Merry Christmas, shewhorunswiththemoon!
merry christmas, i hope you have a wonderful holiday!
baby it's cold outside
To the surprise of - well, no one - Derek Hale does not like Christmas. It’s not because “he stole it from Whoville, once” though, thank you Isaac (and you know what, that’s what Derek wants for Christmas: to go back to when he thought it would be a good idea to turn teenage fuck ups into teenage fuck up werewolves and slap himself in the face and tell him how stupid that plan is.) So: Christmas. It’s not that Derek’s a Grinch, really. He liked Christmas in New York; he liked the lights, the snow, liked getting under a pile of blankets with Laura and watching the precious few home videos that survived the fire, drinking watery cocoa and eating crumbly gingerbread. It was - the one day a year when it hurt a little less. And then Laura (infuriating, independent, insufferable Laura) went back to Beacon Hills and wasn’t even gone a week and then Derek was - completely - utterly - alone.
He spends his first Christmas back in Beacon Hills in a shitty motel room, wrapped in one of Laura’s old sweatshirts and some blankets and the knowledge that there’s no one left, and he carefully doesn’t think about the cardboard box full of VCR’s shoved in a corner of his basement. It’s...not a good day. Mostly, it’s a blur of gray and slow, wracking shivers. He flicks on the T.V. at one point, listlessly flips through the channels, and eventually settles on Bridge to Terabithia. Later, he tells himself that the tears on his cheeks only appeared after the lonely little sailboat floats down the river.
Time has passed since then, and now it’s...better. Sort of. There was The Year of Absolute Bullshit, (give or take: Peter, kanima, Argents, Peter again, darach, Alpha pack, nogitsune, ugh) but through some sort of divine intervention, Derek and his sorry excuse for a pack pulled through. Sort of? They’re all rough around the edges, wary of anything, gratefully taking the frankly suspicious lack of supernatural threats as a time to breathe, to regroup and heal. Christmas is welcomed with open arms by the pack; they could all do with some presents and holiday cheer. All but Derek, honestly. The holidays sort of sneak up on him, what with him being so busy: between solidifying his presence on Hale territory, assuring himself and his betas that they’re safe (as much as they can be, living in real life Hellmouth), making sure Peter stays sane, and trying to ignore the urge to crawl into Stiles’ bed at every opportunity - it’s been easy to forget, to say the least. So when Stiles hangs back at the end of a pack meeting, asking with careful eyes if he has plans for Christmas next week, Derek maybe...freaks out. A little bit. The thought of Christmas, of that unshakeable weight of complete loneliness, is enough to send Derek running with his tail between his legs. He bites out something about visiting the cemetery though the shards of glass in his throat, shoves down the plaintive howl building in his stomach and pushes Stiles out the door. Of course, he completely misses the calculating look his apartment is subject to, the sudden gleam in Stiles’ eyes. Once the sound of the Jeep is gone, engine rattling out of hearing range, Derek rests his head against the door and desperately doesn’t think about Laura’s sweatshirts and the box of VCR’s; instead, he grabs some clothes and heads out to the house, because he needs to run and the forest is the best place to do it.
He shuts the door behind him, and doesn’t think to lock it.
-
It’s Christmas Eve, and Derek knows he needs a shower. He hasn’t gone back to the apartment, and it’s not as though he needs to: all it really has are most of his clothes and a bed. His house (his reminder) is good enough for him. He works out for hours each day, pushing himself until his muscles tremble, and then collapses into blissfully dreamless sleep on a ragged mattress covered with only a sheet. Bathing in the stream only works so well, though, and even though Derek wants nothing more than to hide in the forest forever, he knows that indoor plumbing will win out eventually. Well, today’s that day: if he’s going to the - the cemetery tomorrow, he wants to look semi-presentable, and for that he needs a shower and a shave. And probably some different clothes. With a sign, he gets in the Camaro, starts the engine, and hopes that he didn’t leave anything perishable in the fridge.
-
Derek walks through the doors of his building and immediately stumbles to a stop, because the lobby reeks. Like Stiles and - and Christmas: a mix of pine and tinsel and gingerbread and cocoa and a hundred other little scents that make his heart hurt. He skips the elevator, which is probably too old to be legally called “safe”, and takes the steps two at a time, one-two-three-four flights up, at his door in a minute without breaking a sweat. Up here, the scent is coagulated, heady, starting to settle into the concrete. Derek just barely contains the rumble of content when he realizes that if it’s so strong out here, than his apartment, his makeshift den is going to smell like Stiles for weeks. For a moment he just stands there, heart beatbeatbeating in his chest and staring at the crooked wreath nailed to his door (which definitely wasn’t there a week ago), wondering if he shouldn’t just turn around and pretend this never happened, pretend his blood isn’t roaring at the mingled scent of Stiles and home. The moment is broken along with what sounds like a glass ornament, and Derek sighs, dragging a hand over his face as Stiles’ somewhat muffled voice yells, “Fucking shit!”
He definitely doesn’t smile. (Not even a little bit.)
Instead, he adjusts the wreath minutely, takes a deep breath, and pulls the door open.
He...should have taken a deeper breath. It looks like - like Saint Nick and his elves got completely smashed and took Christmas to a whole new level in here, or - something, Jesus, but he can’t think of a good metaphor because he is just blindsided by the utter amount of Christmas. Santa, elf, and reindeer figurines are crammed onto every available flat surface, neighbours to multi-flavored bunches of candy canes shoved into chipped Christmas mugs, and Derek thinks he sees a full set of one of those Christmas villages on the table in front of the window. It’s a little hard to tell, thanks to a cozy looking brown couch sitting in front of said table, exactly where he definitely didn’t have a cozy looking brown couch a week ago. Or a table, now that he thinks about it.
Actually, as the first wave of shock starts to fade, he realizes that there’s an alarming amount of furniture he’s never seen before: an armchair, at least two couches, more chairs than Derek could possibly need in his life, a…God, a loveseat, two or three sturdy looking tables, and a ridiculous shag carpet (all horrendously mismatched, and he just knows that it’s Stiles’ doing.) Beyond the possible mini Christmas town (hell, judging by the size of that table, it’s more likely to be a city), the window is covered. Fake snow has been spritzed on the corners, paper and gel snowflakes cover most of the glass, but there’s still enough room here and there for light to shine through. And, of course, the hall is decked with more than just holly; the combination of tinsel and Christmas lights is close to blinding (not necessarily in a bad way) and that along with the tantalizing wave of gingerbread and cocoa from the kitchen is enough to make Derek stagger. The radio is crooning the last notes of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and for a half a second Derek wonders how the hell he’s going to sneak his fair share of gingerbread out of the kitchen before any of his little cousins – oh.
The thought of them is sharp and hot in his chest, but it hurts good. He shifts his focus to the rustle and clink of Stiles throwing away the shards of glass as he hums along with the radio, completely butchering the lyrics to “Jingle Bell Rock.” For the first time in a long time, when thinks of his family, it doesn’t feel like he’s smoldering. The sheer domesticity of – whatever this is has something in him settling, something that’s been restless for a long, long time. He wants to curl up with Stiles on the loveseat like a scene from a movie (like a scene from a Christmas movie, damn it.) He wants to absolutely cover Stiles in his scent, like a layer underneath his skin, the same way Stiles has ingrained his scent into Derek’s den. He wants to show him exactly how pleased he is, to trace those freckles with his tongue and worship him. He wants.
He’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t even notice when the humming stops, only startling back to attention when something metal and loud clatters melodramatically and Stiles yelps “You’re not Scott!” He then (surprise, surprise) proceeds to trip over the damn thing, going down hard; a cacophony of yelps and bangs that Derek watches with exasperated fondness. There’s a moment of almost calm where Derek just stands there, still only one foot past the doorway, and Stiles lays on the floor, groaning about “his terrible and tragic life” and how he could “make a career out of his talent for embarrassing himself in front of hot people, it’s like a fucking infomercial.” And really, the whole thing is terribly dramatic and Derek is a little bit embarrassed for him and maybe also a little bit in love with him, fuck.
By the time he makes his way over and hauls Stiles up, the grumbling has stopped, and Stiles only lets out a squeak of surprise when he’s deposited on his feet. For three, four, five seconds they just stare at each other, and then Stiles jolts and his heartbeat spikes. Derek has to clench his jaw to keep from whining in distress.
“Okay, so I - I can explain the Christmas!” Derek only raises an eyebrow, because he would, in fact, appreciate an explanation. Stiles takes a breath, opens his mouth, and then...deflates. This happens again, and again, and then one more time, and finally Stiles makes an agitated groan and tugs on his hair. Derek’s second eyebrow joins the first, and he just. Watches.
“I know what it’s like to miss them on holidays,” Stiles blurts, and Derek goes rigid.
“I mean, it’s clearly way different for you because you lost - everything, and me and my dad, we still have each other, but you - I mean - Christmas, it’s, it’s hard for us too, and it’s like? You just keep on getting the shitty cards, man, and I’m sick of it for you! I mean, how much bad luck can a single person have?! It’s not - I just - ” he breaks off with a frustrated noise, nervous fingers flitting around his head, “Dude, I just want you to have something nice.”
And Derek - he just steps forward and rests careful hands on Stiles’ face, enraptured by the warm skin, the scent of pine and nerves clinging to him, the hummingbird heartbeat echoing in both of their ears. Stiles swallows harshly, and the only other noise is the murmur of “White Christmas” drifting from the kitchen.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” rumbles Derek, and he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ eyes sink to half lidded. “Is that okay?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Stiles’ hands, trembling but firm, come to rest on his neck with his fingers just brushing Derek’s hairline. One of them breathes out shakily, or maybe both of them but really it’s impossible to tell who, and Derek is the kind of happy he didn’t think was possible anymore.
“Happy birthday sweet baby Jesus yes,” Stiles breathes, and then they’re kissing. And damn, Derek thinks, it’s a Christmas miracle.
