#banryeo

Because it’s 7 am on a Saturday – Christmas is barely a day away – and Stiles is up already. Truth be told, he can’t really blame his father for being suspicious.

“It’s just…You know.” Stiles mutter under his breath, eyeing all the ingredients he will need. “Trying to get into the spirit and stuff. It’s Christmas.”

“Which we have been celebrating every year and yet, somehow, I haven’t seen you with your mother’s recipe book up till today.” His father pokes the little bowl where the leaven is slowly growing, eyes the pot with melted butter and Stiles feels his ears burn. There are potatoes and carrots cooling down outside on the window sill, cans of peas stocked on the counter and eggs boiling on the stove.

“No one should be alone at Christmas.” It’s as a good excuse as any, even if it comes out meek and the sheriff just sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Oh God, I  hope you know what you’re getting into, kid. Don’t set the house on fire and tell Derek he’s welcomed to spend the day with us.”

Stiles chokes on air and splutters indignantly  as his father walks out the door with a wave, yells “None of this is for you!”.  

Whatever, he’s got work to do.

  The thing is, Stiles tells himself later that day as his hands tighten on the steering wheel and his heart tries to fly out of his chest, that it’s true. No one should be alone at Christmas and technically yeah, there’s Peter around, but he’s certain that Derek would probably stuff his face into a batch of wolfsbane than spend the eve with his uncle.  

And  so that’s why he’s here now, two bags carefully packed in the back of the Jeep and sweaty hands.

“Alright, alright, let’s do this.”

If he timed everything right, Derek’s not in – his car’s not in the usual parking space – so there should be no need for explanation.  Stiles can just make a quick run up the stair, unpack the stuff, leave a note and slither away before he suffers from a self-induced heart-attack.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles stashes the last plate inside the old, battered fridge and wipes his hands clean on his jeans. The loft is eerily quiet, his breathing harsh even to his own ears but it’s not like he’s going to be here much longer. There’s no point in covering his tracks or anything, since hello, werewolf lair and his scent is like, everywhere by now, but he’s ready to scram and hopefully not deal with Derek till the time.

Which is why he give a very, very manly scream when he turns and there’s Derek, casually leaning on the wall, arms crossed over his chest and a look on his face that Stiles’ came to recognize as pained resignation.

“Uhm, h-hi there, Derek?”

“One day, someone will report you for breaking and entering  to your own father,” Derek somehow manages to sound both amused and condescending, which isn’t all that unusual when it comes to Stiles, really.

“I have a key!” He protests and then bites his tongue, feels his cheeks flush.

The heavy sigh is his only answer and it doesn’t even surprise Stiles anymore that of course Derek knew he got his hands on a copy of a key. What does, however, is the fact that Derek didn’t force him to give it up.

“Why are you here, Stiles?” The werewolf asks, coming up closer and Stiles fidgets a little.

He feels a little bit stupid and a little bit crossing the line – neither the greatest feeling in the world, thank you very much – and for a moment he isn’t sure how to answer. He chances a quick look at Derek’s face, to see if Derek’s pissed off or just the regular kind of annoyed with Stiles and his breath catches a little.

Because Derek looks tired.

Not physically, no, they’ve seen each other run down to the bone and this is not it. This is the kind of tired that makes one’s eyes seem dull, the kind that turns healthy skin into ashen grey. It makes the already sharp angles of Derek’s face stand out even more, liked jagged edges of bone underneath paper-thin skin.

And he’s alone, just like Stiles knew he would, because Derek is stubborn and stupidly proud and would rather spent Christmas all by himself in the sad, empty loft than bother anyone. It makes Stiles’ heart hurt just a little, the way Derek’s looking at him right now, a little bit exasperated and a whole lot disbelieving.

And he’s asking Stiles why.

“I cooked.” Stiles’ blurts out when it occurs to him that he’s been staring for a little too long, “And uh,  it’s all Polish stuff ,cause my mom used to… but it’s all good, I swear, it’s really good even if not anyone likes poppy seed cake or, or the carp in jello. I mean it’s not turkey or anything, but it’s traditional and you know. And I thought you wouldn’t be spending this time with Peter, obviously, so I made more and just…” He makes a jerky move with his hand, barely stops himself from looking down like some blushing teen. “And so, here I am.”

It’s not a lie, not really, even if it’s not the truth as well but there’s no need for Derek to know that. He’s got enough on his head without Stiles adding his miserable, little crush onto it. (Besides, he’s dealing with it.)

“And my dad said you’re invited over to spend it with us.” He adds in a small voice, heart hammering inside of his chest because Derek is just looking at him, has been for a good while now, just looking and not saying a word and Stiles is so, so ready to freak out.

When Derek finally says something, it’s oddly soft and quiet. “You didn’t answer my question.”

No, he really didn’t, Stiles knows that, as he shifts his weight uncomfortably and busies his hands with the frayed sleeves of his hoodie. He shrugs lightly under Derek’s steady gaze and says, “It’s Christmas” like it’s no big thing.

Like he didn’t spend half of day in the kitchen, recreating his mother’s family recipes. He takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose when Derek moves past him, their shoulders brushing for a second. There are words are bubbling in the back of his throat and there’s no use in trying to stop them, because Stiles was never good with not talking, object of affection present or not.

“Look, it’s just, it’s Christmas and nobody should be left alone. And trust me, I know how it sucks, cause there’ve been a couple of years when…” He huffs, runs a hand through the mess of his hair and ignores Derek shuffling behind him. “Yeah, nevermind. I just thought, that you’d be here alone since you’re like the loneliest wolf to ever lone because for some odd reason you think you don’t have friends and don’t deserve good things or something. But you do.”

The silence is literally killing him, Derek just doing whatever he’s doing and not saying a word so it just seems like Stiles will have to talk for both of them. He’s dug himself a deep hole anyway, might as well add a few more inches and then go home and burrow himself in a nest of blankets.

“So yeah, it’s for you.” Stiles says finally, carefully trying to keep his voice neutral. “And … and you should really come tomorrow. Cause I don’t want you spending Christmas alone, when you got people who care for you and who, who love… love having you around,” it burns his throat on the way out, the half-admission, but he doesn’t allow himself to think about the almost slip up. “And my dad really likes you too, so you two can watch a game or, or …”

The word vomit stops abruptly – words gone along with his ability to breathe - when Derek’s suddenly there, a hot long line literally plastered along his back. Derek’s arms wound around Stiles’ waist, hands clasping over his hoodie covered stomach. He buries his nose in Stiles’ nape, takes a few oddly wet, shuddering breaths while Stiles just stands there, frozen to the spot and his body rigid.

Derek doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything more than hold him tight and close and Stiles can feel the subtle, barely there way the werewolf’s body is shaking. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

And between one heartbeat and another, Stiles leans back, molds himself against Derek’s more bulky frame and sucks in the much needed air. “You’ll come, right?” He mutters, twisting a bit, tilting his head just so that Derek’s face is hidden in the crock of his neck and shoulder. Derek’s hair tickles Stiles’ cheek; it’s surprisingly soft, smells oddly of a day old shampoo and dust.

Derek nods, mouths his mute answer against Stiles’ skin and pulls him closer still, fingers clutching at the fabric as if holding on for dear life. So Stiles takes a deep breath, carefully places his own hands on top of Derek’s and feels every bit of some unnamed tension seep out of him, causing his body to literally melt in Derek’s tight embrace.

He drags the fingertips of one hand over smooth knuckles, sighs deeply and turns his head more so there’s Derek’s temple right underneath his lips. And Stiles wants, so much it makes his breath stutter and causes his throat close up. “And you’ll stay, right?” He asks, pushes back into the unnatural heat of Derek’s body, causes the older man to finally look up.

His eyes are red-rimmed and wild, disbelieving and so, so beautiful it makes Stiles’ heart clench.

“Yeah,” Derek says softly, his lips catching Stiles’ ever so, dry and chapped and they will feel amazing when angled just right. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

“With us?”

With me?

“With you,” Derek kisses him then and everything around them goes blissfully quiet.

They twisted oddly around each other, there’s an ache starting to build in the back of Stiles’ neck but it doesn’t matter because Stiles’ can actually feel Derek’s heartbeat, somehow steady and strong, against his back and Derek’s kissing him, said he’ll stay.

Stiles splays his fingers over Derek’s hands, sighs into the kiss when it deepens ever so and closes his eyes.