#wildamongwolves

Stiles, vaguely amused that he's gotten so good at Derek's version of communication, notices immediately when Derek’s eyes glaze over.

“Dude.” He snaps his fingers near Derek’s face. "We need to get some more snacks before we keep researching."

Derek glances at him, his eyes dark and haunted. “Okay.”

Stiles studies him, thinking of all the things that must be lurking in Derek’s mind to make him look like that.

He's not one for empty platitudes, so he just leans forward and turns up the radio a little, lightly scuffing at Derek’s shoulder in a way that he hopes comes off as reassuring.

Derek glances at him again before looking back at the road.

The littlest bit of tension leaves his shoulders and Stiles definitely counts that as a win.

-----

It’s October and it's raining. Like, fucking pouring, and Stiles is debating whether or not he should get out of the Jeep. The parking lot of the library is practically flooded. His shoes are gonna be soaked.

He sighs and leans forward against his steering wheel, thinking he might be able to see something other than gray clouds in the sky, but no dice. When he leans back, he jumps.

Derek is standing next to his window.

Stiles rolls the window down an inch and hollers, “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell is wrong with you? Get in the car!”

Derek rolls his eyes and, a moment later, is pulling open the passenger door before slamming it shut. He doesn’t look at Stiles, just stares straight ahead.

“So…” Stiles drawls, “whatcha doing out in the rain, Big Guy?”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a moment and Stiles is about to roll his eyes or huff or say something sarcastic like good talk as always when Derek says, “I’m leaving.”

Stiles blinks at the side of Derek’s face, mouth moving, but nothing comes out.

At his silence, Derek’s eyes flicker to his face for a second before going back to the windshield.

Stiles turns and looks out the windshield too. “Where are you going?” he asks because he can’t ask the question he really wants to, not yet.

“South America, with Cora,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles hums, picking at a piece of leather that’s peeling off his steering wheel. “Pretty warm there.”

“Still pretty rainy.”

Stiles nods. They sit in silence for a long time, the rain pattering against the Jeep the only sound.

Finally, Stiles whispers, “Why?”

“Because there’s nothing left for me here.”

And he gets it, he does. But it hurts, oh yes it does, it hurts quite a bit because Stiles could have sworn that they were starting to get somewhere, the two of them. Maybe Stiles was reading too much into it, but he wasn't sure he was.

Hell, they'd even hugged the last time they parted ways and, as awkward as it had been, it was nice and he thought... he thought...

“I don’t want you to go,” he confesses in a small voice.

Derek closes his eyes, his hands fisted on his thighs, his face twisted in pain.

Stiles waits, hoping that Derek will say something that means he feels even remotely the same.

A long beat of silence passes, the rain pounding the roof of the Jeep.

Stiles isn’t stupid. He gets the picture. He's seventeen and ridiculous and Derek isn't interested in him like that and god he's such an idiot.

He feels like a fucking joke as he nods, staring down at his hands. “Well,” he finally croaks, “I… I hope you find some place good.”

“Me too.” There’s a beat of silence before he whispers, “Goodbye Stiles.”

There’s the slightest ghost of fingertips against the side of his neck then the door opens and Derek is gone.

And Stiles is alone in his car again, the strong rain-wet scent of Derek making his nose and eyes burn.

-----

The first time Derek reappears in Beacon Hills, Stiles is almost sure he’s hallucinating again. After all, isn’t his brain still a little wonky from the Nogtisune? Derek used to be a frequent star in his visions, after all.

And since he’s in the woods alone at night, looking for a witch’s familiar, of course he’s gonna imagine Derek because why the fuck not?

It’s been two years since Stiles has seen him. More than that.

But, apparently, there Derek stands. His hair is a little longer, he's got the beginnings of a beard, and there are a few more lines around his eyes. He looks so good and what the fuck –

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he almost shouts, the orb of light in his hand flickering.

Derek jerks back, looking vaguely confused. “I had to get something from the vault. I thought I’d check on the house. Then I heard someone out here.”

“The vault? I, what?” Stiles sputters. He’s suddenly so angry, it’s almost blinding. “I thought you were dead!”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you fucking vanished and no one’s heard from you for over two years and your luck is astronomically bad! What else were we supposed to think?!”

“That’s ridiculous, I’m fine.” Derek looks down at the orb in Stiles' hand then back to his face. “What’s going on? Why are you out here?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and god, it’s almost like Derek never left. Like This is private property and the long days and nights they spent looking for Boyd and Erica and – focus Stiles.

He starts walking the way he was going, sure that Derek will follow him since there’s no way he’s real anyways. “We have a very angry witch on our hands. She’s not happy that Scott tried to tell her she wasn’t allowed to use the Nemeton to fuel a revenge spell.”

Derek snorts, drawing up to Stiles’ left side and scanning the trees. “Yeah, because that’s always worked well for spell casters in the past.”

He gives a conceding gesture. “Which he tried to tell her, but she didn’t want to listen, so she tapped into the damn tree anyways. It’s given her hella power and she’s killed three people.”

Derek’s thoughtful hum is familiar enough to make Stiles glance over at him.

He’s got to be a fucking figment of Stiles’ imagination.

He glances down at his fingers. Only ten. But the situation still feels so surreal. He decides for now that he’ll talk to his Fake Derek to abate some of his anxious nerves like he used to and examine his mental health later.

“So, anyways,” he continues, “not only is there a body count, the negative power is starting to seep into the land, so I’m stuck trying to figure out what her tether is and what do I find? Her fucking familiar! Which is great, but can you guess what it is?” He snorts. “Oh my god, it’s so stupid.”

“What is it?”

“A fucking mountain lion. She's been using a mountain lion to kill people!” He lets out a hoarse laugh. “Like, what the actual fuck, right?”

Derek huffs. “The irony isn’t lost on me, Stiles.”

“Oh I know, dude, I know.”

Derek frowns again. “Don’t call me dude.”

Stiles is about to snap back that he can call his Imaginary Friend Derek whatever he wants when he’s shoved to the side all of a sudden.

He sputters, looking up at Derek, who’s wolfed-out and growling at a mountain lion.

Can hallucinations shove people? If Derek just shoved Stiles, then he has to be real, right?

But there were plenty of times Stiles was convinced he was awake when he wasn’t and fuck he really doesn’t need to have an episode or something right now –

“Stiles! Now would be a good time to do something!” Derek snaps, jolting Stiles from his contemplation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, sitting up. His hands are pouring blood from his unceremonious meeting with the forest floor. He figures, waste not want not, and licks one of his palms, the dirt and blood a disgusting mix on his tongue. He rolls it around his mouth, jumping to his feet.

“Get out of the way!” he shouts and Derek dives to the side right as the mountain lion lunges.

Stiles catches the large cat’s face in his hands, grunts at the feeling of claws digging into his thighs, and severs the creature’s connection to the witch with a push of his Spark.

An ear-splitting shriek shakes the woods.

The mountain lion falls to the ground, writhing and contorting for a moment before it stills, clearly unable to live without its connection to the witch.

Stiles takes a deep breath, the pushback from his spell like a punch in the gut as his legs give out, and shoves his hands against the ground. He pushes the extra energy along the nearest ley line and funnels the brightness toward the Nemeton. He snaps the link and almost pukes at the feeling.

He floats in the ether for a moment. The others are sure to be able to handle the witch now. He should probably go find them, help them…

“Stiles, Stiles!”

He jerks, his eyes finding Derek’s. “Oh shit, you’re still here.”

Derek stares at him. “You’ve got blood all over you. Where are you hurt?”

He laughs. He grew up in Beacon Hills. He’s fucking hurt everywhere. Derek should know that firsthand.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice is careful.

He shakes his head, face still cracked in a smile. “I’m fine, man.” He glances at his palms. “Eh, well, I’ll live this time. Yay me!” He tries to stand but his legs buckle.

Derek snatches him before he can hit the ground.

“I’m good, I just, oohh boy. Too much. Too much.” He sighs, the pounding in his head telling him that he definitely used too much of his Spark with not enough preparation. “I just… need to lie down. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m taking you to the clinic.” He scoops Stiles into a bridal carry and starts back through the woods.

Stiles tries to protest, but he can’t walk, so it seems like he’s along for the ride. He tries to reason, “I need to help the others.”

“You’re in no condition to do that right this second.” Derek tilts his head, listening. “Besides, I think they’ll be fine. It sounds like the fight is winding down.”

"You really look like a puppy when you do that."

Derek's voice is as dry as the desert. "Dog jokes, really? Aren't you a little old for that?"

“Fucking hell, I am so good at imagining things,” he states, closing his eyes. “I even got your Stiles-You’re-So-Dumb voice right.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold and quickens his pace.

He presses his face to Derek’s chest. Derek smells exactly the same and Stiles can’t help but mutter, “Missed you.”

It’s easy to slip into darkness.

-----

Stiles wakes up at the vet clinic, his hands and thighs bandaged, and feels like someone beat him with a baseball bat.

The witch is gone, the others are fine, and he’s got a migraine from Hell.

He goes back to Scott’s house and checks in with the rest of the pack, allowing them to scold him for being reckless and praising him for helping with the familiar. He leaves before the pizza arrives, not so much for socializing anymore.

He almost wants to ask if anyone saw Derek the night before, but stops himself. Surely someone would have mentioned if Derek was back in town, right?

If he was seeing things, he doesn’t want to worry his friends. It could very well be that he made his own way to the clinic, envisioning Derek as a way to keep him upright and moving.

And if he wasn’t seeing things, if Derek was there and helped him and disappeared again…

Minutes pass. He felt his heart begin to slow. The adrenaline rattled around his body, crawling around his ribs and making him desperately count the old water bottles littering the desk- a hopeless tactic to concentrate.

Gradually, he felt the lull of consciousness convince him he’d escaped the dream. For now. Settling uncomfortably into the now constricting bedding, Stiles let his face go slack, slowly letting the pinched expression melt away, until he stared at the marks on the ceiling, letting the blissful feeling of nothing wash over him.

The silence was loud in his ears.

Stiles fiddled with the edge of his duvet, lying lifelessly on his bed, his eyes vacant. After concentrating, he can just hear the TV through the closed door, muted to a low hum of muttered words from downstairs. An obnoxious tune filters into him, the garish tinkling of bells making his head pound.

He let his eyes flit around the room, before fixing on the wilting wreath hooked haphazardly on the back of his closed door. The red bows were falling off, a rescue from a thrift store, a gag gift, but now just a bitter echo of a feeling. It looks just as tired as he feels.

The thought makes a mirthless chuckle rise out of him, the sound proving too much for his unused throat, making him crease up as a round of coughs wracked through his body.

The TV clicks off, he vaguely noticed, before the sound of steps advanced, hesitating at the door, before cracking it open. The Sheriff peered around, his face impassive, his eyebrows furrowed in quiet concern.

“You alright, kiddo?” He asked. The endearment fell flat as he shuffled into the room, squinting through the dusk shadows at the figure breathing harshly in the bed.

Stiles looked up at him, eyes watering as he shakily propped himself up on his elbows. “I’ll survive, Pops.” He murmured weakly, reaching blindly to the bedside table to find a week old, full, water bottle. Taking a long pull from it, he grimaced at the sour taste.

The Sheriff looked unconvinced, his movements almost tentative. This room had been so familiar to him for over a decade, but staring at it now, seeing Stiles now, made it seem impossibly far away.

Shaking his head, John stepped back out of the door frame. Stiles watched him go, the cold disappointment like lead settling in the bottom of his stomach.

“I’m watching Home Alone, come out if you need me,” The Sheriff muttered, before closing the door behind him, his heavy footsteps retreating downstairs to the lounge.

Stiles let out another long sigh in lieu of an answer, fighting the blanket of drowsiness that held him prisoner in the bed. Stumbling over to the desk, he gripped it tightly, the small effort taking the only strength he had. Breathing harshly, he felt the grinding of his chest as his breaths aggravated the feeling, sapping his energy with it.

Nothing like recovering from demon possession on Christmas Eve.

Stumbling over to the mirror, he stared at himself, eyes hollow, conveying the bone-deep tired that had consumed him for months now.

His mouth was set in a firm line, sagging downwards, as if the effort to keep it straight was too much. His cheeks were gaunt, too sharp after too many missed meals. Sunken into the sockets, his eyes held little emotion. They were dull.

Christmas Eve had never been better.

-2-

The chatter from the radio was accompanied by the rhythmic sound of chopping, Stiles humming tunelessly along as he chopped a carrot into even slices, scooping the chopped vegetables into a cracked bowl beside him as he worked.

At the table behind him sat the Sheriff, reading through a newspaper, his brows furrowed as he concentrated on the words. His eyes flit from one headline to another.

The room had a comfortable silence to it, the domesticity a relief to them both after the train wreck of a year they had had. Mulling over it, Stiles grimaced, remembering the days when he was little more than a shell of himself as he recovered from the Nogitsune.

Sometimes simple actions sapped all the energy he had, making his body wrack with coughs as he struggled to stay silent, or he’d lose consciousness, coming to with his fingers gripped around his ribs, cutting crescents into the pale skin from gripping on so hard- but he was healing dammit!

The nightmares still happened, still snuck up on him at the early hours of dawn, waking him in a cold sweat in darkness as he jerked awake, gasping for air and ready to fight the nonexistent creature before him.

But it was getting better.

The room was still, the daylight a soft warmth on the back of Stiles’s neck. Letting the moment sweep over him, Stiles felt a tickling of something warm and pleasant settle under his ribs, bringing the traces of a smile onto his face.

Dropping the knife into the sink with a clatter, he scooped the last of the vegetables into a pan, setting them on the stove, before fiddling with the timer sat next to the hob. The steady ticking added to the background noise of the kitchen, the Sheriff looking up to smile quickly at Stiles before turning back to his paper.

Settling into a seat next to his dad, Stiles let out a small hum, fishing into his side pocket to find his phone, lighting the screen up and swiping across it to send a text to Scott.

Stiles 14:34

hey dude, is ur mom back?

Scott 14:35

still on shift she wont be back till latr :/

Stiles 14:37

aw sorry man :( the invites still out…come experience a stilinski christmas eve!

Scott 14:38

im going to allisons remember? sorry :“( but thnx bro

Stiles 14:40

well if you die, ill kno her parents killed you, good luck man

Scott 14:41

not funny….

Stiles 14:43

sorry :P ill see you tomorrow, im making pie so be prepared!!

Scott 14:41

sounds good (:

Looking up from his phone, Stiles felt the tug of an exasperated smile begin to form on his lips as he shook his head at how infatuated Scott was with Allison.

Looking over at the timer on the counter, he mentally ran over the list of things he was preparing both for their Christmas Eve meal, and the more copious offerings for the day after. A Stilinski-McCall Christmas was not something to be rivaled with.

Just as Stiles stood up to organise the stray pots and pans littering the kitchen, he heard a tentative knock from the front door. Arching an eyebrow, he looked at the Sheriff, who calmly folded his newspaper and set it aside onto the table, before standing up and heading towards the door.

"Are you expecting someone, did I miss the memo?” Stiles asked, bewildered, as he hurried after him, inquisitive eyes on the door as his dad unlatched it at an infuriatingly slow pace.

The Sheriff shook his head, flashing warning eyes to Stiles, who stood behind his shoulder, his face puzzled and eyes on the door. “I invited a guest, be nice,” He emphasised, making the teen even more inquisitive as to who the mystery person could be.

Pulling the door open, the Sheriff stepped back and gave the person on the other side a pleasant smile. Derek.

“Derek?” Stiles exclaimed. He looked on at the scene with a mixture of surprise, mild horror and confusion as his dad ushered the Were inside.

Offering a bottle of wine to the Sheriff- who thanked him profusely with a glint in his eye- Derek straightened up and fixed Stiles with his trademark glare, it was softened slightly, Stiles presumed, due to the presence of his dad hovering between them, the mediator.

“I’d better put this in the kitchen, maybe crack it out later?” John suggested as he tilted his head towards the bottle in his hand, Derek nodding jerkily, an almost pained smile on his face.

The Sheriff made his way into the kitchen, not without shooting Stiles another warning glare, as Stiles and Derek stood in silence in the narrow space of the hallway.

Opening his mouth, Derek looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it, shutting it again. He stood in the hallway, his shoulders tense as Stiles regarded him with scrutiny.

“Why are you here?” Stiles hissed, jabbing a finger into the air in front of Derek’s chest, his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the offending figure.

Once again, Derek opened his mouth, this time, looking a little more thoughtful before he began to speak. “Your-”

“If you’re intending on messing with my dad in any way…I swear I’ll shove wolfsbane so far up your ass you’ll be shitting blood for the next month." The teen snarled, his eyes glinting dangerously as he attempted to intimidate the older man.

Derek looked murderous. Stiles watched in morbid fascination as one of his eyebrows twitched, pulled down into an angry scowl. "Your Dad invited me,” Derek growled. His voice was low so as not to alert the Sheriff, who they could hear humming in the kitchen, the soft clink of glasses a far cry from their conversation out in the hall.

Looking up at the ceiling in exasperation, Stiles shook his head in disbelief. “Great, so now we’re taking in strays. Awesome, just how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve."

His voice was agitated, and he was aware he sounded like a petulant child, but he and Derek had a rocky past, filled with way too much slamming into walls than necessary, way more than acceptable to be allowed to share a sacred Stilinski meal.

Taking a deep breath, Derek’s glare seemed to wilt, before the fragile expression was shuttered and barricaded behind the walls again. "I’m not staying longer than that, I know when I’m not wanted,” Although his voice was restrained, much akin to the dry humour Stiles had heard him use on multiple occasions, Stiles felt a twist of guilt stab him in the gut as Derek shouldered past him into the kitchen, not sparing him another glance.

Maybe his dad was right to invite Derek to dinner.

-3-

Pulling another dish under the spray of the tap, Stiles scrubbed determinedly at it, grunting at the effort. Hearing a snort from next to him, he rolled his eyes, handing it off after he was satisfied with the level of cleanliness.

Derek took it, readily prepared with a dishcloth to rub them dry, eyes focused on the task. The concentration made his brows furrow, Stiles noticed with quiet glee. He set it to his side, next to the growing pile of dry pots, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the counter.

Turning to look back at his washing up companion, Stiles quirked an eyebrow, giving Derek a disdainful look. “Don’t mock my efforts, Sourwolf! I’m the reason we’ll be finished sooner, so we can watch Star Wars Reruns,” He sniffed haughtily, turning back to scrub laboriously at a particular food encrusted spoon.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Derek replied dryly, a small smile on his face, hidden partially by the beginnings of a beard adorning his chin.

“Damn right you don’t!” Stiles scoffed, pointing a finger at Derek. He cursed as the water sloshed out of the bowl and dripped down his hand, making him hastily return it to over the sink before fixing Derek with a triumphant grin.

“I’m the best thing that could’ve happened to you, face it,” He murmured, voice trailing off as he watched Derek, his full grin as he stared back at Stiles.

A brief moment of heavy silence lulled between them as they looked, truly looked at each other.

Stiles’s eyes trailed over Derek’s face, the easy smile on his lips and the absence of his formerly trademarked glare. It was refreshing, and even now, after a year of subtle kindness, and tentative understanding on Derek’s part, Stiles still found himself a little baffled.

Derek gazed at the teen in front of him, zeroing in on his eyelashes casting stark shadows across the concave of his cheek, not nearly as gaunt or as pained as it had been a year ago.

The silence was heavy, but the moment was abruptly broken when Derek cleared his throat, looking down at his hands helplessly.

“Keep dreaming,” Derek murmured, his grin now a soft smile as he ducked his head. Stiles stared in fascination as the tips of the Were’s ears went red. Derek, who refused to look back up at him, instead choose to scrub studiously at a plate held tight in his grip.

Eventually, they finished washing, stacking and drying the pots, and collapsed onto the couch with a resounding sigh of content. The teen sat with their sides pressed together, a warm length of heat along Stiles’ side. He felt Derek begin to relax, melting into the cushions and leaning back to rest his head on the back of the couch, exposing his neck. Stiles’s mouth went dry.

A moment passed, Stiles eyes glued to Derek’s throat before he tilted his head to the side and looked at the teen suspiciously. “What?” He murmured, his voice tentative once again.

Stiles let out a sputter, waving his hands around intelligibly. He pulled a face, letting his eyes dart around the room, looking anywhere but at Derek.

“I don’t know dude, I guess I’m-” He paused, wracking his brain for excuses as to why he’d been so enamoured with the other man’s neck just moments before. “- just thinking about how far we’ve come, you know?” He asked, turning to face Derek with a teasing smile.

Derek bowed his head, trying to hide his growing smile under the scruff on his cheeks, but the teen poked delightedly at it, before being batted away by an irritated hand.

“See! Now you smile, and it’s a good look- well, uh,” Stiles grimaced, shaking his head fervently. “I mean, it’s good that you look like that, Sourwolf. I would even call us-” Stiles hesitated, “-friends, now, if you’re up for that?” He ventured. His face was light, with a trace of nerves as the Were realised the very real meaning behind the cajoling words.

Derek found himself nodding, fixing Stiles with a tentative smile. “Yeah, I-” Stiles watched him, his lips curling up slowly as he watched him stutter over the words. “We’re friends,” He finished lamely. His cheeks were now a slightly pink colour, which Stiles took in with delight.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, breathlessly, “-friends.”

-4-

Stiles sat at the kitchen table, playing mindlessly on his phone. To the Sheriff’s amusement- who looked on in mild interest, he continued to sneak looks to the front door every few minutes, practically bouncing with anticipation.

“Waiting for someone?” He inquired dryly, watching as Stiles jumped guiltily, peering over the screen of his phone to look at his dad with a dignified expression.

Leaning back into his seat and staring up at the ceiling- studiously avoiding eye contact, Stiles dismissed the words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He sniped, tapping his fingers along the surface of the worn table.

John rolled his eyes, fully aware of the thing between his son and Derek. “Son, I think we should talk about this,” He tried, setting his mug aside and fixing teen with what Stiles could only fondly refer to as the “soul-searching stare”.

“Talk about what? I don’t see how there’s anything to talk about here, what happened to me talking too much, Pops? I thought you liked me talking less? I can just reign it in and just, nottalk,” He said innocuously, a flap of his hands signifying how not okay with the subject he was.

The Sheriff stared him down, face unimpressed. “Derek. You and Derek."

Stiles groaned in embarrassment, hiding his face in his hands and flopping miserably onto the table. "You didn’t have to say it, dad,” He groaned reproachfully, a picture of misery as he sprawled out across the table.

“Do we need to revisit the staying safe conversation?” John asked, folding his arms as he fixed Stiles under his stare. He fought a fond smile as his son let out another groan, burrowing deeper into his hands in mortification.

“No, we definitely do not, Dad,” Stiles retorted. “-there’s nothing even going on,” He added dolefully, finally peeking out of his hands to look back at his dad, unable to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Well if there ever is,” Warned the Sheriff.

They both looked to the front door as they heard a knock. Stiles shot up from his seat, bumping into the table in his hurry, cursing as he hopped around, clutching his side in pain. John let out a long sigh, realising his last words had gone unnoticed in Stiles obvious effort to let their guest in.

Finally reaching the door, Stiles pulled it open with a grin, his face flushed as he locked eyes with Derek, who looked back, a matching smile on his own. “Hey,” Stiles murmured, drinking in the sight of the Were in front of him.

Derek nodded at him, shucking off his coat and bending down to unlace his boots. “Happy Christmas Eve,” He said, looking up at Stiles.

“I don’t think that’s a thing,"

"What?”

“Happy Christmas Eve, I think you’ve gotta wait until tomorrow, dude,”

“Fine, I’ll take it back,"

"No- no! I never said you had to do that,” Stiles hastened to reply, making Derek laugh.

The pair straightened up, Derek clutching his boots in his hands as Stiles stared helplessly at him. His soft knitted jumper, gifted to him by the McCalls the year before, the relaxed stance he held as he stood in the hall- hell, even his hair. Derek had changed, Stiles realised, and so had he.

John eventually herds both of them into the kitchen, the table crammed with dishes of steaming Borscht- Stiles’ mom’s recipe. There were steaming plates of Turkey and Gazpacho- courtesy of the McCalls, who called to the house a few hours later.

The dinner is loud, as McCall-Stilinski dinners always are. Stiles feels a warmth in his stomach, wanting to add another name onto the end of their small group as he watched Derek sitting surrounded by the others, a broad smile on his face.

Stabbing a bit of turkey with his fork, he chews glumly as another realisation dawns. Derek was happy. But as he stared at the Were’s grin, listening as he recounted tales of his old pack to the table, who listened in awe, Stiles’ smile dips.

Standing abruptly, Stiles shoved away from the table, everyone looking up at the screech of the chair as the teen pushed it away. Looking up guiltily, Stiles felt his frown deepen as everyone watched him with concern. “I’m- uh, just getting some air,” He mumbled, fleeing the room out of the backdoor, slumping against the outside wall as he stared into the darkened garden.

He’d always wished for more with Derek.

Rubbing a fist angrily across his stinging eyes, he let out an angry sniff and shook his head vigorously. Trying to banish the thought was futile, so he tried to let out a couple of shaky breaths, his heartbeat dancing unsteadily in his ear.

Letting his mind roam, Stiles thought of the past few years, and the times he’d almost been caught out- staring as Derek did something ridiculously cute, or as he’d strip his shirt off for the umpteenth time, making his face heat at the sight.

But he’d gotten to know the Were now. What had begun as a crush, undeniably unobtainable, had become a full force fixation. Watching his breath curl up to the night sky in small clouds, Stiles let out another shaky breath, a pang of grief cementing how utterly fucked he was.

He was in love with Derek Hale.

Stiles’ eyes widened as the realisation dawned, as he fully allowed himself to think about it, not brush it off or bury it deep within his brain as soon as he recognised it. Shit.

The door behind him slowly opened, making Stiles jump guiltily as he turned to face the oncoming person behind it. Derek.

“Hey,” Stiles said, avoiding Derek’s inquisitive gaze.

“Your dad’s beginning to think you’ve run off,”

Letting out a small laugh, Stiles watched as Derek shut the door, coming to stand beside him. “Sorry,”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Derek was quiet, his voice intense.

Stiles looked up at him, only seeing the silhouette of his sharp jaw in the dusk light. “I-” He started, before shaking his head minutely, the crescendo of feelings dipping and diving within him.

Derek stepped closer.  

The silence was heavy with unsaid words. Derek brought his hand up to cup Stiles’ jaw, his face open and vulnerable, something it had taken years for it to be. Stiles stared at it hungrily, a speck of hope bubbling inside of him; that his fantasy of something was minutely more possible than he’d thought.

The hand felt searing hot against his cheek, and Stiles’s heart began to rabbit once again.

“Tell me I’m not reading this wrong,” Derek whispered, breath ghosting across Stiles’s cheeks as they stood together, a hairs width between them.

Tilting his head up, Stiles finally looked at Derek. “You’re not,” The words were quiet, tentative, but Derek reacted immediately.

He leant down, pressing his lips lightly against Stiles’. The touch was tentative, but as Stiles unfroze, the shock wearing off to be replaced by pure unadulterated euphoria, he responded enthusiastically.

The kiss was frenzied, but Stiles lack of experience was overridden by his latent enthusiasm. Derek moved slightly as their teeth clacked together, pulling Stiles away slightly to gently kiss him again.

Looking up in awe, Stiles watched as Derek’s eyes flashed blue as he struggled to control the shift, Derek ducking away shyly. The teen pulled Derek closer, kissing him firmly, smiling ridiculously as he traced his hands over the fur on the Were’s cheeks.

Breaking apart, Stiles panted, a wide grin on his gleeful face.

“Are you coming to dinner, tomorrow?” Stiles implored, a helpless smile growing on his face as he stared up at Derek.

Derek looked uncertain, his hands going lax where they were wrapped around Stiles’ waist. “Christmas Dinner?” He checked, the hesitation clear in his words.

“Well, unless there’s some other dinner I’m having on Christmas Day,” Stiles whispered, a soft smile on his lips.

Derek nodded slowly, before letting a matching smile take over his face. “I’d love to,"

Wrapping his icy fingers around Derek’s waist, Stiles leaned in again, their lips meeting. This kiss was unhurried, sweet. Entwining his arms around the smaller figure, Derek let himself let go. He felt himself wilt, for once feeling utterly safe surrounded by the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and home. Pack.

Suddenly, the door behind them opened once more, the Sheriff standing in the doorway with his hands crossed across his chest. Derek and Stiles sprung apart guiltily, their cheeks flushed as they looked anywhere but at John.

"I think you two should come inside,” John said, his voice disapproving as he fought to contain the undertone of amusement and glee at the chagrin looks on their faces.

His earlier prediction hadn’t taken long to come to fruition, and he couldn’t help but be thankful that it was Derek his son had chosen. He was a good kid, he thought to himself, letting his smile slip onto his face. He recognised the besotten looks on the pairs faces too well.

It brought back a bittersweet memory of himself and Claudia, making him chuckle at the paradox between her and their son, twenty years later.

Derek looked suitably mortified, shoulders hunching in as he subconsciously tried to make himself look smaller.

John clapped a hand onto the Were’s shoulder. Derek jumped, unsure of the reason for his cheery expression. Looking at Stiles, he arched an eyebrow, who looked back in equal confusion with a touch o embarrassment, shaking his head helplessly.

“Come on in, son, I put the gun away last Christmas,” John chuckled, herding Derek back inside to where the others sat, peeking around the kitchen door with matching expressions of curiosity on their faces.

Stiles trailed behind them, feeling a sense of whiplash at the sudden turn the evening had taken. Taking a seat in a chair at the table once again, he felt a smile spread across his face as he stared unabashedly at Derek, who looked back with a matching look of affection.

Now, this was the best Christmas Eve ever.

-5- They get distracted and start smooching then some people come in and see them, maybe Scott?

Letting out a grunt of frustration, Stiles wrestled with a roll of gaudy wrapping paper, twisting it experimentally around a cardboard box, to no avail.

Hearing a low chuckle from behind him, Stiles turns to scowl at the figure behind him. Derek is stood at the table. There’s an impeccably packed rectangular present clasped in his hands, which Stiles stares at in disdain because it’s like it's mocking him.

Throwing the wrapping paper down in despair, Stiles turns to Derek with a stern expression.

“You can’t judge me, Sourwolf,”

“I didn’t say a thing,” There’s an easy smile on his face, though, and dammit if Stiles cant read it as easily as if he’d said the words.

Stiles scoffed.

“You didn’t have to! The eyebrows say it all- anyway, isn’t it more about the thing inside the wrapping? It doesn’t matter how shitty the outside looks…"

"It doesn’t look shitty,”

“Aw, I knew there was a heart somewhere under all that scruff!"

Derek frowned, his ears turning a shade of pink under Stiles’ gleeful scrutiny. Setting his own, admittedly better-wrapped present onto the table as he walked over to Stiles.

The room was warm, bringing a flush onto Stiles’ pale cheeks as he puttered around the kitchen, both preparing the last few dishes for the plethora of bingeing they’d be doing over the next few days, yet also attempting to wrap the remainder of his presents to the pack.

Wrapping his arms around Stiles, Derek snuck his face into his neck, inhaling, tightening his hold. Humming happily, Stiles brought a hand up to stroke along the Were’s face as it burrowed into him.

Looking at the mess of ripped paper and the heap of partially wrapped presents next to it, Stiles gave a huff of despair. "Pack Christmases require so much preparation, maybe we should call the whole thing off,” He murmured, with no conviction at all behind the words.

“You could never. You love them,” Derek mumbled into his neck, his words muffled.

“Yeah,” He replied dolefully, a sappy smile threatening to spill onto his face. Shaking his head, Stiles reproachfully unclasped Derek’s arms from around him and picked up an armful of presents. “Maybe I could just get bags instead?” He asked dubiously.

Derek plucked a box from his hand, eyeing the glossy makeup inside with disdain. Definitely for Lydia. “No, I’ll show you how to do it,” He instructed, placing it on the table with a dull thud.

Dumping the pile onto the table, before they threatened to spill out of his arms, Stiles shook his head, a plan forming in his mind.

“Or-” He said, looking up through his eyelashes at Derek. “-We could use the bags…and be able to do Stiles and Derek time!” He hinted, waggling his eyebrows after his attempt to seduce the older man resulted in an unimpressed expression.

Stiles reached over to Derek, entwining their fingers to pull him closer, closing the distance between them. The kiss is languid as they explore each other’s mouths for the countless time. It never gets old.

Just as they lose awareness of their surroundings, the world diminishing to only the soft press of lips, and soft gasping breaths, the front door opens with a thud. Stiles sees Scott in the periphery of his vision, as he crossing the threshold, talking animatedly.

“-my mom brought the Gazpacho and Allys bringing the turkey when she drops by later- oh,” He halts in front of Derek and Stiles, who spring apart, their faces matching expressions of annoyance.

“Scotty,” Stiles starts. “-I’m so glad to see you, but I was in the middle of something, dude, you cock-blocked me,” He said mournfully, Derek digging him in the ribs with an expertly timed finger, making him yelp in anguish.

Watching them in disgust, Scott shakes his head and dumps the bags he was carrying on the table, eyeing the presents next to it curiously.

“I did not want to know, dude,” He said mournfully,

“I had to listen to you wax poems about Allison’s boobs, you can cope!” Stiles rebutted cheerfully, walking around the table to grip his best friend in a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, bro,” He sighed happily, returning Scott’s dopey smile with a similar one of his own.

Since Scott and Allison had moved to New York for college, Stiles hadn’t had nearly enough hang-out sessions, but without fail, Christmas would always be a time they spend together.

They heard a throat clearing behind them. Stiles peeked around Scott to see Allison, giving him an unimpressed stare, making him stand straighter and turn to her, an abashed expression on his face.

“Oh- Hey, Ally,” Stiles said sheepishly, giving her an impish grin which she returned after another withering glare.

“Hey,” She replied, giving him a brief hug and turning to Derek to do the same, who did so with an adorably bewildered expression.

Over the next few minutes, the kitchen began to fill up with the rest of the pack, Stiles’ dad standing in the middle as he failed to keep a disapproving frown on his face, the edges twitching as he watched the people surrounding him.

Stiles watched on, a helpless smile on his face. Turning to his dad, he let the grin take over his face as the two remaining Stilinski’s let the atmosphere wash over them.

“You’ve done good, kid,” John said, his voice a soothing note under the general hubbub of the rest of the pack.

Stiles suddenly felt the warm presence of Derek, who slowly let his arm encircle Stiles’ waist as he gave him a small smile, his cheeks flushed.