#princecharmingwinks

Derek is going to kill Laura. 

He thought he knew what holiday hell felt like when she'd forced him and Stiles to dress in matching ugly Christmas sweaters and pose for the family greeting card last year. But oh no, this year, she's gone full-tilt Satan's little helper and signed him up to play mall Santa. Three weeks of ten hour shifts, filled with screaming children, overbearing parents, and an endless loop of holiday pop songs that somehow manage to turn every warbling lyric into an 80-syllable word.

He'd say at least he's got Stiles by his side, but Stiles has been so annoyingly upbeat and cheerful about it, literally dragging him out of bed so they can show up an hour early to their shifts and sit by the fountain drinking hot cocoa, that Derek is loathe to consider working alongside his boyfriend a win.

• • •

Stiles is going to bake Laura so many cookies. 

The moment he found out she'd volunteered Derek to play Santa at the Beacon Hills mall, he'd enthusiastically skipped (literally skipped) to the sign-up booth and offered to be Head Elf. He honestly couldn't think of anything more fun than dressing up in cute little outfits and making children smile. And though Derek may look grumpy on the outside, Stiles knows that he secretly loves it, heart melting at the way Derek's features soften as he smiles at the kids and listens intently while they tell him all about the good deeds they've done this year. 

It's honestly so fucking attractive that Stiles is struggling not to jump his bones every time they're on break. Guess that means he'll have to plan something extra special for when they get back home.

• • •

Derek sinks down onto the living room couch, Santa suit still half on because he's so exhausted he doesn't even have the energy to fully disrobe. He leans his head against the backrest and closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh of relief that he is finally, mercifully, home. He's beyond hungry, but too tired to cook anything, so he flicks through the ever-growing stack of takeout menus he and Stiles have collected over the years, calling out across the apartment to ask whether Stiles is in the mood for pizza or pho.

No response.

Derek checks the clock, frowning in concern. Stiles had said he was going to change and that he'd be right back, but that was over twenty minutes ago. He's about to get up and go check on him, when the all-too-familiar tune of his least favorite Christmas song in the entire world starts playing on the stereo, and out comes Stiles wearing nothing but a jauntily perched Santa hat and a pair of the tiniest shorts Derek has ever seen — bright red satin to match his hat — and when Stiles twirls around to give Derek the full effect, he can make out the words naughty elf emblazoned across his asscheeks. 

Derek can do little more than stare open-mouthed as Stiles saunters toward him, sucking on the end of a candy cane in what he probably imagines is a seductive way, shaking his ass in time to the music — which, ugh. (As far as Derek is concerned, if hell had a soundtrack, it'd be an endless loop of Santa Baby…but it's Stiles, so he'll make an exception.) Overall, the effect is actually quite charming, and Derek would be lying if he said it wasn't doing something for him.

And then Stiles starts talking.

"Hey baby," he says with a flirtatious smile and a hearty wink. "Hurry down my chimney tonight."

Derek raises his eyebrows, but distinctly does not laugh, because it's clear that Stiles has worked very hard on this little strip tease, and the last thing Derek wants to do is embarrass him. Out of absolutely nowhere, Stiles produces a string of star-spangled tinsel and throws it around Derek's shoulders, reeling him in.

"I'd sure like to jingle your bells," he says with another theatrical wink.

Derek presses his lips into a tight line to stifle another bout of laughter. 

Must not break. Must act like horrible Christmas puns are sexy.

"I must be on the naughty list," Stiles purrs, pretending to drop his Santa hat for the sole excuse of delivering the perfect bend and snap. "Because I saw you checking me twice."

The tiniest snort escapes Derek's lips, but he passes it off as a cough, determined not to ruin this because Stiles is now climbing into his lap, straddling his thighs, and grinding his hips against the steadily-growing bulge in Derek's trousers.

"You wanna lick my stick, Derek?" Stiles teases coquettishly, twirling the tip of the candy cane between his lips. "It's in mint condition."

And just like that, Derek reaches his breaking point. He bursts out laughing, but thankfully, Stiles is right there with him, burying his face into the crook of Derek's neck and shaking with unabashed giggles.

"Dammit," Stiles whines, pulling back so that he's eye-level with Derek. "I came up with a whole list of smutty Christmas puns, and I didn't even get to use half of them."

Derek shakes his head, laughter subsiding into a contented sigh as he strokes his thumb along the curve of Stiles's spine, marveling at the way the lights twinkling on their cozy little evergreen dance in Stiles's eyes, igniting them in a golden glow.

"Merry Christmas, Stiles," he says softly, leaning forward to press a kiss against Stiles's lips, delighting in the happy little hum Stiles makes as he kisses him back.

*

Derek manages to avoid Stiles for exactly a week before he's being cornered at the Sheriff's station, John himself standing guard outside his office while Stiles makes Derek stay with a flick of his hands. It's like being in a mountain ash circle, except there's no grey powder, or a circle.

"I thought this was an emergency," Derek utters when it's clear he's lost, that he's going to have to face this song if he wants the chance to dance the way he's planned meticulously over the past seven days.

Stiles fixes his steely, purple eyes on him. "It is," he agrees, "My Alpha isn't talking to me. That's a cause for concern, isn't it?"

Derek tries his best to not give anything away. Before he met Stiles' observant eyes, he used to have a mask so absolute he could have won billions in a poker game, but with each second spent with Stiles, he's lost it. Or perhaps Stiles has just gotten good with reading Derek, just as Derek has gotten good at reading Stiles.

He hopes to anyone listening above that he manages to pull the words, "Maybe he got sick of you," out so convincingly that Stiles will be hurt, will start hating him again, like he did when they first met. But all Stiles does is laugh, a hysterical, unbelieving sort of laugh, and Derek is confused. But he doesn't let it show. He scoffs. Says with enough contempt, "This. I tell you something, anything, and all you do is mock me. Ever think that's not what I need? That I need someone who respects my decisions and does exactly what I say?"

Stiles stops laughing abruptly. His eyes are their usual color now, a bright golden in the streaming sunlight from the window, his hair a wild mess, like he's been stressing out, pulling on his hair all day long.

Stiles says, "That's not what you want," and Derek bares his teeth.

"You don't know what I want, Stiles." I want you. But I can't have you.

"You want me." Startled, Derek lets his half-shift fade away, cursing himself mentally for being stupid and saying it out loud. He's been so careful these past years but now—

"Relax, you didn't say it out loud. And no, I didn't read your mind. I can't do the Charles Xavier thing, and you know that, Derek."

Derek rolls his eyes, and before he can stop himself, says, "If you wanted to, you could." Stiles smiles at him, and it's the first one since Stiles captured him in his father's office. The realization makes Derek's gut churn with anxiety, of having given up on his master plan to make Stiles hate him so easily.

Whenever he's with Stiles, his walls turn to dust, but this is ridiculous even for his standards.

Stiles seems to catch each one of his thoughts, because his smile keeps growing until it's a legitimate grin, so beautiful and breathtaking that Derek has trouble moving his eyes away. He just stands there, near the windows, in his jogging clothes — yoga pants and a tank top — staring at Stiles.

"You want me," Stiles repeats, and moves closer. Derek is frozen in his spot, sweaty palms at his side, his own heartbeat a war cry in his ears. "You've wanted me for a long time, Derek Hale... perhaps as long as I have you. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Derek doesn't nod, doesn't do anything in response to the fact. Stiles has stopped just a little away from him, enough that he's not encroaching so much on Derek's space. He continues, "I respect you. I don't always respect your decisions, because frankly sometimes they're just too careless, but I respect you, so I didn't say anything for the longest time. I figured you would come to me when it was the right time for you, but... it's been so long, Der." Stiles' voice breaks at those words, and instinctively, Derek brings up his arms to hug Stiles close to himself. Stiles doesn't resist.

Derek thinks about how to reply to that. To the newfound knowledge that not only Stiles loves him back, but that he's known for who knows how long that Derek loves him back, too. And Stiles has been waiting for him to further their relationship into the romantic territory, because it's Stiles, the one person who knows Derek best, especially his relationship with boundaries in general. He thinks about it, replaying the words Stiles spoke just now over and over, and finally, comes to a reply that is satisfactory, at least to him.

Stiles pulls back just as Derek opens his mouth, his face expectant and a little embarrassed.

Derek says, "I think you just answered your question."

Stiles' scent had never truly lost the tinge of anger, and at his words it rises again, like a wave in the ocean, rising with the pull of the moon. "What?" Stiles shouts, mouth twisting. "What the fuck does that even mean? Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you're pulling a Deaton!"

The comparison makes Derek's lips quirk upwards, but he pushes the feeling down, instead letting his eyes wander down to the wooden flooring of the Sheriff's office. He can still hear John's heartbeat outside, as well as a few officers, and he wonders what excuse John has given his officers in regards to all the noise coming from this room.

"Don't you smirk, douchebag. Answer me! I didn't plan this ambush for nothing, and unless I get some—"

Taking in a deep breath, his eyes still downcast, he says, "You said, 'your plans are careless,' and that's true. And that's where your answer lies." He looks up, and finds Stiles' confused face just inches from his own, the spark having moved forward further in his anger. Licking his lips, he explains, "You know me better than anyone, Stiles."

Stiles' face goes through a lot of expressions as he parses the meaning of Derek's unsaid words; confusion, more confusion, thoughtful, sad, anger, more anger, then sad again, livid, and the most damning of all... heartbreak.

"Derek..." Stiles says, voice so low it's almost impossible to hear. They stare at each other for who knows how long, and when Stiles finally unfreezes enough to come forward further, Derek steps back. Stiles' magic isn't stopping him, so he moves as far away as possible, stands at the door to drive home the point that he's done with this conversation.

He stares at the blindingly bright sky visible through the window as he says, "I don't deserve good things, Stiles."

As he leaves, he's grateful Stiles doesn't follow him.

*

Let it be said again: Stiles does not give up easily.

The day after the ambush at the police station, which he isn't exactly sure how either of the Stilinski’s pulled off, Derek gets a bouquet of flowers delivered to the Hale house. At first he thinks it's for one of the betas, so he picks it up from the porch — the smell of the daffodils overpowers the scent of the human, and it's so strong that Derek sneezes twice — and puts it on the center of the dining table. It looks good on the mahogany table, and after searching it for any cards at all, which he doesn't find, he shrugs and heads for his daily jog.

It's the one thing that takes his mind off of things easily, so he doesn't dare miss it. As he leaves he calls out to Boyd and Erica, "There's a bouquet here for you!"

They call out in confusion, but Derek doesn't turn back around. He figures it must be for Isaac or Cora or Jackson.

He doesn't realize how wrong he is until he's picking up the fifth bouquet of daffodils off of his porch on the fifth consecutive day, the gifts devoid of any name of the person who is sending them. But by the fifth day, Derek has a pretty good guess who it might be.

He hasn't been to Stiles' house for days now, for good reason, but he's a wolf on a mission. So he swings inside Stiles' bedroom through his perpetually unlocked window, takes one whiff of the room, and flashes his eyes red at the spark sitting innocently on his desk chair, arranging the sixth bouquet.

"I told you—"

"You told me, and I quote, 'I don't deserve good things, Stiles.' And see, I can't just accept that. You should know, because as I've also told you, I love you." Derek looks away from Stiles' beautiful face, and Stiles tsks. "Oops. I said I wanted you, right? Eh, same thing. I want you, I love you. I love you, I want you. Anyways. What was I saying?"

Stiles says the words as easily as he's breathing air. Like loving Derek isn't a chore, isn't a part of a well executed plan that he needs to play perfectly for some ulterior motive. Like loving Derek is just... a thing that happens, one Stiles loves that it has happened.

It's too much, so much for him, and he just wants to leave. Wants to push Stiles away so that he doesn't end up making Stiles bleed with him. But he's transfixed, as he always is when he's watching Stiles; his fingers work quickly, deftly as he plucks away the extra leaves on the stems, the little blue bow adjusting nicely on the bunch as Stiles lowers it inside the little plastic, then the vase.

Derek takes said vase numbly when Stiles hands it to him. "Since you're already here," Stiles explains.

Derek wants to ask why Stiles loves him. How can he love him? Doesn't he see how Derek destroys everything he loves? But instead of all that he asks, "Why flowers? Daffodils, specifically?"

Stiles beams and excitedly tells him, "Daffodils symbolize new beginnings! And I wanted you to start a new journey. It seemed fitting. So." Stiles shrugs, like it makes perfect sense.

"Stiles," Derek says, pained. "I can't—" I can't ruin you, is what he wants to say. "I can't."

Stiles' beam turns into a small smile; a little sad, a little encouraging, and all Stiles. "I know," he says like he heard what Derek couldn't say, "I know. I had other plans for you, actually."

Stiles' heart stays steady, so Derek forces himself to ask, "What did you have in mind?"

Stiles' hands wrap around Derek's, both their hands wrapped around the vase. New beginnings, Derek hears in Stiles' voice, at the same time Stiles says, "The most important journey is the journey of loving one's own self. I want that for you, Derek. I want you to love yourself, so that one day—"

"I can love you and not be afraid of it?"

Stiles' smiles brightens as he admits, "I'd like that." Derek can't help but smile at thought: In a distant future, when he'll be Stiles' and Stiles will be his, and he won't feel bad about it. "But more than that, I want you to love yourself because I want you to see that you deserve good things. Things that you want."

They stare at each other for a moment, Derek's eyes following Stiles' tongue as it darts around to wet Stiles' lips. In that split second, Derek thinks about leaning forward, the vase being crushed between them as they kiss. He thinks of not waiting for who knows how long for the day he can call Stiles his, for going in right now and never resurfacing. But then he flicks his gaze back up and into Stiles' eyes, which are earnest and fond, bright and beseeching.

Stiles wants Derek, but he wants Derek to believe he deserves Stiles in the first place. Because if Derek is being honest, Stiles is the nicest thing he can have — if only Stiles will have him back in return.

And Derek wants whatever will make Stiles happy.

So he says, "Okay," and cradles the vase carefully in his arms.

"Is that you giving me permission to do whatever it takes to make you love yourself?"

Derek doesn't know what the future holds, but he does know that Stiles won't ever lead him astray, so he agrees readily. "I give you permission to do anything to make me love myself." He frowns. "But no Disney movies marathon. Last Christmas was more than enough."

When Stiles babbles on about something or other to the pack, Derek watches his hands flail and emphasize parts of his story. He notes every time his tongue flicks out to part and wet his lips right as he inhales to answer whoever had asked something of him. He sees how his eyes widen a pinch as they travel the room, looking at the crowd of listeners and then pause on Derek’s attentive pose. And he stares, just an inch above his eyebrow, at that stupid fucking mole. 

Derek has to do something about this. 

When the pack meeting (hangout) is dismissed, everyone stands and stretches, joints popping and backs cracking from being seated in one place for so long. They’d been binging some series of zombie movies, but it was getting late, and it was still a workday for most of them. So they called a pause on the marathon and promised to pick it up the next time. 

Shoulder claps, back slaps, and one-armed hugs commence, and Derek stands back with a small smile on his face to watch it all. They’re in his house, so he has nowhere to go, so he loiters near the door to be the last in line of goodbyes.

When he sees Stiles approach him with a shy smile on his face, he gets an idea. Maybe a stupid idea, but Derek was thinking he may have no choice left other than to be risky to remove his obsession.

Stiles wraps one arm around his shoulder to pull him in to a quick hug, but Derek traps him in against his chest, tucking his head over Stiles’ right shoulder and winding his arm around Stiles’ waist.

Stiles makes a surprised noise, but quickly adapts and melts into Derek’s embrace. Derek tightens his grip on Stiles’ hip and brings him closer.

The mole is right there, right in front of his eyes. He leans forward, hears Stiles’ breath hitch, and brushes his nose along his hairline; let his lips ghost over the spot.

Derek feels something in him settle, and he congratulates himself for quickly dispelling his obsession.

He pulls back then, letting his arms drop down and away from Stiles, and Stiles shuffles back a step, meeting his gaze with a surprised one of his own.

Shit. Derek didn’t think he’d notice.

Stiles hasn’t removed his arm completely, hand a hot brand against the nape of Derek’s neck, fingers curling around the arch between neck and shoulder. 

“Derek,” Stiles exclaims softly on an exhale, lips tilting up in a shy smile, blush staining those mole-spotted cheeks, hair messy and chaotic like he’d run his long strong fingers through it many times, broad chest pressing back into Derek’s space against his own, fitting just right and holy shit.

Derek hasn’t gotten rid of his obsession. It’s exploded. 

He can feel his heart speeding, and Stiles probably can too with how close they are. Stiles’ grip on his neck has returned, and he brings his fingers up the nape and into the hairs at the base of his skull to coax Derek to lower his head once more.

Stiles leans in and brushes his lips against Derek’s forehead, a whisper of a kiss, and then noses the skin there before dragging the tip down his cheek and pulling away. 

Derek breathes, because he’d forgotten to. 

Stiles glances at him from between lashes, chin ducked, looking slightly embarrassed, though he has no reason to be. 

“Do you want to stay?” Derek asks, because taking a risk worked a moment ago, so he figures his odds are pretty good. 

Stiles pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and wears a hopeful expression. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he replies. 

And he looks so elated that Derek doesn’t waste time and presses his lips back against that mole, and letting them rest there as he breathes in the scent of happiness exuding from both of them. 

*

Derek loves all of Stiles equally, but he has a special place in his heart for the mole on the right top corner of his forehead. Besides the lips, that is the spot kissed the most. Derek does it every day, every time they separate, either for work or grocery shopping or even to walk the dog. It is their goodbye, the forehead kiss. It is their morning greeting. It is their silent apology on rough days. It is their too-blissed-out-to-talk-or-move response of, “I love you.”