#but it helped hone the skill when it came to faking faith too

[pengychan]

i like that little kid you went "sounds fake but okay" and just faked faith or something

Listen there are a lot of downsides to child abuse but one unintentional plus is that it will turn kids into the best fucking liars you'll ever meet and you never know when the skill can come in handy.

(My best friend had more permissive parents and when we had to pull off some shit I had to tell her to stfu and let me do the talking, because she'd sweat GUILT from every pore and meanwhile I could look at my mother in the eye and tell the most outrageous bullshit known to man with zero qualms)

[septiembrre]

“well, it’s the thought that counts.” for brio!

I originally thought I was going to write some fluff and instead 1,500 words of angst came out. D: Read at your own risk! 

Scene setting: In the wake of 2x13, Beth has built her own business laundering money. But, now Rio’s back and he’s in her business, strongarming her for a few months. In the past week, Beth has been dealing with a series of thefts and the potential of a brewing turf war - and Rio has decided she’s no longer useful. 

—

In moments of despair, moments like this one, Beth catches herself wondering if her life is only a long lesson in disappointment.  The previous moments of despair are a familiar list: her distant, magical father and his disappearing act, her bewitched mother and her numbing neglect, her teenage years that should have been full of average adolescent angst, hormonal butterflies and exploration but instead where spent surviving being the sole provider for her family.  When she was younger, she had thought the list would end there but it continued in the blanketing quicksand of marriage to Dean and twenty years of quiet indignities and endless labor. She’s being self-pitying, she knows. There was also good. Good that reaches through her rich, grounding love for Annie, Ruby, and her children. Good existed for a handful of years, weeks, hours with Dean when there was some measure of happiness between them.  Good was in that conversation with her mother before she died, the one that echoes still. The one where Beth found herself with words slipping past her lips as a sleeping Annie rested on an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the hospital room.  It was a confrontation she hadn’t consciously prepared for but perhaps had written itself throughout her life. When she found that no more could come, her mother’s lips were trembling and the room was heavy with silence.

Her mom didn’t apologize. In the moment, the bitterness choked at her throat and she hoisted Annie on her hip and left. None of it was enough. But, when Beth had no more to say, mom had touched her shoulder and said “I didn’t intend for it to turn out like this.” She thinks back on it every now and then, picking it apart with renewed focus now that she’s a mother. The words echo and shape her as a parent. At the end of the day, she didn’t want a platitude -that it was the thought that counts- to be the sum of her relationship with her own children, to be the moral of the story at the end of her life. But, her life was an exercise in dissatisfaction and it was about to be over. Because this was finally happening.

It was the middle of the night and Rio had finally come to find her alone. His gun is raised on her.

The situation of guns between them has been a journey of its own. She feels wry and a little tender when she remembers an earlier time when she knew he would not harm her. But, today they are no longer those people.

When he pulls the trigger, he will hit her square in the chest and she knows with certainty she will die. Despite her tolerance for pain - tolerance earned through bringing four babies into the world, and bearing all of life’s disappointment - there would be no coming back from near-death for her. She knows it the way her kids names are tattooed in her bones, knows it the way she knows how to weave a story to make Ruby laugh until she cries, knows it like how she could trust Dean to never move the clean laundry from the washer to the dryer, knows it like how she quickly learned the rough exhale Rio made when she bit him at the hard line of his clavicle, the soft pad of thumb, the inside of his wrist. She knows with certainty that if he pulled the trigger, his experience and skill would hone true.

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, steeling herself for the blow- blows? When she can’t dismiss the panic rising in her throat, she reminds herself she did this same thing to him. Beth makes the decision that right now she is being brave.  Right now, she is going to be the best liar, and she tries to wrangle all of her emotions and shove them aside.  She doesn’t want to subject him to or indulge him in all of the melodrama of - whatever this was. A shooting, a murder, a kill. It was already awful enough the other way around and she wants this to be neat, dignified.  She gives him permission to earn his revenge. She accepts this. This makes sense - and truly it was the inevitable ending.

Beth doesn’t know who she was kidding when she thought she could earn money through crime and then be out. Or who she was kidding, when she approached Rio the first time, and then kept approaching him. Now, they’re here, and all of Ruby’s, Annie’s and even Dean’s warnings were right. She, in all of her hubris, was wrong. And she shot him first, so she can’t argue that she doesn’t deserve this.

But, in these past two years since the robbery at the grocery store, she has felt the most alive, the most present. She has utilized the most of herself and all of her skills and her tenacity. And she knows it’s selfish. Especially when she thinks about the kids, surrendered to a life with Dean as their only caregiver. But now at the end of all of this journey through crime and survival, she can’t lie. She can’t say it was all for them.  

This, her gaze locked to Rio’s, this was for her, too.

She is proud of how even her voice is when she says, “You should just do it.”

His jaw clenches and the movement travels up to his temples, like the frame of his face is one sharp line of tension. “‘Scuse me, darlin’?”

She braces herself and repeats it again.

His lips twist and he cocks his head. “You don’t think I will?” The look in his eyes makes her breath catch.

“I rather it be you.”

She doesn’t know what muscle in his face shifts but his expression takes a tinge of incredulity. Maybe his eyes are wider, like when he played up fake innocence on another difficult night, except this time it’s real. The emotion present on his face is unnameable to her still, but it’s present and a relief after all these weeks of restrained hostility. She feels compelled to explain to him.  

“I know it will mean something.”

Beth blinks back tears because this is not the time. She’s uncomfortable, embarrassed; she’s literally about to die, and she can’t help but notice how the tension of this moment coalesces with all of her childhood socialization from her mother and compels her to ease the pauses in their conversation.  It’s been two years, and she’s always struggled with where to let space lie with him.

She barrels on, “I know it matters to you.”

It does. It’s written all over his face as his sneer pulls at the edge of his mouth, his eyes wild.  And, of course, it does, even if only for the sheer satisfaction of avenging his pain and asserting his right as king in the hierarchy.  But, she sees that she has bothered him - she has definitely bothered him.  In the adrenaline of this moment, her eyes drink in his handsome face, made more vibrant with emotion and her brain that is always spinning, analyzes every nuance.  There’s so much in his eyes and she wonders if he’s ever hated her more. Well, he has to kill her now, if only to save them both from further mortification.

Does she deserve to be taken out by some too-big-for-his-britches man bidding for her kingdom through a turf war? Yes, so much of this - crime -  is completely out of her grasp and she knows as good as she is at her piece, despite her being the king of her piece, she’s not the same type of king as Rio and while she could try to figure out how to keep up in this new game, she doesn’t have the strategy, machinations,  or intuition to carry her all the way through.  This potential ending makes her sad and wonder mournfully what her life had been for to only to end there.  But, being taken out in by her nemesis, her former lover and the man she betrayed? It’s karmic, like the end to a well-written crime novel, where before she had only imagined herself as the victim and now she finds herself the villainess punished for bucking society and all of the misdeeds of being a bad girl. Knowing in her last moments that finally she was seen - brilliant and talented, as a real threat.  Worthy.

She can’t think on it too closely, but she just feels like this is such a better option. Wryness, irony, her ever faithful companions chime, ‘It’s the thought that counts’. And if she’s honest, somehow, someway she thinks Rio will murder her more respectfully. Intellectually, she realizes that is absolutely ridiculous, fucked up even, and maybe even self-hating. But the belief has roots deep in her subconscious and it’s been hard to dispel.

After a beat, he lowers the gun.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @heavy---cream!

Irresistibly Contagious

"I can't believe they roped you into this!"

Dang. He'd been aiming for sympathy, but that definitely came out way too gleeful.

Derek just glared as balefully as he could from under the Santa hat, perched jauntily on his head by a helpful elf.

"You could, at least, try to be supportive." He didn't so much speak, as his voice emerged from the bushy fake beard, like a deranged explorer stumbling out of the jungle. Which. Hilarious. And unfair!

"Dude, I am being supportive. It's literally my job description. Like, 'Santa's Helper' supportive." He gestured down at his adorable holly green elf costume. The movement sent all the little bells he'd painstakingly sewed onto his costume a-jingling, and a vein in Derek's forehead a-throbbing with every merry peal.

When the Red Vein's throbbin'

Get hop hop hoppin' along, aloooong.

Heh.

Hilarity, thy name is Stiles.

Not something Derek would probably appreciate right now. Though, it's not like he could resist humming a few more bars. And a little, bell enhanced spin.

"Man, where's Scott? I'm Christmas personified right now."

Derek's glower only deepened.

And, OK. It was a little corny. And, like the rest of the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital's Christmas supplies, kind of well-used. And musty smelling. The pack had bitched so much.

Because, of course, if Derek had to be Santa, there was no way the rest of the pack wasn't going down with him.

But, hey. Christmas. Sick children. Who would say no to that?

A monster, that's who. And not the Creature of the Night variety, either.

(Except for, maybe, vampires. Because fuck vampires, those guys are assholes.)

"I guess I should be grateful you didn't inflict those things on anyone else."

Stiles gasped in not-entirely-fake outrage.

"What are you saying about my totally awesome costume  modifications? I spent hours adding these. Bells are hella Christmas. They bring Christmas joy, Derek."

"Christmas misery."

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

"I'll weave them into your beard, don't think I won't."

Derek probably smirked. It was hidden under the oodles of beard, but clearly audible.

"Too late! Santa comes but once a year. Too bad."

Stiles snorted and bit his lip. To go there or not to go there? Hmmm.

Derek's eyes promised murder. Festive murder.  Beaten to death with a giant candy cane kind of murder.

A sticky end.

Oh God.

Distraction! Use the words, Stiles!

"Yeah. And like you won't be right back here next year."  Good save.  "No one can resist the McCall Puppy eyes!"

"Scott - "

"I'm not talking about Scott. Hah! Scott! No, I'm talking about Melissa. Where do you think Scott gets them from? Lethal, dude. Trust me."

A nurse hustled by in pink shrubs. Right. Paediatric Ward.

"Not to mention the kids! Can you really say no to the kids, Derek? Nah. You'll be back. And I'll be ready. Seriously, Derek. You'll sound like a children's carol singing posse. On sugar.  Doing 'Jingle Bells.'"

Derek, being Derek, had to front.

"You wouldn't."

Ha!

"It's Christmas, dude. A  stressful time for everybody over five. Don't tempt me."

There must have been something extra manic in his eyes. Or maybe the opening strains of Walking in the Air cracked the facade, because Derek sighed deeply. Which was Derek for surrender. And yes! Definitely a good feeling! Big Bad Wolf: Zero. Christmas: Eleven. Santa's Elves for the win!

"Ha! Today's a great day! I'm marking it in my calendar!"

"You're insane." But there was fondness under the growling. For sure.

And Derek definitely carefully adjusted the stack of presents next to him for a better photographic angle.

"Awww, you love all this Christmas crap, really."

Strangely enough, he actually tensed, like he'd been caught doing something illicit. Which was a strange look on a guy who used to brazen his way through crime scenes, back when Stiles was still in high school.

"Awww, babe! You do!"

Derek growled. And, with all the beard, that was weird.

Although. How would wolfed-out Santa look? Like a Schnauzer, maybe? Except with less eyebrow action? A Bearded Collie?

He was about to ask Derek for his thoughts on it, but the sight of him clenching and unclenching his fist, while glaring a hole into the floor completely derailed that train of thought (Destination: Future Experimentation with Scott).

It was the classic Derek About To Talk About His Feelings pose, and always looked like he was giving himself hives.

But as the entire history of their acquaintanceship (and werewolves) had taught him, pain was gain. And Derek needed a little more gain.

So, Stiles slid himself onto Derek's lap, taking his hand as he did so.

"Hey, buddy, don't hurt yourself. C'mere."

Luckily, Derek relaxed his fist and let him thread their fingers together. Which was just as well, as the last time Stiles had tried alternative solutions to the Steely Tension of Tense it Did Not End Well.

(There had been tickling and broken furniture.)

"I do like Christmas," Derek announced eventually, low and guilty, like he was at confession.

And, figured Derek would feel guilty for enjoying Normal People Stuff.

Though, to be fair, their little Christmas grotto was, essentially, an enclosed psuedo-Christian booth. With the multicoloured lights blinking down on them, like the Eyes of God.

Or was that Dr. Eckleburg? Big Brother?

"My Dad," Derek began, saving Stiles from his literary angst. "My Dad - He, uh, used to dress up. As Santa. At Christmas."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

The beard hid most of his face, and the lights made weird, distracting patterns, like they were inside a kaleidoscope, but he was definitely smiling his Patented Derek smile which, unlike his daily stash of Poker Face, smirks and scowls, only came out to play on special occasions.

And something warm filled Stiles up, from his stomach to his chest. And it definitely wasn't the eggnog he had earlier.

"My Dad did the same," he admitted, in the Spirit of Shared Information. "My Mom too some years. 'Cause, you know, no sexism en Casa Stilinski."

Derek did his huffing-like-a-dog laugh, which always kind of made Stiles want to coo.

"I bet Melissa did too."

"Dude, did she ever! I swear, Scott used to get so confused with the Mall Santas. Like, who are these white dudes, and where is the True Hispanic Santa?"

"In drag."

"Well, duh."

Derek laughed quietly and Stiles grinned in triumph.

"You know," Derek said, because he was nothing if not abrupt. "My Dad used to say I'd do this one day -"

"Dude, living the dream!"

"Don't interrupt. He meant for the little brothers and sisters and cousins. And, uh, for my kids. One day."

The tip of his ear that Stiles could see peeking out from under the hat was burning red and he was glaring fixedly at the plastic Christmas tree in the corner, like it was about to commit a crime.

Stiles took a moment to process.

"Babe, are we having the Kids conversation while I'm sitting on Santa's knee?"

"No. God, Stiles."

He tried to growl, but it came out more like a terrier wheezing. It was the sound of the Commitement-loving-Werewolf-Dates-Fickle-Human Panic, familiar from their early dating history.

How it had not been missed.

"Because, you know, this is opportune, babe. If we're talking Christmas Wishes. Future Christmas Wishes, dude. Like Ghost of Christmas Future future. Except, I hope neither of us will be dead. Because I love my Dad, babe. He's awesome. And Melissa's basically a super hero. But I am not ready to be a single parent. Why am I talking about this? I'm still talking. Why am I still talking, Derek?"

Fortunately, Derek was a pro at ploughing though bewildering nonsense with a mostly straight face. It was why they worked so well together.

(Plus, a big part of why he was still alive. Stiles liked to think he helped hone that Cutting Through the Crap life skill, like a viruoso's daily practice on their violin.)

(Play me like a fiddle, Derek)

"Stop talking, Stiles," he said reflexively, a defence mechanism for the both of them.

Stiles stopped.

"But, really. You want them. One day?"

"Well, I also want my two front teeth and a new engine for the jeep, but yeah."

Derek didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned in to nuzzle at Stiles' neck, which would have been awesome except -

"Dude, beard!"

He tried to squirm away, but Derek held on, and this was payback for the Great Tickling Fiasco of '21, wasn't it?

But Christmas Spirit smiled on Stiles and Melissa arrived with a jingle.

Awesome, she had attached a bell to her hat.

"You're still the most awesome Santa," Stiles blurted.

She raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"It looks like you've replaced me."

"Oh, no," Derek said from over Stiles' shoulder. "You're still the One True Santa."

She quirked a smile at that, then clapped her hands, suddenly businesslike.

"Right, well. Get up, Stiles. The kids will be arriving soon."

"Hey, starting early?  Kinky. Do I get a turn?" Erica smirked at them, appearing silently behind Melissa. Because she was a heathen and had forsworn the little package of bells Stiles had left her for costume edification purposes.

Stiles scowled and flung his arms around Derek's neck. Not that he was bitter about the bells, or anything.

"Back off Reyes! This is a one Elf-Santa! Nobody rings his bell but me!"

"And that's one phrase I never needed to hear in any context, ever." Scott complained, arriving in Erica's wake. He stared hard at Derek for a second, then glanced at Stiles, who nodded slightly.

White Santa. Weird.

"Seriously, Stiles. Get to work. The children are arriving."

So he did, and they did.

And it was fun, and sad.

Most of the kids were visiting patients or staff in the hospital, or were, at least, mobile. Santa Derek and his Faithful Helpers, Elves Stiles, Erica and Scott would be touring the wards later.

And it was weird to see Derek talking to the kids. Adorable, yet surprising. Adorably surprising, like a koala attack.

Case in point.

"So what do you want for Christmas?" Derek asked for the nth time.

The little boy sighed loudly and looked away, even kicked his legs a bit from where he was sitting stiffly on the edge of Derek's knee.

"It's stupid. You won't care," he muttured eventually.

Derek glanced at them for help, and this was it, the heartbreaking moment a child asked for a miracle cure for Mommy. Stiles had been bracing for it all afternoon.

"Santa always cares!" He said, a little too loudly and passionately.

"That's right," Derek agreed solemnly, like they were conferring on the fundamental laws of the universe.

The little boy mumbled something.

"Could you say that again, please?" Derek asked patiently.

The boy - "Calumn", a nurse had whispered loudly - glared at Stiles, like he was eavesdropping on a nuclear code exchange, then turned to cup his hand around Derek's ear.

"I like Transformers." He whispered, the loud and ticklish whisper of a preschooler, judging by Derek's face. He looked embarrassed to admit it, and, hey, Mini Derek.

Adult Derek was inscrutable for a second, then he bent his head and said, very seriously:

"I like Transformers too."

The kid gasped loudly.

"Really?" His face lit up, and he turned, scooting up Derek's lap to get closer. "Who's your favourite? I like Optimus Prime!"

Derek appeared deep in thought, like the fate of the world hung on his answer. It was his default thinking expression, and, man, was it having its time to shine.

"I like Optimus Prime too," he said eventually. "But my favourite's Bumblebee."

The kid nodded, like this was a respectable answer, despite said Transformer's obvious inferiority.

"Bumblebee's OK, he has nice colours," he said patronisingly.  "But Optimus Prime makes this RAAWW noise and he's the bravest and he can be a tanker truck! And a dump truck!"

"Bumblebee can be a camaro though," Derek argued. "That's a sports car."

"And a Chevrowllay," Calumn agreed, dismissing Derek with an enthusiastic wave of his fist. "But! But! Optimus Prime can be a sports car too!" he practically shouted. "He can be a lamborheenee Deeablow!"

Derek appeared blindsided by this display of geek knowledge, and Erica took the opportunity to lean right into Stiles' space.

"Wow, he's like a Mini-Derek mixed with a Mini-you," she breathed, and Stiles nodded jerkily, not trusting himself to speak. If he did, there'd be tears, probably in the shapes of tiny little candy canes.

Scott patted his back with an amused expression.

"Like looking into the future, huh, bro?"

So he'd definitely been eavesdropping. Creepy werewolves.

But still.

Stiles nodded.

It totally was.