Discover Top Posts Tagged with #ahyira

Merry Christmas, ahyira!

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles swears, and whacks at his steaming radiator with the wrench he keeps in the back of the Jeep. He is not going to cry about this, no matter how tired and sad and cold he is, he is not going to... oh, hell, he thinks, it's too cold to cry out here anyway, he'll freeze to death in the middle of Wyoming, becoming a frozen sculpture by the side of the highway as a warning to all future motorists of the vagaries of Mother Nature. He knocks at his engine again. “C'mon, baby, don't do this to me. Just another...” he does the math, “hundred miles, that's all. You can do it. I believe in you.”

He tightens the cap back down, lets the hood slam, and climbs back into the driver's seat.

“Please, baby, just... start,” he mutters hoarsely, eyes closed as he turns the key.

There's a brief grumbling, and then the engine bursts into sound, turning over and grinding to life.

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think so,” Stiles says, shivering.

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you’re in college?”

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

“What are you studying?”

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

Derek blinks. “Taking after your father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about your mom?”

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...do you want to come?”

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Derek?”

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

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

“A small tree. C’mon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Derek, what is this place?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stiles shudders. “What are we doing here?”

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

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

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

--

“Alright, favorite kind of cookie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Merry Christmas, Derek,” he says, and brings their mouths together in a kiss.

#ahyira

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#ahyira