#*fic18

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Jennoasis!

Read on AO3

*****

Tattoo My Heart

Stiles was born with the phases of the moon tattooed down his spine. Most of the earliest pictures of his existence were of him laying on his stomach with his back on display. Sometimes he was on his father, sometimes on his mother, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not. As he grew older, he would wonder what it meant.

He would wonder whether his soulmate would be whimsical and free-spirited. Whether it meant his soulmate would be prone to pessimism and hopeless thoughts and contemplations about the vastness of the universe. Whether they would know all the constellations and prefer the darkness to light. Whether they would be brilliant in a soft, muted way, or ever-changing, or have the ability to make slow but constant impact on vast things, the way the moon affected the ocean.

Stiles would lay awake at night wondering.

Why the moon?

And when Scott got bitten, he laughed until he cried. And then laughed some more.

-

Derek grew up knowing his soulmate had an insatiable curiosity and an extremely short attention span.

Images flitted over his skin constantly.

Peter teased him about having a soulmate so entirely different from him. Someone capricious, that tended to lean toward dangerous things.

He howled with laughter when a wolf settled onto Derek’s skin, only to replaced by a panther the very next day.

Even if Derek were at all inclined to tell his uncle secrets the man hadn’t already figured out for himself, he still would never have explained that the wolf had simply moved from his bicep to curl up with its head on its paws just underneath his collar bone.

Peter found out anyway, because it was impossible for two wolves in the same pack to never see each other shirtless at the very least. Peter waited for the wolf to really disappear so he could tease, but had to content himself with mocking the way the wolf shrunk until it was just a small little thing in the pocket of Derek’s shoulder.

But his scathing comments barely registered to Derek, because it was what let him know that when his soulmate truly loved something they never let it go.

-

A cello appeared on Stiles. At first, it was a lovely instrument. The burnished teak color contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. The bow leaned gracefully against the cello, and one could almost hear the soft strains of soothing music.

And then one day, not that long after its first appearance, the instrument had snapped strings and warped wood. The hair of the bow lost its sheen and was cut in half to hang loosely. There were deep gouges.

Stiles didn’t realize they were claw marks until much, much later.

-

Derek had a sand castle on his skin. It looked like a child’s drawing of a sand castle mostly.

Did his soulmate love the beach? Did it represent a cherished memory?

Derek had the sense it had to be something specific. He felt that if it was about his soulmate loving the beach, he would be marked with something representing the ocean.

They seemed like that to him. Tempestuous and wild. Ever-changing. A chaotic surface and boundless depths. Peter said making assumptions about his soulmate would only lead to disappointment.

Still, Derek wondered if ocean waves ever appeared on his soulmate’s skin.

-

Siles had a basketball on him. He wondered whether his soulmate was on a team or whether they just liked the game. Did they play for their school? Was it something for fun, just to let loose?

What if they were more athletic than him? It wouldn't exactly be hard after all. Stiles could already tell he was going to grow up scrawny with barely any muscle at all. He wondered if his soulmate would laugh at how different they were.

-

“Your soulmate is so weird,” Laura murmured. Her eyes were on the picture of a brain scan that colored Derek’s skin.

Derek shrugged. He thought the same thing, though with much more fondness than Laura did.

Peter stared for a while, but didn’t say anything. Not even the slightest teasing comment.

Laura and Derek shared a glance.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

“Nothing,” Peter said with a casual shrug. “It’s probably not their brain.”

Laura’s spine went straight. She placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “What if it was?” she demanded to know.

Peter shook his head. “All I know is the colors are in the wrong places.”

Derek tried to convince himself that his soulmate was just learning something new, had found some new obsession to explore with their boundless curiosity. But the days passed by and the scan didn’t move or shrink or fade.

Derek was torn about how to feel.

Because if the scan didn’t belong to his soulmate, it certainly belonged to someone they loved dearly.

-

There was a necklace on a bed of purple flowers.

After research, Stiles figured out it was aconite.

Wolfsbane.

He didn’t really understand the necklace. But the wolfsbane made him wonder. Was his soulmate into mythical lore? Or was this some kind of oblique reference to being poisoned?

The way the necklace was settled into the petals, the subtle twist of the chain. It seemed intimate. Stiles thought of poison and how love could hurt. He thought of his obsession with wolves in the fifth grade. He wondered.

Stiles knew a lot about werewolves long before his best friend became one. And he wasn’t that surprised they existed. Not really.

-

There was a star on his skin. It appeared not long after the brain scan faded. It wasn't gone, but the colors had lost their luster in a way that made Derek think whoever it represented was gone forever.

The star was big, five pointed, and gold. It looked like a sheriff star from old western movies. Unlike most other things that appeared the star never grew smaller. It was in a strange minority with the brain scan and the sandcastle. In fact, sometimes the star would even grow bigger.

But it lost some of its brilliance over the years. It was difficult to explain how the image had its own overall vibrancy that stayed the same, and even grew at times, but the star itself got a bit dull. A bit scuffed, the points not as sharp.

Derek wondered if the star represented a person. If it was that person that was deteriorating. Or if his soulmate’s perception of them was becoming disillusioned.

-

Stiles woke up with a symbol on his chest one day. It was a triskele, he found. It seemed different than his other marks somehow. More vivid. A deep red in the center that faded to black. He would get caught up staring at it in the mirror.

He would think of the broken cello, the intimate poison, and this symbol pulsing blood red in the center like a weeping wound.

He knew his soulmate had been hurt. Was still hurting.

His dad caught sight of his chest one day and paused with wide eyes.

“There is something different about it!” Stiles exclaimed.

John checked his expression, but it was too late.

“Your soulmate got a tattoo,” he said.

Stiles blinked at him. “Tattoos show up?”

“Not always,” John said, “Not usually.”

Stiles stared at his father, trying to beam the full force of his curiosity out of his eyes.

John sighed. “Stiles, I told you to stop doing that. You look demented.”

Stiles shrugged. It worked to get him the information he wanted more often than not, so it was all good as far as he was concerned.

John studied his son. Stiles would only go look it up himself if John didn’t tell him. “Tattoos don't usually show up unless the bond is particularly strong.”

Stiles began to smile. It faded when he took a closer look at his dad’s expression.

“Isn’t that good?” he asked uncertainly.

John shook his head. “Intensity isn’t always a good thing when it comes to soulmate relationships.”

Stiles thought of the case descriptions that had trickled through to him over the years. Vicious abuse cycles. Codependency. Murders because of jealousy. Suicides because someone’s soulmate died.

He nodded at his dad to show he understood.

Intensity wasn’t always a good thing.

“Will it be on the same place on them?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” John said. “It might not even be that color.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Over time, he found out the triskele absolutely would not be the same color, since the outer edges seemed to change according to his soulmate’s most prevalent and constant mood.

The center always stayed that fresh-cut red.

-

Derek didn't like Stiles when they first met. He knew his own inability to protect people. He didn't want someone like Stiles involved in what was going on. Someone so pretty and fragile, with such wide innocent eyes.

He soon learned Stiles was beautiful like the ocean, and even less likely to be tamed.He had a steel spine, an iron will, and those innocent eyes sparked with fiery passion at the slightest provocation.

Derek knew the dangers of fire by now, knew how easy it was to get burned. And yet there he still was, drawn like a moth, fluttering at the edges of a light he knew he was not allowed to have. A light that would only deepen the darkness around him, in him, if it were ever to go out.

The most he would allow himself was a slight suspicion and a resolute indifference to confirmation.

-

Stiles suspected Derek Hale was his soulmate from that first time in the woods. Even though Derek clearly didn’t like him, everything about the man made Stiles hum. From his cheekbones to his hostile glare, his leather jacket to his surprisingly soft voice.

And then he thought Derek was a murderer and he was still pretty sure, but he was hoping he was wrong because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life hiding bodies.He would do it, and more, for his soulmate but he didn't actually want to.

Stiles would always be surprised at his own reaction when he found out for sure.

He saw the triskele first, right in the center of Derek’s back.

Stiles had the fleeting thought of how they would match up and maybe Derek preferred being the little spoon, before the wolf turned around.

Stiles caught sight of his mom’s brain scan and mentally noped the fuck out. He stayed mostly silent through the following interaction, as blank as he could possibly be out of sheer self-preservation.

He didn’t have a panic attack until he got home.

It was hours later when Scott called him to assure him that just because they both had triskeles didn’t mean Derek was Stiles’s soulmate. They weren’t even the same color or in the same place.

-

In the end it was Boyd who spilled the beans, though Jackson was the trigger.

“Shut the hell up, Stilinski. Who wants to listen to you? You can't even get your soulmate to look twice at you. You really think he doesn't know it's you? That he's not ignoring you on purpose because he would rather have anyone but you?”

Stiles went white. He stared at Jackson for a moment and then promptly left, pointedly not looking at anyone else in the room. Derek slowly turned to stare at Jackson with crimson eyes until the young wolf left also.

After a drawn out moment of silence, Boyd said, “You're the reason he can throw shit like that in Stiles’s face.”

Derek looked at him with wide eyes, the confirmation he hadn't wanted suddenly given to him.

But he had a different perspective of his reticence as selfishness now, and he couldn't bear the hurt he could clearly see he had caused his soulmate. The sense of embarrassment and shame lingered where Stiles had been standing.

-

Stiles made it home only to find Derek in his room waiting to command him to take his shirt off.

“Fuck off, Derek Hale. Get out of my room.”

“Stiles,” Derek said standing from where he was leaning against the window sill. He stared intently at the human boy. “Take off your shirt.”

Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to demand an explanation for why Derek had come here, now, to order him to do this. He wanted to yell some more, tell Derek to get out and to not expect to see him for at least two weeks. But he was tired of knowing who he belonged to and knowing that person didn't want him back without getting to say anything at all about it. If Derek wanted to have it all out right here, right now, then that's what they would do.

So he took off his shirt. And he watched as Derek took in his own life and love and hurts on Stiles's skin. He could practically see Derek thinking, “It's true.” But he wasn't prepared for the wolf to just whip his own shirt off. He’d seen Derek shirtless before, but it was different now.

Now it was to prove that they were made for each other. That they'd been marked by what made each other.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Derek asked.

“What was I supposed to say?” Stiles scoffed, “You didn't even like me when we first met.”

Derek looked away. Of course Stiles knew that.

“Plus, I thought you were a murderer,” Stiles added.

Derek raised an eyebrow. They both knew that point didn’t matter nearly as much as it probably should have.

“I love you,” Derek said.

Stiles scoffed at him again. He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling with pursed lips like he was trying to hold back laughter. Or tears. When he looked at Derek again, he was smirking, but his eyes were bleak.

“Because I’m your soulmate?”

“Because I love you.”

Stiles closed his eyes. This was too much.

“Derek,” he murmured brokenly. He opened his eyes and his soulmate was right there in front of him, close enough to touch.

Derek reached up and cupped his cheek.

“I love you, Stiles,” he said.

Stiles gave up fighting, and fell into his other half.

-

They found each other, and all their questions were answered.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @magicmagnus!

Read on AO3

*****

this year, i'll give it to someone special.

The morning of December 16th is one of those mornings.

First of all, Magnus sleeps through his alarm.  Then the hot water doesn’t work in the shower so his hair is absolutely not standing up to the best of its potential, and he cuts his finger chopping up fruit for breakfast, and the only band-aids he has are pink Barbie ones, and his car won’t start for five whole minutes because it’s so icy-cold outside.  To top things all off, it’s a Saturday. Magnus finds the concept of having to get up and get anywhere early on a Saturday completely repugnant.

But having a five year old changes a lot of things.  Bea has decided she wants to become a figure skater , this winter –– of course, in the spring she was going to be a gymnastics champion, and in the summer a soccer star, so he’s not putting all his eggs in that basket.  But because he loves his daughter, Magnus will keep dutifully getting up early on his precious Saturdays, and ferrying her to the local ice rink for the weekly ‘Little Penguins’ under-7s skating class.

“And last week Adam said I fell over the least I ever have  and he’ll let me go backwards this week if I can do my wiggly skating for twenty whole seconds,” Bea tells him, straining enthusiastically out of her booster seat to peer through the windshield as they approach the ice rink.  One of her long black plaits swings with the motion of the car. “I’m the best in the whole group at that!”

“That’s very exciting, pumpkin,” Magnus tells her, trying to hide his amusement while he looks for a parking space.  Magnus has all the faith in the world in his daughter, but it has to be said, she is not the best skater of the bunch.  She’s probably settled comfortably at the very bottom of the list.  Still, if Bea is happy and confident and enjoying herself, Magnus couldn’t care less that she falls down more often than she manages to let go of the sides of the rink.  It’s not like he has any vested interest in skating.

The ice rink is busy this time of year, getting busier each week; in the depths of the festive season, it makes sense that more people are coming, Magnus figures.  At the start of fall, the ice rink was always quiet, and only a handful of kids came to the club. Now that they’ve reached the clutches of mid-December, snow is falling outside as well as in the rink, and winter coats and woolen scarves have been brought out for casual use anyway, and everyone’s feeling magic of the season -- couples are cosied together everywhere you look, mistletoe hangs from doorways, sparkling lights illuminate everywhere you turn and the nights come so early that the city seems to be in a permanent state of glittering evening.

Magnus hates Christmas, but he’s trying not to think about that.  This is only going to be his second Christmas alone with Bea, but he’s trying not to think about that, either.  

Luckily, the rink is closed down for other customers while the kids’ group is going on, so Magnus doesn’t have to deal with any annoying couples or festive-minded tourists crowding the place up too much much.  Bea is still chattering excitedly, her legs swinging back and forth against Magnus as he carries her in on his hip. One of her mittens is dangling haphazardly out of her sleeve. Magnus fixes it back onto her hand while he waits for the woman at the front desk to swipe their membership card, overly aware that they’re running a few minutes later than usual –– thanks to his morning, which still has a bad mood settling like freshly fallen snow on the landscape of his mind, and which he’s only pushing back for Bea’s sake.

“Enjoy the skate, Little Penguin!” the front desk lady says, leaning towards Bea with a voice a touch too high-pitched and patronising.  Bea only ignores her and looks impatiently towards the doors of the rink.  Just before Magnus can rush off, the woman adds, “Oh, and there’s a new refreshments stall inside for the holiday season, so be sure to get a themed hot chocolate while you’re here!”

She’s clearly been told to upsell that, but ooh, Magnus thinks.  He does have a weak spot for hot chocolate.

It’s several more minutes of getting Bea inside and lacing her skates onto her feet and making sure her coat is buttoned up to her chin before he can unleash her onto the ice, where she immediately stumbles off towards the gaggle of little kids and their cheerful instructors in the middle of the rink.  Magnus watches to make sure she reaches them without falling on her face, and then, once she does, finally lets out the huge sigh that’s been building in him all morning.

Okay.  They’re here.  He’s still groggy from waking up late and his hair still doesn’t look its best, and his finger is still smarting underneath the Barbie plaster Bea had so helpfully applied, but at least Bea’s not missing her club, and he now has at least one hour to get some writing done at one of the shaky picnic benches that the parents sit on while this club happens.  He’s only mildly distracted by looking up every ten seconds to make sure Bea hasn’t crashed into anything and caused herself grievous bodily harm.

There are several loud screams from the kids in the middle of the ice, but they’re screams of excitement, so Magnus doesn’t stress too much about it.  He sits down on the first bench he finds, takes out his notebook, and begins to write.

It’s only ten minutes later that he admits it: the writing isn’t coming.  It’s one of those disjointed days in his mind, when none of the words flow together and none of the ideas are coming in order –– actually, he's irritatingly been feeling like this for weeks now, the new draft of this novel stopping more than it starts. None of it is helped by the grouchy, groggy mood he’s still trying to fight.  He can feel his hair deflating more by the second, and Magnus’s hair is always the best indication of his mental state that day. His jeans crash horribly with the turquoise shirt he’d grabbed in a rush this morning, and he’s only just realising it.  There’s a stain on the lapel of his coat that he can only attribute to a five year old being set loose with a banana. He just doesn’t feel his best, and the writing knows it.

He decides to take a break.  He’s not giving up, he tells himself adamantly, although it probably will end up with him not writing anything else today.  But Bea’s amused for an hour, at least, and getting a break that long outside of school hours is rare for a single dad.

Then he remembers: they’re serving special hot chocolate today.

Magnus loves hot chocolate.  That, he’s sure, will brighten up his mood.

He hadn’t even bothered to glance around the edge of the rink when they arrived, since it never usually changes week to week, but now that he’s remembered that all of a sudden, he looks up.  Sure enough, on the other side of the oval-shaped ice rink, he spots a little booth -- set up to look like a log cabin with Christmas lights draped across the top, although it’s quite clearly fake wood and the illuminated reindeer next to it just makes the whole thing look hideously tacky.  But if they have hot chocolate, he doesn’t care.

Magnus stands up and bundles his things back into his bag, heading around the edge of the rink, his eyes set on that booth.  He glances onto the ice for just a moment, in time to see Bea attempt to skate backwards and immediately take a spectacular tumble onto her bum, but she leaps back up with a bright grin the next second.

“Well done, pumpkin!” he calls across to her, and she waves before throwing herself back into the fray of kids.  As soon as it’s clear that she’s okay, Magnus heads right towards his hot chocolate. He makes it around the tacky novelty reindeer, leans right up against the counter with an eager tap of his fingers, and the employee turns around, and ––

And.   Oh.

Here’s the thing about the man behind the counter: Magnus has seen him before.  Magnus has seen him, actually, so many times in the last month that it nearly feels like fate, if Magnus were still optimistic enough to believe in such things.  

The first time was just at the bodega on the corner of Magnus’s street, at the start of November, when Bea had a stomach bug and Magnus had to run down there in his pyjamas, utterly un-made-up and smelling slightly of vomit, to buy chewable ibuprofen and the only plain crackers that she wanted to eat, and he’d been so harried that he’d bumped right into this guy on his way out of the store, dropping all his groceries -- which had stressed him out, until the guy just said woah, there, in a friendly if slightly breathless voice, and helped him pick it all us.  That day, Magnus had been too stressed to notice how gorgeous he was, but two days later when he saw the same man crossing the street, carrying a bag of groceries for an older woman who might have been his grandmother, his biceps curling pleasingly as he did it, Magnus had been able to think nothing but tall glass of water.   It really had been too long since he got laid, if he was lusting after random strangers on the street.

The guy hadn’t noticed him that time, but it was only another two days until they’d seen each other again, while Magnus was walking Bea to school, and she’d been swinging off his hand and chattering at a mile a minute, before stopping when she realised her dad’s attention had been lost to the guy jogging down the street -- he’d been in unseasonably short shorts, and Magnus did not make a habit of commenting on people’s appearances while his five year old was there, but damn.   The guy’s eyes had lit up with recognition as he jogged past, and he’d given the littlest wave, a gesture of familiarity Magnus wouldn’t have expected from someone he’d just bumped into one time while looking an absolute mess.  Bea had immediately bombarded Magnus with questions about who he was and not been satisfied with Magnus’s dismissals, and that had only increased when they saw him again at the park the same week; he was stretching out his long legs, in running clothes again, while Magnus pushed Bea on the swings.  Magnus got so distracted looking at him that Bea had to call his name five whole times before he remembered to push her again.

Since then, it’s been a barrage of other coincidences.  At the library, while Magnus was picking up some easy reader storybooks for Bea and the man was carrying some sort of thick hardback; standing a couple of people apart in the queue at the same coffee shop; the busy steps of city hall when Magnus had just got done paying a parking ticket and the tall drink of water man had been wearing a smart black suit that made him look even taller and even more drinkable.  Every time, they’ve exchanged familiar smiles or polite waves, but they’ve never actually spoken.

And now, they’re in an ice rink, and it’s definitely not fate, but at least Magnus will be able to talk to him this time.

“Hey,” the guy says, his voice warm and drawling, as he leans curiously across the counter.  They are, at this point, less than a foot apart. His eyes are hypnotisingly multicoloured close up.  “You again.”

“Me again!” Magnus confirms, in a trilling, confident tone that in no way reflects how much of a nervous mess he actually feels in that moment.  “Fancy bumping into you here, of all places.  So, this is where you work?”

‘Hot chocolate vendor at an ice rink’ isn’t the most glamorous job in the world, nor does Magnus imagine it pays more than minimum wage or comes with many perks, but he’s hardly one to judge.  This man manages to pull off the reindeer-themed apron without looking absolutely ridiculous, which is a miracle in itself.

“I guess so.  I mean, just for the winter break.  I’m in law school,” he explains, which makes a lot of sense, and which is also pretty hot.  Magnus has a bit of a thing for academic achievement.

“Oh, really?” He tries to sound only casually interested, the way anyone might politely ask, but he’s aware that he’s still leaning awfully close across the counter.  “I've heard that's stressful. What year?”

“Final year."  His voice is wry as he adds, “Stressful doesn’t begin to cover it.  I was actually just researching for a torts paper while there was a break in the customers, but don’t tell my boss.”  

Magnus glances around him and notices a thick textbook cracked open on a back counter of the little booth.  He can’t help but laugh a little, remembering when he used to do the same while he was working in a Starbucks to put himself through his English degree.

“Well, I won’t keep you for long, then.  I just wanted a hot chocolate.”

“Peppermint candycane, gingerbread, or holiday snickerdoodle with chocolate whip cream?” the man rattles off, sounding like he’s repeated this list so much it’s burned into his very muscle memory to say it.  Magnus blinks.

“Er.  I’m a big fan of all hot chocolate, so I suppose just whichever one you’d recommend.”

“One holiday snickerdoodle with chocolate whipped cream coming up,” he says, punching something into the cash register, and glancing at Magnus’s hand a beat too long as he accepts the money.  As he’s grabbing a tall red cup from the stack beside the drinks machine, he glances back over his shoulder and adds, “Er, I’m Alec, by the way. Just, you know, since we’ve been bumping into each other so often.”

“Magnus,” Magnus replies, trying not to sound quite as breathless as he feels.   Alec is a very nice name, which very much suits this tall, handsome law student in a reindeer apron who is looking at Magnus a touch too intensely from underneath his thick eyelashes.  Magnus really wishes his hair looked better today. He realises suddenly that his hand with the Barbie band-aid is the one he used to pass over the money, and hates himself the smallest bit.  “Nice to formally meet you.”

He wants to say something else, something wittier or maybe just the tiniest bit flirty, just to make sure he still has a touch of his old game, but then –

“ Daaad!” Bea’s piercing voice appears out of nowhere, and she clatters into the boards of the ice rink behind where Magnus is stood, startling him so much he jumps as her little hands reach across the top.  “You gotta get me a hot chocolate too! You promised!” “Beatrice, pumpkin, there’s still forty minutes left of your club.  You can get one at the end,” Magnus promises her.

But Bea has already been distracted.  Staring curiously over the top of the ice rink wall, which she’s only just tall enough to see across, she points right at Alec and says, “ Hey.   Are you that man Daddy was looking at in the park?”

His cheeks aren’t flushing, Magnus tells himself.  He also thinks he should get Bea a hot chocolate just to stop her from talking, before she can bring up any of the other times.  Hoping that maybe Alec didn't hear that, Magnus just hurries towards her, and realises that one of her mittens is hanging off her hand again, and all her hair is escaping from her plaits, and her nose is running.  He fixes her mitten, and wipes her nose on an old tissue he finds in his pocket. Parenthood really isn’t that glamorous. A little more firmly, he then spins her around on the ice and adds, “No hot chocolate until the end.  Go enjoy the rest of your club.”

It’s not until Bea has stumbled her way back across the ice that Magnus finally turns around.  Alec is looking at him, amusement curling his lips, as he adds a final dusting of chocolate powder to Magnus’s drink and slides it across the kiosk.

“Your daughter?” he asks.  Magnus thinks the fact that she’d repeatedly called him dad makes that rather obvious, but nods.  “Yeah, I remember seeing her at the park with you that one time. I didn’t know if she was a niece or a goddaughter or something, though.”

Magnus is a little flattered that Alec had put in enough thought about him to even wonder at who Bea was.  After he’s done feeling flattered over that, he spends a moment feeling a little sad -- he doesn’t know if Alec even likes men, but if he does, clarifying that is probably him taking Magnus off the table as a prospective dating option.  Not that Magnus is thinking about dating. But if he was going to start thinking about it, he’d start with a cute man like this, except no budding law student is going to want to bog themselves down dating an overwhelmed single dad.

So no, romance isn’t on the table here.  But that’s fine. That’s fine, Magnus tells himself.  And it feels almost close to true, that it’s fine, when he takes his hot chocolate and could walk right away, but Alec keeps smiling at him, doesn’t turn immediately back to his textbook and dismiss Magnus as just another customer gone.

Somehow, Magnus ends up staying right where he is, lingering at the counter of the cheesy little fake log cabin as he sips his hot chocolate -- it really is delicious, he tells Alec, thanks him for the recommendation, and Alec smiles like he’s pleased with himself -- and as much as he knows he should be using this one free hour to be productive, he just can’t bring himself to leave.  No other customers come to get a drink, since it’s just a few other parents waiting outside the rink now, and Alec never tries to go back to his book. So Magnus asks Alec about law school, and his torts research, and what exactly torts is, anyway, and Alec explains it all in wry, exasperated terms, and then asks Magnus about his own job and looks far too impressed when Magnus talks about the historical novels he writes, says I can’t write at all but I nearly majored in history at undergrad, I’m so interested in that –– and they manage to talk about 14th century French kings for so long that Magnus doesn’t even notice the time passing, doesn’t notice that his and Alec’s elbows are inching closer and closer to each other across the counter of the hot chocolate stall, doesn’t even notice that the hour is ending and the kids are dispersing on the ice behind them until ––

“HELLO,” says Bea, so loudly it might even be called screaming, as she thumps into the edge of the ice rink.  Her long plaits swing across her shoulders as she climbs through the exit, and does the slow bambi-walk involved with wearing ice skates on a regular floor right the way over to them.  Then, she sticks her hand towards Alec, barely reaching over the counter but still all intense eyebrows and serious posture.  “I’m Beatrice Bane but you can call me Bea if you’re going to be Daddy’s friend. Who are you and can I have a hot chocolate?”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Bea,” Alec says, shaking her tiny hand.  Somehow, his voice has just the right tone for speaking to a five year old -- not patronising or babyish, but still sweet enough to please her.  Magnus’s heart flutters and he furiously stamps it down. “I’m Alexander, but I have a nickname too, so you can call me Alec. You can absolutely have a hot chocolate, so long as your dad says it’s okay.”

They both look to Magnus in unison, twin pairs of enchanting puppy dog eyes.  As if he can say no to that.

“Just a small one,” he says, voice warning, but Bea beams anyway.  She reaches her arms into the air with a silent demand, so Magnus scoops her up, ignoring how she immediately comes to fiddle with his hair once she’s perched on his hip.  Bea’s small for her age at five, skinny and short the way Magnus was most of his childhood ( the way her mom always was, he doesn’t think ) , and still so easy to hold like this.  He’s slightly dreading the day that she’s too big for him to carry.

Alec smiles at them both one last time before he sets about making Bea’s drink; Bea then restlessly makes Magnus put her down again, far sooner than he’d have liked, and spends the whole minute standing on her tip-toes and peering across the counter to watch her hot chocolate being made.  When Alec’s done, he passes the child-sized cup across the counter, and Magnus hands it down to Bea.

When he then scoops a couple bucks out of his pocket, Alec says, “Oh, don’t worry about it, on the house.”

Magnus’s cheeks go pink, and he’s not sure why.  It’s not like Alec really knows him, and Magnus had paid for his own drink; why’s he now trying to give a gift?  Is he attempting to get on Magnus’s good side, or Bea’s?  It’s not like Bea cares whether her dad pays for something or not, so presumably it’s some gesture towards Magnus, and truthfully, any kind act that relates to his daughter is the best way to get Magnus absolutely fluttering inside, but considering he barely knows this man and is sure he’s not interesting in dating him, anyway ––

It’s confusing, that’s all.  But Magnus is spared from replying, from unravelling the confusing emotion in his out-of-practice-with-flirting mind, when Bea suddenly screeches.

“ Daddy,” she says, and flings herself at his side, holding up one tiny index finger with a pout.  “I put my finger in my drink and it was too hot and it burned me.”

“Why did you put your grubby finger in your drink?” Magnus asks, first of all, as he peers down at her hand.  It’s just a little pink and when he touches the edge of her cup he can tell the milk isn’t really hot enough to scald, so he knows not to be too worried.  Sensing that she’s not getting the sympathy she wants, Bea turns to her newest friend, instead.

“ Aleeeec,” she complains across the counter.

“Oh, no,” says Alec, putting on a very serious face with furrowed eyebrows, and he comes out from the edge of his hot chocolate stand just so he can crouch down beside her, his absurdly long legs folding in a very pleasing way.  “Do you need a band-aid? I have some extra special ones in my bag.”

Bea absolutely does not need a band-aid, and Magnus goes to say that, but her face has lit up and she’s enthusiastically nodding before he can get a word in.  And, well, part of him wants to see how this goes. So he hangs back, drinking the dregs of his chocolate, and watches as Alec digs out a sparkly blue band-aid, which he applies to the non-existent burn on Bea’s finger.  He pats it down extra carefully and with all the care of a serious wound, and then says something to Bea, low enough for Magnus to miss, that sends Bea into a fit of giggles. Alec glances around her, a smile on his own face, and meets Magnus’s eyes.

Magnus’s heart thump, thump, thumps.   Tall drink of water who helps old women carry their groceries and jogs in tiny shorts and is an intelligent law student who likes to discuss obscure history is also incredibly sweet with kids.  Because of course he is. Because the universe wants Magnus to be torn up inside, and want things he can’t have.

“You can come to my birthday party!” Bea says then, out of the blue, and so loud it startles both Magnus and Alec out of their little staring contest.  “I’m allowed to invite whoever I want.  You can bring hot chocolate for me as a present!  Give my daddy your phone number so he can tell you when it is.”

Bea’s birthday isn’t until weeks after Christmas, still almost a month from now, and Magnus has barely thought about her party beyond promising her it could be a tea party with, indeed, any of her friends that she liked.  When he said friends, though, he meant other five year olds from her kindergarten class, not cute strangers in reindeer aprons who her dad is confusingly lusting after.

“Um.”  Alec looks amused, from where he’s still crouched down beside Bea, as he turns his gaze up to Magnus.  He’s clearly wondering how to say it would be very weird if I came to your birthday party but thanks in a language five year olds can speak.  “You know, I might be busy that day, but I’ll give your dad my number just in case, and we can see.”

Bea shrugs one of her skinny shoulders, unbothered.  “Alright. It’s not for ages anyway.”

But she keeps watching, so Alec clearly feels obligated to take Magnus’s phone and key his number into it.  “ Sorry, ” Magnus mouths, feeling rather embarrassed that Alec’s having to humour his daughter so much, but Alec somehow doesn't look like he really minds.  He shakes his head, still smiling, and hands Magnus’s phone back over; Magnus reflexively glances down and sees Alec Lightwood as a new contact, a little smiley emoji keyed in afterwards.

It’s probably a fake number, Magnus thinks, just to get Bea off their backs.  But it’s cute he’s humouring her anyway.

He thinks this is probably when they should leave, stop intruding on Alec, but then, just as Bea is sat on the bench taking her skates off and Magnus is still lingering by the hot chocolate stall’s counter, she suddenly, loudly, unmissably announces, “Daddy, Alec, look!  Isn’t that that plant which makes you have to kiss!  Mister toes!”

Mistletoe.   Oh God.   Magnus looks up, and sure enough, some bright soul far more festive than him has tacked a strand of mistletoe onto the fake log-cabin roof above the counter.  Alec is stood just on one side of it. Magnus is stood just on the other.

Bea’s face is absolutely delighted.

“Oh, no,” Magnus tries to deflect, taking a step back.  “It’s fine, honey, that rule is only for people who want to kiss.  You don’t ever have to kiss somebody just because you’re under mistletoe.”

But this backfires on him.  Bea frowns, looks at Alec, and says, “Don’t you want to kiss my daddy?”  Magnus, mortified, doesn't dare glance around at Alec –– it can’t get much worse than his five year old trying to pressure a guy into kissing him, like it’s not clear enough already that Magnus has zero game.  “Alec, why don’t you want to kiss him? Don’t you like daddy? We can’t be friends if you don’t.”

Groaning, Magnus resists the urge to drop his head into his hands and spins around to look at Alec again.  By some miracle, he realises that Alec isn’t looking like he wants to sink into the floor, or run away screaming -– if anything, he seems rather amused.

“No, your dad seems lovely,” he tells Bea, and then beckons towards Magnus.  “You’re right, we should follow the rules.” And then, in a lower and far more humorous voice, where only Magnus can hear, “Don’t worry, I’ve kissed guys for far worse reasons than this.”

Magnus is sure he’s blushing to the point of ridiculousness and wishes he’d thought to wear foundation that day instead of just his usual eye makeup, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, except freeze on the spot and feel restless and tingly all over and hold his breath as Alec leans in, in, in ––

And plants a tiny, chaste kiss on Magnus’s cheek.

“There,” Alec says, pulling back and immediately raising an eyebrow across at Bea.  “Are we still friends, now?”

“Yep,” Bea decides.  She’s kicked both her skates off and pulled her shoes most of the way on, and for once, her meddling little mind does seem to be satisfied with their actions.  Thank god.

With that, though, Magnus decides it’s definitely time to go, before she can make Alec do anything else he doesn't want to.  And quite apart from that, the Little Penguins hour is definitely up, and crowds of regular patrons are starting to file into the ice rink -- exactly what Magnus wanted to avoid today -- and there’s suddenly other people queuing up at the hot chocolate stall, too.  His cheek is still tingling in the spot where Alec’s lips had touched, but Magnus is choosing not to think about that so that he can maintain his sanity, and he scoops Bea up onto his hip without another moment’s thought.

“Well,” he says, just as the customer waiting for Alec to serve them begins looking impatient, and Alec ducks back into his little hot chocolate stall.  “It was nice to properly meet you, Alexander.”

“You, too,” Alec says, smiling in a way that reaches his eyes, just as warm and lovely as the hot chocolate he's making, but twice as satisfying.  Magnus finally steps back, dodges the tacky neon reindeer, and lets his legs carry him and Bea away. They have a rest of their day to be getting on with, and Alec has a job to do; they’ve distracted him far long enough.

Still, as Magnus walks away, he can’t help glancing back just once or twice.  And when he’s strapped Bea into the car outside and thrown their bags in the back, just before he slides into his own seat, he lets his fingers drift up to his cheek, pressing the warm spot where Alec’s lips had touched.  Chaste as it was, that was the closest Magnus has come to a proper kiss, one not from Bea or Catarina, since Bea’s mom –– over two years past. It’s a boundary he’s been nearly terrified to cross.

Now that he's crossed it, he’s finding that it wasn’t, actually, so bad.  He’s actually finding that, now it’s happened, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Later that night, when Bea is engrossed in a colouring book and Magnus has a quiet minute while dinner cooks, he finds himself getting out his phone.  It’s just to see, he tells himself –– he’s not hanging any hopes on this, not at all.  With his experience of romance in general he can definitely say his expectations are through the floor.

But, to Alec’s number, he sends, Hi :) This is Magnus, from the ice rink! Sorry about Bea, today, she’s a cutie but we’re still working on the social skills. I’ll definitely let you off the hook of coming to her birthday party, but it was nice to properly meet you, anyway!

There, he thinks, that’s pleasant enough.  It’s not quite flirty, but it’s not quite distant, either.  And it won’t matter in the end, because he's sure Alec gave him a fake number.  Magnus goes back to chopping up vegetables for the pasta sauce, writing the whole thing out of his mind.

Except, in the end, it isn’t a fake number at all.  It’s only two minutes until his phone lights up with a reply that sets Magnus’s cheeks flushing, his heart thumping –– and, maybe, just a little bit of the festive spirit encroaching on his fractured heart.

He just can't quite believe that he has hot chocolate, his meddling daughter, and a man in a ridiculous reindeer apron to thank.

[klarolinesecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, willowaus!

Merry Christmas! I was really nervous to get the person who’s written several of my favorite fanfictions! I hope you enjoy this very fluffy Christmas fic. One of your suggestions was their first Christmas so I ended up writing a tale about their first Christmas as friends and then their first Christmas as lovers.

A Tale Of Two Christmases

(post season 4, no baby plot, Klaus is in New Orleans doing evil villain things, no Bonnie death, no Silas is Stefan plot twist)

As friends:

The canvas on the easel lacked something. Klaus glared at the painting in irritation. It captured some of the image he’d originally had in his head but something was missing. It looked rather dark and dreary and he needed it to be perfect. It was for Caroline. The first Christmas since they’d become friends. Since he could now call her and expect random drunken delightful texts at all hours of the day and night, and he wanted to give her the perfect present.

She’d thrown diamond bracelets at his feet before but she’d kept his art. Okay, so she’d also kept the mini fridge that he’d gotten for her dorm room but she’d broken up with Tyler, who’d been the other part of his graduation gift to her. But the drawing she’d kept. Not just kept but framed and hung on the wall in her dorm room.

Surely, a piece that he’d spent days on would be better than the quickly drawn sketch he’d given her.

A knock at the door and he glared at the hybrid interrupting him until he noticed the package in his hands. A package from Caroline.

Inside was a green card and a brightly colored, wrapped package. He opened the card first. It had horses on a sled in the snow and wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. There was a note in Caroline’s handwriting:

Klaus,

Since you’re like a billion years old you might not even celebrate Christmas but I hope you like your gift.

Her name was signed with a heart with a line through it next to her name. What did a heart with a line through it mean? Was it friendly love and affection? And what did she get him? It didn’t really matter what it was. Caroline had gotten him a present and he was both excited and curious.

Inside the wrapped package was a scrapbook. He opened it and found pictures taken from events where they’d apparently been captured on film, perhaps by strangers, because he didn’t remember anyone taking their picture. But there were pictures of them dancing at the ball, some of them sitting on the bench and laughing during the Miss Mystic pageant, and one that he did remember that was taken on her graduation day. Caroline had insisted on taking that one with her phone. The two of them had their faces squished together, she was smiling and he was smiling too. Only for Caroline would he take a what… had she called it? A selfie?

He turned the page and found a few sketches she’d drawn. They were beginner’s drawings, practice works from the art class she’d taken, but they were for him. A hummingbird sipping nectar from a bird feeder, a high heeled shoe and a tie like the one he’d worn at the pageant surrounded a bottle of champagne, a graduation cap in his hand, a smirk on his face and a decapitated witch in the foreground. Her sketches were full of warmth.

Her gift had captured a celebration of their friendship. The story he’d told her of a hummingbird, champagne, which was there thing, and of him saving her. Was she aware of how much he would be willing to do to keep her safe.

The painting was flawed. He pulled out his sketchbook to start anew. He started with a dying birthday girl on her bed, images of beauty and art surrounding her like an unfulfilled dream. He could practically hear her asking if he was there to kill her. Next, of a beautiful girl who’d stolen his breath, wearing the gown that he’d picked out for her and the bracelet he’d given her as a gift, then the same girl in the same dress, fierce and stunningly beautiful as she’d struck to the core of him with a few choice words and tossed a bracelet at his feet… he continued to sketch letting his feelings and affection for Caroline flow into every drawing.

He’d already told her that she was the only girl he’d ever loved. She had to know that’s what he meant by “I intend to be your last love, however long it takes,” right?

Finally, he was finished with the set of sketches capturing her and them from the moment she’d captivated him to the moment he’d seen her last.

He arranged the package with care and spent what felt like hours figuring out what to write on the Christmas card he’d picked out. There was only so much space and he felt like his drawings said so much. He wasn’t yet ready to write out the words, as he wasn’t certain she was ready for them.

He had one of his remaining hybrids take the package away. They would deliver it to the hybrids watching over her. She’d spotted them within a week of him assigning them the task of watching over her and keeping her free from harm, unless they wanted to suffer the most painful and excruciating deaths possible. They’d argued over the phone for hours, until he finally made her understand. She was important to him. He wanted her safe. He left out the fact that after that day that he’d nearly let her die to prove a point, he knew for certain that he never wanted a life without her in it. She’d finally accepted with a, “I suppose as your friend, I would be a target, how many friends do you have?”

“Just the one,” he’d replied leaving out the fact that, while he had a few friends, mostly he had minions and those who owed him favors. But there were a few vampires that he called friends, but none of them were a friend quite like her. One that he wanted to turn into his lover, partner, and eternal life mate.

Caroline smiled at James as he gave her the package from Klaus. While it was annoying that Klaus had assigned her a few protectors, it was also rather sweet. Even though it had been quiet and calm since graduation, it was reassuring to know someone was looking out for her. It made her feel safe. It also felt strange since she wasn’t used to people protecting her.

She carried the package inside, smiling widely as she mentally played a guessing game, imagining what it was. He’d been trying to coax her to New Orleans in every phone call they’d had, but the box was too heavy for plane tickets.

She wasn’t surprised to unwrap a sketchbook, nor was she surprised when the card contained yet another suggestion for her to enjoy her spring break in New Orleans. The sketches themselves did take her breath away. There was so much detail and love in them. Her breath was stolen even further away by the sudden realization she had. Now that they weren’t enemies, that he wasn’t harming her friends, that they were friends and talking constantly, she was kind of, sort of, maybe falling in love with him. Maybe she would go to New Orleans in the spring and see how things went.

As Lovers:

The smell of cinnamon wafted through the air as Klaus slowly fell back asleep. The cabin was small and cozy and he was on a couch close to both the fireplace and the tree. He could hear Caroline humming as she made breakfast, and he smiled at hearing her so happy even as she made breakfast.

It had been 7 months since she’d moved to New Orleans, and 9 months since he’d won her heart. It still didn’t always seem real. That he’d done it, that she had fallen in love with him, that she wanted to be with him… but hearing her in the kitchen humming and laughing as she prepared a breakfast for them to eat made it real.

He woke up as she sat down after setting a plate full of cinnamon rolls on the wooden coffee table.

“Good morning,” she said kissing him, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he replied before pulling her in for a longer kiss.

Breakfast and the presents could wait, he needed to show her just how much he loved her right now.

After a nice long makeout session on the couch, they ate their cinnamon rolls and drank their eggnog before opening their presents.

Caroline grinned as she opened the box containing tickets to Rome, Paris, and Tokyo, and then pounced him enthusiastically showering him with kisses to show him just how happy she was. Her laughs became even more pronounced as she opened the box containing the diamond bracelet she’d once thrown at his feet, and a pair of diamond earrings that matched it.

Klaus found himself opening boxes containing his favorite paints, sketchbooks, and charcoals. He kissed her and told her that he couldn’t wait to draw how she looked in front of the tree right now.

Klaus snuggled in close to her after they’d cleaned up the kitchen and the crumpled wrapping paper. His time with her was always the happiest times in his long life. A thousand years of rage, anger, and loneliness always seemed to disappear when the blonde baby vampire was with him, smiling and taking control of his life. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Love may be a vampire’s greatest weakness but she was worth it.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @inatshej!

Read on AO3

*****

Beautiful Surprise

Hale Corporations was perfect the way it was. Derek loved the way there were tons of employees working for them, but not so much that they weren’t able to afford to be able to get each worker a holiday gift of some sort. He loved the way that he could learn everyone's name in HC headquarters but still had to make an effort to do so. He loved the fact that even though he was the CEO of the company, everyone still talked to him like another employee.

What he absolutely did not like was the fact that some California native who would probably come to work in some fucking swim trunks instead of the proper three-piece suit was going to be co-CEO with him, all because of some bullshit clause his grandfather put in his will and nobody bothered to tell him about.

Now, don't get Derek wrong. There was absolutely nothing wrong with sharing, but that didn’t mean Derek was okay with sharing the business he had to fight tooth-and-nail for with some stranger. His parents kept telling him that it was someone who he used to be very close with and that he would “just love him!”, but he doubted it and he would not be swayed because his family thought that this newbie was his type.

It was fucking annoying.

Add that to the fact that they said that this guy was out into the will as a requirement because they felt like Derek was working himself too hard, but they just didn’t understand. This was how it had to be if they wanted to continue to have their lavish lifestyles and buy expensive cars on a whim, then give them away to total strangers. Personally, Derek just felt like they were doing this because they felt like he couldn’t handle the task and fill the shoes Emery Hale had left for him, which he took extreme offense to.

He felt like he was more than competent enough to run the family business. After all, he made this into what it was today and for this bullshit to just come up and ruin his master plan of turning his company into a near-monopoly and obliterating Argent Technologies sucked ass. To Derek, he felt as though the rug was being completely pulled from under his feet and he hated that feeling when he was younger, and he hated it now.

Trying to explain all of this to his family felt like he was talking to a child with a high IQ: they were very smart, but they were still children and didn’t understand everything because they hadn’t experienced everything. Trying to explain this to them was just too mentally taxing, so Derek didn’t try after the one time, but at least he had one person who understood, and that was just enough for him.

Stiles Stilinski-Hale, also known as Derek’s husband of three years, understood why he was feeling this way. Stiles let Derek rant to him about anything and everything, never making him feel stupid about his thinking, but also helped Derek see other’s viewpoints on any given topic, which was a real bitch to deal with when they got into arguments and Stiles tricked Derek into agreeing with him. Still, Stiles was one-hundred percent the only reason that he wasn't currently pitching a hissy fit in the middle of the conference room while waiting for this new CEO.

Stiles was supposed to meet Derek right before the conference that would be the first meeting and the formal introduction of the new co-CEO, but he apparently got some emergency and told him that he would arrive a bit later. All in all, this meant Derek was basically angrily hyperventilating about the entire situation with about two-and-a-half minutes before he had to look completely presentable.

Fuck.

Shaking himself out from his internal crisis, Derek straightened up from his slumped position in the elevator, straightened his tie, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He was an amazing boss and felt like he was a decent guy. If this guy turned out to completely suck, he could at least fake it until he makes it.

Right?

Nodding to himself, Derek stepped out of the elevator as soon as it pinged and the doors open, with entirely feigned confidence, but a true this-shit-is-going-to-end-terribly feeling.

Damning to all to hell, he gave a small nod to the floor's receptionist and headed to Conference Room B, where he could make out a thick hair of full brown hair waiting for him along with a seemingly familiar set of broad shoulders through the glass walls of the room.

Confusion painting his face, Derek stepped in the room and immediately stopped dead in his tracks when the owner of the aformentioned hair and broad shoulders turned to face him.

"Stiles?"

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @gswritings!

Read on AO3

******

Stilinski’s Supernatural Rehabilitation Center

Stiles crossed the small living room to the front door of the cabin. The soft pine scent from the trees outside almost reminded him of the Christmas tree his dad would get every year. A smile twisted his lips as he opened the door.

The preserve looked plain. Just pine trees, dirt paths, a bit of bramble here and there. But it was so much more than that.

Wind rustled the branches, carrying with it a low growl.

“I know you’re hungry!” Stiles called, stepping onto the porch. A feed shed sat just before the tree line. He ambled toward it.

Whenever he thought back to his dad’s face the day he told him he was going to run a magical creature rehabilitation center, he cringed. His dad had laughed at him. Assumed Stiles was joking. Then he got concerned when Stiles didn’t start laughing with him.

Stiles entered the shed, immediately going to the oversized freezer. Most of his patients ate meat. He pulled pounds of frozen veal, venison, and boar out, stuffing them into buckets that were labeled and kept neatly on the wall.

His dad’s first concern was that Stiles would need to live outside of town and if something happened, no one would know where he was.

Stiles had countered that that was what cell phones were for.

The second thing he brought up was the soulmark on Stiles’s left wrist. How will you find them if you’re ankle deep in mud in the woods?

Stiles had rolled his eyes and replied, I guess they’ll just have to find me.

Stiles heaved the buckets up, tottering for a second as his balance was thrown off. Once his feet were steady under him, he headed out.

His boots crunched over the cold earth, breath fogging the air in front of his face. Thankfully, the first patient, an imp with a missing eye, wasn’t far away.

The imp had wandered into the preserve on his own.

Stiles wasn’t sure how exactly the injury had happened, but he’d tended the bloody wound and found a vacant part of the forest for him to stay. “Are you feeling better?” Stiles stepped lightly into the clearing.

A bush rustled half a second before a big, brown eye appeared through the branches. It blinked up at him sleepily.

Stiles crouched; he was still a ways away from the imp but had learned early on that it was best to let it come to him.

He set the bucket down and pulled out a handful of ribs.

The imp’s head jerked up in interest. Twigs snapped and remaining dead foliage fluttered to the ground as it crawled toward him.

Stiles frowned. The wound on the imp’s face was still red and raw. He leaned forward half an inch.

It froze.

“It’s alright,” Stiles soothed, nudging the rib closer to it. “I just need to look closer.”

The imp cautiously approached.

Black crust made a ring around the injury, smelling of decay.

Stiles’s frown deepened. His magic was supposed to prevent infection. Sparks flicked around his fingertips as he called his magic to the surface.

The imp watched him warily, chewing on the rib with small, pointed teeth.

Stiles touched the skin around the wound.

The black decay fell to the ground, the scent fading.

The imp blinked.

“There you go,” Stiles said. “Hopefully there’ll be more progress tomorrow, yeah?”

Charlie, a gnome with the flu, also appeared worse.

“What happened, guys?” Stiles asked, listening as Charlie hacked a cough.

Stiles placed a hand on her rough back. He felt the mucus in her lungs gurgle with each breath. That definitely wasn’t good.

He pulled herbs from his bag and mixed together a tea in a thermos. “Here, drink this.”

Charlie took it, shaking her hands irritably at the too-hot container.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Stiles said.

Charlie glared but tentatively took a sip, sticking her tongue out in disgust.

The water creatures were last. They were furthest from the cabin, located in a large pond that tied into a creek.

The pond came into view quickly; it was grey in the early light, a thin fog hovering just above the surface.

Ripples broke the water, a flash of a fin cresting the surface.

“Good morning,” Stiles greeted, squatting by the edge of the water.

A thin purple-tinged face stared back at him from the depths, sea-weed green hair billowing around her face.

The mermaid hadn’t given him a name to call her. Which was fine, only Charlie and Loti, the water nymph, had given him names.

Stiles looked up, first out over the water, then toward the trees, looking for her.

A low growl reverberated through the woods. More ripples broke the surface, turning into small waves as they hit land.

Stiles rose to his feet. The growl didn’t sound threatening, but it was clearly a warning.

The mermaid twisted around, dark tail glinting in the water.

Stiles watched her swim into the deeper area before vanishing entirely through a film of sediment.

“Loti?” he called.

There was no answer. Not even a chirp of birds in the trees behind him.

The mermaid’s head popped above the surface several yards away. She looked at Stiles, then down at something in the water, then toward the shore. Whatever she was carrying appeared to be heavy; she struggled a couple times to roll what looked like mud onto the land. It took Stiles a moment to realize it was Loti covered in a thick black rot. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp. The smell was horrendous, but as he approached, he could see her breathing. He could save her.

The mermaid swam backwards again, out into the deeper water.

Stiles dropped to his knees next to Loti, magic already flying across his fingers.

In the corner of his vision, the mermaid hunkered lower into the water. He’d have to figure out what was wrong with her in a moment.

Stiles’s head jerked forward, vision blurring as pain exploded behind his eyes.

Loti growled, multiple rows of sharp teeth flashing, and Stiles pitched sideways onto the ground.

Dark…pain…heavy….Everything hurt. He heard a groan. Was someone else with him? Cracking his eyes open hurt, but he managed. He saw Loti’s arm, still charred black. He lifted his head; it bobbed unsteadily as he looked around the darkening trees. He was definitely alone. The groan must have been from him.

He looked back at Loti. He couldn’t tell from the view of her forearm and shoulder if she was still breathing or not. Someone was trying to kill his patients. Pain lanced through his head and down his neck. Someone had tried to kill him.

Water sloshed somewhere close by. Stiles tensed. His attacker had returned.

Purple-tinged skin cut across his vision.

He blinked up at the mermaid. She held something out to him, fingers curled around a dark object. His phone. It was wet, like whoever had attacked him had thrown it in the water.

He rolled onto his side, gasping in pain when it seared down his arm. He gingerly reached out, taking the device. From within its case, it turned on. He’d have to thank his dad for the “life-proof” case he’d once insisted wasn’t “Stiles-proof”.

The mermaid shifted and Stiles looked back at her, realizing for the first time that she’d crawled onto land to reach him. “Thank you.”

She slid back into the water.

Stiles hit the emergency call.

Hands were moving him.

His left wrist felt like it was on fire. Had he fallen on his wrist? He’d have to ask later.

There was a bed beneath him. His bed.

Stiles woke up gradually. His head throbbed and overall, he felt like he’d been mauled by a hellhound. By the time he felt alright enough to open his eyes, he was sure an hour had gone by. Voices floated through the cabin from the kitchen. The bastard was back!

Stiles threw his legs off the side of the bed, snatching up the baseball bat he kept next to the nightstand. He’d beat their head in for touching his patients. He crossed the room, wobbling and distantly noticing that he was in the same pants and socks he’d been in but was now shirtless. He’d deal with that later. He flew down the hall, bat raised as he skidded around the corner into the kitchen.

He swung.

A large hand caught the bat with a solid smack. “It’s alright!” a man said quickly, holding the bat mid-swing. “We’re here to help.”

Stiles’s glare slowly faded, taking in the paramedic uniforms on two men, and the medical kit on the table.

The man holding the bat loosened his grip, slowly pulling his hand back in case Stiles took another swing at him. “I’m Derek. My partner here,” he gestured to the man at the table, “is Jordan.”

Jordan lifted his hand.

“We’re EMTs with-”

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles interrupted, seeing the name on his uniform. “I, uh, can read.” The room spun.

Derek and Jordan were clearly not a threat. Which was nice. Stiles was done with getting into fights…for hopefully the rest of the year.

“Sit down.” Derek put a hand on Stiles’s arm, applying just enough pressure to guide him.

Stiles’s skin grew warm where he touched.

A sense of calm overpowered the nerves and made the spinning stop. He allowed Derek to lead him to a chair. Technically, his chair. They hadn’t taken him to a hospital, and they hadn’t run off screaming at the sight of Loti. Or maybe they had. He’d been unconscious. He didn’t know.

He propped his elbows on the table and set his head in his hands. They had to be supernaturals of some kind. He looked at the medical kit on the table. A decoy.

“Was Loti—the nymph—alright?” Stiles knew she was far from “alright”, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask if she was alive. Whatever had effected the imp and Charlie had also gotten her.

Derek and Jordan exchanged a glance. Jordan gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked at Stiles seriously. “How hard did you hit your head?”

Stiles’s face reddened with fury. “Don’t bullshit me right now. I know she was next to me, by the lake. I know you two didn’t drag me to the hospital because if what happened is supernatural related, you don’t want to scare the humans.” His left wrist tingled painfully. He flicked it in irritation, involuntary sparks shooting from his hand. “You,” he pointed at Derek, “stopped a bat mid swing without even flinching. And your,” he pointed at Jordan, “medical kit is out of date.”

Jordan blinked, stunned.

Derek laughed. “New kits are on the way,” he explained, taking a seat next to Stiles. “Good eye, these technically expire next week.” He placed his hand on Stiles’s arm again, and the pounding in his head faded. “I’m a werewolf, and Jordan’s a hellhound. Care to tell us what happened?”

Stiles buried his face in his hands. “I rehabilitate supernatural creatures and they’re taking sick with black rot. It wasn’t there yesterday. It’s progressing fast. Loti was the worst.”

Derek hummed understandingly. “She’s alive.”

Stiles’s had shot up. “What?”

“It’s wolfsbane,” Jordan said. “We were able to slow down the effects, but we won’t be able to cure them unless we find the same wolfsbane that poisoned them.” Jordan placed his hands on his lap, eyes flicking over Stiles’s face. “Druid?”

“Spark,” he muttered. So, he had to find whoever hit him, find out where they keep their poison, heal his patients, and, he glanced at the clock, feed them a very late dinner.

His left wrist burned.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. He dropped his wrist on the table and twisted, expecting to see a bruise or swelling. Anything to indicate where the pain was coming from. The soulmark that had sat for years just below his palm had changed. Once a simple circle, it now held three connected spirals. “Please tell me one of you is my soulmate, and not the crazy asshole who knocked me over the head.” He looked up, first to Jordan, who looked at Derek.

Without prompting, Derek flipped his own wrist over, exposing the same mark.

“Huh.” Stiles nodded. “You did have to come find me, I guess.”

A concerned frown wrinkled Derek’s face. “You need to get some rest.”

Stiles opened his mouth, halfway to agreeing when a tree snapped in the woods. He paused. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he was sure he would have missed it. None of his patients ventured this close to the house. The bastard, Stiles thought, jumping to his feet. That bastard. The chair he’d been sitting in toppled over as he bolted toward the door. He could hear Jordan and Derek protesting, but he didn’t care; he had his bat and magic pulsing through his veins.

He didn’t know how he moved so fast, but he flew across the yard, racing for the figure he could see crouched and frozen.

She spotted him and straightened up. “Well, this is awkward,” she said, and leveled a gun at him.

Stiles was not normally an idiot, but no one messed with his patients. He barreled right into the crazy lady with the gun. He flinched when it went off, nearly deafening him, as they hit the ground in a tangle. He wrestled it from her hands and threw it off to the left, into the woods.

She reared back and punched him in the face, dazing him.

He came back swinging, managing to clip her jaw with her fist. He swore when she rolled them over, pinning him into the dirt with her knees on his arms. “Don’t! Touch! My! Patients!” He twisted his wrists under her legs and grabbed her calves, jolting electricity through her like a homemade Taser.

She screamed and fell off of him, trembling.

Stiles, panting, sat back.

There was a pouch on her belt, purple dust spilling out.

“What is that?”

“Death,” she spat.

“So the wolfsbane.” He lunged at her; her nails raked across his cheek, but he didn’t care, fumbling the pouch from her belt.

She kneed him in the jaw, knocking him sprawling.

He held up the pouch, triumphant. “I win—fuck!”

She tackled him, her knees plowing into his gut and winding him.

He clenched his fingers tight around the opening of the pouch, keeping it from spilling, and rolled. When she wouldn’t release her grip on him, he went with instinct and slammed his head forward, right into her nose.

She shouted in pain, putting her hands over her bleeding nose.

Stiles bolted to his feet and ran. He tripped over a root three yards in, cursing and holding the pouch close to his chest.

“Ha,” the woman said softly.

Stiles looked over her shoulder and swallowed audibly.

She’d found her gun, it looked like. She was aiming at him again.

He flexed his ankle and wondered if he would make it if he bolted to the left. He braced.

A shadow rose up behind the woman. “Kate, long time no see,” Derek said, reaching out and snapping her neck.

Stiles watched her body topple to the ground. He blinked. Looked at Derek. “Remind me to thank you later,” he said weakly. He turned and got sick in the dirt.

Jordan and Derek took Stiles to where they’d laid Loti on some brush, partially blocked from view by a tree.

From the water, the mermaid watched as Derek walked Stiles through the steps of curing wolfsbane poisoning. First heating the powder, then applying it like a lotion.

Loti immediately started squirming, becoming more aware of her surroundings and more aware of how much she didn’t want to be this close to Derek and Jordan.

She grumbled at them as she slunk back into the water.

Charlie was next, then the imp.

By the time they got back into the house, Stiles was exhausted.

“I’m going back to the hospital,” Jordan announced when they got to the porch.

Derek nodded. “Have fun. I’m sure Erica will try to rope you into going to the Christmas party.” He wrinkled his nose.

Jordan gave a shuddering sigh. “Probably.” He looked at Stiles, then back at Derek, one brow quirked. “Standard time off when you meet your soulmate is three days. Should I tell them you’ll be back then?”

Derek turned to Stiles, who was leaning against the side of his house.

Stiles shrugged. “You can stay here if you want.” The recent events made his typically loose brain-to-mouth-filter basically non-existent. “I’d like you to stay. So we can get to know each other.”

“Yeah, tell them I’ll be back Monday.” Derek stepped closer to the door, to Stiles.

The warmth and comfort radiating from his body had Stiles leaning toward him. Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around his middle.

Derek hugged him back automatically.

Stiles sighed and sagged into his embrace. “Thank you for your help,” he muttered into his chest. Exhaustion washed over him. “Let’s talk tomorrow.” He closed his eyes.

Derek chuckled quietly and brushed his lips against the back of Stiles’s head. “Deal.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @withtheredlights!

I had a good time writing this, and I hope it’s enjoyed. Happy Holidays!

Summary:  Stiles’s magic has been restless under his skin all morning. Usually, that means something big is about to happen, but Stiles hopes it happens after the boring lawyer meeting he’s being forced to attend.

(or, Stiles meets Derek and it’s love at first sight)

Read on AO3

*****

This Magic Moment

Stiles's magic has been restless under his skin all morning. Usually, that means something big is about to happen, but Stiles hopes it happens afterthe boring lawyer meeting he's being forced to attend.

Apparently, there's a mixup with his official emissary paperwork, and he needs an actual attorney to untangle it.

He would let Lydia handle it, but she swore up and down he had to do this one himself. He didn't quite understand the explanation, any more than he understands what's the problem itself, just that when he tried to apply for workman's comp two days ago, he was denied on the basis of being employed by the Hale pack — a pack he's barely heard of — and not the McCall pack, the one he's been filling in for since Deaton got sick a year ago.

So, okay, apparently Scott never filed the paperwork when Stiles started filling in for Deaton. He doesn't see what the big deal is. Why can't Scott just do it now? Why does it require Stiles to go down to the city and see some overpriced lawyer?

The firm's building is slick, all glass and chrome, impersonal and too shiny. Does he have the right place? He checks in at the desk and yes, he's supposed to be there. Mr. Lauden is running late, though, and Stiles should have a seat in the plush waiting room.

It's not until he sits down (accidentally banging his arm cast on the chair as he does) that he realizes he's feeling suddenly at ease. His magic is practically purring. He frowns to himself and looks around, his eyes falling on the man seated across from him.

The man looks like a model. He's scowling at his phone, which does nothing to take away from his overall gorgeousness, and Stiles wonders what about him has his heart beating suddenly twice as fast as normal. It's not like Stiles has never seen a beautiful man before.

As if he's wondering the same question, the man looks up, nostrils flaring, and pins Stiles with an intense stare.

Stiles waves nervously. His good hand needed something to do. He waved. That's not too bad, right?

Now the man just looks confused. The little furrow between his eyebrows is adorable and Stiles wants to maybe smooth it with his thumb. He tries smiling, instead.

The man isn't looking away. Did Stiles mention how intense his eyes are? He can't tell what color they are at this distance but — whoa! The man's eyes flash red.

Stiles is staring an alpha werewolf in the eye and doesn't know what to do. He gulps audibly. The werewolf smiles.

Oh. Oh. That smile is devastating. Stiles couldn't look away at this point if his life depended on it. And it might!

What the hell is going on, Stiles wonders, but his magic is moving beneath his skin like it knows exactly what's up. Well, Stiles wishes it would tell him because he's completely clueless.

The alpha werewolf gets up, walks over, and sits next to him. His nostrils flare again. He's sniffing Stiles, and Stiles is so grateful he took a shower before heading into the city.

"How'd you do that?" the gorgeous alpha asks him, gesturing to the cast on Stiles's arm.

Stiles flushes. He's still embarrassed. "Fell off a roof."

"What were you doing on a roof?" the alpha asks him. "That's dangerous. You could've been killed."

"Warding a friend's house," Stiles says defensively, wondering where the hell this guy gets off acting like he cares what happens to him. It's weird.

The gorgeous alpha frowns. "You're a witch?"

"A spark, actually," Stiles says. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" His magic has been purring since the alpha sat next to him.

"I'm Derek," the man says, looking at him intently. He leans in, nostrils flaring again.

Stiles isn't sure if he's creeped out or flattered. Maybe both. "Dude. Are you smelling me?"

Derek leans back, an abashed look on his face. "I'm sorry. You just… I've never…" Instead of finishing the thought, he trails off. He looks frustrated.

"I'm a wannabe emissary, I've been around plenty of werewolves. I'm assuming this is some wolfy thing," Stiles says dryly.

This close, Stiles can see the color of Derek's eyes. Or rather the colors. They're beautiful, like everything else about him.

"Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale?" someone calls, and the moment is broken. They stand and follow the young assistant to Mr. Lauden's office, and Stiles is only a little confused why they're going together. The day keeps getting weirder and weirder.

Hale, Stiles thinks as he's seated in front of Mr. Lauden's desk. That's the name Lydia said when she tried to explain this mess. Not that Stiles understood at the time. He doesn't understand now, either.

He manages to bump his cast again on the arm of the chair when he sits, and this time he winces as a throb starts up around the broken bone.

Mr. Lauden clears his throat but Derek doesn't seem to be paying attention. He reaches out and brushes Stiles's fingers, the ones that are poking out of the cast. Derek's veins go dark gray as he pulls Stiles's pain.

Stiles relaxes in his chair, blinking at the alpha he only just met. "Thank you," he says gratefully, though he's never had someone drain his pain without asking before, no one but Scott, and not often at that.

"So you do know each other?" Mr. Lauden asks.

"No," Stiles says, his words tripping over Derek's.

"He's my mate," Derek says softly. At least that's what it sounds like. Stiles blinks at him and drops his jaw.

"I thought this was a case of accidental bonding?" Mr. Lauden says with a frown.

But Stiles is still staring at Derek. "What did you say?" then to Lauden, "Wait, what?"

Stiles's magic is rushing under his skin. Purring. Urging Stiles to move closer to Derek Hale, the man he only just met, the alpha werewolf who just maybe said they were mates. How is that possible? What is going on?

"As far as I can tell, there was a paperwork mixup about two years ago, and the two of you were put into a legal alpha/emissary bond," Mr. Lauden is saying. Derek nods. Stiles thinks this sounds like a simplified version of what Lydia tried to explain to him. The attorney goes on with, "But now you're telling me it wasn't accidental? Are you wasting my time, here?"

"No, it was definitely some kind of bureaucratic mixup," Derek says. "But when we met just now, I recognized him immediately." He looks at Stiles, a little shy now. "My wolf did."

Stiles realizes Derek's still touching his fingers, and where their skin is touching, Stiles's magic is very happy. Could it be true? Could they be mates?

"But mates are so rare," Stiles blurts out without pulling his hand away.

Derek smiles. "So are sparks."

"And so is the kind of mixup we're looking at here," Lauden says. "Apparently a clerk in the Beacon County Supernatural Relations office spilled something, made the paperwork stick together, passed it on to someone else… I'm not sure. But in the end, you were legally bonded, and because of the length of time that's passed, if you want to dissolve the bond you're looking at hundreds of billable hours and at least two appearances before a judge."

"I don't have an emissary," Derek says slowly. "But I do need one."

Lauden gives a hopeful smile. "Because of your apparent mate status, it might just be easier to see if you want to keep the bond…"

Stiles's magic is doing somersaults. He looks at Derek, his heart in his throat. Mates. "I need some time to get my head wrapped around this, I think." That little furrow between Derek's brows shows up again and Stiles immediately wants to smooth it away. "There's a coffee shop next door, I saw."

The furrow disappears as Derek gives him a smile that looks like a sunrise. Stiles smiles back helplessly.

Lauden huffs. "I see I'm not actually needed here. I'll send the bill to…?"

Derek nods at him, then turns back to Stiles. "I'll take care of it."

"I have money," Stiles says. He may not get paid well for filling in for Deaton, but he takes enough side jobs that he's comfortable.

Derek shrugs. "Let me pay the attorney's fee and I'll let you buy me a cappuccino."

"That's hardly the same," Stiles says wryly, but he really doesn't care. He just wants to sit down with Derek and learn everything he can about him.

"Is your arm feeling better?" Derek asks, and Stiles looks down at the cast. For a long moment, he'd forgotten about it.

"Much. Thank you," Stiles says, and watches as Derek reluctantly draws his hand away. Stiles's magic sulks.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head, then holds out his good hand. "Hi. I'm Stiles Stilinski. It's good to meet you."

Derek looks surprised, then takes Stiles's hand in his own. He doesn't so much shake it as squeeze and caress it. "I'm Derek Hale. I've been waiting to meet you all my life."

Stiles feels his cheeks heat. He squeezes back. "Yeah. Um, let's get out of here, yeah?"

Derek turns to the attorney and smiles. "Thank you."

Lauden smiles at them both. "My pleasure."

Derek and Stiles walk out of his office hand in hand. Stiles doesn't care if they're headed to coffee or wherever, just as long as he gets to spend more time with Derek.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Rebekahdarian93!

Read on AO3

*****

This Awkward Love

Derek hates parties. He doesn't like crowds or having to smile for complete strangers. He particularly hates the Hale Pack's Annual Christmas party because his parents will inevitably use it to try and set him up with their friends' children or people from allied packs. They've even done it when he wasn't single, though really the less said about the year he brought Kate Argent to the party, the better.

If it had been any other party, he might have been able to find a way out of attending—like suddenly visiting another country or drinking just enough wolfsbane-laced alcohol to send him to the hospital without risking his life—but the annual Hale Christmas party in Beacon Hills was a big deal and his parents would literally drag him here, IV bag and all, if he didn't voluntarily attend.

They know how bad he is at talking to people outside of their pack. He is the embodiment of awkward and this, right here, is a prime example. There's a gorgeous guy hanging out near the buffet table—young and skinny with large brown eyes, delicately thin hands, and a smile full of mischief—and Derek's instincts are screaming at him to go talk to the guy, that he might be The One, Derek's mate, the absolute love of his life, but his feet are rooted to the floor and all he can do is stare.

Another man approaches Derek's possibly-mate and grabs his arm. Derek has to fight down the urge to bare his teeth in challenge. He's not a jealous guy but he has the strangest urge to throw the man across the room for getting too close to his maybe-mate.

"Stiles," the man hisses, voice low, frown firmly in place, "what did you do? That werewolf looks like he's about to murder you."

Derek's eyes narrow. Who's threatening his potential mate, Stiles? He glances around but no one is looking at Stiles with more than a fleeting glance. The other attendees seem happy, for the most part. He doesn't scent any overt aggression.

"You promised you weren't going to do anything," the man says in a bit of a whine. "You promised."

Stiles places his hand on his chest and gapes at his friend with mock-affront. The move seems practiced in its theatricality. "Why, Scott, the very insinuation that I would start any kind of mischief is just absurd. I am the picture of innocence."

"Stiles..." Scott's tone is long-suffering, suggesting that Stiles and mischief are well-acquainted.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I haven't done anything." Scott raises an eyebrow and Stiles adds, "Yet. I swear, I haven't even talked to creeper-wolf over there." He jerks his thumb in Derek's direction.

Derek blinks. He looks behind him. There's a bare wall and a small scattering of people, none of whom are facing this way.

"And I haven't seen Peter yet, so really, what could I possibly have done?"

Stiles knows Peter? He could be referring to a different Peter—it's certainly a common enough name—but what are the chances of him meaning anyone other than Uncle Peter at a Hale function? How does Stiles know Peter? Why haven't they crossed paths before?

"Do you need me to get your dad? One of the Alphas?" Scott whispers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You do realize that's Alpha Hale's son, right? Derek Hale."

Shit! Shit. He's the creepy murder werewolf. He needs to look away. Anywhere else. Ceiling? No, lights are too bright. Floor? Now he looks pathetic. There! The Christmas tree. He can stare at the tree and it's like he's admiring it instead of trying too hard to not creep out his mate. Maybe mate. Probably most definitely mate.

"Hey, there's Cora. Cora!" Stiles raises his voice a little to catch Cora's attention. "Cora, come over here for a sec."

He risks a glance at his sister. She's got a glass of cider on one hand. She walks up to them with a familiar, "Yo! What's up, Stiles?"

Does everyone in his family know Stiles? This could be bad for him. Gods, if Stiles knows Laura there will be no end to the embarrassing stories.

"Did I do something to piss off your brother?" Stiles asks. He sounds more amused than concerned. "He's glaring some serious daggers my way."

"I didn't know you two had even met," Cora says. Which is true. They haven't. Until now, but that really doesn't count if he hasn't actually said a word to Stiles. Or come within three feet of him.

"We haven't," Stiles agrees. "Did Peter say something? I feel like this could be one of Peter's pranks, in which case my revenge will be swift and glorious."

"Not that I've heard and Peter usually tells me his evil plans." There's a slight pause where none of them speak and Derek stares very hard at a snowflake ornament on the tree so he doesn't look at Stiles.

"I think he's planning to murder the tree now," Stiles says. His amusement is obvious.

Cora sighs. "Derek, what are you being all pissy about?"

He frowns and scuffs his foot against the carpet. "I'm not being pissy," he mutters back.

"Did you swallow a lemon?" Stiles snorts. "Seriously, why are you mad at Stiles?"

He huffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not mad."

"Then what are you doing?"

He considers hiding in the woods until the party's over but the only direction his body wants to move is closer to Stiles.

"Do I need to get Laura?" Cora threatens.

His cheeks flame red at the very suggestion. "Ithinkhe'smymate," he says, all in one breath.

He dares a glance over. Cora is frowning at him. Next to her, Stiles is watching him, bemused. Scott keeps looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek like he's waiting for a fight to break out.

Cora raises an eyebrow when she notices him looking. "I'm sorry, try again. Maybe in English this time."

He sighs. He's never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Laura is going to put the story on his tombstone. "I think," he says slowly, "he's my mate."

Someone tackles Derek from behind, sending him stumbling. He barely avoids falling on his face. "What the hell?" He turns to find Laura standing there with an insane grin.

"Who's your mate?" Laura asks, voice full of excitement. She even bounces a little.

"He is," Cora says, pointing at Stiles, who looks very confused.

"I'm what?" Stiles asks.

"Going to meet my brother," Cora answers. She grabs Stiles by the arm at the same time as Laura grabs Derek's arm. They're both dragged across the room to meet in the middle. "Stiles, meet my brother, Derek. He wants to make babies with you."

Laura gives Derek an extra push toward Stiles. He shoots Laura a quick glare and then rubs the back of his head. He's not sure his face can get redder but he's about to find out. "Um, hi." He can't quite bring himself to look straight at Stiles. He doesn't want to come off as creepy. Again.

"Hi," Stiles says, voice thick with humor. "I'm Stiles. I require at least one proper date before there's any attempt at making babies. Which, given we're both guys, babies are highly unlikely to occur but I'm willing to put in the effort." He holds out his hand. His smile is absolutely blinding. Cora and Laura can both hear the way it makes Derek's heart skip a beat.

Derek stares at the appendage. This is it, the turning point of his life. If he takes Stiles's hand, it will confirm what his instincts already know. If he doesn't.... Well, that's not really an option.

He takes Stiles's hand in his. Electricity courses through his body, setting his nerves alight. In the space of an instant, he's broken apart and remade anew, his very being reshaped to include Stiles. He can feel Stiles's presence. Stiles is his personal North Star, a guiding light that pulls Derek home. Stiles's scent is so thick, Derek can taste it—electricity and midnight rain and freshly turned earth.

"Oh," Stiles says after a minute. His eyes are wide as saucers. He hasn't let go of Derek's hand.

Cora claps them both on the shoulder, startling them into letting go. "Well, my work here is done. You kids have a lovely time and don't start humping at the party, Mom will kill you."

Oh, gods, his parents are going to be insufferable. They'll announce it over the loudspeakers and pull him and Stiles up on stage. He has to get out of here. At least finding his mate will make a good excuse. They can't fault him for wanting to spend time strengthening the bond with his mate.

"Dinner?" Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks and his face shifts back to that amused grin he had before. "It's a thing I enjoy, yeah."

"We should..." Derek swallows. "Do you want to? Now?"

There's something soft in the way Stiles looks at him. Almost fond, growing fonder. "You mean, would I like to have dinner with you?"

"Yes." Derek nods. "That."

Stiles moves to Derek's side and wraps his arm around Derek's elbow. "I'd love to. For future reference, I love diners and curly fries are the food of the gods."

Derek nods, far more solemn than the situation calls for but he wants to do everything he can to please his mate. "I can do curly fries."

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @lover95!

This is my Sterek Secret Santa gift for lover95! I hope you enjoy your fluffy soulmark AU! I certainly enjoyed writing it!

Read om AO3

******

you left a mark on me

Stiles is a klutz.

That much is well known.

What is less known is how only about half of the scrapes he gets into are his own fault- if that! Because in this universe you are lucky enough to share every injury with your soulmate - even if you don’t yet know the bastard.

With the amount of injuries they amass in a week, Stiles’ soulmate is either an even worse klutz than Stiles himself, part of a circus troupe (probably the always stumbling and falling clown), or a spy - James Bond style. Stiles would of course prefer the last option - purely because of the coolness factor. Who could resist James Bond?

When Scott gets bitten, a whole new world of options suddenly opens up. In Stiles’ newfound experience, supernatural beings spend most of their time injured in some way or form. To add insult to injury- literally!- they barely even notice it most of the time!

It would be just like Stiles’ luck: having a werewolf for a soulmate who spends most of their time getting injured - and probably doesn’t care to think about how that affects him. Ouch.

~*~

Soulmates aren't a very well studied phenomenon.

It is not known what percentage of the population has a soulmate, mostly because most people don't even know it themselves. You don't get a neat tattoo of your soulmate’s name or of the first words they say to you or anything helpful like that. Stiles wishes he lived in a universe like that. Instead he gets soulmarks - literal marks appearing on his body, reflecting the injuries of his soulmate.

Soulmarks can be anything - from light bruises to red scratches to even the occasional sprain. There's some stories about people breaking bones, but Stiles doesn't give any credit to those - he certainly hasn't ever broken a bone because of his soulmate and he has carried just about every other soulmark known to mankind on his skin.

Hence the thinking his soulmate was a super spy before realising werewolves were a thing.

Thankfully soulmarks are usually less severe than the original injury and never fatal. So instead of the deep scratch your soulmate has, you might end up with a heavy bruise, or a sprain instead of a break. But that right there is also why most people never even realise they have a soulmate. How many bruises do you discover on the regular without remembering how you got them? How would you ever know which came from knocking into the corner of the kitchen cabinet and which appeared because your soulmate accidentally dropped a hammer on their foot?

You see, most people don't suffer from severe injuries on the regular, and thus neither do their soulmates. Unless your soulmate is a werewolf of course.

It took cataloguing all of his cuts and bruises very meticulously, while also keeping track of which scrapes his friends got into, but the evidence finally seems to suggest that his soulmate is one of the pack. That's as far as Stiles has gotten, though. The only one he can rule out for sure is Scott and thank God for that. Stiles loves that guy like a brother, but that's just it - like a brother . Allison can keep his dick, as far as Stiles is concerned.

Everyone else is fair game though, even Jackson, perish the thought. He has mellowed out somewhat after his stint in good, old England, but still, the universe would have a very sick sense of humour if Stiles’ soulmate turned out to be Jackson Whittemore of all people. Stiles wouldn't mind any of the other betas, but really, there's only one member of the pack he is truly interested in.

That's the crux of the matter with soulmarks: How do you know you’ll even like your soulmate? What if you don’t? What if you love someone and they aren’t your soulmate? Or you aren’t theirs?

All of those are reasons why a lot of people do not actively attempt to search out their soulmate.

There are of course those who do - ritualistic woundings are a thing that unfortunately still exists, and pricking the fingers is a wedding rite that is occasionally celebrated, too. Hollywood loves the soulmate trope of course, soulmarks front and centre on posters even if they barely play a role in the film. Whole rows of bookstores are filled with soulmark romances - from Ancient Rome to outer space and everywhere in between. The question whether Cleopatra’s true soulmate was Caesar or Antony is a hotly debated one in certain circles.

Stiles himself has always dreamed of finding his soulmate.

His parents had been soulmates, though they only realised it years after being married, when his dad got shot on patrol by the only bank robber Beacon Hills has ever gotten and his mum bruised like a peach in the same place his shot wound was. Stiles has gotten his delicate complexion from her.

And the hopelessly romantic streak apparently.

His mum had loved that his dad and her had turned out to be soulmates after they married; it made her believe in fate she used to say and that “you'll find your soulmate, too, kochanie , and they’ll leave an even deeper mark on your heart than on your skin. Just be patient, baby.”

Well, Stiles has certainly got the marks on his skin, and someone has also left his mark on Stiles’ heart, but he's not sure those belong together. So, rather than risking learning an answer he doesn't want to know, he stops searching for an answer all together.

He'd like to imagine that his mother would approve of him being patient and waiting for whatever will happen. She'd probably just scold him for giving up, though.

The thought is not enough to make him risk his heart however.

~*~

Over the last few years, a tradition of pre-Christmas pack dinner has developed. Christmas is spent with their respective families, but the last weekend before Christmas is for the pack. It’s done potluck style - everyone likes different things, so instead of trying to find a compromise everyone’s happy with, they had decided to just let everyone bring what they want to eat. Stiles has learned to make an extra large batch of his pierogi , because that is eaten by just about everyone, whereas Lydia’s kale salad goes largely ignored by everybody but her and Jackson (the poor guy really is whipped).

Another tradition that has grown out of that one is the decorating the day before.

That’s not a pack tradition, though. This one is just for Derek and Stiles.

Because while pack dinner happens at Derek’s loft, it has long been decided that Derek is not to be trusted to decorate appropriately for the occasion. So Stiles always comes over the day before to help, and afterwards they order in and watch at least one Christmas classic. In a way it feels like their own little Christmas tradition, and Stiles has grown very protective of it. It’s when they reminisce about the past year and plan ahead for the next. Derek told Stiles about his plans to go back to uni while hanging up tinsel and Stiles spoke about his fear of losing his dad while spraying fake frostwork onto Derek’s windows. It’s as if no secrets exist between them when hanging up Christmas decorations - none except for Stiles’ soulmarks. Those he hasn’t dared to bring up yet.

This year’s decoration theme is definitely forest-y - gnarly roots as candle holders, cones and acorns instead of golden stars and red baubles, and even some mistletoe. According to Derek, Laura hated the artificiality of most Christmas decorations, all those garish colours, plastic-y scents, and the glitter that sticks to everything until Valentine’s Day comes around and covers you in more glitter, just this time in pink. Apparently the Hale siblings used to take turns decorating the house for Christmas, and when it was up to Laura, she did her best to bring the forest into the house.

“When I saw that mistletoe in the Reserve on my last patrol, it made me think of her, and how much she loved hanging them over every single door frame in the house. We never got anything done when Laura had decorated for Christmas because everyone was too busy kissing everyone else,” Derek says, a small smile on his face while his eyes show that he is far away, lost in memories. “I thought it would be nice to remember her through this - decorating like her,” he adds, and then asks, suddenly sounding very unsure: “Unless you think the pack would prefer more traditional decorations?”

“There’s nothing more traditional than mistletoe,” Stiles replies firmly. “And if Lydia says anything, I’ll remind her of the year she thought burnt orange and dark teal would make good Christmas tree colours.”

Derek smiles softly in response, and Stiles would have liked to blame the answering flutter of his heart on heart burn but he has long ago learned that lying to himself is of no use.

So, rustic decorations it is, which brings Stiles to the predicament he is currently in: balancing precariously on one of Derek’s bar stools, mistletoe in one hand, hammer in another and four, no three nails in his mouth. One nail just slipped out and possibly scratched one of his toes on its way down. Stiles doesn’t trust his balance enough to dare look down to check for blood. He’d call for help, but he’s honestly afraid of accidentally swallowing a nail if he opens his mouth. His genius idea to nail the mistletoe to the ceiling in the middle of the room, so that everyone ends up stuck under it again and again suddenly doesn’t look so genius any more.

Carefully, Stiles switches the mistletoe to his other hand, and takes one of the nails out of his mouth with his now free hand. So far, so good, but when he attempts to hammer the nail into the ceiling, he slips, and loses his balance.

Strangely enough, his last thought as he falls goes out to his soulmate. Maybe he’ll feel that.

But instead of hitting the hard floor, Stiles is caught in two strong arms, which break his fall. Somehow he even manages to spit out the remaining nails instead of swallowing them and killing himself that way. When he looks up, Derek’s face is dark with anger and white with fear.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he scolds and shakes Stiles slightly. “You could have broken your neck!”

“You caught me, though, didn’t you?” Stiles says, smiling angelically and tries not to feel disappointed that he didn’t at least break a leg or something. Surely his soulmate would have noticed that .

“And I’m starting to regret it already,” Derek snarks back, but his hands are gentle as he makes sure Stiles has regained his balance enough to stand on his own two feet again.

“Liar, you love me,” Stiles singsongs, and tries to ignore how much he wishes that were true.

“I hate you,” Derek throws back at him over his shoulder, having already turned away, so that Stiles can’t even see his face. And he doesn’t have a built in lie-detector.

“Hate to love me, you mean,” he still needles, and follows Derek, drawn like the moth to the flame, as always.

“If you say so,” Derek replies noncommittally, and Stiles forgets the snarky retort he’d had on the tip of his tongue, because he had been too focused on Derek to look where he was going and had run into the coffee table. Hard. Ouch.

In front of him, Derek stumbles.

Stiles’ shin throbs, and his thoughts are running wild.

He knocks his shin against the coffee table once more, and Derek stumbles again.

Elated, Stiles keeps kicking the coffee table, until Derek finally gets a clue and turns around. His eyes are wide and the look on his face is one of pure astonishment and disbelief. Stiles on the other hand can’t feel his cheeks anymore, he’s grinning so widely. Derek’s gaze caught in his, he deliberately kicks out one last time and his heart jumps when Derek flinches in reaction.

“I was hoping it was you,” he breathes, but at the same time, Derek says: “I was hoping it wasn’t you.”

“What?”

Stiles’ stomach is suddenly a ball of ice, all the elation he was just experiencing gone like a tendril of smoke in the wind. But Derek shakes his head hurriedly and steps closer, hand stretched out towards Stiles.

“No, that’s not what I meant! It’s just - I’m so broken, literally , and I couldn’t bear the thought of having inadvertently hurt you. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do. I know I don’t experience soulmarks the way you do, but the pain I must have caused you!”

The ice in Stiles melts as suddenly as it appeared and he steps forward in turn to take Derek’s still outstretched hand.

“I was hoping it was you,” he says, but then amends: “Well, actually, I was hoping it was James Bond for quite a few years. But once I knew werewolves were a thing, it was always you I was hoping for. I couldn’t know for sure, and I was too scared to ask, so I just kept quietly hoping. My soulmarks didn’t cause me pain so much as they gave me hope!”

Derek is obviously still sceptical and not convinced yet, so Stiles decides he has to haul out the big guns. Pun intended. He squeezes Derek’s hand in reassurance before dropping it and whipping off his shirt. Werewolves run hotter than humans, so the air in Derek’s loft is cool on his skin. The urge to cross his arms in front of his chest to hide himself is almost overwhelming, but the whole point of this exercise is to bare himself to Derek. So he gathers his courage, pulls his shoulders back and stands proud and tall.

“See this?” Stiles points towards a white scar on his right side. “That’s from when Scott fell off his chair in maths and I let myself fall off my chair, too, so he’d not be so embarrassed. Only I managed to cut myself somehow and bled all over everything, so then he was embarrassed for us both and worrying about me to boot.” He points towards a greenish bruise on his hip next. “I got that when I ran into our dining table earlier in the week. No particular reason why, I’m just spatially challenged apparently. I’ve got countless more marks like these, some visible scars, some fading bruises, most gone forever. I only remember the very visible ones, like that scar, or the most recent ones, like that bruise.”

He swallows and then turns half away from Derek.

“See my right shoulder blade? You see nothing, right? That’s where my first soulmark appeared. Or well, it probably wasn’t actually the first one ever, but it was the first one I noticed and recognised. It was just a small scratch with a pale purplish bruise. But I kept looking at it in the mirror because I was so happy. It was proof I had a soulmate, someone just for me. Someone who’d love me for who I am, because, not in spite of. That mark is long gone, but I’ll never forget about it. I’ll never forget about any of them. Like here,” he says, turning back around again, drawing a finger down his stomach and then repeating the motion on Derek’s clothed stomach.

“That’s when I knew for sure it was someone from the pack. That’s when I really started hoping it was you. But you all heal too quickly for me to properly catalogue your injuries, so I couldn’t ever be quite sure. Until now.”

Derek doesn’t immediately say anything. Instead he gently traces the path Stiles’ finger took, stroking across the skin on Stiles’ stomach, which breaks out into goosebumps at the touch.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper and Stiles admits: “You probably will. But I’ll heal - not as quickly as you and the rest of the puppies, but I’ll heal. And I’ll treasure my soulmarks even more than before. But you can always mark me up in more pleasurable ways, too,” he adds with a wink and tilts his head to the side, hopefully revealing his throat in a tantalising way.

“You are the worst,” Derek replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his lips that lets Stiles repeat, this time with conviction: “And still you love me.”

“I do,” Derek acknowledges, and then curves his hand around Stiles’ shoulder, palm touching where his first soulmark appeared. The touch seems to shoot sparks through Stiles’ body, electrifying him. Gentle pressure on his back encourages him to lean in and then Derek’s other hand comes up to guide his chin up, so their lips can meet in a soft, careful kiss.

Before his attention is entirely consumed by Derek and his kisses Stiles thinks: “I didn’t even need the mistletoe.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @drgrlfriend!

Merry Merry!

My gift for the good Doctor for SSS 2018. Hope you like it. :D

Enjoy!

Read on AO3

******

Stiles Stilinski: Baker Extraordinaire, Amateur Detective, Oblivious Idiot

“I swear to god, there’s something weird about him.”

“Stiles, you are so fucking paranoid,” Erica informs him, clearly only half-paying attention.

Stiles watches as Derek Hale, the new florist across the street from Stiles’ bakery, carries a bucket of roses out of his shop and refills his sidewalk stand. He waits until Derek goes back into the shop, trying to see if he does anything suspicious.

“Have you seen him, Erica? He doesn’t look like he should run a flower shop.” For one thing, he’s incredibly buff and looks like a supermodel that got lost on the way to the catwalk. And for another, his eyebrows are drawn down in a distinctly stern fashion that makes Stiles think he’s got murderous thoughts.

Erica sing-songs bitingly, “Are we judging books by their covers, Stiles?”

“No.” He gnaws on his lip, intent on dropping the subject. The door to the flower shop opens again and Stiles sees Derek bring out another bucket of flowers, this time some white frothy thing. “It’s just… well… I mean, look at him.”

Erica sighs, hops down from her seat at the counter, and peers out the window without even trying to hide what she’s doing.

Stiles rolls his eyes at her utter lack of stealth. He stands to the side of the window, biting his thumbnail and watching his best friend’s face for any reaction.

After another moment of openly staring, Erica gives her verdict: “Well, he’s hot as fuck.”

“That’s it?”

She shrugs, heading back to the counter. “That’s all I got.”

He throws his hands into the air. “You are utterly useless.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Stiles. He’s just a really hot guy who’s apparently really good at making bouquets.”

“There’s something weird about him,” he insists. “And I’m gonna find out what it is.”

She glances at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be getting the muffins ready? Our after-school rush starts in fifteen minutes.”

He lets it lie, for now.

-----

Stiles lives above his bakery, like any proper city dweller. He closes the shop in the evening and retreats upstairs to read or watch movies or sleep. Whatever he wants, since he’s single. So single. Single as a Pringle, which doesn’t really make much sense, considering Pringles come in sleeves with like, a hundred more…

Anyways.

Stiles enjoys his time alone, really he does, but sometimes it’s nice to have company. Lately, company has come in the form of a big stray dog that ambled up onto his balcony one night a couple weeks ago.

It’s become routine, now, that Stiles closes up shop and his visitor is usually by about thirty minutes after.

That night, he smiles at the sound of claws on the steps and grins when two black ears poke over the edge of the steps followed by a long snout and curious eyes.

“Hiya, bud,” he greets, patting his knee. “How was your day?”

The dog huffs and trots over to him, leaning hard enough to almost knock him over.

“Easy, dude. God, you’re strong. Who’s a big, strong man? Hmm?” he coos, scratching under the dog’s chin while its eyes half-close in bliss.

He pushes up his sleeves, prepared to reach around to get both hands on the scruff that drapes over the dog’s shoulders. Stiles laughs as the dog licks at the exposed tattoos climbing up his arms.

“Like them, big guy?” he chuckles.

He points to each one, explaining them: the compass for his mom, the star for his dad, the stylized measuring cups for his babcia, the sleek black cat for Erica…

“I want more, but I figure two sleeves are good for now.” He pats the dog’s chest as it pants happily at him.

The dog’s ears prick forward and it gives Stiles’ cheek one last lick before it clicks away down the stairs.

“Later, dude,” Stiles calls before going back to his computer.

See the thing is, Stiles is a researcher.

Well, obviously, professionally he’s a baker and a damn good one at that. But in his personal life, he’s been known to be sucked down many a rabbit hole when it comes to an obscure subject.

Since he’s suspicious as all hell about Derek Hale, he looks Derek up online. He gets a website for Derek’s shop and a couple of articles from the Beacon Hills newspaper about the place opening. Though he’s tempted to hack into the BHPD database with his dad’s access credentials, he leaves that route alone and settles for getting his information another way.

He moves on and researches flowers. The meanings of flowers, the uses of herbs, the symbolism of certain corsages, and anything else he can find. There’s a lot of occult use for flowers and medicinal ones, but Derek doesn’t strike him as witch. But hell, maybe he is. Stiles doesn’t know what a witch looks like since he doesn’t know any.

At least, he doesn’t think he does.

Hmmm. Another mystery for another time.

On one Tuesday morning, he catches sight of Derek putting out flowers and notices that the sides of his displays are lined in white heather.

“Why does he have protection flowers around his stands?” he mutters to himself.

Erica makes him jump when she replies lowly from right next to him, “Maybe to keep creepers like you away.”

Stiles glares at her and doesn’t bother to comment, just storms away into the kitchen as Erica goes back to the counter to talk to the customers.

-----

The first time Stiles actually speaks to Derek is weird.

Stiles is perusing the avocados at the grocery store when someone reaches across him, picks one up, and holds it out for him. “This one is perfect.”

Stiles takes it, then he realizes who’s standing next to him.

Up close, Derek Hale is even more magnificent to look at. Long lashes, thick beard, some kind of kaleidoscope eyes. Goddammit.

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, dropping the avocado in his basket and about to dart when Derek speaks again.

“You’re Stiles, right?” Derek’s voice is soft, softer than Stiles thought it would be. “You own the bakery across the street from my flower shop.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Derek smiles and it’s soft and slightly flirtatious. “I heard you have the best cookies in the entire county.”

Stiles smirks, always apt to brag about his baking reputation. “Three counties, actually.”

“Three counties. Well now I’m impressed,” Derek teases and something flutters in Stiles’ chest.

He reels himself back. Don’t fall for that smile and those dreamy eyes! He’s hiding something! “Mmhmm.” Maybe I can get it out of him. Or at least talk to him enough to figure it out myself. He slyly offers, “Come by the bakery sometime and you’ll see. They’ll change your life.”

Derek nods. “That sounds great.”

“Okie dokie,” Stiles replies, turning around and walking in the direct opposite direction.

The first step of his plan is done. Now all he has to do is catch Derek in the act. The act of… whatever it is that he’s clearly up to…

-----

Stiles didn’t really expect Derek to come the next day, so he’s confused when Erica pops her head into the kitchen right when they open and says, “Hottie McHotstuff is here to see you.”

“Who?” Stiles asks, half-distracted as he pulls muffins from a tin and places them on a tray to cool.

Erica sighs. “Derek, obviously.”

“Oh.” He dusts off his hands. “Wonder what he wants.”

“I wonder…” she mutters as she goes back out front.

He glances down at himself and unties his apron, patting at himself to shake off the excess flour and scratching at a patch of dried blue frosting on the stomach of his t-shirt.

When he emerges, slightly less floury, he sees Erica talking to a pretty redhead girl at the end of the bar. Rolling his eyes, he scans the place and finds Derek looking at the shelves filled with his babcia’s baking tools.

“Cool, huh?” he asks, sliding up next to Derek.

“Very.” Derek glances over, his nostrils flaring a little, and nods at the hand-mixer. “Family heirloom?”

“Remarkably spot on.” He points at the bowls, propped up to display the painted bottoms. “I learned how to make my first cookies with that mixer and those bowls.”

Derek’s looking at his arms, running his eyes over the tattoos if Stiles had to guess, but he smiles and teases, “Your Three-County-Wide Famous cookies.”

Stiles grins, heading back behind the counter. “What kind do you like?” he asks, leaning over the glass.

Derek points out the peanut butter – not serial killer material, most people like peanut butter – and white chocolate lemon – Stiles’ mom’s favorite, he can’t be mad about that – and caramel – perfectly normal choice, his caramel cookies are divine.

Half mad that he can’t narrow anything down by the man’s cookie preferences, he puts the special twist in the bag that keeps it closed and hands it across the counter to Derek with a smile. “Enjoy them. Have a good one.”

Derek blinks then smiles. He takes the bag, shaking his head a little as he leaves, the redhead trailing behind him.

When he turns around, Erica is staring at him, mouth open. “What?”

“Did… did you just brush off the hottest guy that’s ever flirted with you?”

“I didn’t brush him off. And he is not the hottest guy to ever flirt with me.”

“Ehhhhh…” Erica squints and wobbles his hand in the air.

He glares at her. “Why the hell are we friends?”

She shrugs. “Got me.”

“It doesn’t even matter,” Stiles adds under his breath. “He obviously just left with his girlfriend.”

“Who, Lydia?”

“Whatever the redhead’s name is.”

“She’s not his girlfriend. She said they’re practically brother and sister and she came to help him with the flower shop for a couple months.”

“Really?”

The small voice in Stiles’ head starts shouting, insisting that there’s something extra weird going on.

He’s just got to figure out what it is!

-----

Stiles sprawls on his back porch and fiddles with the dog’s toes.

His new friend is almost wriggling with pleasure, which is odd because normally dogs hate having their feet touched, but it’s helping him think, so it’s whatever.

“I have a problem, dude,” he sighs. “There’s this guy…”

The dog huffs when he stops his ministrations, snorting and kicking his feet.

“Oh, right, sorry.” He starts back up. “Anyways, there’s this guy who is… a conundrum. I don’t know what to think about him. He’s… man, he’s good looking and he’s a florist, of all things. And, I’m not exactly an expert on flowers even after all my research, but he seems really good at it.”

He sighs, wondering how he can get Derek to talk to him.

“Maybe… maybe I can get a tour of the greenhouse? Or his shop…” he muses half-aloud. That could definitely work. “We are new neighbors, after all…”

The dog snorts again and rolls to its feet, shoving its nose against Stiles’ face and licking him.

“Ew, dude, gross!” he laughs, pushing the dog away.

The dog’s tongue lolls out and it wags its tail before trotting away and down the stairs.

-----

Derek looks up as Stiles enters the shop a couple days later. “Stiles.”

“Hey,” he greets, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thought I’d come by and see the place. Maybe get a tour, if you’ve got time.”

Derek nods, looking pleased, and gestures to a side counter. “I have to finish an order, but I’ll only be a second.”

“No worries.” He ambles over and looks at the vases on display, enjoying the smells and colors of the flowers around him.

Lydia pops up next to his elbow and he jumps. “See anything you like?” she asks with a cat-like smile.

“Uh, not… not really?” He glances over her shoulder as two guys come from the back and walk over behind the counter.

“This is Scott and Isaac,” Lydia offers. “They work here too.”

Scott gives him a look, takes a deep breath, and asks, “Can you make stir-fry?”

“Uh,” he shakes his head, “I’m not a very good cook.”

“But you’re a professional baker,” Isaac almost accuses.

“Yeah, I bake things. It’s not exactly the same.” He thinks about it and adds, “I mean, I guess I’m okay at like… casseroles but that’s about it.”

“So you can’t make stir-fry?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I could try I guess.”

Scott frowns. “How are you alive if you don’t cook? What do you eat?”

He laughs. “I subsist mainly on take-out and frozen food.”

Lydia pokes a sharp-nailed finger at his abdomen. “How are you so skinny then? That food is terrible for you.”

“Hey, I’ve got muscles. I can carry three bags of flour by myself.”

“Not bad, I guess,” she sniffs.

The three of them look toward the door as Derek comes through.

He looks between them. “What’s going on?”

Stiles notices the angelic faces that Scott, Isaac, and Lydia wear and he turns to Derek. “Hi again.”

“Hi.”

“Would you care to save me from the Inquisition? They’re making me feel bad about my inability to cook and also my weight, I think.”

“Sure,” Derek laughs, jerking his head toward the door. “Come on.”

They go through the back of the shop, past coolers and sinks and a big storage room, and end up in a small alley that leads to a door.

“Greenhouse,” Derek explains, opening the door and gesturing him inside. “I need to water the plants anyway.”

“Cool.” He keeps his hands in his pockets, sure that he’ll kill something if he touches it. He’s got a notorious Black Thumb. “So,” he starts, aiming for casual interest, “what brings you to Beacon Hills?”

“My family lived here before.”

“What? When?”

Derek frowns at him. “Your dad is the Sheriff. Surely you’re familiar with the Hale fire?”

It clicks – he’s an idiot because it shouldn’t have taken him this long to put two and two together – and Stiles shakes his head. “Holy shit. I guess I just didn’t…” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Wait… so… you moved back to town, even though your family’s house almost caught fire?”

Derek shrugs. “No one was hurt. And the land is still in our name. I wanted to branch out to my own shop. It made sense.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he mutters, but his mind is going a mile a minute. There’s not really anything strange about Derek’s story… so why does Stiles still have the weirdest feeling that he’s hiding something?

Derek holds a sunflower out to him with a smile.

“Oh, cool, thanks.” He tucks the flower behind his ear and grins. “How do I look?”

His eyes do a slow sweep over Stiles’ face, lingering on his mouth. “Really good.”

“Aw, thanks dude.” Stiles claps him on the shoulder.

Derek clears his throat, stating slowly. “I have to be honest, I’m kind of getting some mixed signals here.”

Stiles blinks at him, half-started on another spiral of thought about what Derek’s deal could be. “What?”

Derek smiles, shaking his head. “Never mind. Do you want to see the hybrid orchids I’ve been working on?”

“Sure.”

-----

Everything is hunky-dory for a while. Stiles tries to figure Derek out, Derek shakes his head at him with that strange smile and always sends him back to the bakery with flowers or plants.

It’s all good until the night of the full moon when he realizes he’s forgotten his phone charger at Derek’s shop.

He wonders if he has an extra somewhere, but guesses he probably doesn’t since the port on his new phone has rendered all his other chargers useless.

“Stupid upgrades,” he mutters, pulling himself up from his bed and shoving his bare feet into his shoes.

It’s a quick jaunt across the street and he loops around the back. The door to the greenhouse is open and he’s about to slip inside when he sees the black dog that’s been hanging out with him.

Before he can call out to the dog, it shivers and starts to change. Its body shifts, elongating and twisting and moving until Derek Hale, in all his glory, is standing in the dog’s place.

Stiles freezes, his heart climbing into his throat.

Derek is… Derek just… what the fuck? What the fuck?!

He takes a step back and Derek whips his head around, snarling with a mouthful of sharp teeth as his eyes flash bright red.

Stiles squeaks and takes off, sprinting across the street and scrambling up the stairs until he half falls into his apartment. He locks his doors and windows, pulls all his curtains closed, and sequesters himself in his bedroom with a baseball bat.

He has pretty fucked up dreams, so he barely sleeps. When Erica comments on how tired he looks the next day, he just levels her with a flat stare and keeps kneading his bread dough.

“Damn, okay,” she says quietly, clearly getting that he’s not having it today.

The only other time she bothers him is to poke her head into the kitchen and tell him Derek is out front.

“I’m busy.”

She frowns, studying his face. “Is there something I need to kick his ass for?”

“No. Just tell him I’m busy, please.”

“Okay…” She goes back out front. A few minutes later, she comes back in and asks, “Are you sure I can’t kick his ass?”

He snorts. “No. It’s not something you can fix by kicking his ass. No matter how entertaining that would be.”

“Hmf. Well, let me know if that changes.”

“Will do.”

-----

A purple hyacinth is waiting on the doorstep of the bakery when Stiles comes downstairs the next morning. Curled up next to the pot is his phone charger.

He stares down at it and sighs, lips pursed. He grabs the charger and thinks about taking the plant inside but, when he thinks about Derek’s glowing eyes, he decides to leave it where it is.

Even though he knows purple hyacinths mean that the giver is saying I’m sorry and he’s not actually sure that Derek needs to be apologizing for anything anyways.

At seven, when he’s locking the front door, he sees the flowers are still there. After a moment, he leans down, grabs the pot up, and brings it inside, placing it in one of the windows.

“What is that?” Erica asks as she sweeps.

“Purple hyacinth.”

She studies it, touching the flowers gently. “What does it mean?”

Stiles hums, leaning on the counter. “‘I’m sorry’.”

She glances at him. “You gonna forgive him for whatever he did?”

He shrugs, walking back into the kitchen.

-----

It's been a week and he misses Derek.

It just freaking figures that while trying to figure out Derek’s secret, all Stiles did was end up developing a fondness for the guy.

He curses his own foolishness as he tries to figure out a plant that he can bring by that says sorry I freaked out once I realized you were apparently a creature of the night please hang out with me again and also maybe go on a date with me because I kind of like you a lot.

It ends up being too hard, so he does what he does best: he bakes.

When Stiles enters the shop, it’s empty. He looks around, still a little jumpy, and rings the small bell.

Lydia is suddenly behind the counter and Stiles knows she wasn’t there a second ago. She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

Stiles plays it cool and holds up the container in his hand. “I come bearing a peace offering.”

Lydia eyes him then gestures for him to go through the opening in the counter. “He’s in the greenhouse.”

Stiles tries to stay out of snatching range, just in case, and Lydia snorts, clearly amused.

When he pokes his head into the greenhouse, Derek is standing stiffly next to the herb garden.

Stiles makes his way over. “Hey.”

Derek eyes him warily. “Hi.”

“So, uh, I was gonna get you a mistletoe plant but I researched it and apparently mistletoe is just a giant parasite, so. Then I thought, well, maybe a holly plant. It kind of reminds me of you. It symbolizes hopefulness, but that seemed a little too Christmas-y, you know? Next it was red tulips, to tell you that I like you but I couldn’t find any red ones for some reason.”

Derek blinks at him, looking startled at the flow of words.

Stiles, of course, keeps talking. “Plus, I don’t really speak Flower the way you do, at least, not that type of flower.” He chuckles nervously. “F-L-O-U-R I totally speak fluently. So, here, I made these for you with my sick translation skills.”

Then, like a totally reasonable adult, Stiles shoves the container at Derek and flees before the other man can even say a word.

When he gets back into the bakery, he walks straight past Erica and into the kitchen, throwing himself down on the ratty couch in the corner and putting his hands over his face.

“What’s the matter? He didn’t like the cookies?” Erica asks after a moment from somewhere near his feet.

“I have no idea if he liked them. I just word-vomited about plants and then shoved them at him before I fled like the hounds of Hell were chasing me.” He almost chokes on a laugh at the inadvertent turn of phrase.

Erica sighs. “You’ve got serious issues.”

“I know!” Stiles wails. “I’m gonna die alone!”

“Probably,” Erica tuts sympathetically as she pats his foot. “I, on the other hand, am going to marry Lydia and we’re going to have lots of pretty, pretty babies.”

“You’re really bad at comforting people,” he complains.

“Yeah… luckily that’s not why we’re friends.”

“Why are we friends again?”

Instead of joking, she answers honestly: “Because it’s important for you to have someone to kick you in the ass every now and then.” She stands up and points down at him. “Now, you’re going to get up, finish baking those cranberry orange scones, and then, if Derek hasn’t come over by then, you’re going to go back and calmly ask him out on another date.”

He stares up at her, trying to figure out if he’s more disconcerted by how bossy she’s being or by the fact that it’s all good advice.

“But what if he says no?” he asks, his voice oddly small.

She gives him a look. “He’s not going to say no, Stiles. Not even you could blow this one. He’s smitten with you.”

He scowls at her. “I’m sure there was a compliment buried in there somewhere.”

She smiles, patting his knee. “I’m sure there was.”

When she leaves, he only wallows on the couch for another couple of minutes before pulling himself up and baking the scones, moping and pouting the whole time.

Instead of going back across the street, though, he chooses the coward’s route and retreats upstairs. Sitting on his porch, he sighs, wondering how long it’ll be before he lives this down.

Footsteps on his stairs make his head jerk up and, instead of the black dog, Derek appears at the top of the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He jerks his chin at the chair next to Stiles. “Can I join you?”

“Uh… sure.”

Derek looks around curiously, brushing his fingers over the edge of the seat and scuffing his feet as he sits. He looks like he wants to say something but he’s holding himself back.

“So what’s up?”

Derek blinks at him slowly. “Just thinking that I’ve never been up here on two legs before,” he explains softly.

Stiles stares at him, taking that in. “Y’know, I… should maybe be mad at you for not disclosing that you were a person under the fur, but, if I’m being completely honest,” he winces, “I may have hung out with you so that I could figure out your secret.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, but not like in a bad way?” He waves that away. “Okay, even I hear how that sounds. What I mean is… I could tell there was something about you that was different. I just… didn’t know what it was.”

“And so you decided that being alone with the suspicious person was a wise decision?”

“Well, I didn’t think you were dangerous. Just…” he shrugs, “on the run, maybe. Like, witness protection or something.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Look, I know it was pretty dumb, I just, sometimes I get hyper focused on things and can’t let them go. You were a mystery I was trying to solve.”

Derek huffs a laugh. “Well, did you solve it?”

“Almost, but I… I have to ask.” He pauses, trying to phrase it the right way. “What are you guys? Like… you know what I mean.”

He nods. “Scott, Isaac, and I are werewolves. Lydia is a banshee.”

“That’s… interesting.”

“That’s it?”

“Forgive me if my reaction isn’t what you expected,” he drawls. “My former take on reality is kind of imploding a little.” He lets out a long breath. “Okay, so, you guys are werewolves. Why are you really back in town?”

“My mother told me that someone from the Hale pack is always supposed to live in Beacon Hills. There was one relative still living in town, a human pack member. Recently, she got married and moved to be with her spouse. My mom sent me and my pack to take her place.”

Stiles stares at him. “You’re being very forthcoming with information that seems pretty sensitive.”

“I guess,” Derek muses, “I feel like it’s okay if you know. I… I trust you.”

“Well that’s…” Stiles can feel his cheeks warming. “Um, thanks, I guess.”

“So, was that the only reason?”

“What?”

“That you hung out with me. Because you were trying to figure out the mystery?”

Stiles answers honestly. “Initially, yeah. I can’t lie that I’d like to get to know you, though, for real this time. Uh, if you’re… if you’re still interested.”

Derek studies him for a moment, then holds out his hand. “Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf, florist, still interested in you.”

Stiles smiles. “Stiles Stilinski, human, baker extraordinaire, amateur detective, oblivious idiot, definitely interested in you too. Would you like to go on a real date with me tomorrow?”

Derek smiles back. “I’d love to.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Areiton!

I really hope you like this! ♥

Title from "Post Blue" by Placebo.

Read on AO3

******

it's in your frequency

Stiles wakes up early on Christmas morning with the distinct feeling that something is very wrong, gasping and shaking and reaching for someone who isn’t there.

It’s a miracle his dad hadn’t woken up, too. Despite the lack of comforting, however, Stiles is glad. His dad had been far too exhausted coming home late in the night from his shift. It hadn’t even been a supernatural problem, just a regular people problem—the kind of people problem that only gets worse around the holidays.

It’s only 3am, Stiles realizes as he starts to process his surroundings. He’s still shivering. Maybe he just had a nightmare, but it doesn’t feel like it. (Does it ever with him anymore?)

Rubbing at bleary eyes, Stiles thinks it looks unnaturally light out. There’s a weird glow coming through the window but he knows it isn’t the full moon—just past, though, so the waning gibbous is still big and bright, but not this bright. It’s one thing Stiles actually keeps track of.

He gets up to at least look out the window, perhaps close the blinds even though the urgency in his veins hasn’t sizzled out, but he finds himself blinking, awed. And confused.

Outside, there’s a layer of snow. Real, brilliantly white snow that reflects the moonlight until everything is awash in a strange glow.

Now, Stiles has seen snow, but not in Beacon Hills. Usually they have to drive a couple of hours up into the mountains.

Snow.

“The hell?”

Stiles should probably take that as a sign to stay in, and yet there’s a tug in his chest. His curiosity—or something else—must urge him on because he’s throwing on layers and grabbing his keys. When he gets outside, he just stares at his Jeep for a long moment. He’s never driven in the snow before and he has chains for his tires in the back, just in case. He just never thought that’d be a thing unless he, you know, went somewhere.

The snow isn’t that bad though, and Stiles is climbing into his car before he remembers that he should tell his dad he’s gone. Fumbling his phone out of his pocket, he sends a quick “be right back” and then he’s driving.

Something is pulling him, drawing him out, telling him where to go. He has no idea what it is, but he can’t deny it.

He finds himself at the edges of the Preserve and his breath catches. He hasn’t really been out here since—

Since someone left.

It hurts to think about him so Stiles generally tries not to. He’s tried valiantly to tell himself that Derek should’ve left and was right to leave and the million reasons why Derek shouldn’t be in Beacon Hills, but it doesn’t quell the ache. Some part of him had thought— had thought that—

Well. It doesn’t matter.

Still, he’s here.

Stiles gets out, his breath coming out in large white puffs, and he stumbles because he’s not watching where he’s going. The insistent tug is harder now, stronger, and Stiles can barely keep up with his own feet as he makes his way through the trees.

The woods are deathly quiet beyond the crunch of snow and leaves beneath his shoes and he can feel his face going cold and numb.

Suddenly, sound comes back to him. He hears whispers on the wind, the occasional skittering of squirrels and birds and whatever other little creatures must live in the woods, and then he’s stopping, like he’s close enough to whatever homing beacon that he now has to figure out the exact location on his own. The thing that’s drawing him in has to be almost beneath him because he feels a thrumming down to his bones that wants to shake him out of his skin.

He spots a large pool of darkness in the stark white snow, shadowed though it may be by the trees.

Stiles approaches slowly and his heart is in his throat as it comes fully into view.

There are no wolves in California.

He takes another step.

A sleek black wolf is lying there in the snow and it isn’t moving. With a terror more chilling than the icy winds picking up around him, Stiles kneels beside the wolf, knees wet and probably freezing. If Stiles could feel anything except his own fear, his body would likely protest.

His hand trembles as he reaches out, smooths it gently over the wolf’s soft cheek.

Fur melts away, leaving flesh behind.

“Derek,” Stiles chokes. And he had known. As soon as he had seen the wolf, he had known without a doubt what it was, who it was.

Normally, the fact that Derek is naked would be more alarming—and in some of the best ways—but right now Stiles just wonders if he’s going to freeze to death. Or if he already has.

Derek is heavy, stiff from the cold, and Stiles holds back the tears but can feel them welling up hot and desperate in his eyes, his vision blurring. He pulls Derek’s head up onto his lap and feels for a pulse and his hands are so numb it should be impossible and yet—

And yet when he touches Derek, it’s like a shockwave. He knows immediately that Derek is alive, but barely. Derek needs help, and soon.

With the kind of adrenaline strength that allows mothers to lift cars, Stiles slings Derek’s arm over his shoulder and carry-drags him back to the Jeep. It’s a whole new struggle to actually get Derek into the backseat, but he manages. He has an extra sweatshirt in the back, tossed aside a few days ago, and he places it over Derek, removes a couple of his own layers to add to the makeshift covers.

Derek moves for the first time on his own, snuffles a little into Stiles’s clothes, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief that Derek can do even that.

Only when Derek is as settled as he’s going to get and Stiles has gotten into the driver’s seat does Stiles realize how badly he’s shaking. The adrenaline has faded enough for the ache and panic to return. It takes him a couple of minutes to even get the key into the ignition, dropping it to the floor more than once and scrambling to find it again. He swipes a hand over his face, cold on cold, like touching someone else’s skin. Flurries have formed outside, ruthless, blocking out the road and everything else.

“I need to go,” Stiles says, voice high and reedy. “I need to get him somewhere. He’s not— He’s not gonna die here.” His brain supplies the image of Derek so soon after they’d met, pale like he is now, on the verge of death like he is now.

His blood still stains the passenger seat and Stiles has to glance back, look at Derek, reassure himself that that hadn’t been the end and that Derek is here, at least in some capacity. But for how much longer?

He needs to get out of here.

The falling snow parts before the Jeep, keeps swirling off to the side, but not in front of him.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate, starts driving before he thinks to decide where to go. Home? To Deaton? To Scott?

Peter is technically Derek’s family but Stiles can’t completely rule out Peter as a culprit for this...well, whatever this is that’s happening to Derek.

He hopes Deaton doesn’t have plans for the holidays as he heads toward the veterinary clinic at 4:30 in the dark.

He dials Deaton and pumps his fist victoriously when Deaton answers, sounding less sleepy than anyone really should anytime before the sun is up.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Stiles tells him, which is a push. It should be at least twenty and he should really be careful in the roads, but so far the snow has been staying out of his way. For some unknown reason that Stiles is choosing not to spend much thought on.

Stiles glances between the road and Derek the entire drive.

At the clinic, Stiles pounds on the door, having seen Deaton’s car in the lot.

“Come on, come on, you crazy—”

Deaton clears his throat behind Stiles and Stiles spins around, clutching his chest. “What was that?”

“Whatever, sorry,” Stiles puffs out. There are wet spots on Deaton’s shoulders where the snow is falling on him, melting, and Stiles looks down at himself. The snow isn’t hitting him. He glances up, sees dark, open sky, but nothing touches him.

The Jeep should be dusted in white, but it, too, is just wet with the snow that had come earlier.

Deaton reads his thoughts far too easily. “Spark,” he reiterates, and Stiles gawps at him.

He really would love to know more, but not as much as wants Derek to live. He waves Deaton over to the Jeep and opens the door slowly, doesn’t want Derek overly exposed to the cold or Deaton’s eyes—as if Deaton isn’t about to see his whole naked body anyway.

“Has he said anything? Where did you find him?”

Stiles answers Deaton as best he can as they manage to get Derek into the clinic.

“So he was just there in the snow?” Deaton emphasizes. “As a wolf? Nothing around him?” At Stiles’s shake of the head, he continues. “No blood?” Again no. Deaton pauses, his next words too deliberately casual as he starts his examination. “How did you find him?”

Stiles swallows. It’s a fair enough question to ask...at five in the morning on Christmas Day. “I just… I just found him. I woke up and I knew something was wrong and I found him.” Stiles tries to shrug it off. “Maybe it’s the spark thing, like you said.” His tongue feels too thick in his mouth, like it could choke him.

Deaton hums and continues looking over Derek, poking and prodding and testing things.

Stiles bites at his thumb and fidgets, paces, keeping his eyes on the two of them and searching Deaton’s expression for any telltale signs of what they might be dealing with. Deaton’s frown stays pretty much the same the whole time as he keeps going.

Stiles is shocked from his concentration when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He answers the call with far too much forced cheer. “Heyyy, Daddy-o. Father of mine. Father Christmas.”

“Where the hell are you, Stiles?” His voice is sleep-rough, like a normal person’s should be.

“Deaton’s,” Stiles says, explaining quickly over his father’s concern that everything is a-okay and that he’ll be home soon, and you better not be eating anything fried when I get there.

Deaton is writing notes when Stiles hangs up and Stiles bounds over, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“So?”

Letting out a sigh and glancing sidelong at Derek, Deaton’s frown actually deepens. “My best guess? Someone tried to rip out his soul and it didn’t work. It’s going to take powerful magic to bring him back to himself again. If he wakes up now…”

Deaton doesn’t continue and Stiles rolls his eyes. “If he wakes up now, what?”

“If he wakes up now, if this isn’t fixed, Derek won’t be Derek anymore. I’m not sure he’ll even be able to shift.”

Panic rises, clawing its way up Stiles’s throat. “But he’s a born werewolf and this isn’t— This isn’t like what Kate did to him? Something he can fix in himself?” He can’t even look at Derek because if Derek is going to— If Derek wakes up—

Deaton shakes his head. “Some deep part of him is broken, can’t fit into place as it should.”

Stiles wills down his anxiety, tries to concentrate on the useful parts of what Deaton said. “Powerful magic? Don’t you have, like, magic? Power? Can’t you fix him?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Stiles. Do you remember when Cora had been poisoned? Derek gave up his alpha power to save her. That’s a lot of power. This—” Deaton tilts his head. “With what’s happened, it needs to be strong. A connection might work, but it’s unlikely you would be able to…” Deaton trails off, considers Stiles in a way that Stiles does not like to be considered by Deaton. “But you found him.”

“Yeah…?” Stiles flails his hands. “What does that have to do with saving him? I don’t think ‘spark’”—complete with air quotes—“equals mega powerful magic.”

“It doesn’t,” Deaton confirms, but he’s barely listening. He starts to move to the side of the metal exam table, then looks at Stiles peevishly like Stiles should’ve known to follow.

Stiles glares at Deaton the whole five steps over and then jerks back when Deaton grabs his hand. “Whoa! What are you doing?”

Deaton inhales deeply, centering himself, and Stiles really thinks that he should be the annoyed one, not Deaton. “Stiles, I need you to remain calm, for Derek’s sake.”

Stiles goggles at him, but then he very purposefully rolls his shoulders, tries to even out. “Why?” he asks, as calmly as he can.

“Because if this doesn’t work, things may get worse.” Deaton doesn’t give Stiles a chance to react after that, instead taking a scalpel and slicing it across Stiles’s palm, then Derek’s. “Grab his hand, quickly!” he urges.

“But—” Stiles knows you aren’t supposed to press gaping wounds together. It sounds like the most basic tenet of hygiene that one can possibly follow, and yet, here he is, slotting his sliced palm against Derek’s. “What is this supposed to—”

He can feel it, can feel Derek stitching back together inside. Stiles nearly falls to his knees, but Derek’s hand is gripping his tightly.

“Don’t let go,” Deaton tells him, as if Stiles could.

He doesn’t have the energy to spare to shoot Deaton an incredulous look because there’s a conduit between him and Derek, life force flowing back and forth through it until Stiles can’t help but close his eyes, exhausted.

He’s being tugged upright by the grip on his hand and, groggily, he stares...into Derek’s now open eyes.

“It worked,” Deaton says, sounding smug. “Derek, I think you should be the one to explain.”

“Explain?” Stiles asks, still blinking, still exhausted.

Derek is sitting on the exam table and pulls Stiles closer to hold him up, looking far too amazed and guilt-ridden all at once.

“You and Deaton and your stupid mysteries,” Stiles murmurs, but he falls against Derek’s chest anyway. “Was it the spark?”

Stiles feels more than sees the way Derek shakes his head.

“Then, what?” Stiles pushes back, wants to look into Derek’s face.

“You want the whole story?” Derek asks, obviously struggling with the idea of it

Stiles shakes his head, but points a finger in Derek’s face. “But later, yes. Just the”—and he gestures between them, to their hands—“this thing right now. Because I think I’m going to pass out in, like, two seconds.” He pushes the finger into Derek’s chest accusingly.

“I don’t know everything about it,” Derek says, “but I know what I felt. I’ve never— I never thought I would feel it.”

“Feel what exactly?” Stiles demands.

Derek lifts their conjoined hands and closes his eyes. Breathes in, out.

Stiles can feel something wiggling its way through them, something grasping him— No, not grasping. Holding. Safety and comfort and rightness.

Derek opens his eyes, squeezes Stiles’s hand. “You’re my mate.”

“‘Mate,’” Stiles repeats, but he starts to nod, everything making sense in his fuzzy brain.

“It’s a lot,” Derek tells him, scoops him up into his arms. “Sleep.”

Stiles starts to nod, then shakes his head. “Christmas!” he shouts, trails off again. “Gotta...home...dad…”

“Okay.” Derek carries Stiles to the car with far more grace than Stiles had done to Derek. After he grabs some clothes from Deaton, he drives Stiles home.

In his sleep, Stiles grabs for Derek’s hand, lets out a happy sigh when Derek holds on.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @bloodgutsandstarbucks!

Read on AO3

******

Love Don’t Lie

Stiles set his paperwork on his desk and caught the eye of his new partner, Scott McCall. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Scott grinned. “I have the best idea.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Oh?”

“Since you’re new in town, I was thinking, you probably don’t know many people, and you moved into that big house outside of town…I could set you up with someone!”

Stiles’s jaw hung open. “Like a date?”

“Yes! But don’t worry, I have someone in mind. It’s perfect, because he’s new to town, too!”

Stiles laughed a little hysterically. “No, no, I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m actually happily-”

“No, really, he's perfect. His name is Derek Hale, he works with my wife. He's new to Beacon Hills, just like you, and he hasn’t gotten to know anyone yet, either!” Scott’s eyes widened and rounded, shining like a cartoon.

Stiles paused. “...Oh? And he's single?”

“Well, we’re pretty sure. He doesn’t have a ring, and he hasn’t mentioned anyone. How about this!” Scott waved his phone. “I’ll tell Kira to relay the message that you’re interested, and then he’ll let us know if he’s single or not.”

Stiles covered a laugh with a cough. He could just imagine what Derek's face would do at that little invitation. “Sure. You do that.”

“Great! I’ll let her know! Oh, also, we’re supposed to go check out a gnome thief on Saundersville Road,” he added cheerfully.

“Small towns are nothing but excitement, eh?”

Scott laughed.

Stiles grimaced at the menu in front of him, trying to avoid eye contact with his…date.

An irritable sigh made him finally look up. “You shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“There were circumstances,” Stiles hissed. “And excuse me, you agreed, too!”

“I only agreed because I was told you’d already said yes!” Derek set his own menu down with a slap.

Stiles pointed at him. “And you didn’t want to disappoint your new buddy, right?”

“Kira is my boss, I couldn’t just tell her no after she said you’d agreed! It would be rude!”

“Yeah, well, Scott’s my partner, and I couldn’t say no to him, either!” Stiles held up his hands. “Look, we just have to pretend to date for a little while, until they lose interest. No big deal, and no sad puppy eyes from Scott.”

Derek stared at him. “Stiles,” he began.

“No, really, it’ll be no big deal, I swear. All we have to do is go out after work together once a week for a staged date. Like this!”

“I hate going out to eat.”

He sighed. “Homemade is better, but seriously. Three dates is all it’ll take for them to take a step back.”

Derek sighed deeply.

“If you’d seen Scott’s puppy dog eyes, you’d understand.”

“Kira’s got them, too,” he said.

“So, it’s a deal?”

“Fine,” he mumbled grudgingly. “It’s a deal.”

Scott cornered Stiles at the station the next morning. “So?” he asked eagerly. “How’d it go?”

Stiles almost spat out his coffee; he’d briefly forgotten about the nonsense that was his life. “Uh—good. We’re going to go out again on, uh, Friday,” he fabricated, nearly wincing. He’d have to let Derek know.

Scott lit up. “That’s awesome! I knew you two would get along.”

“Uh-huh, yep. It was great.”

“Where are you guys going?”

“Ummm…”

Scott beamed. “You should volunteer at the animal shelter!”

Stiles’s face must have done something weird.

“No, really. I know it sounds weird, but it’s actually a good way to get to know someone. Plus, cute animals and doing a good deed! It’ll be perfect, I have a friend who works there, and she can make sure you get an easy job, you won’t even have to clean up any poop.”

“Ah…”

Scott’s eyes rounded just a little.

Stiles sighed. “That sounds…fun. We’ll do that.”

“Great! Also, we got assigned to take statements for a robbery.” He grinned and clapped his shoulder before walking out of the break room.

Stiles rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone out. He was sure Derek was going to love the plan.

Stiles was in love. Their names were Snickers, Milky Way, and Kit Kat. “No, really. I’ll obviously take care of them, and Scott would love the story.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And this is all for Scott’s benefit,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t Scott find it suspicious if you adopted two dogs and a kitten on our second date?”

Stiles held up Snickers, a three year old mix of some very small dogs. “I want him.”

“Don’t you have enough pets?”

“Scott obviously thinks I’m lonely.”

Derek scoffed.

Stiles set Milky Way in Derek’s lap. Technically, they were supposed to be bathing the dogs for the coming adoption fair, but Stiles considered pre-bath cuddles part of the bathing process. They deserved it.

“Do we really have to continue this?”

“Oh, what else did you have to do tonight?” Stiles scoffed.

“Unpack! And I could have had plans!”

He rolled his eyes. “It is one night out of your week. You can spare that much time for a fake date with your fake boyfriend.”

“This is only our second fake date, so I think you’re jumping ahead calling yourself my fake boyfriend. Fake boyfriend is after at least three fake dates, and you have to walk me to my fake door, and give me a fake kiss goodnight.”

“You’re very high maintenance,” Stiles observed, kissing Snickers on the nose. “Maybe I don’t want you to be my fake boyfriend.”

Derek smiled pleasantly. “Then you can tell Scott and Kira the truth.”

“Uh, you agreed, too. You’ll have to tell Kira.” Stiles lifted Snickers to eye level, staring into his sleepy brown eyes. “Look, pal, this is gonna be traumatizing for both of us,” he said seriously. “But I promise, I will be here for you the whole time. We’ll be quick and thorough.”

Snickers didn’t seem to mind the bath; he even seemed to enjoy the warm water and gentle massage.

“Dramatic,” Derek muttered while Stiles dried him off.

“Rude!”

The next day at the station, Scott and Allison Argent, another officer, looked way too eager to hear about his date.

“It went well,” Stiles said, feeling harangued. “We’re going, uh, out to eat on Saturday.”

“That’s so awesome! See, I told you I was a good matchmaker,” Scott boasted.

Allison’s eyes narrowed. “I guess. But historically, you really aren’t. You’re almost always terrible at setting people up.”

Stiles laughed awkwardly. “Well, he was bound to get lucky once, right?”

That made her relax a little, flashing a quick smile. “That’s true. Well, I’m glad your date went well. Tell us how Saturday goes!”

“Yep, sure.” He nodded maybe a little too enthusiastically, because they both stared at him. “Uh, I just remembered I have some paperwork left over. See you later!”

“So if they’re onto us,” Derek said on Saturday, “why don’t we just tell them the truth?”

They were at a restaurant, since they had to eat sometime, and it’d might as well be on their date.

“Because you didn’t see Scott’s face. He was so proud of himself for successfully setting me up.”

Derek nodded while staring at the table. “So, do you like him?”

“Sure, he’s-” Stiles caught on a second too late. “No, not like that.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s the first friend I’ve made! I don’t want to crush his spirit.” He looked around the restaurant; at least four sets of eyes quickly looked away. Small towns. He smirked. “Hey, I had an idea.”

“Oh?” Derek did not look enthused.

“What if,” Stiles lowered his voice, “we kissed a little, here? I’m sure it’ll get back to them in a town this size, and they’ll know everything’s just as I said, and it’ll all be fine.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “If we kiss, they’ll know we aren’t dating.”

Stiles scowled at him. “What, you don’t want to kiss me?”

“You know-”

“Yes or no.” Stiles leaned forward and grinned. “Chicken?”

Derek grinned and leaned in, too. “Never.”

They were still kissing when someone cleared their throat right beside their table.

Stiles jerked back, flushing all the way to his hairline when he saw their audience. “Hey, Scott,” he said in a high pitched voice. “Whatcha doing here?”

Derek blinked. “Hi, Kira…Boyd.” His gaze darted over to the blond man and woman with them. “Date night?” he asked weakly.

“Nope,” the blonde woman said brightly. She leaned around Boyd and dropped something on the table.

Stiles stared at the matching silver rings.

“This is Isaac,” Scott said, gesturing at the blond man. “And Erica. We’ve all been friends since high school.”

“Hi,” Stiles said weakly.

“Isaac works at the Kenzie Jewelers on Main Street.”

“Oh?”

Derek dropped his head in his hands.

“Apparently, about four weeks ago—right before your first day at the museum, Derek,” Kira said brightly, “a man dropped off his and his spouse’s wedding rings for a cleaning.”

Scott picked up from there. “I was telling Isaac about my new partner, and how I set him up for a date with Kira’s new curator of prints and drawings, and you know, he said those names sounded awfully familiar.”

Stiles winced. “I can explain,” he said earnestly. He grabbed his ring and put it on, letting out a little sigh as it settled; he’d felt naked without it.

“Do tell. Please.” Kira crossed her arms.

Scott pulled the puppy eyes again.

Derek lifted his head. “Stiles didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

Scott made a face. “You could’ve just told me you were married.”

Stiles waved a hand frantically. “I tried! You kept interrupting me to tell me how great my husband was!”

Scott winced.

“And then,” he continued, “you told me his name, and I figured, hey, that’s fine, we’ll go on a date, no big deal. We could use a break from unpacking anyway. But then you were so excited that you successfully set someone up that I couldn’t come clean!”

Isaac let out a muffled snort.

Erica held up a hand. “So…Scott’s only success in matchmaking…was an already married couple?”

“Looks that way,” Boyd said. He glanced at Stiles and said, flatly, “He set me up with Isaac.”

Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. “We all took an oath to never speak of that again!”

“The point is,” Scott said loudly, “you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have been upset.”

“I figured you’d just…back off, once we’d been on a few dates,” Stiles said weakly. He frowned at his wedding ring. “Why did the cleaning take so long, anyway?”

Derek rubbed his temple, avoiding eye contact as he put his own ring on.

“What, did you forget to pick them up or something?” he snickered.

“No, the cleaning only takes about fifteen minutes, maybe an hour if we’re really busy,” Isaac said cheerfully. “But since we’re the only jeweler in town, the engraving can take three or four weeks, especially near the holidays.”

Stiles’s mouth fell open. “What engraving?”

Derek sighed and reached for Stiles’s hand. He gently removed the ring and tilted it. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbled.

Stiles took it so he could read it. He smiled, then laughed at the engraving: Dramatic. He lifted his eyes and found Derek holding his own ring, tilted so he could see the engraving on that one: Rude.

“What does it mean?” Isaac asked. “We were all trying to figure it out.”

Stiles cleared his throat. “It’s the first thing we said to each other when we met.” He swiped at his nose surreptitiously. “We met in a bookstore back in New York; we ran into each other, literally, and I spilled hot coffee all over myself. I started swearing and…stuff, and Derek called me dramatic, I called him rude.” He shrugged. “We got some napkins and had lunch together.” He slid his ring on and rubbed his thumb over it. “I love it.”

Derek smiled at him. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Isaac winced. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s alright.” Stiles snorted. “I get the feeling that secrets don’t survive long around here.”

“No,” Scott agreed, laughing.

Stiles leaned over the table to kiss Derek, because he had to. Then he looked up at their friends. “You guys should join us for dinner, since you’re already here.” He grinned. “We still have a ton of unpacking to procrastinate on, might as well do it right.”

Derek sighed. “The only things we’ve unpacked are the cats’ beds and food bowls.”

“Madame Socks can’t sleep unless she has her own bed, Derek. Tip can sleep anywhere!”

“Madame Socks is the oldest cat,” Derek explained with a grimace. “Tip is the dog.”

“This is so weird,” Scott said with some awe. “You guys are so married. I should have guessed.”

Stiles folded his hand in Derek’s. “Probably. I’m starving, seriously, if we don’t eat soon, there will be tears.”

Derek lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Dramatic,” he murmured.

“Rude,” Stiles laughed.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Princessabitchessa!

To my giftee, @Princessabitchessa, this is a round-about way of delivering on some of your favorite troupes, and I hope you enjoy the ride. Happy Holidays!!

Read on AO3

*****

Count your Blessings (instead of sheep)

John

Judge John Stilinski doesn’t intend to eavesdrop, but his robes are hanging from a hook on the back of his office door, and the hushed, heated whispers in the corridor draw his ear like a moth to a flame.  

“I can’t let you do this, Derek,” says a soft voice edged with ivory and steel.  “I won’t let you do this.  You could go to jail.”

“Then I go to jail.  We’ve talked about this, Laura, and you know it’s the only way.  Peter promised to check himself into a treatment facility, and we’re going to hold him to it.  After today, no matter what the verdict, it will all be over.”

John flips open the file folder of documents in his hand, thumbing through the records until he sees the case titled Hale, Derek (DES alpha) vs Argent, Katherine (DES alpha).  He’d only breezed over the case before lunch.  Something about an assault at a bar; two alpha’s fighting over an omega.  John had reviewed the arresting officer’s statements, but hadn’t read the omega’s deposition.  He flips to it now, sees the name Lahey, Isaac.

John should open the door, make his presence known, but the girl, Laura, laments, “This is all my fault.” Tears threaten her voice.  “If I hadn’t asked you to keep an eye on Peter, you’d never have been at the club in the first place. And it will never be over, Derek.  You’ll be forever labeled as a violent alpha. Your chances of finding a mate will be—“

“Stop.”  He doesn’t raise his volume, but the alpha command is evident.  “My mate is dead, Laura. I don’t want or need another. If my going to jail ends this insanity, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Even though you’re innocent?”

The blood freezes in John’s veins, the papers between his fingers crunching like ice when he squeezes his fist.  

“I may not have committed this crime,” the man called Derek says, “but I’m far from innocent.”

__________

Hale v. Argent is the sixth hearing on his docket, after two drunk driving cases, an arson, a petty theft and, finally, a flasher.  John bangs his gavel, nicking the varnished wood and causing half the courtroom to startle in their uncomfortable chairs.  

At the defendants table sits Derek Hale, one of the two whispered voices from the corridor.  The young alpha can’t be a day over thirty, with piercing eyes and jet black hair. He wears a look of hopeless determination that, for some reason, makes John think of his deceased wife, Claudia.  Behind him sits his sister, Laura, the second voice from the hallway. David Whittemore lords over the prosecution table, slick and smarmy as usual.

“Counsel and parties in the case of Hale versus Argent, approach the bench.”  John takes great satisfaction in the furrow of confusion carving across David’s brow.  Laura, hands white-knuckling the railing separating the gallery from the court, looks like she will be sick all over the floor.  

“I’ll cut straight to the point,” he says, once David and Derek stand before the podium.  “Derek Hale did not commit this crime.”

Whittemore and Hale start speaking at once, trying to talk over each other.

“Be quiet,” Judge Stilinski demands, and he’s no alpha, but every mouth in the room snaps shut.  “For whatever reason, Mr. Hale seems determined to take the fall for the assault of the alpha, Katherine Argent.  But witness testimony is telling a much different story.” He turns to Derek. “Care to shed some light on what happened last month?”

“I’m an alpha. Ms. Argent is an alpha.  We were out at a bar, both perused the same omega, and got into a fight over him.  The witnesses were drunk. They don’t know what they saw.”

“Your Honor, this man is—“

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet, Mr. Whittemore?” John’s voice cracks like a whip.  “Don’t make me hold you in contempt.”

John Stilinski scrutinizes Derek’s face.  The alpha stares back, green eyes desolate and challenging.  “Nope. I don’t buy it. I’m a father, Mr. Hale. When he was young, my son and his best friend found themselves involved in all manners of mischief, and whenever something bad happened, my son Stiles would always take the fall for his friend Scott.  Even when he was blameless. That’s exactly what is happening in this situation.”

Derek’s face is a stoic mask, but there’s panic seeping out from underneath. “I’m pleading guilty.  How much jail time do I need to serve?”

Judge Stilinski shakes his head.  He opens the case folder and flips over a document so it faces Derek.  It’s an intake form for the regional food pantry. “No jail time. But after you’ve served some time here, you might wish I’d locked you up.”

Whittemore squeaks in protest.  “Community service?! My client was in the hospital!  The Hale’s are vicious animals and—“

“Your client was in the hospital for eight hours.  Most of that time was spent sitting in a chair in the emergency waiting room.  And, Mr. Hale,” the judge continues as if the Argent lawyer never spoke, “you will attend mandatory counseling sessions and, in addition to that, one year’s probation.  If you fail to serve at the food pantry three evenings a week for six months, you’ll be back in front of this bench before you can blink. And trust me, I’ll find out if you step even one toe out of line.”  Judge Stilinski leans forward, mock whispers to Derek. “I’ve got a very dependable man on the inside.”

He smashes a stamp dripping red ink onto several pages of paper. He hands over the first paper to a slack-jawed David Whittemore.  “Give this to Pamela at the front desk.” The second paper he hands to Derek. “Have the therapist sign this form and return it to the courthouse at the end of your sessions.”  And the third. “Here is your work order at the food pantry. Give this to the director. I’ll let him know you’ll be coming. Everyone settled?” Stilinski clutches the gavel, eyeing the mumbling Argent lawyer like his fantasy is clobbering him over the head.

“My client will be extremely dissatisfied with this verdict, your Honor.  My office—“

“Your client is a liar,” Judge Stilinski proclaims.  “You’re all liars. Get out of my courthouse.”

The courtroom is a blur of bewildered faces and astonished rumbles, none more confounded than Derek Hale himself.  But that’s not who John’s looking at. Even the ugly scowl slashing across David Whittemore’s face is ignored.

John focuses instead on the tears of relief in Laura Hale’s eyes.

__________

Later, after he’s eaten a salad he wishes was a steak, and the dishes have been washed and left to drip in the drying rack, John sits in his ancient recliner, and thinks about the mischievous son he’d mentioned to Derek in court.

When the prenatal blood tests had come back showing the rare omega designation, there’d been no one more shocked than John Stilinski.  Not a single omega graced the branches of his family tree. Hell, he’d never spoken to one until he’d sat next to Claudia his first day of college.  “It’s a blessing,” his wife whispers, skin and smile radiant despite the nurse lecturing them on the fragile health of some omegas, their predisposition to diseases.

“A blessing is not what I’d call him,” John jokes, when his wild boy comes home day after day covered in dirt, when he bounces off the walls, radiating energy.  “I thought omegas were naturally demure?”

Claudia smacks him on the arm.  “That’s a bunch of sexist hogwash.  It’s not about being reserved or shy or meek.  Omegas are fierce, curious, intelligent and loyal.  They’re strong.”  Then she smiles, the same smile that enraptured him in sociology 101 on his first day of college.  “Besides, I’m an omega. Have I ever been demure a day in my life?”

“It’s a blessing,” John chokes out, day after day as his son grows angry and distant, unable to process his grief over the loss of his mother.

“It’s a curse,” Stiles spits back.  “It makes me weak.  My body isn’t my own.  It’ll betray me, like it did mom.”

“No, son” John moans.  “I was married to an omega for twelve years, and she was the strongest person I’ve ever known.  One day… one day you’ll see.”

Tonight, John picks up the phone, dials Stiles’ number.

“What’s up, daddy-o?” he answers.  John closes his eyes, sees Laura Hale’s tears of relief painted on the inside of his eyelids, hears the desperate self-sacrifice in Derek Hale’s voice.  His son’s not a typical omega, but he is a ley line, attracting lost souls, and Derek Hale has ghosts. John sees the same haunted look in his son’s face whenever he visits.  He prays he’s making the right choice.

“Stiles,” he greets, all business.  “I’m sending someone your way.”

Erica

Erica’s walking to the break room when she sees the new guy—Dustin? Darren? David?  It’s on the tip of her tongue…Oh yeah, Derek!—holding a mop and bucket, standing stock still in the doorway of the community gymnasium.  She swivels, her gut telling her to change direction, march over and confront the rumored-to-be-violent alpha and ask why he’s just standing there staring at a bunch of kids.  Is he a predator, too?

The halogen bulb above Derek is flickering on and off as she stomps over in righteous fury.  She’s been nagging Stiles to fix it for weeks. Erica is ten feet away from him when the bulb flashes back on, light glinting off the wetness at the corners of Derek’s eyes.  Erica stops short.

His face as he looks at the kids running around the basketball court begrudgingly reminds her of her fiancé, Vernon Boyd.  It had taken her six months to work up the courage to talk to Boyd, the quiet, standoffish chef Stiles had hired for the pantry cafeteria.  Boyd is huge and gruff, and it took three dates before he cracked a genuine smile for her. At first she’d had some doubts whether they were compatible, but on the fourth date he brought Erica home to meet his grandmother, the woman who’d raised him and his little sister.  The moment Boyd leaned over to scoop his grandmother out of her wheelchair to place her tenderly into bed, Erica looked at his face and knew.  He was the man she wanted to marry.  The brusqueness had been hiding someone gentle, thoughtful, and intelligent.  Derek is looking at the children the same way Boyd looked at his grandmother; with a little bit of longing for better days, and a lot of love.

She shows up in Stiles’ office doorway.  “You need to come see this,” she hisses, motioning him to hurry out from behind his precarious stack of paperwork.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?” Stiles asks, as she bodily pulls him into the hallway.  The light is flickering again. “Damn it Erica, I’ll fix the stupid lamp, I promise.”

“Not the light bulb, dumb-ass,” she murmurs.  “Him.”        

“Oh,” Stiles says, when he sees Derek watching the children.  “Oh.”

“I guess you can never know someone, or what they’ve gone through to get here,” she muses.  “I would have pegged him as allergic to children as you.” Stiles is suspiciously silent. She glances over, and he’s watching Derek with the same open yearning.  

Oh, she thinks.  Oh.

Derek

“Anger is a perfectly normal, healthy human emotion.  We’ve all felt it. But when it becomes too powerful, and we allow it to get out of control, it can be destructive.  We can’t always remove the things that anger us, but we can learn to control our reactions to it,” Dr. Morrell informs Derek.

“I don’t have anger issues,” Derek tells her again, rubbing his eyes.  He’s been saying it since their therapy session started almost an hour ago.  “I saw a situation that needed to be handled, and I handled it. It was a one time thing.  I’ll never do it again.”

“You handled it with violence,” Morrell stresses, as if he needs reminding of his Uncle’s face contorted in rage, more animal than human.  “A level of extreme violence, to say the least. Aggressive external reactions are a result of internal events. I strongly believe your anger with Kate Argent was fueled by something.”

Yeah, it was fueled by her setting fire to my family, Derek thinks, and Peter being too drunk to bottle up his hatred.  He can feel the ire creeping up his neck, but is desperately trying to maintain control in front of Dr. Morrell.  She sees right through him.

“During your mandated therapy sessions with me, we’ll get to the root cause of your anger, Derek. Sometimes patients have no idea what is causing their heightened emotional responses but, more often, patients already have some idea of what lies at the heart of the matter.  It could be emotional trauma or grief.” Dr. Morrell levels a searching look at him. “What about you, Derek? Do you already know what it could be?”

A wisp of slick black hair and thin, translucent skin flitter across his vision. Red flames lick the night sky.  Derek blinks and the images disappear.

“No,” he lies.  “I have no idea.”  

_________  

Derek is certain he was never meant to be an alpha.  He really sucks at it. “You’re so lucky,” his big sister Laura, a beta, used to grumble.  “Alpha’s have it so easy.”  And at first, Derek thought that was true.  His mother was an alpha, and instilled in him pride at being part of only fifteen percent of the population with that designation.  Being an alpha meant strength, stamina, good health and good looks. Alpha’s were charismatic, got high paying jobs—they were sought after.  It meant he was capable of soul-bonding, while the majority of the population was not. Only omegas could soul-bond as well, but they were even more rare than alpha’s, making up only four percent of the population.

But being an alpha had its downside, which Derek learned at the age of fifteen when a jealous alpha set fire to his family home, killing his parents.  Being an alpha meant he was constantly challenged, assumed to be a violent meathead, only capable of thinking with his cock.

When Laura calls him to say Uncle Peter headed to the local bar, Derek knows there will be trouble.  For a beta, Peter has somehow made replicating every awful alpha stereotype an art: he’s brash, violent, and angry.  Derek has had to pull him out of bar brawls too many times to count in the last year, and tonight Derek’s had enough.  Peter needs help, more help than Laura and Derek can provide.

When he walks into the bar, Peter is trying to steal a young omega from Kate Argent, whose red eyes flash as she grabs the omega’s arm.  Derek doubts Peter has any interest in the curly-haired young man at all, but Peter would like nothing more than to start shit with the Argents, who they know—but can’t prove—set their house fire.  

“Let go,” Derek commands, stepping up to the threesome.  The omega’s eyes go round as dinner plates. Kate Argent snarls.  Peter looks at Derek like he’s a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  

“You’re a pathetic excuse for an alpha,” Peter sneers, then launches himself at Kate, the omega trapped in the middle be damned.

__________

He shows up at the community center at four in the afternoon on Monday, flashes his work order and is directed down the hall to the food pantry and kitchen.  A guy named Scott, also an alpha, greets him. He’s weary, but friendly enough, and directs him to the rooftop garden, where their director is pulling vegetables for the upcoming dinner rush.

He steps onto the sun-baked roof through a steel door, and is immediately assaulted with the scent of an unbonded omega.  There’s a young man bent over a raised garden bed, plucking lettuce leaves and herbs with his ass in the air like he’s presenting.  Derek’s salivating, going hard inside his briefs in seconds.  What the hell is happening? It’s the kind of ludicrous, knee-jerk reaction seen in sappy romantic comedies (or more aptly, pornography), and he’s never had this strong of a response to an omega before, not even to Paige.

This man is the director of the food pantry?  Why on earth would Judge Stilinski send him here, to work under an omega, when he’d been accused of a violent crime?  He tries to back away, crashes into the rooftop door, and the omega glances over his shoulder with big brown doe eyes.

The omega stands, wiping his dirty hands on the back of his jeans.  The action does not go unnoticed by Derek.  As he moves closer, the man’s scent gets stronger; sweat, gingerbread, pine and sugar.  He smells like Christmas morning, like everything good Derek can remember about his childhood, before it was all burned to ash.

Derek nods in greeting, but doesn’t stick out his hand because an unbonded alpha touching an unbonded omega is taboo.  “I’m Derek. Derek Hale.” He pulls the work order from the pocket of his leather jacket, the corners crinkled and worn from being shoved angrily inside the confined space, and thrusts the pages toward the omega. When the man reaches for the note, their fingers brush, and they both pull back fast, almost ripping the dog-eared document.          

After a cursory glance, the omega’s pretty lips pull into a sarcastic smile.  “My name’s Stiles Stilinski. I’ve got one question for you, alpha.  Will you have trouble working for an omega?”

Derek bristles.  “My name’s Derek not al— wait.  Did you say Stilinski?  Like the judge?”

Stiles’ spine is now an iron rod, shoulders squaring for a fight, and Derek’s never met an omega with such a chip on his shoulder, or one so quick to physically challenge an alpha.  “He’s my father,” Stiles snaps. “And for some reason, he hand picked you to come work here.  But I’m the one who built this program; I may be the only omega here but I’m the person in charge.  So tell me, Derek, is taking orders from me going to offend your red-blooded alpha sensibilities?”

It’s Derek’s turn to straighten.  “I’ve no interest in causing problems. I’ll serve my time, do what you need me to do, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Stiles smiles and, though it’s sardonic, it still stalls the breath in Derek’s lungs.  This is the first day of the longest six months of Derek’s life. “That’s what I like to hear, dude.  Now come on.” He thrusts a bag of lettuce into Derek’s hands. “We have work to do.”

__________

A month and a half in, Stiles’ sarcastic smiles and comments turn genuine.  It’s like an icecap melting; Derek barely notices the trickle until he’s drowning in the flood.  Despite his gruff exterior, everyone at the community center decides he’s an ‘okay dude’, and pull him into the fold.  Scott is still a bit standoffish, but it’s natural since they are both alphas, and Derek knows Scott has Stiles’ best interest at heart.  

He’s helping Stiles in the garden again—his favorite project, if he’s honest— hands submerged in the cool, fragrant dirt, furtively sucking in deep lungfuls of Stiles’ baked gingerbread scent.  “Your uncle sounds awful,” Stiles comments on their conversation, placing a carrot in their basket.

Derek shrugs.  “He’s in pain, but doesn’t know how to handle it.  I’m glad he went to a facility that will help him with his anger.  He’s getting therapy, finally working through losing our family.”

Stiles clears his throat and wipes sweat off his brow, smearing it with dirt.  “And you’re in therapy too, right? As part of your sentence? Uh… how’s that going?”

“It’s going okay,” Derek says sheepishly.  “I’m not very good at therapy.”

Stiles laughs, all crinkled eyes and wide, generous mouth.  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize therapy was something you could be bad at.”  

“It’s difficult to talk, to share, especially when the memories are depressing.”  He places a potato in the basket, and Stiles places two fingers on his wrist, right over his scent gland.  Right over his pulse.

“You do just fine when you’re talking to me.”

__________

He’d tried therapy once before, about a year after the fire, but found he couldn’t talk.  Looking at the psychologist, every word flew out of his head. Not long after his failed attempt, Paige had come into his life, and her love temporarily patched over the gaping hole in his soul.  

“Do you think that’s why you felt like you couldn’t deny her?” Dr. Morrell asks, pen poised over her notepad.  “When you wanted to stop trying to have a child? You couldn’t say no because you didn’t want to lose her love?”

The fourth time it happened, it was so early the doctors informed them it was called a ‘missed miscarriage,’ and it was ended surgically before Paige’s body even detected the loss.  The time prior, she had required a blood transfusion, and the relief, guilt and shame Derek felt knowing it was all over practically before it began, was palpable. The same emotions wrap themselves agonizingly tight around his ribs as he sits in the therapist’s office years later, until he feels like his heart might collapse under the pressure.

“Why don’t we reconsider having a child?” Derek had broached before Paige’s next heat.  She gaped at him with wounded eyes.

“Don’t you want a baby, anymore?” She’d sobbed.

“Yes, yes, of course.”  The words stuck in his gullet.  “But how many times do we try before we stop?  It’s like a roulette wheel; we keep spinning but our number never comes up.”

Her eyes flashed like lightning, a wild summer storm full of heat.  “How dare you, Derek? This isn’t a game!”

“Isn’t it, though?  We are gambling with your health, and we’re losing everything.  You heard the doctor say this might be a genetic issue.  When do we say enough is enough?”

She’d grabbed his hands in hers and pleaded.  “Once more? Just one more time. I promise, if it doesn’t happen, then we will stop.”

A better man, a better alpha, would have implored Paige to be grateful for the blessings life had bestowed on them.  A better alpha would’ve refused. But in the face of her anguish, Derek learned he was not a better man.  

It’s been four months of therapy, and Derek knows he needs to start being honest if he wants to heal, if he wants a real chance at finding happiness again.  “I couldn’t tell her no because I wanted a baby.  I was desperate for a family, because of all I’d lost.”  He looks at Dr. Morrell, grimaces. “But instead, I turned my marriage bed into a graveyard, and I filled it with bodies.”

__________

Everyone is avoiding eye contact when Derek walks in Friday afternoon.  Erica is practically bouncing on her heels. “What the hell is going on?  Did we accidently get an extra shipment of cookie dough ice cream?” Chocolate chip cookie dough is Stiles and Erica’s favorite flavor.  Derek prefers cookies and cream.

Scott sticks his head around the corner.  “Stiles wants to see you in his office right away.”  Derek’s heart picks up speed.

He pauses outside the office door, hearing hushed voices and smelling something odd.  Stiles’ scent is still there, warm and inviting, but there is another smell, vaguely familiar; fresh grass and lavender, hints of apple.  Another omega is in the office.

“Come in,” Stiles calls when Derek knocks, and he pushes open the door.  He’s correct; two omegas turn to look at him. One is Stiles, and the other is Isaac Lahey, the omega who’d been caught between his uncle Peter and Kate Argent that fateful night in the bar.  

There’s new emotions darting across Stiles’ features, and Derek wants to chase them, but he can’t right now because Isaac smiles at him, shy and grateful, and says, “Hello, Derek.  I came by to thank you.”

__________

The calendar is calling out to Derek each morning, warning him he only has a few weeks left of community service.  Only a few more weeks with with Erica and Boyd, with Scott and everyone he’s come to care about at the community center.  Even worse, his days with Stiles have an expiration date.

He wants desperately to be brave, to punch out on his last day and turn to Stiles and say Let’s get coffee or Have dinner with me? But it’s been so long since Derek has connected with anyone; he’s terrified.  Six months ago this whole endeavor felt worse than a jail sentence, but now he thinks maybe Judge John Stilinski knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Derek here.  

He crosses off another day, heads out the door, and prays for a miracle.  

Scott

Kira, the world’s cutest barista, waves at him from the counter before the bell above the glass door finishes chiming.  “The usual?” she shouts, and the six people on line in front of him turn to scowl menacingly at Scott. The coffee shop is bustling during the lunch rush today and Scott, stepping over to the pick-up counter, is shamefaced.  But his guilt disappears when Kira skips over, huge, sunny smile on her lips, and hands over the recycled cardboard tray with four warm drinks nestled in the cup holders. There’s a wet cappuccino for Stiles, a mocha with extra whip cream that has Erica’s name doodled on the side, a large black coffee for Scott and Boyd’s caramel macchiato.

“You tell Stiles he shouldn’t be drinking this much caffeine.  Too much can trigger an early heat,” Kira scolds for the hundredth time.  She’s a gender studies major in her senior year, writing her thesis on environmental health risks to omegas, and Stiles had gotten so exasperated listing to her well-meaning lectures he started sending Scott on the daily coffee runs.    

“I want to enjoy my illicit addictions in peace,” Stiles told him, handing over a slip of notebook paper scribbled with everyone’s order.   “Besides,” he’d said with a grin, “she’s your type.”

Scott smiles at her, and it’s so sappy two people in line roll their eyes, and another mimes barfing all over the tile floor.  “Early heat, right, I’ll tell him.”

There’s way too many people trying to order, the baristas scurrying around behind the counter like chickens with their heads cut off, but Kira still leans over the counter, silky black hair falling out of her messy work bun.  “And how’s the new guy making out? Derek, the alpha?”

He’s been there three months, so he isn’t new anymore.  When Derek first started, Scott had bemoaned his presence loudly and repeatedly to Kira, who listened with a sympathetic ear but never failed to remind him everyone deserves a second chance.  Now he thinks of Boyd, slapping Derek on the back, and of Erica’s giggle when Derek grumbles about the broken dishwasher. He thinks of Lydia’s knowing smirk as they all notice Stiles stand taller when Derek walks into a room, smooth down his hair and tug at the wrinkles of his plaid shirts.  “Ah… he’s fitting in, I guess.”

Kira smiles, megawatt, and smacks Scott in the bicep.  “See? I told you it would all be okay.”

“Hey!  Buddy? Want to get your shit and go sometime this century?  Some of us don’t have all day to watch your piss-poor attempt at flirting,” a disgruntled customer growls.  Kira blushes, but the smile never slips from her lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” Scott mumbles, backing out of the café door.

He stops in front of the community center, stares at the cardboard cup bearing Stiles’ name.  He doesn’t see the black ink; instead, he sees the pink blush of Stiles’ cheeks when Derek is due to come in.  Omega’s only go into heat twice a year, and Stiles had barely been back to work a week when Derek started. He jerks the cup from the holder, and tosses in the trash can.  Too much caffeine can trigger an early heat.  He hears the words in Kira’s sweet, melodic voice.

“You can never be too careful,” Scott grumbles.    

Stiles

Thirty seconds after Claudia takes her last shuddering breath, the heart monitor flattens, and the nurse walks into the hospital room.  

“She’s gone,” the nurse says, and Stiles will never admit it, but mixed in with the grief is a weary sense of relief.  

The doctor patiently explains to Stiles and his father that frontotemporal dementia is genetic, and omega’s can be especially susceptible.  There’s no need to panic, but Stiles will need to be monitored closely his whole life. Without his mother there to run her fingers through his hair and remind him omega’s are exceptional, his designation becomes a death sentence.  “Any resulting children would also require monitoring.” The doctor’s words take root in Stiles’ eight-year-old heart, and grow thorns.

__________

The new guy is due this afternoon, the alpha his father asked him to take in.  “This isn’t a halfway house for all the criminals you want to rehabilitate,” Stiles had bemoaned, but of course he couldn’t deny his dad.  

He loses track of time up on the roof, the mindless, repetitive task of weeding and harvesting in the garden soothing him into complacency.  At first he doesn’t notice when the alpha steps out onto the roof, since he’s so focused and also upwind. But when he does notice…

Derek is nothing like any alpha Stiles has ever seen.  For one, there’s desire in his green eyes, but instead of the typical flaunting and posturing, it’s followed by a flash of fear.  He’s strong but gentle, thoughtful but quiet, and he pulls every long buried instinct in Stiles up from the roots.

And he’s attractive, gorgeous, the most beautiful man Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles is going to fucking kill his dad.

__________

Stiles falls into the staff room, dying of hunger, and throws open the refrigerator with a bang before promptly remembering he forgot to bring lunch today.  Shit.

“Ugghhhh why?” He laments, stomach rumbling.

“What’s your problem?” Lydia asks.  Stiles turns and sees she’s sitting next to Derek at the lunch table.  She’s picking at a leafy green salad topped with chicken, cranberries and walnuts.  Derek has a ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. Stiles salivates.

“I forgot my damn lunch.”

Without a word, Derek hands him half his sandwich.  Stiles should politely decline. He doesn’t need an alpha to take care of him, like he’s some damsel in distress.  Besides, he doesn’t even like ham. But before he can help himself, he snatches it from Derek’s grip, takes a huge bite and moans around the mouthful.  “Er ma ga, tha’s so goo!”

Derek’s ears turn a charming shade of red, and Stiles wants to bite theminstead.  Shit shit shit.

__________

Derek is scouring a piece of food caked on the stove top in the pantry kitchen, and Stiles is not admiring the play of back muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt as he scrubs.   He’s certainly not ogling the cut of Derek’s bicep. Nope. This is not what he’s doing.  He’s helping out Erica and Boyd, staying late to give them the night off together.

It’s so hot in the kitchen.

“So,” Derek say, and the word startles Stiles from his muscle watching stupor.  The conversation flows easily between them, but Derek is hardly ever the instigator.  “What led to you becoming the director of the food pantry? Was this something you always wanted to do?”

Stiles turns back to the dishes soaking in the sink.  “I wanted to do anything a typical omega wouldn’t, and running this center, being people’s boss, is anything but typical.”

“You’re certainly bossy.”  Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe it’s the fact they’re facing away from each other, but it’s easy to throw the words over his shoulder, the pseudo-anonymity making him brave.  “After my mother died, I was angry. I spent years perfecting all the ways I could spit in the face of my designation. I can’t believe I didn’t give my father a heart attack.  Landing this gig killed two birds with one stone; my credentials beat two alpha candidates for the position, and to my father’s relief I’m doing something steady instead of rebelling.”  

“Do you still hate being an omega?” Derek asks.  His voice is louder, and Stiles swivels, see’s Derek is facing him now, soiled cloth flung over his shoulder.  

Stiles pivots back to the soapy silverware.  “Some days, yes. Others, no.” He plops a sparkling fork onto the drying rack.  “Fighting your instincts all the time is exhausting. I guess I’ve started to… reconsider some things.”  

“Like what?”

He dries his hand on a dish towel, and faces Derek.  “I’ve kept people at arms length, especially alphas. I’ve never even… but maybe I’d like a relationship.  A family.  I never wanted to have kids because I didn’t want to risk them being omegas too.”  He looks away, focusing on the digital display of the microwave, arms crossed and shoulders hunched around his ears.  “You must hate people like me, renouncing a family when you and your wife wanted a child so badly.”

Derek moves into his line of sight, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye.  It’s an alpha power play. Stiles should loathe it.  “I could never never hate you,” Derek whispers.  He reaches a tentative hand toward Stiles’ neck, broadcasting every move, allowing Stiles room to rebuff him.  When Stiles doesn’t flinch away, Derek slides his fingers over the gland behind Stiles’ ear, co-mingling their scents.  As soon as the alpha pheromones permeate Stiles’ senses, his whole body relaxes, a feeling of calm washing over him. It feels so good, so right, Stiles could cry.

He closes his eyes.  “Yeah, I could never hate you either.”

__________

Wednesday morning of Derek’s final week, Stiles wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus.  His joints ache, he’s running a low grade fever and his head is pounding. But he doesn’t want to miss the last few precious hours with Derek, so he drags his ass out of bed and into work.  

“You look terrible,” Scott helpfully supplies when he stumbles in.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Stiles snarks.  “It’s the golden rule.”

“Last week you said the golden rule was anyone eating chicken nuggets had to give you half.  You haven’t been drinking extra coffee have you?”

Stiles slams the office door in Scott’s face.  Screw him.

But by lunchtime Stiles knows this isn’t the flu.  His stomach is cramping, he’s sweating profusely, and his hole is feeling suspiciously wet.  He’s going into heat almost a month early. He bangs his head down onto his desk. He needs to go home, now.  He’s going to miss Derek.  He isn’t going to get to say good-bye.  

When he stands up, slick trickles down his leg.  Fuck.  He gathers his belongings, knowing he’ll be out of work until Monday, and throws open the office door, only to find Scott and Derek standing on the other side.  One look at Derek, one lungful of his scent has Stiles weak-kneed, and only years of stubborn pride and practice keep Stiles from falling forward into Derek’s arms.

“I called him, Stiles,” Scott says, sheepish but determined.  “I could tell you were going into heat when you walked in.”

“I wanted…” Stiles’ mouth is so dry the words croak.  “I didn’t want to miss seeing you. I wanted you to know—“

“Derek, can you drive Stiles home?” Scott asks. “I don’t think he can drive himself, and I need to stay here, keep the pantry open and get ready for the dinner rush.”  It’s a bold-faced lie. Erica and Boyd could easily run the show. Scott winks at him. “Go home, Stiles. You stink.”

“Will you be okay in such a confined space?” Stiles asks Derek on their way to the parking lot.  

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “knowing you’re home safe.  Trust me. I’ll take care of you.” Six months ago, Stiles would have shanked an alpha who said those words to him, but he knows Derek means them.  He knows Derek will drop him at home, respect Stiles’ body and his wishes, and accept taking care might mean leaving him alone.

The ride is quiet except for Stiles’ directions and Derek’s shallow breathing.  When they pull into Stiles’ driveway, Derek shuts off the car, placing both hands tightly around the steering wheel.  “I’ll help you inside, get you set up, and I’ll go. Unless you don’t want me to come in? I can stay outside, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.  Here it is, the moment of truth.  He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s a pathetic omega begging for a knot, but it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay. “I’d be comfortable with you coming in.  I’d be comfortable with you staying, too.”

Derek looks at him, and Stiles doesn’t see pity in his eyes. He doesn’t see conquest.  He doesn’t feel weak or out of control. He feels powerful and special.  He feels strong.  Derek makes him feel that way.  What he sees is mirrored sadness, hurt and fear, and more importantly, the dawning realization neither of them are in this alone.

Derek gets out of the car without a word, jumps across the hood and pulls open Stiles’ door.  “I’m warning you, I may never leave.”

“I may never let you go.”

“Bossy.”  Derek scoops Stiles up into his arms, and Stiles doesn’t even mind.

_________

Derek’s plastered to his back, a long line of heat, knot buried snuggly inside Stiles’ body.  His inhalations are wet and stuttering, and Stiles reaches back, awkwardly trying to pet him.

“What’s wrong?” He slurs, still cum-drunk and more sated than he’s ever been.    

“Nothing.  I just… I haven’t… it’s the first time since…”. Derek doesn’t finish.  He doesn’t need to.

“I’ve never,” Stiles admits into the cool, empty air of his bedroom.  

“Stiles, I’m so grateful it was you.”  Derek pulls him closer, nuzzles the juncture of his neck and shoulder blade, the spot where a bond bite belongs.

“Right back at you, big guy.”  He snuggles in and closes his eyes, protected and content, all the things an omega should be, all the things he’s fought for so long, trying to keep his heart safe.  

He can’t help but feel blessed.

Laura

She’s running late, and blows past the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign at a crisp sixty-eight miles an hour.  There’s a niggle of guilt at the back of her neck; she should know better and she’s taking advantage of the skeleton crew of cops out on patrol because it’s a holiday, but it’s Christmas Eve and Laura wants to get home to the family she hasn’t seen in five months.  

This time two years ago, with the stress of her Uncle’s growing violence and Derek’s approaching trial date, she couldn’t imagine such a rich, hopeful future.  After the fire, it seemed to be one calamity after another, the ground beneath her feet always unsteady. But now, her last paper is handed in, her first grueling semester of law school is officially complete, and Laura’s heart is flying as fast as her Camaro.  She’s found her calling, she’s meant for this, and owes her revelation to John Stilinski. She’ll never forget the feeling swelling in her chest that day in court as she sat behind Derek, watching deep lines of determination furrow John’s brow. I want that, she’d thought.  I want to help people, too.  With a bang of his gavel, Judge Stilinski had changed all their lives.  It brings her joy to know someday Laura will do the same for someone else.  

She parks the car on the street in front of the small cape, and pops the trunk to grab overflowing bags of presents.  As she cuts through the front yard, she sees a slim figure sitting on the wrought-iron bench Derek restored from their family garden.  When the fire had been extinguished, they’d found it covered in a layer of ash, paint blistered and peeling from the heat. Derek had come back the day he bought his new home, washed and sanded away the grime and painted it a vibrant white.  In the warm, soft glimmer of Christmas lights and the moon, it practically glows, illuminating Stiles, sitting peacefully in the flower bed.

“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” she says, plopping herself and the gift bags next to her brother’s mate.  Despite his over-sized winter jacket, she can see the blossom of pink on his cheeks from the cold, smell the spicy, gingerbread scent of his skin.

“Merry Christmas, Laura,” he says, grinning.  Stiles reaches over, grabs her hand. “Welcome home.  Derek’s missed you.”

“I’ve missed you both.”  He squeezes her fingers. Inside, she can hear the music change over to another jovial Christmas jingle.  “What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway? Usually it’s my brother brooding in the dark.”

Stiles laughs.  “I’m counting my blessings.”  There’s something funny about the way he says the word; there’s history there, but Laura doesn’t know it yet.  It’s okay. There’s plenty of time to learn. “Plus, it was hot and crowded inside. I came out to take a breather, but my ass is starting to go numb.  Can I help you carry in your packages?”

They stand, and Stiles picks one of the shiny wrapped boxes from the bag and shakes it a little.  Something tinkles merrily inside. “These better all be for me.”

Laura laughs, poking him the the shin with the toe of her black boot and gathering up one of the bags.  “Don’t make fun, Stiles. It’s been too long since I’ve had a family to shower with gifts. I couldn’t help but go overboard.  I got your dad a low-fat cookbook.”

“Oh man, he’ll totally hate it.”  They grin at each other, conspiratorially.  “I, uh…I hope you’re still feeling so generous next year.”  Stiles picks up a bag with one hand, and parts his jacket with the other, smile shy but joyous in the blinking green and red lights.  Where five months prior Stiles’ stomach was flat as a washboard, his abdomen is now a small, distended bump.

Laura drops all the presents to the ground, something shattering inside one of the boxes.  “Oh my god, Stiles!” she shrieks, eyes welling with tears. She throws herself into his arms, as Derek throws open the front door.

“Stiles!” her brother bemoans.  “We were going to tell her together.  You are the worst secret keeper ever.”

“Says the man who told the entire community center the day we hit the third trimester.” Stiles’ voice is pure joy, love radiating toward his mate, who steps forward to wrap warm arms around him, one hand softly massaging the small of Stiles’ back.

“Let’s go inside and celebrate,” Derek says, reaching out to Laura.

Looking at the domestic scene—one Stiles fought against his whole life, one Derek never thought he’d get to experience—Laura feels happiness welling up inside her, the way it does so frequently these days.  For the first time in years, an aching sense of loss isn’t her primary emotion. The future which, not long ago, had seemed so rocky and unsure, is a happy place now, steady as a heartbeat, full of promise.

Inside, she sees Erica and Boyd, Scott and Kira, John Stilinski, Isaac, Lydia and so many others, the faces of all the people she and Derek have come to call family.  It’s a blessing, she thinks, next year there will be a new person to love.

What a gift.  

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @callmecracker!

Merry Christmas!! I hope you like it! xoxoxo 

 Read on AO3

******

Windows vs Doors

It's christmas eve when Stiles' dad, just, casually invites Derek over for dinner. His dad cited needing to get to know the Pack's Alpha, but considering the glint in the sheriff's eye and the fact that Stiles and Derek have, essentially, been sneaking around since the very instant Stiles turned eighteen—yeah, he isn't buying it.

By the look on Derek's face when Stiles opens the door for him, the sheer nervousness rolling off of him in waves, Stiles has a feeling he isn't buying it either. Still, he drags the man in, fingers digging into his elbow, and tries to reassure, "Don't worry, he won't bite, he's probably just worried about how my training's going, since I still come back home sporting bruises more often than not."

Derek raises an eyebrow at him as Stiles leads him- arm looped through Derek's, an overly familiar touch, but one he can't seem to restrain himself from- to the dining room, and most of the tension seems to have evaporated from his tumultuous tsunami eyes by now, which, as far as Stiles is concerned, is a win.

"Yes, yes, I know, what're you supposed to do with an insubordinate Mage who never listens to you, and throws themselves headfirst into the line of danger without even an ounce of thought for their own self-preservation—I could recite this conversation in my sleep we've had it so many times."

Derek raises his eyebrows, points out, "You could try being a little more careful," but his tone is light, and his eyes are glimmering, now, all exasperated affection instead of wary stress, so Stiles just grins at him, feeling satisfied, before letting go of his hold on the man's arm to nudge him toward a chair, sitting to the one directly beside it.

"Meh," he intones, shrugging. "I think I'd rather keep my perfect track-record of saving your ass."

"Well, I'd like to keep my perfect track-record of not having that heart attack you keep predicting for me," the sheriff cuts in, as he swans through the kitchen's archway with a few platters of delicious-smelling food. "So, it'd be nice if you started coming back to me in one piece more often."

"He will, sir," Derek says, without prompting, back straight, entire demeanor having done a complete 180. Stiles wonders if it's his dad's station, the fact that he's Stiles' dad, or the fact that he's a dad, in general, either way...

"Huh. It usually takes a lot more for him to engage in conversation."

Derek sighs, heavily, like he doesn't know why he puts up with this shit.

"Uh, sorry. Shitty brain-to-mouth filter, which... really didn't need to be explained, did it?"

His dad pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan, before sharing a vaguely commiserating look with Derek that immediately has Stiles on his toes because no. The very thought of his boyfriend and his dad becoming besties, and somehow conspiring against him to lock him away until he can't get so much as a papercut is a horrifying, and strangely realistic, idea.

Then, as the dishes get served, his dad says, mischevious glint in his eye, "It's a lot easier using the front door, isn't it?" And, oh, god, he knows, he knows.

This is what he gets, for having someone notoriously allergic to doors as his boyfriend, he knew, he knew, that one of their nosy ass neighbors was going to see Derek climbing out of his window one of these days and go running straight to his dad with the juicy gossip.

"He has every little old lady in this town on his payroll," Stiles had told Derek once, naked and sweaty and splayed out, content, on his sheets, to the tune of an exaggerated eye roll and a disbelieving snort. "They're all spies, I swear," he'd said. "Cheek-pinching, cookie baking, grandmotherly spies."

Derek had just finished slipping on his shoes, kissed Stiles on the temple, and promptly parkoured out of the window like a fucking ninja, not believing him for even a second.

Stiles pierces him with his best I told you so glare, now.

Derek does a strange canting eyebrow shrugging move that vaguely translates to, Well, what the hell are we supposed to do about it now?

Stiles makes a waving gesture with his hand and his chin that he hopes Derek will take to mean, Roll with the punches.

Derek sighs and flashes a Stiles' dad a bright, hopeful, Please, god, I hope I'm making a good impression sort of smile.

There's an odd sort of wistful fondness in the smile his dad offers in turn, it's the same kind of smile he wears when he talks about Stiles' mom, about burnt pancakes and forgotten anniversaries and the night she finally got that positive pregnancy test and ran toward the bed to start bouncing on it, screaming like a chimpanzee, not at all minding the fact that it was barely two in the morning and her husband was still trying to sleep. Stiles wonders what, exactly, wove that smile into being.

Maybe it's just the general spirit of christmas?

He gets an answer to his unasked question when his dad murmurs, "You two remind me of me and Claudia," before tucking into his meal, which is just as well, since it gives them a moment to get over their shock.

Stiles tries not to sputter.

Derek tries not to gape.

He has a feeling they both fail.

All in all, the dinner ends up being less awkward and stress-inducing than more than half the parties involved thought it was going to be, right up until the end, when his dad shakes Derek's hand and says, by way of goodbye, "If you hurt my son, I will kill you." A short, cutting, deadly pause, before he clarifies, "Slowly."

Derek's swallow is audible, and Stiles' cheeks are burning so bright he's pretty sure he could beat rudolph in a contest right now, if he tried. Still, his dad already knows, and it's christmas fucking eve, so Stiles pulls Derek in before he can leave entirely, kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, says, "I love you, idiot," and, "he'll also kill you if you don't get me an awesome present," to which his father provides amused, but loyal, support, and, "drive safe."

After Derek is gone, Stiles' dad asks, "Does he make you happy?"

And Stiles rambles in the vehement affirmative until his father envelops him in his arms and says, "Okay," like that was all he needed.

The next day, Stiles finds out that his dad now has Derek's phone number, and they're almost certainly finding comfort in each other, ranting about Stiles' crazy. He also finds out that the Stilinski house is going to host the Pack's christmas party, and that his dad's gotten presents for every single member of the Pack, which is...

Honestly, after everything they've been through to get to this point, after all the struggle it had taken to get the sheriff comfortable around all this supernatural stuff in the first place? well, this is five hundred miles in the right direction.

The way Derek turns into a puddle of sunshine-goo whenever his dad calls him son is just the cherry on top.

So is the key to Derek's loft, tied in a crimson, snowflake embroidered, bow.

"At least I know how to use the front door," Stiles teases laughingly, but only manages to love his Sourwolf all the more the next time he ends up leaning out of the window, watching the man scale down his house and blow a jaunty kiss before running off into the distance.

Oh, well; we all have our things.

Let the old ladies gossip.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Whispering_Sumire!

A very happiest of holidays to whispering-sumire755! (I hope this isn't too angsty for you!! It does have a happy ending, I promise!!

Read on AO3

******

Ignorance and Want

"Is that it? Are we done here?" Scott's tone is insolent, and Derek snarls in response, prompting a round of hackle-baring throughout the circle of assembled pack members before Lydia can interrupt.

"Here," she says, stalking forward to drop a book on the table in the midst of the shifting wolves, her heels clicking across the hardwood. "Derek, this is the spell that Stiles and I put in place two weeks ago, before the Solstice." She looks him in the eye, tiny and unafraid. "The town is cloaked. Nothing is going to happen."

"You can't know that," Derek growls, showing his teeth, but Lydia just rolls her eyes.

“I know it,” she says pointedly, picking up her purse. “I also know that it is nine pm on Christmas Eve, we’ve all been working hard for the last two weeks to make sure that the town and our families are as safe as possible for the holidays, and now we’re all going to go home and go to bed, and everything is going to be fine .”

Derek snarls low in his throat and her face softens. “Derek,” she murmurs, pitching her voice to give them the illusion of intimacy, even though they both know the wolves in the room can hear them regardless. “I know this is a rough time of year for you. But you have to trust your pack. We are as safe as we are going to be, and holding everyone hostage is only going to make them unhappy.”

“Fine,” Derek forces out, his voice thick with anger, “go. All of you!” He flings his arms out, eyes still burning red. “Go eat your cookies and sleep in your soft beds.” Scott’s eyes flash at him from across the room and the betas stink of stress between them, which just serves to make him angrier. “Just remember, some stupid holiday is not going to mean the monsters out there take a break!”

“You’re the only monster around here, Derek!” Scott shouts at him, leaping to his feet, but letting Allison push him toward the door. Typical. “Maybe we should have trapped you outside the barrier, too!”

“Maybe you should have!” Derek shouts back, growling low in his throat, “Go on, get out of here. Out!” He points a finger at the door, and his betas scuffle out quickly, grumbling amongst themselves as they go. He can hear Scott already starting his car, Allison in the seat beside him and Lydia climbing into the back. Derek waits for the front door to slam, breathing hard.

“And you,” he says, turning to Stiles, who’s still seated at the large wooden table to the side of the room, frozen in place like he hoped Derek wouldn’t see him. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

“Dad’s working the late shift,” Stiles shrugs, careful to keep his voice casual. “Figured I’d stick around and keep reading through the spellbook, just in case. Keep you company.” His honeyed eyes flick up to Derek’s face, not a flicker of the apprehension that Derek can smell rolling off of him apparent in his expression.

“I don’t need your goddamn pity , Stiles,” Derek snarls, “pack up your shit and get the hell out of my house.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but the sudden stench of hurt that coats his scent makes Derek’s stomach clench. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, he doesn’t need Stiles here. Doesn’t want him here, either, and Stiles definitely can’t want to be here of his own accord. He should go. Now.

“Fine,” Stiles says, shoving his books in his bag and grabbing his jacket. “You want to slink around your empty house on Christmas Eve after chasing away your friends like a loser? Don’t let me stop you.”

“The door’s over there, Stiles,” Derek rumbles, watching like a hawk as Stiles walks to the front of the room and swings the door open. “Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

“Merry fucking Christmas, Derek,” Stiles throws over his shoulder as he goes. “Oh, and,” he turns, and Derek can’t parse the expression on Stiles’ face, isn’t actually sure he wants to, “happy fucking birthday.”

The door slams behind him, and Derek listens as Stiles stomps off the porch and over to his jeep, slamming the door open and climbing in. The engine turns over and he can hear the gravel crunch under the tires and Stiles downshifts hard and tears up the lane.

The quiet falls thick around the house in the wake of it, heavy and cloying like fog, like mist. It’s better this way, Derek thinks to himself, turning in a circle in the empty room, he likes it most when it’s empty: no distractions, no noise. Just him and the silence, alone.

It’s for the best.

--

He makes himself wait until ten to lie down because he feels like he should, but he has nothing to do, so he gives in and goes to bed, fully expecting to stay awake till dawn. He must be more tired than he realized, though, because it’s a little while before he wakes abruptly from a doze at a sound in his room. He springs alert, sitting bolt upright in bed as an eerie light begins to gather in the end of the room.

Probably he should be afraid, he guesses, but honestly at this point he’s just so resigned to terrible things happening that he just waits for the being to pull itself together. Probably it will want to fight him, and maybe he will win or maybe he will lose, but either way he’d like to just get it over with. He rubs at his eyes with one hand, watching as the glowing energy gains mass and definition.

When he blinks his eyes open and takes in the finished shape, he gasps in shock.

“Peter?” He asks incredulously, scooting backward on his bed, “Peter, what the fuck ? How are you here?”

Peter leans against the doorway and smirks, but it’s half-hearted at best. He looks wan, pale and indefinite, which does make a certain amount of sense, given that he’d been dead for months last Derek had checked. Not like Peter’s death has taken the last two times, though, so the surprise fades faster than he’d like.

“I’m here to deliver a warning,” Peter says, and only then does Derek notice the wolfsbane-treated ropes winding around Peter’s torso and limbs.

“What’s happened to you,” Derek asks in dawning horror, “Who did this? How did you get here?”

“Magic,” Peter says, and shrugs. “Derek, listen to me,” he continues, his face tight and intense in an expression that seems foreign on his features. “I’ve been brought here to warn you: the path you walk is not a good one, and if you keep on the way you have been, you will end up like me.”

“What’s ‘like you’ mean?” Derek breathes, eyeing the bonds where they’ve rubbed red welts onto Peter’s exposed skin.

“Crazy.” Peter says without flinching, “Tortured. Desperate. Alone. Caught in bonds of your own making.” He laughs drily. “You won’t like it, I promise.”

“And what exactly would you have me do differently?” Derek spits out, suddenly furious. “I’m making it up as I go along here. Laura was supposed to be the Alpha, not me. And you,” he growls, and Peter just rolls his eyes, “you were supposed to help , not go all murdery and insane.”

“You will be visited tonight by three spirits,” Peter says, twisting fruitlessly in the ropes that hold him, “pay attention to them. Listen, for once in your short life. Take some goddamn advice.”

Derek scowls, claws digging into his thighs. “Get fucked, Peter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter answers, “I know, you hate me, whatever. But listen, for the love you bore me once, for the shared blood that runs in our veins… take this seriously, Derek. Please.” His face is grave, pleading, and he looks more in that moment like the uncle Derek remembers from childhood than he has since the fire.

Derek folds his arms and turns away. By the time he looks back, Peter is gone.

--

The moon is high and cold in the late December sky, lighting the room around him, but Derek lies back down and lets his mind drift. It’s probably a trick someone’s playing on him, conjuring Peter’s image or shade, some manipulated facsimile of the uncle he’d once held dear.

So much for the barrier, he thinks, and tries to convince himself that he should get up and patrol, check the boundaries. The problem is that he would know already if something had breached them; whatever or whoever Peter was, he was either already inside the barrier or else the barrier is meaningless to him. Either way, Derek doesn’t see much point in doing anything other than continuing to lie on his mattress in the chilling dark. He doesn’t think the pack would even respond if he called them right now, and the being had made no threats toward any of them. Just to him, and what of that? A single drop in the enormous bucket of danger and misery that is his life.  

Three spirits, it had said, so it’s clearly not done with him. An interesting affectation, he decides, splitting the attack this way. Maybe he should be making notes about this. If Stiles were here, Derek thinks, he would be grumping at Derek to write it all down so they can add it to their files.

He’s just about decided to roll over and go for his phone, jot something in the notes app, when he notices a light slowly growing in the corner.

“That was quick,” he mutters, hauling himself up to sit on his bed, waiting as the shape coalesces, taking the breath from his lungs as it pulls into a far too familiar, far too painful image.

“ Laura ,” he chokes out, and fuck, fuck , how dare they do this to him. Peter is one thing, but his sister is crossing a line.

“Oh, baby brother,” she says, and the sound of her voice stabs through him, ripping open wounds that have only ever scabbed over at best.

“Laura, what are you doing here,” he says, teeth locked together against the grief dragging claws against his chest.

“I’m your first spirit, kiddo,” she answers. “I know Peter told you, and I know you don’t believe this. It’s okay.”

“How could I?” he begs, “After all that has happened, how can I trust you? How can I know that you’re not just some creature preying on me, using my memories against me? How do I know you’re real, and not a figment of my imagination?” He clenches his fists and ignores the crack in his voice. “Maybe I’m already like Peter - stark raving mad.”

Laura rolls her eyes. “You’re not crazy, Derek. Stubborn as shit and full of bad decisions, sure, but you’re not crazy. I’ll prove it to you.”

“How?”

“Remember that necklace I had when we were kids? Green, with different shaped beads? It was just plastic, but I loved it and wore it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Derek says frowning, “what’s that got to do with anything?”

“In the morning, if you still think this is all a trick, go look under the back floorboard in the closet in my old room. I put it there when I was nine to hide it from Cora, and then forgot about it. It’s still there.”

“Okay,” Derek breathes out, suddenly unsure. He’s not had a ghost or a witch or a fae try this hard to convince him before. Usually they brainwash first, and ask questions later. He can’t let himself think it’s real, but it’s certainly different from anything he’s encountered before.

“Come on, Derek,” Laura says, and holds out her hand to him, a sweet smile on her face. “Let’s go downstairs.”

What the hell, he figures, and takes it without further question. It’s his sister, and he never could tell her no about anything for long. Her grip is solid and warm in his for all that she’s a ghost, and he lets her guide him out of his room and down the staircase.

Derek catches his lip in his teeth as they descend, pulling back on her grasp and letting his feet slow on the steps. He can hear the sounds of laughter and the shrieks of children echoing up the stairs, and it fills the pit of his stomach with dread. “Laura,” he whispers, “what is this?”

“Come,” she says, and pulls him inexorably to the bottom, where he freezes at the sight in front of him.

“ Laura ,” he says, and can’t help the way his voice cracks around her name. She just turns to him and smiles, the full-size Christmas tree radiant behind her.

“Remember, Derek?” she asks, reaching up to cradle his face in her hand. “Remember what it was like when we were little?” He shakes his head, and feels her thumb drag across his eyelids where he’s squeezed them shut in denial. He can’t see this again, he doesn’t think he’ll survive it. “Open your eyes,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion. “This is how we were. This is what we had. Remember?”

“God,” he murmurs, looking around the room. The fire is blazing in the fireplace, the giant fir tree bedecked with ornaments towering by the window, piles of carefully wrapped presents neatly arranged beneath. Their mother is to the left, curled into the couch with a cup of coffee and laughing at where their younger brother Arthur is entertaining a baby Cora with a toy. Across from her their father is reading instructions out to a young Derek and Laura as they work to assemble a complicated mess of wires and metal on the big rug. “How could I forget?”

The vision is so real that he can catch the scent of his mother’s coffee, hot and with a dash of caramel, can smell the cookies baking in the kitchen, all overlain with the aroma of Christmas tree. He presses himself into the wall, desperately reeling and eager for any sort of grounding he can find.

“We were so happy,” Laura says, and they both turn as the front door opens, a laughing Peter tumbling through with an armful of gifts, closely followed by his wife and two children.

“We were,” Derek agrees, and resists the urge to clutch at his chest where it feels like his heart is being ripped to shreds. “And now all these people are dead. You’re dead , Laura,” he says, turning his back on the scene and heading into the dark hallway. He can feel her presence behind him, a warm shadow he hasn’t had in years. “Why are you showing me this? Are you here to mock me? To show me what I’ve fucked up? To torture me?”

He can feel that his claws have slid free when he turns, that his eyes are glowing, but Laura’s face as she looks at him is full of grief, her hand as she reaches for him is gentle.

“No, Derek. I’m here to remind you, to help you remember the capacity you have for love. For joy. You don’t have to lose all this. These people,” she gestures behind them to where the sounds of revelry and laughter echo through the house, “these people are gone, but the happiness, the sense of hope and togetherness we had then - you can have that again.”

“No,” Derek says, first quietly, then louder, furious. “ No , Laura, I can’t. It’s too late for me. I’m broken, I’m ruined, I’m…” he trails off as the look in her eyes hardens. “I don’t get to have this anymore, don’t you understand? You… you died ,” he spits, “you and Mom, and Dad, and Arthur, you were murdered , and it was my fault, and I will live the rest of my life alone because that is what I deserve.”

“Look at me,” she commands, and when he refuses, she reaches out and lifts his chin with her hand, her claws pinching into his jaw. Even as a ghost, she’s much stronger than he is, and he chokes out a wet laugh at the familiar feeling of being put in line by his Alpha. “Derek. It was not your fault.” She holds up a finger as he opens his mouth. “We’ve been over this. It was not your fault, and if it were too late for you, I wouldn’t be here. But it’s getting close, Derek,” she says, and he feels a chill slide over him at the desperation in her expression. “If you harden your heart much longer, there will be no coming back. I don’t want that for you, Derek, none of us do. You’re the last of us left here; we love you, we want you to thrive, to be happy. But you’re running out of time to do so.”

“Laura,” Derek whispers, suddenly aware that he can see the far wall through the edges of her hair, “don’t go.”

Her face grows unspeakably sad. “I have to, kiddo, I’m so sorry. Listen to me: the next two spirits will show you important things. Hear them, pay attention, and you can yet make things better.” Her hand comes up to cradle his face again, the gesture so familiar that he can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of the tears sliding down his cheeks as he watches her face fade. “I love you, Derek. I will always love you.”

“Laura,” he says again, but it’s too late. She’s gone.

--

He wakes alone in his room, claws punched through his blanket, mouth open around the dry sobs that shudder through his chest. He breathes, in through his nose, out through his mouth, waiting in the darkness until his body stops shaking with suppressed sobs, until his claws and fangs retract back into his body, until his face has dried.

After a while, he forces himself to lie back down. He won’t sleep further, he knows, but it’s after eleven on Christmas Eve. What else can he do but lie here in the dark alone, waiting for ghosts?

--

“ You ,” he says when the light around the spirit in his room coalesces into yet another recognizable figure. “You’re not a ghost, I just texted you three hours ago.” A sudden fear grips him. “You better not be a ghost, Cora, fuck , what…”

“No, Derek, I’m alive. Take a breath.” She holds up a hand and doesn’t comment on the panicked racing of his heart that they can both hear rattling around the room. He scowls and throws his legs out of bed.

“What are you doing here, then? You’re supposed to be in South America.”

“I am in South America, numbnuts.” Cora rolls her eyes. “I’m a spirit. I’m wandering. Probably I won’t even remember this when I wake up.”

Derek frowns, following her to the door. “How does that even work?”

“Fuck if I know,” she answers, clattering down the stairs ahead of him. “All I know is that I was sent to show you things, and after that, it’s up to you.”

Derek takes a moment to indulge himself in a long-suffering sigh. He misses her, he misses her a lot, actually, but even the spirit of his little sister is a pain in his ass.

“Are you coming or what?” Cora shouts up the stairs, and Derek descends, grumbling all the way.

--

“So how does this go,” he asks when they’re both standing on the porch. “Do we… take the car? Cause that doesn’t seem very ghost-y.”

“Hmm,” Cora says, frowning in thought. “No, I think… like this,” she says, lifting a hand, and the world goes dark around them.

--

When the swirling stops, they’re standing outside a small apartment on the far side of town.

“Boyd’s place?” Derek asks in surprise. “Why are we here?”

Cora just scowls and waves her hand again, the outside wall disappearing into faint mist to reveal Erica and Boyd sitting in their sweatpants on a dilapidated couch.

“They can’t… see us, right? Or hear us?” Derek hisses, body tense with anticipation.

“Nah,” Cora shrugs. “Spirits, remember? We don’t exist for them.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Derek asks again, crossing his arms. “This feels like a waste of time.”

“Your whole life is a waste of time right now,” Cora throws back, and well, Derek can’t really argue with that. “Listen,” she says, and Derek forces himself to tune in to the conversation in front of him.

“...but where?” Erica is saying, tone frustrated. “How do we find them?”

“Isaac said that Peter told him once that it's something that well-established packs do from time to time,” Boyd answers evenly, but the thread of tension is apparent in his voice. “I think Deaton would help us if we asked him. He must know some options.”

“What would we tell our families?” Erica wonders softly, shoving her toes under Boyd’s leg. He sighs and rubs a hand soothingly up her leg. “You’re eighteen in six months, but I’m not.”

“What are they talking about, Cora?” Derek asks, turning to his stone-faced sister where she stands beside him. “Why are you showing me this.”

She remains impassive, merely watching the scene in front of them, and Derek growls in frustration before turning back.

“I don’t know,” Boyd admits. “Boarding school? Early admittance to college?”

Erica snorts. “After all the classes I’ve missed this fall? Not likely.”

“We could just tell them we’re eloping. That’d be basically the truth.”

“Yeah,” Erica says, but she hangs her head in dejection, going without protest as Boyd pulls her into his arms.

“Why aren’t they happy?” Derek asks Cora, balling his fists in anger. “They’re supposed to be happy together. Why are they talking about eloping and looking like someone’s died?”

“It just feels wrong,” Erica says, “leaving like this. It hurts even to think about it.”

“They want to leave ?” Derek whispers, a stomach-churning mix of anger and despair curdling in his gut, “they’re planning to run away?”

Cora doesn’t answer him, but simply points at the pair in front of them.

“I know,” Boyd agrees, “but this isn’t healthy. Not for us, not for Isaac. I don’t want to leave either, but one or all of us is going to get killed one of these days.”

“I know you’re right,” Erica says glumly, “but what will Derek do if we leave?”

“Die, probably,” Boyd answers flatly, and Erica smacks at him, tears in her eyes. “Babe, I know it feels wrong, but he’s so fucked up. He doesn’t know anything about how to lead, and it’s not getting better. I thought at first he’d figure it out, get it together, but it’s getting worse.”

“I know,” Erica whispers, “I know. I want him to be better, I want to help him, but I don’t think he knows how to do anything different, and he just keeps pushing us all away.”

“Another pack, a real pack, if they’d take us, it could give us a chance at a good life. A way to learn more about what being a wolf means, what having a pack is supposed to be. We’re young, we’re strong, I bet we could find somewhere.” Boyd’s voice is earnest, determined, and it’s clear he’s been giving this a lot of thought.

Erica is silent for a long moment, the faint twinkling of the colored Christmas lights playing over her platinum hair. “Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s talk to Deaton. After Christmas.”

“Okay,” Boyd says, leaning forward to kiss her cheek gently. “I’ll call him on Monday.”

The vision begins to dissolve, but Derek can do nothing about the cold settling into his bones. He knows he’s been a shitty Alpha, but the bonds they share should keep even the most recalcitrant Betas from considering the possibility of abandoning their pack. And yet, he realizes, his own Betas, ones he turned with his own bite, want to leave him. Because he is broken; because he has failed.

He wants to press Cora further for answers, but a new image is forming in front of them, this time of a back porch that he recognizes immediately.

“McCall,” he growls, and Cora sets a hard hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not here for him,” she says firmly, and tilts her head at the two figures leaning on the rail. “Listen.”

“Come inside,” Scott is saying pleadingly to Isaac as he hunches over the deck railing and takes one slow drag after another on a cigarette, clouds of smoke wafting into the night air. “We’ll have some pie and then we can open gifts soon.”

“Look, Scott,” Isaac sighs, his foot twitching with the nerves Derek knows he always gets when he thinks he’s letting someone down. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, really, I do. And your mom, too. But…” he pauses, chewing on his lip, and Derek wants to snarl at the pleading look on Scott’s face. Weak , he thinks, weak and foolish . “I don’t want pity,” Isaac finally gets out, and Scott starts to shake his head immediately.

“I don’t…”

“Yes,” Isaac says, “you do. I get it. I understand why. And fuck,” he adds, abruptly angry, “it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go, so. I’m grateful. But I need you to back off on the happy families bullshit, ok? I’m not your brother, and I’m not your boyfriend, so just treat me like the charity guest I am, alright?” He exhales roughly, and Scott hovers, clearly wanting to lay a hand on him but wary of the violent nature of Isaac’s rejections.

“Isaac, I…” he starts, and Derek can smell the genuine hurt in his scent. “I just want,” Scott continues,  but he’s interrupted by the sound of the door behind him opening.

“Scott?” Allison asks, the warm light of inside framing her face and gilding her dark hair. “Oh, hey Isaac. Are you guys coming inside soon?”

“Yeah, babe, just a minute,” Scott answers distractedly, and Allison nods, closing the door behind her.

“Go,” Isaac says, “go be with your mom and girlfriend. I’ll come inside in a minute and pretend there’s a place for me here.” His tone is bitter, but Scott has apparently enough sense of self-preservation to let the comment be.

“Okay,” he says softly, turning to the door. “Don’t stay long, alright? It’s cold out.”

“I’m a werewolf, Scott,” Isaac snorts, “what the fuck do I care? Cold can’t hurt me.”

Scott scowls. “Just don’t take too long.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Isaac says, staring out into the dark, the scent of bitterness, rejection, and repressed rage hanging heavy around him. Derek can see Scott twitch his nose surreptitiously in response, and has to resist reaching out instinctively to Isaac through the pack bond. He shouldn’t; it would give them away. They’re not closely bonded enough that Derek would feel Isaac’s emotions from across town and respond. “I’ll come in soon.”

Scott hesitates a second longer, then concedes, swinging wide the heavy oak door and entering, darkness descending in its wake.

“He’d rather be with Boyd and Erica,” Cora says into the dark, “but he doesn’t know how to ask to be included, and they don’t always trust him enough to want him around.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, “I’ve noticed.”

“If you’ve noticed, why the fuck haven’t you tried to fix it?” She asks, and Derek bristles. “Besides, his real place is with you. He’s a fucking orphan, Derek, and you turned him, but you don’t even give him the time of day. He’s seventeen and alone in the world, and you what? Sometimes let him sleep on a worn out mattress in your burned out shell of a house?”

“He’d rather be with Scott,” Derek grits out, folding his arms. “I was giving him space to pursue his options.”

“ You’re his Alpha, Derek. Not Scott. He’s your responsibility.”

“Scott’s his friend,” Derek snaps, and Cora just shakes her head angrily and waves her hand. Derek braces himself against the spin, but it catches him and throws him around, spiralling into the darkness without consent or comfort.

--

“Stiles,” Derek breathes as the mist clears and they appear in a backyard he knows all too well. The upstairs light is on, a glowing square of unabashed warmth that radiates into the night. “Why are we here, Cora?”

If Cora hears the catch in his voice, she ignores it and makes a gesture instead, thrusting them abruptly into the edge of Stiles’ room.

Derek gasps and fumbles for the wall behind him, heart pounding as his senses reel in the sudden plunge into Stiles’ encompassing scent. It’s heady and thick, and Derek hasn’t been here in so long, has forced himself to resist the intimacy of Stiles’ private space.

“What’s he looking at?” Derek asks after a moment, too far away from where Stiles sits on his bed to see the book in his hands. His posture is hunched, his face twisted as he turns page after page, slowly examining the contents of each before flipping it over with a vicious flick.

“Family photo album,” Cora answers, and Derek’s heart clenches. He presses the feeling down, covers it with anger instead. It’s easier that way.

“So what,” he growls, “you want me to feel sorry for him? At least he’s still got one parent.”

“Do you see that parent here?” Cora points out. “Besides, this is not the grief Olympics. He’s got his dad, and you don’t. You’ve got me, and he doesn’t. It sucks for both of you.”

“Why isn’t he at Scott’s?” Derek snarls, “aren’t they supposed to be like brothers?”

Stiles slams the photo album shut, throwing it to the floor and collapsing over onto his bed. Derek can’t smell any tears, but he does catch the scent of blood from where Stiles’ nails are digging into his palms. His claws dig into the meat of his own hands in sympathy, distracting him from the urge to reach out and touch Stiles’ shoulder, his hip, to try to leach the anguish from his wiry frame.

“That relationship has become too strained. Between Scott’s love for Allison and Stiles’ love for you, they can barely manage to stay friends anymore. He’s being forced to choose between the two of you, and he hates it.” She pauses as Stiles lets out a rough and shuddering breath into the silence, then continues. “Not only that, but he’s being forced to choose between you, Scott, and his dad. He thinks he’s losing all of you, and he doesn’t know what to do.”

Stiles is rocking now, just a little, back and forth and back and forth. It’s a self-soothing behavior, Derek’s seen him do it a thousand times, and his chest aches with the desire to smooth a hand down Stiles’ back, to drag him close and hold him until he relaxes the terrible tension clutching his body into a tight ball.

Derek folds his arms. “He’s better off with Scott. He’s not a wolf; he’s not pack.”

“You’re as stupid as you are blind,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “You’ve driven him away because you don’t know how to deal with someone caring about you, about your well-being, and now you stand here and tell me he’s better off here? Alone, depressed, and rejected?”

“He’s human,” Derek says softly, after a long moment, and Cora turns to look at him for what feels like the first time all night, “he’s human , and he can be hurt. I just want him to be safe.”

“Derek,” she says, and when her voice is quiet, she sounds so much like Laura that it makes Derek want to cry. “Derek, he’s safest with you.”

“No,” Derek answers, pulling himself up tight, turning his face away from Stiles’ body on the bed. “No one’s safe with me.”

--

The world fades around them until they’re back on the porch of Derek’s house. He can see that Cora is fading around the edges, becoming soft and indistinct.

“Derek,” she says, her face angry and determined in equal measure, both fully present in an expression that’s sharp in its familiarity. “This is the now. Your pack is fractured and miserable. They hate themselves, and they hate you. But you can still change it. There’s still time to fix this. Open yourself up to them; be honest. Ask for help, let them in.”

She reaches out to touch his arm, but her hand goes right through him, and Derek shudders at the sensation.

“Fix this, Derek. It was never supposed to be like this.” Her voice trails off, and Derek closes his eyes. He can’t watch her dissolve into nothingness, can’t lose her again. “ Fix this ,” she whispers, and is gone.

--

He crawls back into bed, because what else can he do. It’s well past midnight, and he hurts all over like he’s been run over by a truck. He can’t shake the sense of loss at knowing that Erica and Boyd are across town planning their departure, can’t unfeel the sharp pangs of rejection and anger that stabbed out from Isaac in every direction. And for all that Stiles isn’t pack, for all that he shouldn’t be able to feel Stiles at all, he can’t convince his heart to stop aching at the waves of grief and abandonment and loneliness that had rolled off of Stiles and permeated the space around him.

He buries his face in his pillow and tries not to think.

“Get up,” a voice commands him some time later. He starts in surprise; he hadn’t heard anyone enter. A second later, he realizes how dumb that is- of course he wouldn’t hear a spirit come in. He rolls over, sits up, squinting at the brightness of the figure at the end of his bed.

“...Lydia?” he asks cautiously. It certainly looks like her, diminutive and firey, as regal and sharp as ever, but something’s off. There’s a coldness, a feral calculation simmering between her eyes that isn’t usually quite so close to the surface.

The spirit lifts its chin at him. “Close enough,” it says, “after all, who better than a banshee to sing you the tale of Christmases yet to come?”

Derek suppresses the shudder that runs down his spine, and pulls himself to his feet.

“Alright,” he says, stepping forward and expecting to follow not-Lydia out the door, “let’s go.”

She steps forward wordlessly, an unearthly shine filling her features as she plants her hand flat on his chest, opens her mouth, and screams.

--

Derek comes to his senses in the graveyard, ears still ringing with the sound of the banshee’s piercing wail.

“Christ on a cracker,” he grumbles, shoving a finger in his ear and wiggling it around. “Warn a guy.”

“Your eardrums will heal,” Lydia says primly, her heels sinking not at all into the wet earth as she leads him onward. “Come.”

The graveyard is dark, a dim and waning moon sinking through the fog. A little ways off, Derek can see a figure hunched, back resting on a gravestone. He doesn’t need to use any extra senses to identify who it is; he’d know that silhouette anywhere.

“It’s a cruel irony,” Lydia says casually, “that the Argent and Hale plots are both so close to each other, and also to the Stilinskis.”

“...Stilinskis?” Derek asks with a sinking heart, emphasizing the plural.

“The Sheriff died three years back,” Lydia informs him, “shot in the line of duty, officially.”

“...and unofficially?”

“Rogue hunter got him. He saved Scott’s life at the cost of his own.”

“Jesus fuck .” Derek says, feeling winded. They’re close enough now that he can hear Stiles murmuring to himself, can pick out the shapes of him in the heavy darkness.

They’re not good shapes. His body is too skinny, his face too sharp. His hair is long, like he hasn’t bothered to cut it regularly, and he’s slumped against the Stilinski headstone in a way that makes the cutting stink of booze unnecessary information.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” Stiles croons under his breath, hiccuping quietly. “Make the Yuletide gay. Hah!” He lifts the bottle in his hand and toasts the air. “Been working on that one for years!” His face falls abruptly. “Not that it matters. Not that there’s anyone who’d have me. Who I’d have. Who I’d…” he trails off absently, staring into space, seemingly unaware of the tears streaming down his face.

“Where is Scott,” Derek asks roughly, sinking to the ground in front of Stiles. He wants to gather him up, brush his hair back from his face. He wants to take him away from this dark and lonely place, to somewhere warm and dry and safe, wants to give him food and a bath and…

“They don’t speak,” Lydia answers. “Stiles couldn’t forgive Scott after the death of his father, and Scott wouldn’t have accepted it anyway.” She gestures to another stone a little ways away. “Allison died in that same encounter,” she says, her voice hard and tight. “That fight broke both of them in ways they couldn’t repair. They haven’t fit together since.”

“What about Isaac? Or Boyd, or Erica?” Derek’s grasping at straws, he knows it, but he can’t help himself. “Or you?”

“Erica and Boyd moved away years ago. Isaac stayed a little longer, but he left to go to France six months after they left.” Her eyes grow distant. “I don’t come here, which is part of why Stiles does. I won’t follow him here, it’s too noisy for me.” She sighs. “He doesn’t like it when I follow him and try to help. This is his escape.” Her features soften, and Derek feels like he’s seeing the real Lydia for the first time tonight. “This is his safe space, Derek. Here, alone in the graveyard, with the corpses of his parents and friends- this is where he comes for comfort.”

Derek releases a shuddering sigh just as Stiles begins to sing again.

“Here we are as in olden days,” he murmurs, “happy golden days of yore… faithful friends… hah!” His face is ripped through in a sudden fit of rage, and he hurls the bottle in his hand as far as he can. Derek can hear it smash against a headstone several rows away. “Faithful friends, my fucking ass,” Stiles grits out. “You were a faithful friend, Ally. Too bad about what happened, huh? But the rest of them…no.”

Derek doesn’t want to ask the question. He’s sure he already knows the answer, but there’s no help for it, because if no one else is going to come haul Stiles’ drunk and hypothermic ass out of the graveyard at two in the morning on Christmas, Derek should.

“Lydia,” he whispers, “where am I?”

“Derek,” Stiles sobs out of nowhere, getting unsteadily to his feet and wandering several plots east. “God, Derek . You were the least faithful friend of all, but you never could help it, could you?” He drapes himself over a headstone, and Derek doesn’t have to read it to know what it says. “Fuck. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Be as goddamn faithless as you want, I’d give anything to have you back.”

“Stiles,” Derek whispers helplessly, trailing behind and watching as Stiles lies down on the cold ground, his body in a perfect mirror of what must lie beneath him.

Whirling, he turns to Lydia. “What can I do,” he says, “Is this set? Can it be changed?” He reaches out to drag Stiles into his arms, but his grasp passes right through Stiles’ body, and he turns back to her, pleading desperately. “How can I fix this? Can I stop this from happening?”

Her gaze is terrible, filled with flames and an immortal knowing, her voice deep and echoing with the reverberations of a thousand souls.

“This is the course upon which you are set, Derek Hale. Only your own courage and determination can change it now.”

“I will,” he vows, stretching out beside the now unconscious Stiles, pressing as close as he can without touching. Stiles shivers, and Derek wishes fervently to be able to warm him. “I will change this, I swear it.” He’s reaching out to touch Stiles’ face when he feels the world fall away.

--

He wakes in his own bed just after dawn, so tangled in the sheets that he falls flat on his face as he leaps out and on to the floor. He can feel his heart racing as he reaches out with his senses, trying to see if anyone or anything is in the house with him, but all he can hear and smell is the same emptiness as always. He breathes out hard, freeing his legs and jumping up. He’s got things to do.

--

It’s the work of a moment to fire off a group text, “Christmas Brunch, Black Bear Diner, 11 am. Please.” There are no responses, because his pack is made of teenagers and it’s 7:30 am on Christmas morning, but they’ll come. He thinks. He hopes. If they don’t, he’ll try something else, he decides. He’ll figure it out. He wants to figure it out, wants to make this work, and it’s like a revelation as it washes over him, the desire to make something better.

He changes his clothes, brushes his teeth, and detours through what remains of Laura’s old room. It was at the back of the house, and is open to the sky now, but a push to the floorboard in the back of her closet yields up its treasure without ceremony, a cloud of dust stinging his eyes as dingy green plastic beads wink up at him in the early light.

He shoves the necklace in his pocket and clatters downstairs where he stands for a long moment in the center of what was once their living room. If he closes his eyes, he can still see it, the memory of what once was. He draws in a long breath, holding it as the images wash over him, then releasing it all at once and opening his eyes. Rebuilding is a tomorrow problem, but he thinks he’s finally ready to start.

Which leaves only one loose end.

--

“Stiles,” he says carefully, hovering beside Stiles’ bed. The photo album is abandoned facedown on the floor, and Stiles’ room stinks of salt-tears and muted fury. If Derek had any remaining doubts about the veracity of the previous night’s travels, they’re all laid bare by the evidence in this small room.

“What do you want, Derek,” Stiles says flatly without rolling over. He’s still curled into a fetal position on his bed, face pressed to the wall. “Is there a bad guy? Do you need me to translate a spell? Did the barrier fall?”

“I want to apologize,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls over.

“I’m sorry, you what?”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Derek says, holding Stiles’ gaze in spite of how depressing it is to realize that the genuine confusion on Stiles’ features in the face of an apology is the direct result of how Derek has treated him. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, “it’ll be alright.” He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Can you tell me if this is possession, or just manipulation? I’ll see what I’ve got on hand books-wise, but we might have to call Lydia.”

“No, Stiles, wait.” Derek reaches out and grabs his arm, holding him still. The skin beneath his hand is warm and soft with sleep, but hard with tension, and he rubs a thumb across it soothingly without thinking. “Sit down,” he says, and waits until Stiles is seated on the edge of his bed, face drawn with suspicion.

“Last night…,” he starts, “this is going to sound crazy.”

“When doesn’t it?” Stiles asks, and it’s not even sass, it’s just an honest question, and Derek sinks to his knees in frustration.

“You know what?” Derek says, rubbing his face into his hands, “It doesn't matter. What matters is this: I’ve treated you badly, and I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix it.” He looks up, and Stiles is watching him warily, examining him like he would a dangerous and perplexing problem. “But I hope...I want…”

“What do you want, Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, and his voice is as calm and quiet and devoid of expectation as Derek has ever heard it.

Derek exhales shakily, and scoots cautiously forward until he can curl down and lay his head in Stiles’ lap. He can feel Stiles go completely still beneath him.

“I want you, Stiles,” he says, because he can’t see the point in anything but the truth. “I’m tired. I’m tired of being angry, and I’m tired of being alone. I want better.” He pauses abruptly as Stiles shoves a hand into his hair, holding his breath as Stiles’ fingers start to move against his scalp in soothing circles. “I want to be better. For you. But for me, too. And for Erica, and Boyd, and Isaac.”

He lets his voice trail off, focusing on the pull of air in his lungs, the wood floor under his feet, the racing beat of Stiles’ heart above his ears.

“Please,” he says finally, at a loss for anything else, and Stiles’ hands tighten on his head.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers finally, and Derek’s heart begins to beat again as he dares to let his arms wrap around Stiles’ legs, pushing his head carefully into Stiles’ rough, strong hands. “Yeah. Me too.”

Derek exhales hard, bringing his arms up to wrap around Stiles’ waist even as he buries his face in Stiles’ stomach, breathing in the familiar solidity of his presence. He feels anchored in a way he can’t remember since childhood, even as he feels his world cracking at the seams.

Stiles gets his hands under Derek’s armpits and pulls, his scent going warm with slow-blooming happiness.

“Come here,” he says, and Derek goes.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @mute90!

I hope this is to your liking!

Read on AO3

******

'Twas the Full Moon Before Finals

Nick always thought Stiles was weird, but, like, lowkey weird. An acceptable level of weird where Stiles stays up until ungodly hours of the night, but also lets Nick borrow his ecology notes. It all evens out.

After Thanksgiving, though, Stiles started getting so much weirder. And this creepy older guy started hanging out a lot instead of just climbing through the window every once in a while. (See? Creepy.)

Stiles isn’t totally un-creepy, but he’s nice enough. This guy, when he’s not crawling in through the window, sniffs things. Particularly Stiles. Which is…

Where does Stiles find these people? Because all his other friends are like that, too. Just not as bad as the guy whose leather jacket Stiles is currently wearing.

Stiles keeps sniffing the guy’s jacket.

In fact, Nick and Stiles had been in the middle of an argument two nights ago about Batman of all things and Stiles had suddenly stopped, grabbed the jacket off the back of his desk chair, and shoved his face into it.

This intense weirdness is post-Thanksgiving weirdness. Post-Stiles going home for the long weekend weirdness.

Maybe back home, Stiles had finally been sucked into this guy’s evil cult or something.

This morning, Stiles is extra twitchy. They’re just a day from the end of fall semester with winter break coming on so maybe Stiles has been drinking too much coffee but when Nick went to move the stack of papers on the floor, Stiles had growled at him.

And has been on his phone since.

It’s a couple hours after the growling incident that there’s a knock on their door and, lo and behold, who should it be?

The creep.

Nick glances out the window. It’s still daylight, so apparently the guy only likes to climb through the window when he can most easily get away with it—and, likely, get away with Nick’s murder.

Stiles rushes over to the guy and wraps his arms around him. “Oh, thank god, Derek.”

Derek. Huh. Nick had always kind of avoided knowing anything about him.

“It’s going to be hard for you,” Derek is saying, and Nick frowns. “The first time—” Derek stops and looks over at Nick, glaring him down, before he and Stiles have some sort of silent conversation that Nick only really sees through Stiles’s hands and the guy’s eyebrows.

Derek stands, hands in his pockets yet still somehow intimidating, while Stiles starts grabbing his things.

“I gotta go. Derek and I, uh. We need to talk about Beacon Hills things. You know, what’s up with the pa-ah— people. At home. Scott. My dad. Just normal people who do normal things.”

“Stiles,” Derek warns, and he’s got some sort of low, commanding rumble in his voice that Nick swears Stiles responds to with a whine.

“Going,” he tells Derek, then tosses a wave at Nick.

Nick walks over to lock the door and swears he can hear Stiles out in the hallway saying, “O alpha, my alpha,” like some sort of Dead Poets Societyhomage.

Weirder.

~

Nick is slumped over his history textbook when Stiles bursts back into their room a few hours later. He keeps glancing outside significantly. Night has fallen, but the light of the full moon is still bright as it filters through their window.

“Hey,” Stiles greets. “Can’t talk. Meeting Derek. Just gotta—” He shakes his head, freezes for a moment and breathes out in harsh puffs of air, his hand coming up to shield his face from Nick’s view.

Nick has had it. Enough is enough and obviously this Derek guy, besides being creepy, is causing Stiles to make even worse decisions than he already does. He pushes away his textbook and sits up, waiting until Stiles makes eye contact with him. Stiles’s eyes look wild and glassy and, for just a second, Nick thinks they looks golden, but that’s probably just because he’s sleep-deprived. He steadies his gaze on Stiles and Stiles makes an attempt to straighten up attentively.

“Are you on drugs, Stiles?” Stiles’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, starts opening and closing. “Because you can tell me. I can help you. If Derek is forcing you into anything you don’t want—”

Stiles lets out a laugh. “What?! No, no. It’s not like.” His whole body shakes and his hands clench and unclench. “Look, we’ll talk. Soon.” He gestures as he speaks, vibrating with energy. Yeah, totally normal, Nick thinks.

“I’m worried,” Nick says. “Ever since you got back from Thanksgiving break, you’ve been different.”

Silently, lips pursed as he apparently keeps in whatever thoughts he has about that, Stiles nods. Then, he flips around to start searching through his bedside drawer and proceeds to brandish his lube victoriously. No condom, Nick notes.

When he turns back around and sees the way Nick is looking between his face and the lube, Stiles has the rationale to at least look sheepish. “Okay,” Stiles says earnestly. “You’re right. I’m different. I’ve…” He rolls his hands over each other, searching for the right word. “Changed.”

“Is he bribing you?” Nick asks. “With sex?” Nick hates even considering it, but all signs point to yes.

There’s a howl and Stiles whips around three hundred and sixty degrees. He closes his eyes. “Hold on, Der.”

“Seriously?”

Stiles keeps his eyes closed, feeling around as he sidesteps to the door until Nick can’t see his face. “Yeah. I’ll explain later.”

Stiles runs out without another word and Nick sends a series of question marks via text message when an hour passes and no Stiles.

~

Two and a half hours after Stiles’s apparent booty call departure, Nick ventures out for some late night Taco Bell. His brain is fried and Stiles has been pushed to the back of his mind.

The overexhausted part of his mind tells him that if Stiles has been murdered, Nick can probably get an extension on his finals. Or even an automatic A, if the professor is feeling generous. So, really, it’s fine. Nick can identify Stiles’s murderer and live the rest of the year without a roommate.

Most of his brain is currently occupied by how many burritos he can order with the cash he has in his pocket and whether or not he still has a twenty or if he spent it on Red Bulls.

These thoughts, however, are interrupted by the distinctive sound of grunting, of skin slapping against skin, and Nick stops in his tracks about ten feet from his car as curiosity gets to him.

Idly, he remembers that Stiles had gone out to see (read: bang) Derek and that could be happening in the parking lot, but that was a while ago.

He walks toward the sound and has to maneuver toward the back of the lot before he sees moonlight illuminating pale skin through the passenger window of a Camaro.

Pale, mole-dotted skin. Damn it.

And, yep, the other guy has to be Derek, dark beard pressed to Stiles’s throat.

Nick is annoyed enough that he taps the window. “You have a psych final at seven-thirty tomorrow morning!”

The growl he receives in response sends a shiver down his spine, but he’s not going to be intimidated by some—

Something is wrong with Stiles’s face. His eyes are golden. And glowing. His teeth are too big and too sharp. He’s looking at Nick like Nick could be dinner and Nick wishes he had already gone to Taco Bell, could toss Stiles a burrito and run.

“Control,” Derek says. “Look at me, Stiles. Look at me. There. Better, right? Feel me.”

Stiles is obviously focused on Derek, eyes slipping closed.

The window rolls down a couple of inches and Derek’s eyes flash red before going back to whatever normal is for him. Nick’s never paid attention before.

“Don’t run.” Derek grunts as Stiles shifts, bites his lip, and Nick has no idea why he’s still here. “If you act like prey, he’ll see prey.”

“‘Prey’?” Nick repeats. “What? Does that make you two predators?”

The red is back and Derek snaps his teeth. “Yes.”

Nick can’t respond to that. Numbly, he walks to his car and gets in, sitting there for ten minutes with just the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. Then, he peels out of the school parking lot.

~

Nick’s first final is at noon, so he’s still cramming for it as the door creaks open and Stiles walks in.

He hadn’t returned at all during the night and Nick wonders if he and Derek were fucking the whole time or if they just slept in the car.

He’s been questioning what he saw, trying to reason it away, and Stiles seems so nonthreatening now that maybe it was all some crazy caffeine-fueled, stress-driven fever dream.

Stiles takes a seat on his bed and picks at the comforter for a minute before sighing, looking to Nick. “So I said I’d explain.”

The bottom drops out of Nick’s stomach, but he sits up, alert. His heart starts to hammer and he swallows.

Stiles winces and covers his ears, like he’s hungover, but there are no loud noises in the room so it really doesn’t make sense. Stiles doesn’t make sense.

“Explain,” Nick says anyway.

“The day after Thanksgiving, I almost died.”

This is not how Nick expected this conversation to go. “What? Are you okay—”

Stiles holds up a hand. “There wasn’t enough time to get me to the hospital and Derek wasn’t going to let me just die, so...he did what he had to do.”

“That creep saved your life?”

Stiles laughs. “I don’t know why you think he’s so creepy. I mean, I do, but Derek is so soft, he’s not even a marshmallow. Whipped cream, maybe.” Stiles considers it for a moment, then shrugs at Nick. “And yeah. He saved me.” He scratches his neck, some phantom itch that he traces with his fingertips after. “He bit me.”

Dumbfounded, Nick stares at Stiles. Maybe it’s a cult, maybe it’s just drugs, maybe Stiles needs to see a counselor… “Bit you?” he asks instead, for clarification’s sake.

“Yeah,” Stiles adds quickly, “but I totally consented so it’s all good.”

“Stiles, what—”

Stiles dips his head, and when he looks back up, his eyes are glowing again. “I’m a werewolf.”

“Uh-huh.” Nick blinks, but the glow is still there.

“And so is Derek.”

“Okay.” Nick’s head hurts. He should lie down.

“And last night was my first full moon.”

Nick nods until his head feels like it’s no longer connected to his neck.

“Nick?” Stiles’s voice sounds worried, comes the distant thought.

“Werewolves,” Nick says, and promptly passes out.

Definitely weirder.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @foolishsel!

for @FoolishSel who wanted Friends to lovers, fluff, smut, actually just them healing and taking care of themselves and generally finding happiness

I really hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

*****

the shadows on my wall

Someone was calling his name. At least Stiles thought so, but he could barely hear it over the buzz of the electricity and Erica and Boyd’s screams.

Then his dad was there, yelling. “Stiles! Come on, wake up. Wake up. It’s just a dream, son.”

With a gasp, Stiles was no longer in the Argent’s dark basement. Instead, his dad was kneeling by his bed, breathing hard.

Once he was no longer in the clutches of the nightmare, he patted his dad’s arm.

The Sheriff sighed, and Stiles could see just how hard his sleepless nights were on him, too. “I know that you’ve probably researched the hell out of this. But is there some sort of spell? A magic talisman? A dream catcher? Anything that would stop the nightmares?”

“A dream catcher?” Stiles thought for a moment. Magic was real, there was no question about it. But Deaton had said that there was no indication that his dreams were magical in origin. “This might just be old-fashioned human trauma, Pops. I need to learn to live with the fact that sleeping will always be a nightmare. Literally.”

“Then talk to someone. This is killing you,” his dad scrubbed a hand over his tired eyes.

And Stiles would do anything to take that desperate look off of his father’s face. Maybe even take some of his friends’ advice. Even though it wouldn’t change anything. But it was okay, he was dealing.

Contrary to what everyone else seemed to believe, Stiles was fine.

-..-..-..-

“It could be psychosomatic,” Lydia said, almost as soon as she was over the threshold. “You get so worked up before you go to sleep that it triggers the nightmares. Maybe you should try to relax more.”

Stiles rolled his eyes heavenward, praying for strength. “Lyds, I don’t even know what a peaceful night of sleep is like anymore.”

She tapped the rolled up mat under her arm. “That’s way I brought yoga DVDs and face masks.”

Shaking his head, Stiles followed her through the house, watching her dim the lights and set out scented candles. Lavender. Very relaxing.

Two hours later, Stiles was feeling pretty good. His muscles were loose, and his skin felt softer than ever. Even his mind was sluggish, sleep dragging him down easily.

But Alpha Peter greeted him, with his twisted words and creepy smiles. His eyes glowed the same red as the flames that engulfed him, leaving him screaming until Stiles was screaming himself awake.

Lydia just jotted something down in the notebook on his desk and rose to her feet. “Do you want to go back to sleep or should I make another cup of tea?”

The memory of Peter’s touch on his skin made Stiles shudder.

“Tea, please.”

They ended up drinking cocoa on the porch and waiting for the sun to rise.

-..-..-..-

The next day, Kira followed him home after their pack meeting. “I know Lydia tried relaxation techniques, but maybe you need to exhaust yourself.”

It probably said a lot about his mental state, because Stiles was just about ready to try anything. Even if it meant getting his ass kicked by a kitsune.

The second they were inside, Kira threw his gym bag at him and darted up the stairs to change. They spent the day running all over Beacon Hills, then played with a frisbee in the park. By the time the sun set, Stiles could feel the heavy ache in his limbs that meant his body was well and truly exhausted.

Even Kira’s kitsune energy couldn’t compete. Fresh out of the shower, she collapsed into bed without a word. Stiles crawled in next to her and found himself lulled to sleep by her even breathing.

This time the dream was quiet. He was in the ice bath, staring at the ceiling through the water. The cold ate away at his lungs and he could feel himself slowly suffocating.

By the time Kira managed to wake him, Stiles’ pillow was soaked with tears.

“Shhhh,” she coaxed him upright and wrapped her arms around him. “It was just a bad dream. Just a dream. None of it was real.”

It took longer than usual for Stiles to pull himself together. But there was something therapeutic about crying into Kira’s shoulder while she rubbed his back and spoke softly in his ear.

Once he’d caught his breath, Stiles straightened and swiped his arm over his eyes. “Well. I can’t go back to sleep after that. I need coffee- no I need a drink.”

Kira snorted. “Let’s go watch a movie.”

Stiles caught her before she slipped down the stairs.

“Thank you,” he said. “I mean it.”

She smiled at him. Not her usual 100-watt grin, but something softer. “Anytime, Stiles.”

When they curled up on the couch, it felt a lot like family.

-..-..-..-

It took a bit for Stiles to catch on to Scott’s plan. But he knew his best friend well enough to know that at least half of his cheerfulness was forced. There was no way he would be this chipper so soon after Allison died.

After you killed her, the voice that sounded like the Nogitsune whispered in his mind.

But the Nogitsune was gone, and everyone kept telling him it wasn’t his fault. So, Stiles was going to do his best to gorge himself on junk food and play videogames until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He woke up screaming. Allison’s lifeless eyes were boring into his mind. “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” he could hear himself saying, sounding far away.

“It’s okay, Stiles. It’s okay, buddy.”

Scott had him pinned to the carpet, a firm grip on each wrist beside his head. Even Stiles’ human senses picked up on the metallic scent of blood. It had been a while since he’d clawed himself to the point of breaking skin.

So much for progress.

“That’s it. That’s it, just relax,” Scott crooned, and he looked wrecked,

Stiles felt like the guilt was going to drown him. “Sorry,” he whispered, voice raw.

“None of this is your fault.” Scott sounded so sure of his own words that Stiles couldn’t help but believe them.

After a moment, Scott released his hands and rolled off of him. Stiles lay panting, wondering if it was even worth trying to go back to sleep.

Seeming to read his mind, Scott hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get you to the shower, you’re covered in sweat.”

-..-..-..-

Stiles was four hours into a Wikipedia spiral when his window was shoved open.

“What, the-” he spun around, expecting to see six feet of broody werewolf crawling into his room.

Instead, Cora Hale dusted off her jeans and nodded at him. “Stilinski.”

That definitely wasn’t the Hale he was hoping to see.

“Is Derek okay?” He hadn’t heard from him in a while, and his last few texts hadn’t gone through. But he’d thought that’d meant Derek was out of range. Shit. What if-

“Breathe,” Cora commanded, dragging him out of his computer chair and herding him toward the bed. “My brother is fine. He’s with a pack up in Oregon right now, making some kind of peace treaty.”

“But why-?” Stiles let her manhandle him under the covers.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re pack too, idiot. Lydia said you weren’t sleeping.”

“How do I know I’m not actually dreaming right now?” Stiles frowned at where she was situating herself at his desk. “You’re acting really strange. Even for you.”

“Try to get some rest.” She spun away from him, then fussed with her phone.

Stiles was awake two hours later, with the image of Derek strung up and bleeding burned into his mind’s eye. Cora held him as he caught his breath, shuddering.

When he drifted off again, Cora was on the phone.

“He hasn’t slept in two weeks,” she murmured. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Stiles lost the thread of the conversation as unconsciousness claimed him.

-..-..-..-

For the first time in a long time, Stiles woke up feeling rested.

He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the window, then looked toward the door. His dad was standing in the doorway, smiling.

“How’re you feeling, son?” he whispered.

Stiles was suddenly aware of the weight at his back, anchoring him. He shifted until he saw a familiar face, brows pinching into a frown as Stiles moved.

“He showed up yesterday morning,” his dad said, “You were both out like a light.”

Derek snuffled, dragging Stiles back toward his chest.

“We’re making pancakes. Don’t take too long,” Cora shouted from downstairs.

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you in a bit.” He eased the door closed behind him and clomped down the stairs.

Once he was down and trying to convince Cora to put chocolate chips in the batter, by the sounds of it, Stiles rolled to face his bedmate. Or maybe more like bed-thief.

“Hey, big guy.”

Derek twitched and tried to drag the covers over his head. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. A morning person, Derek was not.

He watched as one green eye blinked open, then the other. Derek looked disgruntled in a soft, rumpled way that made Stiles want to kiss him. But he settled for smoothing down Derek’s impressive bedhead.

“I really missed you,” he said, the admission easy in their warm, sun drenched cocoon.

The smile he received in return was like the sun coming up. “Missed you too.”

They probably would’ve stayed curled up together for the rest of the day, if Cora hadn’t come bursting in.

“Good morning! Pancakes are ready!” She glared at Derek. “And no hanky-panky where I can hear it!”

Stiles mouthed hanky-panky while Derek laughed beside him.

“Come on, let’s get the grumpy-wolf his coffee.” Stiles held out a hand to help Derek out of bed.

Derek didn’t let go until they were seated at the table, surrounded by family.

And finally, Stiles felt like he could breathe.