derek. Please? Look at me? Listen to my heart. Tell me if I’m lying.”

Derek felt the heat on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. But he made eye contact. And listened. Stiles’ heart… Derek thought he could listen to that forever, too. He often thought that. And it was steady.

“I want this.” Stiles eyes said it as much as his mouth and heart did. “I’m not scared of you. I could never- Derek.” Stiles slid his hands along Derek’s shoulders until they were touching his neck, gliding up it, cupping the base of his skull.

Derek wasn’t sure anyone had touched him that delicately since Laura. Maybe since his mother.

“I’m in love with you, Derek Hale.” Derek’s breath caught. “Pretty much completely. And have been for a while. And if you like me back, then I think we should do something about that.” Stiles winked, but then, when Derek still couldn’t bring himself to respond, his face started to fall and he began to pull away. "I'm sorry it took me getting drunk, though, that was-"

Derek pinned Stiles’ hands in place, still cupping his face. He dipped his head a little and kissed one, kissed Stiles’ palm, and then his wrist and then his shoulder and then they were kissing again and Derek had maybe never felt more buoyant in his entire life. He was still a little sweaty from the night before and his breath was probably terrible, what the coffee didn’t cover up, and going to the kitchen hadn’t required him to brush his hair or trim his beard or anything.

“Yes! Yes! Atta boy,” Stiles shouts, pumping his fist in glee. “Alright, now...” he reaches his hand cautiously toward the controls, “can we have heat...”

A burst of hot air floods into the cab, making Stiles sigh in relief, but it's closely followed by a sudden loud rattle and an ear-splitting bang, after which the silence that falls is sudden and complete.

It's beautiful, Stiles thinks numbly, out here in the pitch dark with the snow falling all around him. At least he'll freeze to death surrounded by the serene beauty of winter. It could be worse. He could have died in a fiery crash. His dad could have killed him as a teenager. He could have died of cancer like his mom.

He slumps forward and drops his head against the horn, letting the sound echo out into the darkness. There's no one here to be disturbed by it, after all. Only the moose and the night and the trees.

–

He's wrapped up in all the blankets he had in the back, but it's not going to be enough. He's been able to see his breath in the cab for a while now, and the condensation has started to form little icicles connecting the windshield to the dashboard right down by the heat vents. Coughing makes clouds of vapor appear before his nose, like a dragon, he thinks absently, and wishes Scott could see. His nose is running, and he feels flushed in spite of the pervasive chill, signs that the disgusting headcold/flu/death virus thing he's been trying to fight off for a couple days is settling in for good.

He'd taken his head off the horn after a while, the noise starting to hurt his ears. The absence of sound is abrupt, and makes his head ring, but that could also be the cold creeping in. He's got his hat pulled down as far as he can over his ears and face, and his blanket pulled up so that only his nose and eyes are exposed. It's already 11pm, it's possible he'll stay alive till morning brings some truckers down this lonely stretch of back highway, but he has to admit it's not likely.

His dad will never forgive him, he thinks as he starts to nod off.

–

He startles awake to a banging on the window and an angry, urgent voice. He can't figure out what to do, and cracks his head hard on the glass trying to unwind his arms from the blanket. The door opens suddenly, and he falls out face first, still trying to get his hands out to catch himself, opening his mouth to shout but coughing instead, deep and hard. He waits to hit the icy ground, but fetches up instead against against a pair of arms that catch him and balance him half in, half out of the jeep, slumped out of the driver's seat and braced against a heavy-coated chest.

“Hey, hey,” a voice says, and Stiles thinks it's the same one that was shouting outside his jeep, “good, you're alive.”

“Mmnrggh,” Stiles manages, and there's a sudden hand on his forehead, cold enough that he tries to flinch away.

“Well, you don't seem hypothermic, thank God.” The stranger has unwound the blanket with Stiles braced against his shoulder, and fishes out Stiles hands to chafe them and check their circulation. “But you do seem pretty sick.”

“'s just a cold,” Stiles gets out, yanking the blanket back around him, because fucking brr, and finally gets a look at the stranger as the man leans in to help wrap him back up.

He must have died, Stiles thinks, because the face staring back at him is too beautiful to be human. It’s pale with sharp-hewn features, a thick dark beard and angular black eyebrows arching over strikingly light eyes; clearly the visage of a heavenly being sent down to guide Stiles’ soul to the afterlife. The moonlight washes the colors out of everything, leaving the cowboy hat on top of the man's head an indeterminate grey, and his coat a darker shade of charcoal.

“That fever says otherwise,” the stranger says, frowning. “You got anything in this jeep you want to grab?”

“Overnight bag,” Stiles wheezes, breaking into a coughing fit, “in the back.”

“Okay,” the man pulls Stiles out of the jeep and sets him on his feet, handling his weight effortlessly, and if Stiles weren't so out of it, that casual strength would be doing all sorts of things to his head. “Can you stand?”

“Think so,” Stiles says, shivering.

“Good. Stay right there,” the man instructs, then disappears around the back of the jeep. Stiles hears the sounds of the back door opening, followed by a moment of rummaging, and then the slam of the door. He resolutely suppresses a wave of coughing that wants to cripple him, and listens to the sound of the stranger's boots crunching back around through the snow.

His eyes have closed at some point, because he feels the strong hands gripping his arms before that same face swims into view in front of him.

“Okay, hang in there. We're gonna get you all taken care of.” The man turns his head and whistles, and Stiles has time to think, we?, before an enormous, dark, deep-chested horse appears around the front of the jeep, tossing its head impatiently. “Yeah, yeah,” the guy says, laughter in his voice, “I know you want to go back to your nice warm barn. Come over here, and we'll get a move on.”

Stiles must make some of worried noise, because the man just chuckles as he gets a hand on the horse's reins and maneuvers her over. “Don't worry if you haven't ridden before, Lupe's gentle, even if she is grumpy.” The horse snorts in a great approximation of Stiles' thoughts on the matter, but there's no arguing because the guy is already swinging him up and over, and Stiles has just enough presence of mind to spread his legs so that he lands on the horse upright, its girth wider than he had expected, but its coat warm under his hands where he braces them on its neck. A second later he can hear his jeep door slam, and then there’s a warm body behind him, arms coming firm and strong around his waist as the man takes the reins and clucks to the horse.

“Alright, Lupe,” he says, and Stiles slumps against him, the last of his dignity entirely gone, “let’s go home.”

–

It feels like a dream to Stiles. He has no idea how far they go, or how long it takes- he's fading in and out of sleep or consciousness the whole time, leaning against the man behind him. The moon is full and high above them, reflecting off the banks of freshly fallen snow and lighting the rushing water in the creek they cross. It's cold, but very still, and after a time, the snow starts to fall again, fat, thick flakes that catch in Lupe's mane and stick. Stiles shivers, and the man behind him pulls him up tight against his body, opening his jacket and wrapping Stiles in the flaps of it.

“Hang on,” he says, and there's a note of worry in his voice that Stiles hadn't heard before, “we'll be there soon,” but Stiles is already lost, his mind wandering among the dark treetops and the whirling bright stars.

–

When he wakes up, he can barely move. He nearly panics, but realizes abruptly that his paralysis is on account of the number of blankets piled on top of him, plus the weight of a massive and snoring cat.

“Hello?” he tries, but it comes out as a croak, so he clears his throat painfully and tries again. “Hey. Um, hello?”

Footsteps sound in the hallway; there must be stairs out there, he thinks; and then the door opens.

“You're awake,” the man says, but Stiles thinks the guy must be wrong about that, because he's just as pretty as he was in Stiles' hazy fever dreams, and that just can't be possible. “I was getting worried.”

He comes close and settles onto the edge of the bed, reaching down absently to pet the cat, who snarls, but the arches into the touch. “Hi, Sweetie,” he chuckles, then turns his attention to Stiles, raising a hand to rest on Stiles' forehead. “Oh good, your fever broke. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Stiles croaks honestly, and the guy chuckles. “Who the hell are you, anyway? And how did you find me?”

“Oh, sorry,” he says, and the man looks honestly abashed for a moment, like he's taken aback at the sheer thought of having failed to introduce himself in an emergency situation. “I'm Derek. Derek Hale.” He smiles the slowest, most charming smile Stiles has ever seen, and holds out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Stiles,” he says, taking Derek's warm, callused hand in his own, “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Not what your license says,” Derek says with a wink, and Stiles' mouth drops open in horror, “it says...”

“No, oh my god, no!” Stiles dives forward and slaps his hands over Derek's mouth, “My name is Stiles!” Derek just laughs and pulls Stiles' hands down, tucking him back against the pillow.

Stiles frowns. “What the hell were you doing going through my wallet, anyway?”

Derek shrugs. “You were pretty out of it. I needed to know who you were, and I wanted to try and follow up on you, in case anyone was worried.”

Stiles gasps in horror. “What day is it? Oh my God, my dad! I have to...” He struggles his legs free of the cat, who yowls in protest, and manages to get halfway up before a wave of dizziness and Derek's wide palm planted in the middle of his chest stop him.

“Whoa, take it slow. Don't worry, I got ahold of your dad.”

“How did you...”

“Your wallet had his business card in it, and a Beacon Hills Sheriff's office sticker.” Derek smiles. “I figured someone there must know who you are, and how to get in touch with the right people,” he shrugs, “and I was right. He's coming out to get you, but it's going to be a few days. This storm has socked us in pretty good, and he's not going to be able to get to any of the nearby airports for a while.”

“Oh, God,” Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands guiltily, “he must be so worried. He wasn't expecting me yet- it was supposed to be a surprise. I told him I was flying in on the morning of the 25th, cause that's when flights are cheapest, but nooo,” he coughs hard, his throat flaming in protest, “no, I decided to drive over the mountains and come in early to surprise him. Good job, Stiles,” he mutters dejectedly, “way to ruin Christmas.”

“Hey,” Derek pats at his legs under the blanket, his face warm and earnest, “I don't think he's that upset about it. He was worried at first, sure, but I gave him all my information, and said I'd make sure you stayed here and rested up, and then he's going to come pick you up in a couple days.” He smiles at this, and it's the first awkward expression Stiles has seen him make. “I mean, I know you don't know me, but I promise I'm not some serial killer or anything. And I can leave you alone if you want, now that you're doing better.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, pretty sure you're not a serial killer, dude. If that were the case, you would've killed me already, not nursed me back to health over...”

“Oh, not so long. I found you about seven last night, it’s not quite noon now.” Derek supplies helpfully.

“Still. Jesus.” Stiles buries his face in his hands again, then pulls them down. “Anyway, my point stands. Any serial killer worth his salt wouldn't have bothered to wait for me to wake up.”

“What if I wanted to torture you?” Derek muses, then looks horrified at what he just said, which makes Stiles laugh out loud. “Sorry, I mean...”

“No, see? This is why I'm not worried. You don't look like you could torture a fly.” Stiles is trying not to become progressively more enamored with the vision in worn plaid flannel sitting in front of him, but it's a losing battle. He can remember the warmth of those arms around him, the solid heat of that chest, and... he forces himself to refocus. “Your cat, on the other hand...” he scowls and shoves at the bedraggled mass of feline with his toes, provoking a hiss.

Derek just laughs, and hauls the monster up into his arms, snarling as it goes. “Oh, Sweetie? Well, I can't say he's harmless, but,” he rubs his face across its head, then drops it to the floor where it stalks off, tail twitching, “he's a good monster. Found him on the side of the road a few years back, just a scraggly mess of kitten. He's all bark, though, won't actually bite.”

“Yeah, maybe not you,” Stiles says, trying to squelch the warm fuzzies his heart is blooming at the mental image of Derek finding a kitten on the side of the road and shoving it into his shirt to keep it safe as he rides off on his massive black horse. What even, he thinks, thanks for that, brain, you are not helping Operation Don't Get A Boner For The Nice Man Who Saved Your Life.

“Hey,” Derek says, standing up and holding out his hand, “why don't you get up, have a shower, and then some food? You'll feel better after all of that, for sure.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, because it's true. He can smell himself, and it ain't pretty. “Okay.” He takes Derek's hand, and lets himself be pulled to his feet. “Thanks.”

–

Derek guides him down the hallway from the room he’s been sleeping in, one hand solicitously under Stiles’ elbow to help him balance. He’s silently grateful for it; he feels wobbly and light on his feet as he steps forward, surreptitiously keeping a hand out near the wall in case he tips over.

They reach a doorway at the end of the hall, and Derek pushes the door open to reveal the biggest, poshest, private bath Stiles has ever seen, complete with snow-covered skylight illuminating the room.

“Jesus Christ, why do you ever leave this room?” Stiles gasps, staring around at the jetted tub, the massive and fluffy towels, the… is that a sauna in the corner?

“I know, it’s a little much.” Derek flushes a shade of pink on his neck that has Stiles entranced all over again, and not with the bathroom this time. “But when I built this house my little sister was still living with me, and, well… she believes in a good bath.”

“God, a woman after my own heart,” Stiles murmurs as he reaches over to flick on the hot water tap. “I could kiss her,” he groans, watching the water flow into the basin of the tub and sitting down on the nearby hardwood bench to pull off his socks.

“Well, you could try,” Derek laughs, and gets out a fresh towel and washcloth set to settle on the end of the tub, “but you’re not really her type.”

“What?” Stiles mock-scowls and flexes his biceps, “not manly enough for her?”

“No…” Derek replies, his eyes amused and his mouth twitching upward, “more like not pretty enough.”

“What?” Stiles slaps a palm to his chest in mock outrage, “are you saying I’m not pretty?”

“No, not at all” Derek says, and there’s a gleam in his gaze that makes Stiles swallow hard, “more that you’re not a girl.”

“Ohh,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes and letting his shoulders drop, “well, in that case, that’s fine then. So long as I haven’t lost my rakish good looks and charm along with my voice and dignity.” He winks at Derek, and pulls his shirt over his head, then leans forward to twist the knob of the cold water just a little.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Derek asks, and Stiles turns to look at him where he leans on the bathroom counter. “You were pretty sick last night.”

It’s clearly a serious question, in spite of the light tone, so Stiles takes a minute to run a quick systems check before answering.

“Well,” he says, “I feel pretty weak, I guess. And I got a little light-headed coming down the hall. But… I definitely feel a lot better than yesterday, even before Roscoe broke down.”

“Good.” Derek nods. “Well, take your time in here, and when you’re done, come downstairs. I’ll make lunch.”

“Yeah, ok.” Stiles smiles, and tries not to think about where he’d be if Derek hadn’t found him. It already seems so far away, like it was weeks ago, not hours. He’s comfortable with Derek in a way he never is with strangers, but he thinks he’s deciding to just go with it. It seems like it’s going to be just the two of them, for a bit anyway, so he may as well run with it. “Thanks.”

“Towels are at the end of the tub,” Derek says, pushing off from the sink. “Holler if you need anything.”

“What if I need help washing my back?” Stiles says before he can think of it, and laughs nervously. “I mean…”

Derek lifts an eyebrow and opens the door. “Maybe next time,” he says, and grins as he pulls it closed behind him, leaving Stiles with his mouth hanging open as the water runs in the background.

--

He spends at least an hour in the bathroom, first blissfully soaking in the tub, then doing some basic maintenance. Derek had left out a fresh toothbrush and a disposable razor, so he goes ahead and shaves, taking his time and doing a good job. He’d just finished finals two days ago, and hadn’t had a chance to get rid of his gross finals-week scraggle, and god knows his cold hasn’t helped his morning breath any, so he’s grateful for the chance to make himself human again.

He inhales experimentally. There’s definitely still a tickle of a cough in his throat, but the steam from the tub has actually opened up his sinuses really well, and though he still feels weak, he feels much healthier than he did yesterday. Sleeping for twelve hours will do that, he guesses, and grimaces at the thought.

Derek had the foresight to bring his overnight bag into the bathroom before he’d run away, so Stiles at least has his own clothes, which is nice. He digs out a clean pair of briefs and his comfy jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and, after a judicious sniff of his red hoodie, a flannel overshirt.

He drains the tub, turns on the bathroom fan to get all the steam out, and heads down the hallway to the staircase he’d seen as they walked from the room where he’d been sleeping. Halfway there he’s hit with the smells of soup and bread, and nearly staggers as his stomach twists in hunger. He grabs the banister and heads down the stairs, following his nose to the food.

The downstairs is amazing, slowly revealed as he descends the staircase- it’s all one open floor plan, with huge wooden beams and wood-planked walls. The front door opens into the middle of the main living area, which has a massive stone fireplace on one end and a high ceiling, but the back half of the first floor is covered by the upstairs, and holds the kitchen and what looks to be a dining and working area, with a large table and built in bookshelves. It’s gorgeous workmanship, the exposed beams and the carved finials, and Stiles wonders how long this place took to build. It’s meant to last, that’s clear, and he feels suddenly lonely for Derek out here in this perfect house, seemingly alone.

“Hey, there you are,” Derek says, catching sight of Stiles as he nears the bottom of the stairs, “come on over and have a seat.” He pulls out a chair and waves Stiles into it, walking over to the stove to ladle out two bowls of steaming soup. “Have a good soak?”

“God, yes,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders and inhaling appreciatively as the bowl is set in front of him. “That tub is sinful.”

Derek laughs, his eyes squinching closed, and Stiles desperately needs to make him laugh more.

“You’ve got a rather small definition of ‘sinful’ if that tub counts,” Derek says, and Stiles nearly chokes.

“Nah,” Stiles says, trying not to swallow his tongue, “I’m a hedonist, I know a good tub when I sit naked in one.” He grins sharply as Derek laughs again, pulling out a knife to slice a fresh loaf of bread. “You can take my word for it.”

“I’ll do that,” Derek says, and comes to settle at the table across from Stiles, his eyes gleaming as he dips a piece of bread in his soup. “Hedonist, huh?”

“Well,” Stiles says, “I’m in my last year of college, so, as hedonist as my budget allows, anyway.”

“Oh, I see,” Derek nods wisely, “so you’re looking forward to your days of moving up from Natty Lite to PBR.”

“Pfft.” Stiles waves a dismissive hand. “PBR’s for hipsters. I,” he lifts his chin and affects a posh air, “I only drink Rolling Rock.”

Derek nods again, his expression calm. “Oh, of course. Only the best.” He dips his bread again, bringing it dripping to his mouth. “Well, I’ll make sure not to offer you any of the good whisky later, or my rum for your eggnog. We wouldn’t want to ruin your pallette.”

“Welllll…” Stiles says, pretending to consider, “I suppose it’s okay if I make an exception this once. I mean, we both know that nothing can top Jim Beam, but I could give what you have a try.”

Derek is laughing again, shaking his head, and Stiles grins, shoving a hunk of bread in his mouth. He’s pulled in by Derek, wants to talk to him, to know about him, to take him apart to see what makes him tick, then put him back together again and watch him run.

“So, you’re in college?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, his train of thought happily derailed by Derek’s question before it got too far down a dangerous path. “Yeah, nearly done. Next semester’s the last one!”

“What are you studying?”

“Criminal and forensic sciences, with a minor in speech.”

Derek blinks. “Taking after your father?”

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugs, “I mean, I’ve always liked problem solving, taking a piece of information and picking at it until it unravels and tells me everything. So, I guess I figured, why not put it to good use?”

“And you’re driving through Wyomning from the east, but your dad’s in California. Why not go to school there?”

Stiles shrugs. “Didn’t have the program I wanted.” He sighs, stirring his soup absently. “It’s hard, though. I worry about him all the time, and I have to pay out of state tuition, so I’m working all the fucking time.”

“Yeah?” Derek’s voice sounds curious, “what do you do?”

“Oh, different stuff,” Stiles says, waving a hand. “I’m a janitor for twenty hours a week, but I also pick up some grounds crew jobs, and then over breaks there are a couple professors that I help out as an assistant.”

“That’s a lot,” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah. It’s the only way, though. I don’t want to come out in debt up to my eyeballs, and Dad can’t afford to pay for me, so. You know.” He shrugs again.

“What about your mom?”

Stiles looks down at his soup and shakes his head. “She died when I was ten,” he says, and takes another bite, hand moving quickly between the bowl and his mouth. “It’s just me and my dad.”

“No siblings?” Derek’s voice sounds sad.

“Nope,” Stiles laughs quietly, “they thought they wanted another after me, but I was too awesome; they couldn’t follow me with another act.”

--

Stiles leans back in his chair and watches as Derek moves around the kitchen, his motions well-practiced as he wraps the bread in a towel and covers the rest of the soup. He feels like he should probably help, but it’s honestly all he can really do to sit with his legs stretched out and his hands on his food baby; it’s the best he’s eaten in longer than he cares to think about, and part of him wants to fall asleep at the table and only get woken up for dessert.

The other part of him doesn’t want to miss a minute with Derek, though, so he forces himself upright, grabbing both of their bowls and carrying them over to the dishwasher. The cabin continually surprises him, he thinks as he loads the bowls into the top rack and drops the spoons into the silverware basket. From the outside it just looks like your standard mountain man cabin, though maybe a bit bigger than most, but inside the wood gleams, the hearth roars, colorful rugs litter the floors, and discreet mod cons hide in tasteful corners. He wonders, and not for the first time, what exactly it is that Derek is doing out here, and where/how he got the money to build this place.

“Hey,” Derek says, and Stiles looks up to find Derek much closer than he’d realized. “You want to come feed Lupe with me?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, and he’s honestly not even sure what he’s agreeing to other than dark hair and iridescent eyes and a charmingly imperfect grin, but he does at least manage to shut the dishwasher before he follows Derek to the door, so he’s counting that as a win.

--

The barn is a little way out from the house, but the path between the two is well-trodden. There’s a coil of rope anchored to the corner of the house nearest the path, and Stiles eyes it curiously as they walk out.

It’s cold, but not as cold as the night before; the sky is low and hazy with clouds, the air still and damp. It’s a pause in the storm, but from having looked at his phone before he drove out yesterday morning, Stiles thinks a pause is all it is. The barometric pressure pushes on his skin even as the snow crunches under his boots.

The barn isn’t as big as Stiles had expected, but it’s not a farm, he rationalizes, so it’s not like Derek is keeping cows out here or something. It’s built as solidly and as well as the house itself; warm inside, and filled with the smells of animals. Derek immediately walks over to Lupe, who is hanging her long face over her stall door, whuffing through her nostrils in impatience for him to get over here and rub her nose already. Stiles trails behind, feeling a little out of place.

“Hey, c’mere,” Derek says, and holds out a hand. “Come say hi; she’ll be glad to see you.”

Stiles doubts that, honestly, but he walks obediently over, narrowly avoiding stepping on a curious barn kitten who swipes bad-temperedly at his pant leg.

“Punk,” he says to the kitten, dodging its claws, “is this… one of Sweetie’s?”

“Maybe? Or maybe a sibling or cousin,” Derek frowns, “I’ve never been sure if he was an abandoned pet or a particularly friendly feral. Lots of people around here have barn cats, and they just run wild.” He shrugs, and takes Stiles’ hand to lay it on Lupe’s nose. “The ones that show up on my property I take in to get fixed, but there’s a never-ending stream of them, and they’re probably all related many times over.”

The kitten attacks Derek’s bootlace, making him smile again, and Stiles can’t tear his eyes away, even as he methodically rubs his hand across Lupe’s warm face.

Derek glances up suddenly, and catches Stiles’ gaze, holding it steady for long enough that Stiles realizes he’s forgotten to breath, and starts to cough.

“I need to take her out for a bit, get her some exercise,” Derek says, and Stiles tries not to let his face fall at the implicit dismissal, turning back to face Lupe and catch her brown eyes with his own.

“Yeah, ok. You go ahead,” he says, proud of how casual it sounds.

“...do you want to come?”

--

They ride out in silence, the air itself suffocating any noise that rises from them; the sounding of Lupe’s hooves, the rasp of their breathing. It’s the quietest Stiles can ever remember being with another person while he’s awake, but it’s peaceful, easy in a way that he can’t quite fathom, and is afraid to question.

He’s seated in front of Derek again, his legs wrapped around the warm barrel that is Lupe’s ribcage; Derek is just a hair taller than he is, so he’d thought Stiles’d have a better view in front. It’d taken a few minutes for Stiles to adjust to the rolling motion of the horse beneath him, and he’d cracked his shoulder against Derek’s chin twice as he fought to keep himself upright before Derek had sighed through his nose and wrapped an arm around Stiles’ waist, pulling him back.

“Like this,” he’d said, “relax into it, move with me,” and Stiles had never been so grateful to be in front of Derek, rather than stuck behind with his nascent boner pressed to Derek’s ass. Relax, he’d thought, sure, but it came easier than he thought, his body melting into Derek’s grip and beginning to sway in harmony with the motions of horse and rider.

They ride until they come to a clearing a couple of miles from the house. They’ve been coming along an unused road; Stiles can see the impressions of the gravel under the snow, but it doesn’t look as though it’s been maintained in years. Lupe seems to know the way, though, trodding on without direction from Derek. She enters the clearing and stops, swishing her tail and whuffing out her breath to steam in the hot air, and Derek laughs quietly and swings down, grabbing the reins so Stiles can awkwardly maneuver himself off her back and drop to the ground. Derek braces him as he lands, hands large and firm on Stiles’ hips, and Stiles can feel himself flush at the contact.

“So,” he says, coughing to cover his embarrassment, “what are we doing?”

Derek looks meditative, gazing out over the clearing, and Stiles follows his glance to what looks like the ruined foundation of a large house.

“Derek?”

“Hm? Oh, we’re getting a Christmas tree,” Derek answers, breaking out of his momentary daze and tying Lupe to a small tree near the end of the road.

“A Christmas tree?” Stiles asks incredulously, looking at the height and heft of the trees surrounding them with new eyes. His mistrust of the idea must show on his face, because Derek just grins and unlatches a hatchet from his belt.

“A small tree. C’mon.”

Derek starts walking off, so Stiles shuffles along behind him, trying to focus on looking at the trees that Derek’s pointing out, but unable to keep from glancing every few minutes at the remains of the house in the middle.

“...Stiles?” Derek’s voice is querying, and it pulls Stiles back to the task at hand.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, um… yes, that one works.”

Derek smirks. “Stiles, this is a hickory tree.”

“Augh. Sorry.” He pulls a hand down over his face and grimaces. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

Derek nods, and straightens up, crossing his arms and looking out toward the center of the clearing. “You can ask. It’s ok.”

Stiles swallows hard. He thinks he knows the answer to this already, but he opens his dry mouth and says the words anyway.

“Derek, what is this place?”

The words echo in the silent clearing, and for all that Derek prompted him, Stiles thinks this is not something he says often aloud.

“It’s my old house. It burned down ten years ago, when I was sixteen.”

Derek’s voice is far away, and Stiles steps unconsciously closer to him.

“Your family died,” Stiles states. It’s not a question; he can feel the answer in the air.

“Yes.” Derek nods. “My parents, my brother. An aunt and uncle, their three kids. My grandfather.”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes. “How did you survive?”

“My two sisters and I were at a school dance.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t Christmas; it was October. First cold snap of the season, and there was a faulty gas line for the heater. They turned the heat on, and after a little bit, everything went boom.”

Stiles shudders. “What are we doing here?”

“This is where we always got our trees.So, this is where I still get my trees.” He shrugs, and Stiles nods. He visits his mom’s grave once a month when he’s home, even now. This isn’t really any different, he supposes. “I… don’t usually bring people here,” Derek says, and this time his voice is a little funny, his expression faintly confused. “But… it seemed right. I hope you don’t mind.”

Stiles reaches out, settles a hand on Derek’s shoulder, leaves it there while they both look out at the ruins. He’s not sure what it means that Derek brought him here, but it feels too big to address in words, so they stand there for a long moment, the sounds of the wind and a distant raven echoing through the trees.

“Okay,” Stiles says finally, and claps his hands as he turns back to the woods. “Then let’s get a goddamn tree!”

--

“Alright, favorite kind of cookie?”

Derek hmms, getting the flour and sugar down from the cabinets. The kitchen is spotlessly clean, even the holiday-patterned window curtain looks like it may have been ironed before it was hung.

“I like spice cookies. Gingerbread, molasses cookies, those types.” He sets out the ingredients on the counter and goes into the fridge for eggs and butter. Stiles tries not to stare at his ass and fails. “What about you?”

“Huh? Oh,” Stiles flushes and ducks his head, grateful that Derek still has his back to him. “I like peanut butter cookies. And snickerdoodles. And shortbread.” He pauses. “Oh, and thumbprint cookies, you know, the ones you put jam in? And the hershey kisses ones. And shape cookies.” He lifts his gaze to see Derek has turned to face him, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed and laughing “What?”

“Are there any cookies you don’t like?” Derek asks as he chuckles.

Stiles picks at the sleeve of his borrowed shirt, suddenly embarrassed and not sure why. “I don’t like anise flavored ones. You don’t get them a lot, but they’re hard to spot. They look innocent,” he scowls, “like just plain sugar cookies, but then you bite into them, and it’s like what a lie must taste like.”

Derek just smiles, and even though he looks like he’s resisting the urge to snicker again, Stiles smiles back, just a little.

“Well,” Derek says, “I don’t think I have the ingredients for all of those, but we could definitely manage some peanut butter cookies.” He turns back around and rummages in a cupboard for a moment before emerging triumphantly with a large ceramic bowl, a jar of peanut butter, and a spatula. “Here!” He deposits them in front of Stiles, beaming broadly. “Start scraping.”

--

“Damn,” Stiles says once they’ve gotten the tree dragged in and bolted into its stand, “I can’t even remember the last time we had a live tree. Dad and I’ve been using this fake silver atrocity since even before mom died.” He steps back and admires it as Derek squints critically and adjusts it by an inch to the left. “God, it smells amazing.”

“We always have a real tree,” Derek mutters, his voice muffled by the boughs, “Mom insisted, and now Laura insists.” He pokes his head out and smiles, “I’d probably insist, too, though, if Laura didn’t beat me to it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, “I might insist after this year, too.”

It’s a sudden reality check, and his face falls. He’s not quite sure how it’s been so incredibly easy to fall into this; it’s only been eight hours since he even woke up, but somehow in that time it’s become timeless, being here with Derek. He’d almost forgotten that this isn’t his life, his place. This won’t happen again.

“Someday,” Derek says, stepping away from the tree and going over to poke the fire, “I guess that Laura or Cora will find someone who sticks, and settle down, and then Christmas will change again.” He frowns absently at the logs, and Stiles wants to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder like he did before, or wrap an arm around him and pull him close, but he doesn’t know how to cross the space between them now that they’re inside. “I guess I kind of assume that they’ll bring whomever it is here, and if they have kids, then they can come here, too,” Derek says with a hint of wistfulness in his tone, “but you know how it is with competing families; who’s having dinner when, what time do people want to open presents, when did kids open stockings, and on and on.”

“Um, no.” Stiles answers, then coughs in surprise at his own honesty. “I don’t know. Never had anyone serious enough to think about holidays with.” He shrugs, embarrassed by Derek’s scrutiny.

“Really?” Derek asks in what Stiles is going to take as a really affirming amount of surprise, then rubs the back of his own neck and looks away. “I did, once. But it didn’t work out.”

“How come?” Stiles asks, opening the lid to a box on the couch marked “Ornaments” in a child-like scrawl.

“She wanted me to change in ways I wasn’t prepared to. She wanted to live in the city, have a social life…” Stiles snickers, and Derek grins unrepentantly, “and Cora didn’t like her. At all.”

“Hah!” Stiles says, “fair enough. Gotta pass the sister test, got it.”

Derek holds his gaze just a little too long, then says, “she’d love you,” and Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat where it settles and stays, making him nearly miss Derek’s next question.

“What about you? How come you’ve never had someone serious?”

“Ehhh….” Stiles buries his hands and face in the ornament box, pulling out a handful of assorted glass balls. “It’s dumb, I guess. But… before my mom died, my parents, they were just… they were the world to each other. My dad’s never re-married, still wears his ring, and I don’t blame him for it at all.” He pulls out another handful, setting them carefully on a throw pillow. “And then my best friend, Scott- he met his wife Allison when we were sophomores in high school, and it was just… love at first sight, pretty much literally. They’ve been together ever since, and you know, it hasn’t been perfect, but the way they care for each other…”

He rolls his shoulders, and looks up to catch Derek watching him intently. It’s unnerving, so he drops his gaze again.

“I want that. I want that connection, that spark. I guess it’s velveeta levels of cheesy, but I want that. I want fate to intervene, I want to look at someone and imagine forever, I want to trust them completely, to feel like they trust me, too. I want to be adored, and I want someone who will let me adore them. You know?”

He lifts his face, and Derek’s moved closer, picking up the strand of lights and beginning to wind it into the branches from the bottom up. It hits him suddenly, the memory of his mom doing this, backlit like Derek is and laughing into the tree.

“Yeah,” Derek says, carefully not looking at him. “I know. It’s why Jennifer and I didn’t work. It’s why Laura and Cora are also continually single.” He smiles faintly in memory, working the lights into the forks of the branches. “Our parents were like that, too. No one else in the world for either of them.”

“I just…” Stiles looks at the glass star in his hands, turning it carefully over and over. “I feel like December breaks my heart. Every year.” He exhales shakily, and sets the star on the couch, reaching for a candy cane instead. His hands aren’t steady enough to try and put something on the top right now, not with Derek watching him from behind the tree. “I loved Christmas as a kid, so much. And I still do, I just…”

“It just hurts,” Derek says, and Stiles nods miserably.

“Yeah. I mean…”, he places the candy cane on an upper branch and picks up a glass ball, light blue. “My mom died right after Thanksgiving, and my dad couldn’t even do Christmas for a couple years. It was her favorite, and he just… we would go to my Baba’s, and he’d disappear for a few days, and now, you know, I get it, but when I was a kid…”

“It hurt.”

“Yeah. And then Scott’s parents broke up at Christmas, and I remember him staying over at my house all the time, and crying when he thought I couldn’t hear him. And my dad had his heart attack right before New Year’s my first year of college.” Stiles sighs, looking at his reflection in the curved surface of the ball in his hands. “I still want to love it, but I can’t ever quite get there. I just spend all December moping around, and then trying to make things awesome at the last minute, when all I want to do is hide under my blanket and wait for January.”

Derek nods thoughtfully from where he’s carefully placing single strands of tinsel “icicles”.

“What is it that you want to love? Why not just give up on it all together?”

Stiles thinks for a minute, placing his ornament and taking another one.

“I guess… it’s beautiful? Like, I could give a shit about Santa and elves and all that crap, and if I have to hear Santa Baby one more time in a department store, they’ll be calling the cops, but… the stars. The snow.” He gestures absently at the darkened window. “The food, the tree. Those things, I like those.”

“Yeah.” Derek nods, and moves a step closing, painstakingly distributing the tinsel strands in a precisely even arrangement. “Yeah, me too.”

Stiles watches him, the colored lights from the tree illuminating Derek’s face. He’d seemed like an angel when Stiles had seen him first, but now he just looks human and sad.

“Christmas was the biggest holiday in my family, or, really December was the biggest holiday in my family.” Derek smiles wistfully, and Stiles holds his breath, unwilling to disrupt the moment. “My dad was Jewish, and my mom was Catholic, so we did full-on Hanukkah and Christmas both, and then my sister Laura decided she was Wiccan in junior high, so then we started doing things for the Solstice, and so it was just weeks of lights and gifts and food and family.”

Stiles nods and picks up another candy cane, squatting to place it near the bottom, trying to let his silence give space for Derek to continue.

“Then, after the fire… it was just the three of us. Laura tried, at first, to do the whole thing- latkes, a big Christmas meal, the works. But it was too much.” He sighs softly. “So, we didn’t do anything for a couple of years. We were all living in the city; we still had the property out here, obviously, but we had all finished high school by then, and needed to go to college, and we wanted to stay together, so we moved to Denver together, and did that. We’d just take extra shifts at Christmas at our various jobs, and ignore it altogether, but that wasn’t right either.”

Derek takes another step around the tree, grabbing another handful of individual tinsel strands. “Then Cora and I moved back out here to build the house, and we kind of started doing just a little something again. Laura would come out on the 24th, we’d hang some stockings and make some food, and that was nice. I think we’ve all made our peace with it at this point, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not still hard.”

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks, and god, he’s crying, which he realizes at the same time Derek does. “Yeah,” he tries again, but it’s no better, and then Derek’s stepping around the tree entirely, tinsel forgotten, and pulling Stiles into his arms in a bear hug.

“Hey, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to lay all that on you. It’s Christmas, I shouldn’t be all maudlin, we should be laughing or something.”

“No,” Stiles says, smearing tears with the palm of his hand, “no, we shouldn’t. That’s just it; it’s Christmas, and here we are, and our families are broken and gone and we’re adults with jobs and stress and all this real life bullshit, and we can’t go back, we can’t have that same magic again, and that’s… god, it hurts so much, but it’s real.” He can feel Derek’s grip on him tighten as he nods, his stubble rubbing against Stiles’ cheek. “It’s the realest thing in this season of fake snow and endless commercials, and I’d give anything to have my mom back, but I’d rather miss her for the rest of my life than try to pretend she never happened.”

Derek’s hand comes up to rub his back, wide palm smoothing across the soft flannel of his shirt, the motion calming and slow.

“Come on,” he says, and pulls Stiles with him to the door.

It’s snowing outside now, big, thick flakes that have already added an inch to the porch railing. Derek pulls them outside onto the porch, wrapping his arms around Stiles from behind as Stiles shivers.

“Look,” he says, pointing, and Stiles follows the line of his arm to where the full moon is shining faintly through the clouds, wrapped in an iridescent corona. “The moon. The snow.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “Look, a star.” He raises his finger to the spot where one bright star is moving in and out of cloud cover.

“It’s beautiful,” Derek says, his face warm against the side of Stiles’ head. Stiles can feel him smile. “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”

Stiles wriggles himself free enough to turn around, lifting his hand to trace the shape of Derek’s brow in the moonlight.

Situations like the time he was late to his own wedding because of a convenience store robbery gone wrong.

Isaac just had to forget his wallet in the sketchiest part of town.

Those kinds of situations that made him think he was in some sort of twisted rom-com or a family sitcom that’d been blown all sorts of sideways.

Whenever his mind cataloged all of the incidents and he tried to find the common denominator, he made it a habit to look down at his left hand and see the shining band of metal that composed his wedding ring.

“It’s the one ring!” Stiles had said jokingly when he had slid it on Derek’s fingers in front of all of their friends and family. His eyes had been suspiciously bright and his smile so wide that Derek couldn’t help but return it.

Thinking of that moment and seeing his ring instantly reminded him that being married to a powerful spark, being an Alpha of a pack of misfits, and having a daughter who was a mixture of he and Stiles meant that things like this were bound to happen.

Very often.

Which was why, when the words, “Stilinski! What the fuck did you do?” rang throughout their house, all Derek could feel was resignation and a bit of indignation that those were the first words that greeted Derek Hale’s ears on an early Christmas Eve morning.

Not Stiles’ mouth coaxing his own open for good morning kisses that lead to good morning sex.

Not their five year old daughter, Lyra, pile driving the two of them and asking for breakfast.

Not his cell phone ringing with a call from the pack or work.

Instead he was awoken at- he cracked his eyes opened and saw the bright red digits glaring at him, five oh nine in the damn morning!

It wasn’t even time for the sun to be up and the coffee machine definitely wouldn’t be percolating right now.

This was his life.

He let out a groan, before stopping as his nose caught a whiff of his bed partner.

Stiles’ scent was a mixture of crisp apples, vanilla, and the sharp scent of mint that came from the supernatural research lab that Stiles worked in. His husband’s scent was also splashed with the smell of Derek and their daughter Lyra, who smelled like the fresh greenery of a forest after it rained and the scented laundry sheets and fabric softener that Stiles washed her laundry with.

Neither of those scents clung to whoever was lying down next to him.

The scent of fresh ink still drying from crisp, just printed paper mixed with expensive designer cologne filled his nose and he jerked up in confusion when he recognized who it belonged to.

Jackson Whittmore was in his bed.

And Stiles was slamming open the bedroom door with an angry vengeance.

“Stilinski! I repeat, what in the fuck did you do!” Amber eyes lit with fury locked on to the grumbling figure slowly sitting up next to Derek.

It was Stiles’ body standing in the doorway alright.

Derek took in the slim limbs that had been wrapped around his body so many times, the pink full mouth that’d always moaned so nicely in his ear, the moles that Derek’s traced with his tongue thousands of times, and the pale skin that Derek’s fingers had just been massaging over five hours ago. It was even Stiles’ voice that had spoken.

But to Derek’s ears it was all wrong.

The harsh emphasis on the vowels and the sharp, clipped way each word was spoken wasn’t Stiles’ way of speaking. That sort of diction belonged to Jackson.

Jackson, whose physical body was right next to Derek while Stiles’ physical body was standing in the doorway.

Next to Derek, Jackson let out a jaw breaking yawn and stretched languidly. His muscled body moved awkwardly as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

It was such a typical Stiles move that it made Derek’s breath catch in his throat at the pieces his mind started putting together.

There was no way they’d pissed someone off enough to have something likethis happen.

“Ever heard of knocking asshole? And for the last time Whittmore, my last name is H-” the sentence was cut off as Not-Jackson’s blue eyes met Not-Stiles’ amber ones.

Not-Jackson looked at his hands, slowly.

His eyes blinked a few times in bewilderment as he started to catalog each part of his new body. Finally, his lips thinned in resignation before he calmly lifted his head up to look at Not-Stiles in the doorway. Not-Stiles was panting heavily, as if to control the freak out that was slowly mounting. Derek knew, that on the inside both of the Nots were freaking out.

He could even admit a part of him was freaking the hell out.

He opened his mouth to try to think of something calming to say.

Something Alpha-like and husband-like.Something reassuring.

“Well shit.”

The two words that came out of his mouth weren’t exactly what he was aiming for, but he figured they summed up the situation entirely.

Two hours later, Not-Jackson and Not-Stiles were muttering angrily to each other in the family room.

Derek was sitting at the rarely used dining room table in the rarely used formal dining room, writing a list of all of the packs that they knew of that had witches in their arsenal. Lyra, who was morning person by no fault of her parents, was happily shoveling Lucky Charms into her mouth with gusto while she sat in the chair to his right.

Her dark, shoulder length sleep mussed hair and rumpled Thor pajamas were a contradiction to her alert hazel eyes, and Derek couldn’t resist the urge to stop writing for a moment to run a hand through her soft hair before tapping her freckled covered nose in affection.

“Love you daddy!” she chirped around a mouthful of cereal, and Derek winced as splotches of milk and chewed marshmallows hit the table cloth and the collar of her shirt.

“Love you too cub. Are you sure you’re okay with going over to your Grandpa’s for the day?”

An enthusiastic nod was her response. “Yup! I can help him organize his records!”

Over in the next room, Derek heard the angry muttering pause.

Lyra, no doubt could hear the pause in conversation too. Her hazel eyes widened slightly and she hastily pushed her bowl of cereal away before scrambling out of her chair. Hackles of suspicion rose through him.

Coming between Lyra and Lucky Charms was like trying to come between Stiles and curly fries.

“Lyra, sit down.” He ordered in what Stiles called his “Daddy voice.”

“Daddy voice” kept her from taking off at parks and in grocery stores.

“Daddy voice” let her know when it was time to stop playing with her food and when to apologize for sassing an ignorant teacher who told her unicorns weren’t real.

Stiles had sassed that teacher enough for the both of them.

“Daddy voice” also made her sullenly sit down and rest her chin on her forearms. Cupid’s bow lips that looked like Stiles’ pouted when Not-Jackson and Not-Stiles walked in.

“The only good thing about me being in Jackson’s body is the super-hearing,” Not-Jackson said loftily. “And one thing I know for sure is that you hate helping Grandpa organize records little lady. Why the rush to leave?”

Lyra bit her lip and Derek put down the pen he’d been using to write and crossed his arms. Silence descended over the room and he knew the implied accusation woulds start to eat at her.

No matter how much of the “Daddy voice” Derek used, Stiles’ method of “Mommy Silence” always worked the best.

It would just take a few more moments and-

“Alright! Alright! I did it okay?”

And there it was.

“Lyra, what is ‘it’ exactly?” Not-Jackson asked sternly and Derek had to admit it was sort of comical seeing Stiles’ reprimanding parental face plastered on Jackson’s face.

“I was going to tell you all about it tonight! I didn’t know it was actually going to happen so soon! Daddy, you said Santa delivered presents and wishes thenight before Christmas!” Her hazel eyes looked at him accusingly.

Of course this just had to be his fault too. In typical Stiles fashion she rambled on. “Mommy told me to write my list for Santa when we went to Mr. Deaton’s, but Mommy forgot to give me paper and a pen so I had to borrow stuff from Mr. Deaton’s desk drawer.”

Not-Stiles groaned. “Little Stilinski, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to go through the drawer of a man who has magical items everywhere?”

For once, Derek couldn’t disagree with something Jackson had said.

They had actually taught Lyra that, but then again the Sheriff had taught Stilesnot to wander in the woods at night.

Werewolf friends, werewolf husband, and a werewolf daughter were proof on how that warning had turned out.

“Lyra, what exactly did you use from Deaton’s drawer?” he asked her and picked the pen back up, prepared to write a list.

“Well, I used the weird orange pen in there and there was some wrinkly yellow paper.” Her nose scrunched in distaste at touching the no-doubt ancient items and Derek stifled the laugh that wanted to bubble up at her child-like disgust for Deaton’s supplies.

“There was also some weird powder stuff and it was sparkly so I used it as glitter to go on my letter before I put it in an envelope for Mommy to mail off to Santa! Auntie Erica says glitter always helps.” She supplied.

“Your Auntie Erica also thinks wearing leather corsets to a company ball is acceptable.” Not-Stiles grumbled.

Lyra glared at him in reply. Out of all of the women in pack, she was fiercely close to Erica.

She had even clawed a woman’s purse who had tittered disapprovingly at Erica’s attire at a carnival once. Derek didn’t doubt Not-Stiles had probably just messed up the chance of being fixed immediately.

Lyra stuffing a mouthful of soggy Lucky Charms, crossing her arms stubbornly, and looking so much like Laura that it made his heart ache for a moment proved his theory.

“Go get dressed in the clothes I set out for you cub. We’re leaving in fifteen.” Derek ordered. Lyra swallowed her last mouthful of cereal and slid out of the dining room chair. As she shuffled out of the room, her gait could be compared to an inmate that knew it was guilty.

“I’m sorry Mommy. I was just trying to make one of you and Daddy’s wishes come true. I wrote your wishes down on my list to Santa.” She mumbled. Her eyes were bright and Derek knew she honestly did feel bad about how upset everyone was.

“What wishes baby?” Not-Jackson asked gently. Derek tried not to let on how creepy it was to see that expression of tenderness directed towards his child on Jackson’s face.

“The wish that Uncle Jackson could walk a mile in your shoes and understand the stuff you go through. Daddy had wished that you two would get along.”

Derek raked his brain to try to figure out when had this conversation taken place. There hadn’t been much of a problem that was pack-related in a few months. However, Stiles and Jackson had gotten into an argument last week about Jackson turning down helping Stiles with some sort of fund-raiser. They’d had the discussion right before bed.

Last Week…

“He thinks it’s always about money!” Stiles exclaimed as he dragged the fluffy blue towel through his hair furiously.

“If you rub any harder your hair is going to fall out.” Derek pointed out, trying to lighten the mood.

The small scowl he got in return let him know to wisely keep his counsel to himself if he still wanted to get laid tonight.

“Whatever Der. I asked him to help run the booth his company is setting up at the indoor Christmas Carnival, and do you know what he does? He makes hissecretary sign up to do it instead!” The slimmer man threw the damp towel in the hamper and yanked on a pair of Superman boxers. “He thinks he can just throw money at something, and it’s okay to do whatever he wants! The point of the fundraiser is to meet and greet people from the outer counties!”

“Right.” Derek agreed. When Stiles was this upset, agreeing was all that he could do.

Well that, making him breakfast in bed, and blow jobs seemed to work best.

He waited until Stiles got closer to him before he settled his hands on his slim hips, making sure to thumb the etched lines of Stiles’ hips.

“He tried to say that he was too busy with Micah and Lydia to help! Micah and Lydia are going to be in Milan with Lydia’s parents! Besides, it’s not like I have a lot of time on my hands either, but I’m still going to be there! It’s the fucking holidays! You’re supposed to be giving.” Stiles huffed, but his stomach quivered under Derek’s touch.

“Giving, right.” Derek murmured in assent before leaning forward to suck a deep purple bruise right above Stiles’ belly button.

Stiles gasped. “Som-Sometimes I wished Jackson could walk a mile in my shoes and understand the stuff I have to go through to make shit work.”

Derek circled his tongue in Stiles’ belly button, laving up the water that still resided there. “I wish you guys could get along, sure. But, I’d rather you understand what’s about to happen right now.”

Stiles’ fingers threaded through the strands of Derek’s hair and made him shiver when he tugged.

“Oh, I understand what’s about to happen Alpha Hale.”

Derek slid the boxers down to Stiles’ thighs and licked his lips hungrily at the delicious site in front of him.

“Good. Now it’s time for me to give you my donation. All in the spirit of giving.”

Present Time..

“Baby, that discussion happened when you were supposed to be asleep. What’d we tell you about that?” Not-Jackson asked.

Lyra huffed in irritation, as if Not-Jackson was the one in trouble. “I know Mommy. It won’t happen again.”

Not-Stiles snorted. “That’s what she said with Scott.”

Derek winced at the lethal glare Not-Jackson shot at Not-Stiles.

They never brought up the incident with Scott.

Hell, if looks could kill, Not-Stiles would be in the deepest parts of the underworld right now. Derek would probably let that happen with how frustrated he was with the situation.

After, he got his husband back into his own body.

“Okay everyone. Lyra, go get dressed. Now.” The five year old nodded and promptly exited.

He turned to the Nots next. “Stiles, call Deaton and tell him what’s going on. Jackson, call Lydia and ask her to meet us at the clinic. I’m sure Erica and Boyd will watch Micah.” Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Jackson? When this is done, you will help Stiles with the fundraiser. That’s an order.”

He let his fangs grow and the red bleed into his eyes to emphasize his point. Not-Stiles blinked in disbelief before letting out a grumbling assent. They both broke away to get to work and Derek headed upstairs to make sure Lyra was actually putting on the clothes he had set out for her.

This was shaping up to be a long day.

Many hours later, when Lyra is actually asleep in her bed, and Derek and thereal Stiles are sure she won’t wake up, Derek will lock the master bedroom door. He will then pin his “fully-restored back into his own body “ husband to the sheets that Stiles thinks are unnecessarily expensive, but likes to rub against when he thinks Derek isn’t paying attention.

“Who would have thought that coupled with Deaton’s unicorn powder, my spark and your Alpha power meant that our daughter had enough unleashed magic to make some items on her list to Santa come true?” Stiles will whisper and lock his arms around Derek’s neck.

“It’s a good thing everything else on her list were material things the pack has already gotten her.” Derek will nuzzle into the crook of Stiles’ neck before nipping at the skin there.

Stiles will squirm before twining his legs with Derek and letting out a thoughtful hum. “Well, almost everything.”

“What else did she want?” Derek will ask before peppering kisses on to the moles on Stiles’ face.

Stiles will cup Derek’s face in his hands and use his tongue to lick along the seam of Derek’s lips. “She did write that she wanted an early acceptance letter to Hogwarts.”

Derek won’t even get to fully start to laugh incredulously before an obnoxious pecking will start at their bedroom window and the hoot of an owl will shortly follow it.

Stiles will snigger at the look of shock and surprise on Derek’s face before slowly trailing a hand down Derek’s body.

“You can open the window after I give you my donation.” Stiles will purr and Derek will wholeheartedly agree.