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The first holiday break home from college is going fantastically. It's Christmas, and who doesn't love Christmas? Also, all of them have been apart for months and that's longer than they've ever been apart before.
Sure they chat online and Skype and email and Tweet and Facebook and follow each other's fast-developing lives in real time, they know most of the big details.
They've all seen the embarrassing exploits of Scott's fraternity rush on Instagram, then seen Scott beaming with his band of brothers; they've looked at Lydia, looking poised and brilliant in a smart dress-suit, already presenting a paper at a psychology conference; they've clicked through Alison's posts and pictures about her art shows; they've read Isaac's poetry in the literary magazine he co-edits and watched Danny's a capella singing on YouTube. They've browsed Erica and Boyd's travel Tumblr with envy, living vicariously through the pair's far-flung backpacking adventures. They save Derek's brief emailed updates as “Important” and never fail to thumbs-up the funny pictures and hilarious memes Stiles is sure to upload with regularity.
Still, all the mobile connectivity in the world can't substitute for being together again. The first night, at Scott's house, it's like old times. They pile together like puppies, rolling around; they're all on top of each other, shouting over each other, a squirming, happy mess of limbs and laughter.
Mrs. McCall is out with Stiles's dad -- a development he and Scott do not so much talk about as flat-out celebrate, with “shooing” motions at the couple and salsa dancing when they're around -- and the house is theirs until late. They're not in high school anymore; they've been living on their own for months, now, and Stiles thinks if he read the look on his father's face correctly, Mrs. McCall won't be back anytime soon.
Everyone's brought beer and their newly-acquired favorite liquor or substance of choice. Half of them have fake IDs now and the house is overflowing with alcohol and the warm smell of the good weed Scott and Isaac keep slipping outside to smoke.
Allison is baking chocolate-chip cookies from a premade roll of dough and Boyd orders too much pizza. Erica is showing him how to properly brew yerba mate with the set she brought back from Argentina. On the couch, Lydia watches them in between highlighting paragraphs in a thick book and drinking from an open bottle of bubbly prosecco.
Stiles doesn't remember when he's ever felt so happy. He likes college -- it's fun, he's finally made some solid friends, he's good at his classes and enjoys them -- but at heart he's a homebody, and he's never felt more glad to be at home.
At the beginning it was strange to go away, to live away, trying to make new friends, friends who were mostly normal and didn't transform into mythic beasts at regular intervals; but he found a groove after a few lonely weeks.
He's found professors who could be mentors, joined a few clubs, including the Wiccans, who are sweet but not overly serious. He's gone to house parties and crammed dorm-room parties, and been much too drunk, and spent a few nights clutching a toilet bowl.
He's hooked up with and dated people for stretches of days, the stuff of freshman year. He's not even a virgin anymore, thanks to a painfully attractive dude who broke his heart for at least a weekend after he said they'd make better friends. He got over it, and the dude's a pretty great friend now, so Stiles can't complain.
But even if school's awesome, it's nothing like this, like being back at the start. He's shared more with the people gathered in Scott's living room than any of them could ever explain; they are more than friends and lovers and sometimes rivals, they're pack. They're family in a fashion that all their new friends and lovers and rivals will never understand. Drawn back together, they revel like a family reunion, with more than enough alcohol in place to smooth any rough edges.
Stiles is on his third beer and first tequila body shot -- thank you, Isaac, that was lovely and unexpected -- when Scott shouts from the porch, “Derek! I knew you'd come. I told everyone you'd come. You totally came! Do you want some weed?”
The door slams open with Scott, irredeemably stoned, his arm slung around Derek's shoulder, ushering him inside. Derek, in a leather jacket, white t-shirt, fitted jeans and work boots, medium stubble, looks unchanged; only his dark hair is a little longer.
He looks like Derek: calm and flustered, ready for anything, taking them all in with lidded green eyes. He holds up a hand, like he's Spock or something, seeking a logical greeting in the midst of chaos.
The pack goes wild.
Scott is already draped around Derek so Erica hits his free side, grabbing tight and climbing a full two feet off the floor. Boyd's a half-step behind her, wrapping both Erica and Derek in welcoming arms. Isaac almost drops the tequila, face lit up brighter than the McCall's Christmas tree, and he flings himself onto the pile Scott-side. The betas get a moment of their grunting and huffing and sniffing with Derek at the center, and then Allison darts out from the kitchen to peck his cheek. Lydia blows a kiss from the couch and doesn't move out from under her book, but she hefts the prosecco and toasts him.
Stiles gets up, crosses the room. There isn't much of Derek reachable, covered in clinging teenage wolves, only his head pokes free; his expression is long-suffering when they look at each other.
Derek is looking at Stiles like a little help here? and also like he hasn't seen Stiles since the summer and can't stop himself from looking. Derek's very good at looking. Has always been good at that.
What does he think of Stiles's new, scruffier hairstyle, the way he's finally filled out all the lanky with the freshman 15? Can he see the lines of Stiles's new tattoo snaking along his collarbone, showing at the seam of his t-shirt? Can he smell that Stiles isn't a virgin anymore? Can that be sniffed? Derek's expression doesn't change, Derek just watches him come closer.
Derek's head is fair game, no one else has grabbed him there, so Stiles does what he never would have done before he left and came back again: he reaches out, and ruffles Derek's hair. Derek has to let it happen because Scott has one arm and Erica the other, plus the doubled weights of Boyd and Isaac. Stiles tousles his hair, and Derek lets it happen. Derek's hair is soft as he remembers.
“Welcome home,” says Stiles.
* * *
They're howling, all of them, even the non-wolves. So much to drink and smoke, too much, and so many stories to share. They talk at and over and around each other, confessing and giggling and making epic exploits out of their freshman follies.
The talk turns to sex fast enough now that they've all done it. Scott and Allison are in an amicable break-up period at current, so Allison can drop hints about the hot teaching assistant who doubles as a nude model in her sculpture class, and Scott can wax lyrical about the buxom beauty of Delta Phis.
Isaac is tight-lipped but looks pleased about his romantic escapades, even if Stiles catches him glancing at Scott every now and then, as though to check as to whether any of the older Greek traditions have rubbed off in the last few months.
Erica and Boyd are as joined at the hip as ever, though their story about couch-surfing with an amorous, gorgeous blonde Swedish couple is well worth the telling and listening, with Allison clapping Scott on the back whenever his jaw drops too far.
If Lydia has new information about Jackson she doesn't share it, declaring herself too busy for mundane fleshly pursuits, but she reports that she gets to live vicariously enough through Danny's study-abroad exploits in Paris.
Derek, predictably, says nothing except to remind them to be careful with new partners around the full moon, intoning like a supernatural sex-ed PSA. Stiles follows that up with an awesome rollicking tale about his school's Fall Harvest dance, which bore the time-honored tradition -- “Since 1989” -- that the boys wore women's clothing while the girls wore as little as possible.
“Sexist, perhaps, but universally sexy,” Stiles explains. “Everyone's happy.”
“Dude,” says Scott, already visualizing his outfit, “I'm totally visiting you next semester.” Stiles gives him a high-five. “Me too,” says Isaac. He gets two high-fives, plus fist-bumps. “Nice,” Erica allows. “But we were on a nude beach near the Red Sea this one time that--”
It's Isaac, again, wielding the body shots. He totes a good bottle of tequila and slices of lime around like it's his job. “Don't forget the salt,” says Boyd, following, sprinkling.
Lydia takes a drink from the dip of Allison's willing neck, then blinks stealthily at her friend like she hasn't quite considered it but might be moved to. Too soon Allison's being bent laughing between Scott and Isaac: Scott at the curve of her navel, Isaac politely keeping to her shoulder, all giggling.
After that, it devolves, or evolves. Stiles can't remember which. They're all so gloriously screwed up.
Everything is hilarious and amazing. “Your turn, Stiles,” says Isaac, turning him down onto the table; and Erica has the shot from his navel, and Isaac sips along his hip, and Derek drinks at his collarbone. All of their lips ghost his skin and then their sharp white teeth seek lime and salt.
“Whee,” says Stiles, licking salt from the back of Lydia's hand, which is held up to receive him. Her other hand highlights a pertinent paragraph in pink.
“Come here a minute, Stiles,” says Isaac, smartly. “Here.” He holds up a sliced lime, which Stiles receives between his lips. Isaac looks focused and distracted at once. Scott keeps touching between his shoulderblades, and Allison's hand is gentle on his arm. Isaac looks at Stiles with big eyes bigger, like he can't believe they're touching him at once, like he's wanted. Stiles grins back.
“Here,” says Isaac, helpfully. He withdraws the lime and pours a healthy shot's worth into the flat, receiving vee of Derek's hipbone. Derek, lounging nearby, has his hipbone newly wet. He watches the liquid pool along his belly. Stiles watches too.
“Cheers,” says Stiles to all of his friends, bending to drink.
It devolves, or evolves, after that. Scott and Isaac and Allison go off into a far room and don't come back. In the living room, Lydia is stroking Erica's hair, listening to Boyd retell the story of the amorous Swedish couple.
In the hallway off the main stairs, Stiles and Derek are making the fuck out.
There wouldn't be more to get of Derek unless they were actually fucking. They tear into each other, clothes already getting torn, skin red from scratching. Stiles is backed completely against the wall, his legs around Derek's waist for purchase, riding the insistent push of Derek's hips.
Derek's hand is under his t-shirt, fingernails clawing sharp at his skin, and Derek's other hand hooks under his body to hold him up: Derek shoves him back against the wall, as he ever had, only this time they're kissing.
They can't stop kissing, they're smashed and smashed together, glued at the mouth, like kissing's their business. No one else is around. The pack has vanished into other rooms.
Derek tastes good. Derek tastes so good. Stiles hasn't let himself think about this in a long while. Since Derek took his earnest mouth away, their earnest mouths, and said Stiles, we can't --, and that had been that, although that sucked a lot. God, Derek is sucking on his tongue, keeping it in his mouth, stroking his tongue across Stiles's -- Derek is tugging his head back, Derek's mouth is devouring his neck, hungry at his throat.
Dazed, Stiles stares him down. “Am I asleep?”
“No.” Derek nips his neck. “You're drunk. We're drunk.”
“You, too?” Stiles asks, while Derek samples all his accessible surfaces.
“Very,” says Derek. “I let you drink from my stomach.”
Stiles narrows his eyes. “Don't pretend like you didn't like it.”
Derek blinks steadily. “I didn't think I did.”
“Alright then,” Stiles allows, and he's still up against a wall, pinned there by Derek's strength, wrapped up in Derek's arms, Derek nosing at his cheek. “Carry on,” he says, magnanimously, which clashes with the way he dives at Derek's mouth to be the first to get his tongue back in.
* * *
Derek is fucking him. Oh my fucking god, it's so good. It's too good. He knew it would be like this, part of him knew. Part of him always knew. Oh, god. It's so good. How can it be so good? It isn't fair. Christ, Derek's cock is so hard. It's bigger than he thought it would be. He's thought about it a lot but it's bigger than all that.
It's big and hard and it's in him. Derek is in him, Derek still has him against the wall, and Stiles's legs are around his waist, and Derek is fucking him into the wall. Derek's more than strong enough to keep him off the ground. They're shoved up together, same as always, only this time they're actually fucking, instead of merely implying it. Both of them groan every time Derek moves, which is a lot.
“Oh my god,” pants Stiles, feeling them, fisting his hands into Derek's hair, longer than he remembers. Derek feels so good, Derek's deep but he can be deeper still, he can draw Derek deeper. He can't believe they're doing this but if they're doing this he's going to fucking well feel it.
Derek's arms are around him, Derek has his head down and is breathing hard, like he's waiting. That's when Stiles realizes that he's still talking. “Oh my god, don't listen to me, fucking fuck me, oh my god, Derek. Derek.” And they're plastered harder against the wall than the plaster is. They make too much noise, but no one's listening. If they are, they're too polite or too distracted to notice, or they decide to save the information for future blackmail.
* * *
Stiles doesn't know where he is. There isn't a ground. There's no ground. It doesn't make any sense until he realizes that he's part of a porch swing suspended on shiny chain off the ground. The lot of it swings, faintly.
The other part of the porch swing is a wicker couch and the long, chiseled length of Derek's body wrapped around his.
He's dangling three feet off of Scott's deck, bare-ass naked in a swing with a bare-ass Derek Hale nuzzling his shoulder. Derek's knees are tucked into his knees, his big arm running the breadth of Stiles's chest to close possessively over his far hip.
Stiles knows where he is, and Derek is spooning him, and the sun is starting to creep its way across the porch to warm them, as though they needed warming. He hears Scott and Isaac and Allison talking brightly in the kitchen, the sizzle of eggs on heated butter. Soon the kettle starts to whistle their universally beloved call to coffee.
Derek shifts awake behind him. They swing with the stretch of his big body. For an elongated moment of high terror, Stiles lives through the range of Derek's conceivable reactions. He waits for Derek's contrition, his regret, his denial, his anger, his embarrassment --
“A minute more,” murmurs Derek, curling tighter around him. “Five more minutes and then pancakes.”
Stiles chokes on incredulous ecstatic laughter and it's forty-five minutes at least before they move back down to earth.
In the kitchen, no one says anything important. They're all too bleary-eyed from the night before. Soon the headaches if earned will set in, and the sunlight's all together too illuminating. But it's vacation. None of them need to be anywhere, and so they sprawl out on the couches, nursing coffees. Erica is brewing up a pot of hangover cure remedy out of Belize, promising miracles.
Stiles is fully-clothed again but he's sharing the biggest chair with Derek and not one of them says a word about it. Lydia's lips are a little too quirked at them, but she's reading placidly again, as though her hastily coiffed hair didn't have bear the path of multiple fingertips in it.
Boyd stews out shots of Erica's foul-smelling potion with a reassuring nod. Grimacing, Scott hefts his glass. The rest of them follow suit, waveringly.
“Trust me, you guys,” says Erica, sniffing her own green-brown share. “It'll help.”
Isaac and Allison have brought their glasses up to clink Scott's. Boyd toasts against their trifecta, and Erica joins in. Lydia sets down her book and scoots down the couch, delicately lifting a glass, making it six. Stiles jostles for her with space, knocking knuckles, trying to get a sound out of each glass.
Derek's arm follows the line of his arm. Derek's arm overlays his, Derek's hand extends with brew in glass and meets seven other glasses in cheers.
“To pack,” says Derek, and the arm not around Stiles brings the earthy shot to his mouth, and Derek drinks.
“To pack,” they all echo, and drink, and Allison and Isaac make banana pancakes.
* * *
Stiles offers to drive Derek. There's little else he can do, once they've cleaned up the house best they can as a team, following the text that heralded Mrs. McCall's impending arrival.
They all make plans to meet as soon as they can, with lots of hugs and rib-poking and hair-tugging. It takes a long time to leave, for Stiles to be sitting next to Derek with both of them belted into the jeep.
They sit together, and it's not too weird. Stiles supposes they've gotten a whole lot behind them in a night: tons of kissing, and actual fucking, and the cuddling aftermath, Derek's big body tucked around him. Why should it feel more strange to be in a jeep than naked in a swing?
Stiles clears his throat before he starts his baby up. “So,” he says.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, readily enough.
They sit with the engine thrumming. Then Stiles steers them out, over the mixed dirt and asphalt roads, onto the open highway. They ride with the windows down and the wind in their hair.
Stiles is talking, is talking about a lot of different things that have occurred, but finally he comes to it. “So it really was the age thing, huh?”
“Huh,” allows Derek.
“And now it isn't a thing.” Stiles is an excellent driver, he can free a hand to scrub his face. “I can work with this.”
“Good,” says Derek.
“Jesus, Derek. You just might've said -- well -- more--”
Derek is watching the familiar Beacon Hills horizon creep past the window. “I thought we were decided.”
Stiles considers this. Years of staring, and shared experience, and shared lives; one kiss, fleeting, pressed to a wall; it had been a lot, once, but they're a lot past that now, with walls and everything.
“You said we couldn't. You left.” It still hurts, a hurt he doesn't want: Derek taking his mouth away, Derek going away right after graduation. Derek saying to his pack, you have to find your way a while without me, but no advice for Stiles, who had no desire to do so.
He's tried. He tried. He's kissed other people, slept with other people, no one in particular. No one's been anything, not since Derek had taken his face between his hands and kissed him instead of slamming him against brick. The slamming came later.
“You got to go away,” Derek says. “I wanted that. It's changed you. For the good, I think. Your dad's a great dad but you both needed the break, Stiles. You've let others worry about him. It's good for you both.” He cants his head. There's a caught breath of air, of scent. “You got to experiment.”
“You left,” Stiles points out, a touch defensive. “You said, and I quote, 'I go to seek my alpha mastery. Do not expect to see me.' What was I supposed to do while you got your Yoda on? Become a monk?”
“No.” Derek hesitates. He doesn't look angry, but his jaw is tight. “I could almost thank him, the one who took you first. When I smelled you, Stiles -- when you didn't smell like mi--”
Stiles's grip is tighter on the wheel. “And also Isaac and the tequila helped.”
“Isaac and the tequila helped,” Derek says. They think about what followed after for a while. Stiles's tongue tracing out the last drops, wet and flat against Derek's flat belly. Derek's hand coming up, burying without hesitation -- for once without hesitation -- into Stiles's hair, Stiles's hair newly long enough to grip. After that, sucking each other's faces off and fucking against walls and waking up in porch swings.
Stiles is several lovely shades of pink. “So,” he says, spinning the steering wheel. “Where am I taking you?”
Derek sits, neatly belted in. “Oh,” he says, softer. “Your father had--”
“Of course,” says Stiles, spinning the wheel for home, cursing and blessing his father in the three romantic and two computer programming languages he knows. “I'm bringing you home, of course,” says Stiles, guessing. “My father, kindly soul that he is, has extended the hospitality of our hearth to you, a veritable orphan, for Christmas break.”
Derek nods, wary. “...Yes.”
“Right,” says Stiles. “Of course.”
The sun's up and they're full of pancakes when they swing into the driveway. Derek has a small bag over his arm, and holy shit, that's his dad coming to greet them. That's his dad shaking Derek's hand like nobody's business.
The three of them clatter into the house. There's mistletoe over the doorway.
* * *
Much later, after pie, and brandy on his dad and Derek's part, and ice cream with more pie, they say good night. Derek's meant to stay on a fold-down couch in the basement. It's piled high with quilts to make up for the shabby mattress. After they say good night, Stiles slips under the blankets to say it again.
Derek reaches for him, pulls him in. Rumbles into Stiles's ear, rifling his hair. “Good night, Stiles.”
Derek is curled around him, locked close. Stiles presses back to fill in all the spaces. “Good night, Derek.”
They sleep as though they've always slept like this.
* * *
On the first day of Christmas, Derek wakes up chagrined. “I took us too fast, at Scott's,” he says into Stiles's shoulder. “I don't regret it, but I would not have claimed you as I did, had I been in a better mind.”
Stiles feels his lower lip jut out. He's rather glad about the claiming as it happened. But he's sleepy, and for once chooses not to fight about it. He takes another point of inquiry so he doesn't have to open his eyes. “What would you have done differently?”
Derek presses firm kisses to the muscle as his mouth moves along the slope of Stiles's shoulder, hovering at the bones of his neck. He licks his lips, and licks at a joint of Stiles's spine, considering.
“I wouldn't have, for the record,” Stiles says. “I wouldn't have done it differently. God, against a wall, what else would we do--”
“Lots of things,” says Derek. On the first day of Christmas, he introduces Stiles to the wonders of his mouth, holds him down and helps him muffle his shouts, but only a little. Derek crawls between his thighs and doesn't stop licking until a long time after Stiles starts begging. He learns why beds are even better than walls. Though they'll always have walls.
* * *
On the second night of Christmas, the pack gathers again. They're a bit more subdued than the first day, there's less tequila; but they still spill all over each other. That night, they're in the basement that has fast become Derek's, at Stiles's house.
The couch's bed is folded and tucked primly in, and Derek and Stiles hold court from it. None of them would have said so, but that's the positioning all of them take. Derek and Stiles sit side-by-side on the couch, warm in shared space, and the pack arranges itself around them.
Scott is the first to approach, unsure, then sure. He sniffs around them and tilts his tilty chin, and curls up on the floor by Stiles's side of the couch. Allison floats up, grinning at them, and takes the space next to Scott, on Stiles's side. Derek nods. Stiles rubs a finger against Derek's bare ankle.
Isaac comes next, on soft feet. He bows his head at them, then slips in next to Scott, on Derek's side of the couch. Erica soon has her arm looped around Isaac's waist, and Boyd is behind her. Lydia waits until the shifting limbs have settled before picking her way delicately towards the center. She slots herself between Scott and Allison.
Stiles hums, looking at their pack. “It looks much more comfortable on the floor.”
“Appreciate the cushions or join them,” says Derek, raising a dark eyebrow. Then, quietly: “They're submitting to our authority, Stiles. See the bellies?”
Only Derek's sharp look keeps him from bursting out laughing. But it's true enough: all of them are laid out in a glorious pile of puppy love at their feet.
They seemed happy enough about him and Derek. “Duh,” from Erica. “Right,” from Scott, an important “right.” Allison, her eyes shiny, “At last, you guys.” Boyd sharing significant glances with Derek, like they'd talked about it before. Lydia, looking up from her textbook, looking mildly confused: “Haven't we done this with them already?” Isaac, his eyes always too big, looking at Stiles next to Derek with a look like he understood that it was important. Isaac looking at them like family.
Stiles tugs Derek off the couch, into the sea of hands waiting to receive them. “Join 'em,” says Stiles, and they sleep amongst their pack on the second day of Christmas.
* * *
On the third day of Christmas, Derek follows him under the hot water of the shower.
“Wow,” says Stiles. “Upstairs. The shower. You just totally went for it. My dad's about thirty feet away. Down the hall. This hall.”
Derek selects a fluffy white washcloth from its peg, soaping it up. “Would you prefer that I went back to the basement?” he asks, zeroing in with the cloth.
“Oh my god,” says Stiles.
On the third day of Christmas, they spend far too long in the shower, and they flood the tiles and use up all the bathroom towels.
* * *
On the fourth day of Christmas, Derek says, “Stiles, I want to--”
and Stiles says, “I wish you would--”
but Derek takes a long time, so long, with prep, with the slick slide of his fingers.
until Stiles is past pleading, and says, “Won't you just?”
Derek climbs over him, fitting in between his thighs; he always forgets just how big Derek is, his bold body, his long, hard cock, his wide biceps holding him up over Stiles. He pulls his fingers free and replaces them with his cock, starts to fit them together, deep and slow.
“Oh my god,” says Stiles, on the fourth day of Christmas, while Derek makes love to him like it's the best thing that they can do, like they discover that it is.
* * *
On the sixth day of Christmas, they go to the mall to get presents and to see Santa Claus.
Derek does not look amused in the picture. Nevertheless, his elf hat is adorable.
* * *
On the seventh day of Christmas, Sheriff Stilinski is gone on an all-day shift, and Derek only wears the elf hat.
* * *
On the eighth day of Christmas, they grill up a feast with the Sheriff. He's the unchallenged master of the barbecue, the only time Stiles lets him loose on red meat. Scott and Mrs. McCall -- Melissa -- come over, and that's awesome, all five of them together, shucking corn for the pot. Then Melissa says to invite the rest of their friends over, and they do.
The pack arrives for a proper grill-out. Lydia has brought veggie burgers and Isaac has brought the stuff for s'mores. Scott goes to buy beer and spends the rest of the night trying to hide it from his mother.
They take turns melting marshmallows in the backyard firepit and sharing stories of what their far-away friends are getting up to. That's the change in the wind, around the s'mores: they start talking about the places they will be going back to instead of where they are.
That night, Stiles spends a long time kissing Derek, saying he has to get the cornsilk from between his teeth.
* * *
On the ninth day of Christmas, it's way too close to the full moon, and Derek takes hold of him and fucks him until he doesn't remember what his proper name is anyway. Derek gasps “Stiles” a lot so he'll stick with that.
* * *
On the tenth day of Christmas, Derek is practically a proper wolf, and sex has never been better or more constant. Stiles does what he does, he keeps Derek grounded. He spends a lot of time on his hands and knees, with Derek's teeth surprisingly soft at his throat but ever-present. There's a good deal of growling and grunting and rough screwing and marking, and Stiles is totally down with this development, and Derek's only change is in the flare of his eyes, sometimes. He tells Stiles it's the best he's ever felt at full moon.
“Oh, honey,” says Lydia, and pats his hand, when she sees him the next day looking wan.
“Should've seen me after some of Scott's moon weekends,” Allison says, sympathetic. “He's like the Energizer Bunny with extra Redbull.”
“Tell me about it,” says Stiles. They make chamomile tea, and they do.
* * *
On the eleventh day of Christmas, Derek runs wild in the woods. Stiles lies in bed, but he isn't alone, because the night is full of howls he knows.
* * *
On the twelfth day of Christmas, Derek is wearing a green sweater that suggests his eyes are blue. Stiles, in red, dishes out redder fruit punch to their room full of revelers.
The pack is in their holiday best. Erica wears a tiny black dress to full effect, topped off with a red bow around her neck. Boyd is in a fine-cut suit. Lydia wears a silver skirt brighter than the angel on the tree, and has picked out Allison's pretty pale yellow ensemble. Scott is wearing Mrs. McCall's favorite sweater with the light-up reindeer. Isaac's blue-and-white hoodie has a snowman on it, and his pockets are full of candycanes to share. His father has on a Santa's Cap and is glowing while he changes the cheesy record playing to another cheesy record.
It's Christmas Eve, and they decide to break with tradition and share their presents then.
The pack has chipped in to buy him an advanced magic kit, bottles and bottles of obscure and expensive herbs, fine soft chalks for drawing lines, collections of rare bones, and five kinds of wolfsbane. “One for each of us,” Erica explains. It's all bound up in a leather satchel that's very Indiana Jones and that Stiles puts on right away. Derek's present is a small grimoire to go along with it, full of old, earthy spells written in a spidery hand, its ridged spine ancient. Stiles never puts it down. He reaches for Derek's hand sometimes, and his father watches them hold hands, and nods.
They sing songs and roast actual chestnuts on the open fire in the fireplace. Scott has spiked the eggnog. Only Lydia can hit all the high notes on “Silent Night.” Allison fetches the mistletoe from the front door and roams the room wielding it.
She holds it high over the Sheriff and Melissa, who kiss to a round of “oohs”. She holds it over herself and kisses Scott, then Isaac, then Scott, then Isaac. She shakes the greenery at Boyd and Erica, who dip into a movie-star embrace.
Allison approaches. Derek's arm is around his shoulders where they're tucked into a corner of the couch.
Allison dangles the magic herb. “Make a Christmas wish,” she says.
“That seems excessive,” says Stiles, with what he has.
Derek kisses him under the mistletoe. Everybody “oohs”.
* * *
Stiles gives Derek his gift much later. They're sleepy and satisfied under the covers when the clock chimes midnight and Stiles remembers.
“It's Christmas,” he whispers, his head on Derek's chest.
He can hear the low rumble of Derek's voice gathering below his ear. “It's been Christmas every day.”
“No one would believe what a sap you are except you did a good job of showing it. Do you usually make it a habit to sing 'Good King Wenceslas' in rounds all on your own?”
“Scott kept refilling my eggnog.” Derek's hand moves up to stroke through Stiles's hair. He can't get enough of the hair. “Do you like the book?”
“I love it.” Stiles swallows around the word, the only one that's still awkward. He chatters on. “You better be careful, I'm pretty sure it can teach me how to turn into a badger.”
“I live in fear and vigilance,” says Derek. Stiles kisses his upturned mouth, then moves to dangle off the bed, groping after lost jeans. He finds them kicked halfway under and palms the small wrapped bundle from his pocket.
They sit up in bed so that Derek can unwrap it. His eyes keep flicking from the simple red wrapping to Stiles and back, like he could better know what to anticipate had the paper bore snowmen made of neon candycanes.
Derek is one of those infuriating people who takes his time opening up a present, sliding loose the bow, carefully cutting a line through the tape with his fingernail, delicately undoing the folds of paper.
“Oh, my god,” says Stiles. “It's practically New Years.”
Derek gives him a look, and opens the small white box revealed. Inside there's a compass made of warm, worn brass, kept shiny. It's the size of a pocketwatch, and it fits in the palm of Derek's hand when he takes it out.
It's old, and on the back is a faded inscription of a name -- Stiles's -- his mother's -- an old family name, older than the compass. It shows the scuffs and nicks of time, but has been treated well, and still works, spinning to show true north.
Derek holds it up in the half-light. “This is fantastic, Stiles. Not to mention useful in the woods. We could do training exercises where we blindfold the team and make them find their way back with only a compass and a--”
“It was my mom's,” says Stiles, his head too full of words, looking at the compass tucked in Derek's hand. “She used to say it helped her find her way. I think she'd like for you to have it.”
“I never won't.” Derek takes him into his arms, pressing a kiss against his mouth. “Thank you.”
He puts the compass onto the dresser beside them, then slips his hand underneath the pillow and draws something out. It dangles on Derek's finger, a bit of silver on a long thin silver chain.
Stiles blinks. “What's that? You already gave me a present.”
“Call it a precaution.” Derek loops the chain around Stiles's neck. The pendant proves to be a slender silver whistle an inch long.
“What're you—”
“Wolf-whistle,” says Derek, looking nonplussed.
“Wolf-whistle,” from Stiles.
“What it says on the box. You know we hear at different frequencies than humans do. If you're anywhere in the vicinity, and you're in trouble, I'll be able to hear that.”
“You say that as though I'm definitely going to be in trouble. Let me tell you, trouble finds me, my friend, not the other way around --” Stiles breaks out in a grin, and Derek raises a dark eyebrow as he closes his teeth over Stiles's lower lip.
“But this is really cool. You got me a training whistle and I'm totally going to use it. So how's it work? I blow, you come?”
“Stiles--”
“That's what we did an hour ago, anyway--”
“Stiles, I love you, but. Shut. Up.” Derek kisses him, and he stops talking for a minute at least.
Then he breaks away and says, eagerly, heart in his throat, “Me too.”
Derek, who'd looked nervous, starts laughing, a sound rich and rare, and Stiles corrects, “I mean, yes, I love myself, who wouldn't. You do, you just said so. I mean, I meant -- I love you, too.”
They make big eyes about it, and keep kissing after that.
“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” says Derek, lips in his hair.
“Merry Christmas, Derek,” says Stiles. “Happy Hanukkah, and a joyful Kwanza to all.”
They go to sleep with their arms around each other. Stiles keeps one hand on the whistle, should he find himself in trouble in the nighttime, he tells Derek, and on the table by their bed the compass is pointing north.