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yeojaa · 5 years ago

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TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy, fluff, slow burn, smut, pining, unrequited love.

rating. ... 18+

word count. ~4000

chapter 9.

FLASHBACK September 1, 2018

"Just post it," you're chiding, indignant and exasperated and still, so incredibly soft. You're prone against his shoulder, bone of your chin digging into the muscle that lines his back and undulates with every breath. He moves forward, not to dislodge you from your position, but enough to shift the sharp turn of your jaw. You say nothing further and settle into the warmth that radiates off him, nose lost to the hood of his sweatshirt.

The mouse sits heavy in his palm, an anchor rather than 67 grams of nothingness. There's too much power in the little black device. It makes his jaw ache and his brow furrow. You can feel the uncertainty radiating off him in waves, invading your senses in an unwelcome assault.

"Kook, come on." Again, softer this time, laced with tenderness and belief. It spills off your lips, buttery and sweet like carnival kettle corn. Your arms find a home around the slant of his frame, fingers locking neatly over his chest, right where his heart lies beneath flesh and bone. The steady thud of it is a reminder of his humanity. "You've worked so hard for this."

This, being his portfolio. His life's work made reality, brushed with the most utmost care and so much talent you're not sure where it all goes.

Gouache portraits, vivid blues and greens splashed over cream; wondrous proportions laid out bare, rendered to perfection with a keen eye and careful hand. Production of stories you'd never be able to express, painted with the most glorious skill and cut to maximize impact. Melodies woven in between and above; the sweetest sound you'd ever hear, awash with the light and shadow.

His finger hovers over the button on his mouse as if it's a Doomsday device. You want to scoff but bite it back, pressing your face into the freshly-washed powder puff that is his hair. It smells of peaches and honey, mingling with the distinctly Jungkook scent that lingers on his skin.

"I can't do it." He whispers the words like they're shameful, yanking his hand away and stuffing his hand into the kangaroo pouch bundled around his waist. You sigh. It's quiet but with your close proximity, he hears it and it's an echo that repeats over and over in his ears. Eyes squeeze shut, dent forming between his brows as he exhales a shallow breath. "I heard that."

"You were meant to," you return easily. Because while you'd always be in his corner, supporting him when he needed it most, you also weren't about to let him rest on his laurels.

Before he can stop it, you've got the mouse in your hand. Click - like it's the easiest motion in the world.

"Did you just—" You're retreating as soon as he's speaking, skittering back five steps and out of reach when he whirls around in his stupid red and black gaming chair. The fury is immediately apparent in the baring of his teeth, the tension in his jaw. It propels him forward and he's so much taller, his strides so much longer, that he's upon you in a second.

"You needed a push!" It's a meagre excuse, squeaked out in indignation as you anticipate death by asphyxiation.

Instead, he's crushing you against him so tightly you really do feel like you can't breathe, though it’s different. Still, it's better than what you'd anticipated and you pat his back where you can reach, arms locked to your side by the intensity of his hug. You think he might squeeze the life out of you but you don't move to untangle yourself from him, instead mumbling soft reassurances against his chest. "There, there."

"Thank you." It's so hushed you think he might've meant it only for his ears, but you feel the way the words ghost over the shell of your own. It sends a shock straight to your toes, rousing an adoring smile along the way.

"You're welcome," you hum in a voice thick with satisfaction. You loved being right. It didn't happen often - at least, not with Jungkook - so you revelled in it at every opportunity, allowing your ego to triple in size and engulf everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Not one to let his defeat go so easily, he huffs. The way he rolls his eyes makes you worry he'll sever an optic nerve. "Still a brat, though."

"Yeah, well—" You're returning his childish petulance tenfold, tongue sticking out from between lips that taste like too-sweet plum wine and Sprite. "—takes one to know one." And boy, did you know one. Had, for the better part of three years. Sometimes you loved it; sometimes, you didn't quite hate it. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The boy snorts from above you, withdrawing just enough that you can breathe and wiggle your arms. He really was a muscle pig - your shoulders thrum with a dull ache. "Shut up."

"Don't think I will," you answer, watching the way his eyes glint and his jaw ticks. He tongues the inside of his cheek as he glares down at you, silent. You know what that means. You brace for the feeling, feet planting into the hardwood like you're an oak taking up root. It's futile.

In a second, you're upside down, suspended over his shoulder like a toddler. Well, not a toddler, because that would be incredibly bad parenting. It's something funnier - a six year old playing airplane. Except you're in your twenties and you've got much longer limbs than a child and they flail wildly, elbow knocking into the back of his head with a painful sounding thud.

"Watch it!" He exclaims, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh. He doesn't sound too bothered, though, the words dropping off into a laugh that bounces around the room and pitches higher. "I wouldn't want to drop my precious cargo."

It's a threat that has you stilling, if only for a minute. The last thing you want is to have your face make friends with the floor. That'd happened once - on concrete, even - and you'd felt awful for days after. Of course, he'd felt terrible, too, leaving an enormous fruit tart from Maybell Bakery outside your dorm the next day.

"Go ahead. I've been craving some fresh bread."

"That was one time."

You can tell you've struck a nerve by the way he tenses beneath you, forearm flexing over the small of your back. You can't help but snicker, swatting his sweatpant-covered ass just enough to jostle him.

"I was kidding, Mr. Sensitive."

He doesn't dignify that with an answer, instead shifting into action. His bare feet carry him in a tight circle before he deposits you onto his bed and not a minute too soon. You'd started to feel a strain in your neck, blood rushing to your head the longer you were hung like a rag doll.

"You're a pain in my ass sometimes." Though the words are unkind, his delivery is not. There's far too much tenderness in his eyes, the way they crease and nearly disappear when he offers you one of his trademark bunny smiles.

You return the expression with ease, wiggling your thin, piano-honed fingers at him. "Literally."

"Yeah, literally." With another exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flops face-down on the bed beside you, arms curling around a pillow and dragging it under his cheek. His knees hang off the edge before he's dragging one up, locking it over your legs in some contortionist cuddle. He peeks at you from beneath his fringe - it's just the right side of too long, curling prettily over his doe eyes and obscuring his eyebrows. Despite the eye contact you carefully maintain, he says nothing, merely peering up at you like he's trying to read his future or see the stars.

Finally, you speak, turning your gaze back to his popcorn ceiling as your hands find comfort in the weight of his leg, the tendons flexing in the joint of his knee. Your neck was beginning to kink. "What?"

"Thank you, again." Because once isn't enough. Never will be, when it comes to the two of you. You've always pushed him to do what he needed, even when he wasn't so sure himself. He can't thank you enough for that - or for the fact that you're always there, right at the edge with him.

You smile then and meet his stare again. "You're welcome, Kook. Happy birthday."

"What is this?"

You're half-asleep and groggy, struggling to push past the awful clutches of Sandman and his dreams. They linger in every crevice, coating your lashes in dust and your tongue in cotton. Luckily, there's no ache behind the fatigue, no lurking monkey about to crash its cymbals in defiance of you and God.

Through the frame of lethargy, you make out the familiar slope of shoulders, of a delicate pair of hands. Past that comes his adorable smile, all squishable cheeks and barely there eyes, mouth contorted into that peculiar shape. He's not where he should be - in bed beside you, fast asleep. Instead, he's statuesque, barely dressed in a pair of soft cotton shorts and nothing else with your breakfast tray held aloft. There's a pile of waffles - they look surprisingly good - and two mugs. Somehow, there's also an assortment of flowers thrown into what looks like a water glass.

Had you died and gone to heaven? Surely not.

"Happy birthday," your - yes, your, you remind yourself - golden Adonis sings in a voice so rich, so tender, you immediately feel a lump forming in your throat. He's looking at you like a kid on Christmas morning,0 hopeful and filled with childish wonderment. It stokes the warmth that spreads through your veins, lava in place of platelets. It burns from the inside out but it's pleasant - sitting too close to a fireplace on a chilly winter evening rather than an open flame.

Nails bite into the fleshy underside of your palm in a belated attempt to rouse yourself from the very pleasant daydream. It stings but nothing comes further. You're not imagining things.

You have to applaud your past self for whatever she'd done to deserve this.

"You really didn't have to." A moment after it slips off your tongue, you wish it hadn't. The last thing you want to seem is ungrateful. Luckily, Taehyung is steadfast and unbothered, dropping forward onto a knee to slide the tray over your clean white linens. He looks so good, all honey skin and tousled bedhead, that you can't focus when he catches your lips in a lingering kiss.

His laughter crowds your mouth, along with the taste of peppermint toothpaste and, just behind it, honey and what tastes like tea, floral and earthy. "I wanted to."

A sound most similar to a sigh - maybe a bit needier, filled with adoration - meets the air when he withdraws, settling himself on the edge of the bed with that same heartbreaking grin. He pushes your birthday breakfast toward you, earnest and lovely. He even unceremoniously shoves your utensils between your fingers, forcing them into your grip like a toddler.

"Eat," he commands, though his tone is too light to really elicit any movement from you. It's only the way he looks that prompts you to dig in, cutting a generation portion of waffle loaded with what looks like whipped cream and strawberries. You raise your fork aloft, gesturing for him to take the first taste. He simply shakes his head and with gentle pressure, redirects the forkful back to you. His loss.

The strawberries are surprisingly sweet yet incredibly tart, their freshness breaking up the honey glaze. The fact that you haven't even brushed your teeth isn't lost on you; you can't bring yourself to care when you're melting into the flavours and humming delightedly.

"Is it good?"

"If you'd just try some, you'd know." You answer with hearts in your eyes and affection blooming like roses across your cheeks, sparkling shades of warmth springing across fields of baby's breath. Another forkful is raised and this time you won't allow him to redirect, holding the mouthful aloft and meeting his stare with purpose.

A moment passes, then another. The edge of his mouth ticks higher. Your eyes burn from your refusal to blink.

When he accepts the bite, you allow an exaggerated breath, the sound expelling from pursed lips with triumph. "Yum?" You question, giddy and grateful. You sneak another bite while he chews, tongue feathering across his bottom lip to catch some residual cream from the corner.

"I did good." He sounds so proud, chest puffed like a baby bird that's learnt to fly. You're torn between the intense desire to squish his cheeks or kiss him silly and you stare at him for a long moment as you swallow, the intoxicating flavour of honey and strawberries sitting like a spring picnic on your tongue. It sinks into the spaces between your teeth - a shot of loved-up sugar right into the veins - and you set your fork down.

Free hands find the slope of his jaw and act as a cradle, thumbs smoothing over the soft dry petal of his bottom lip. He peers at you curiously, strands of silk brushing over his gaze as he works to meet your stare.

"What?"

You want to pass all of your affection into the smile you offer and the kiss you press, chaste and light. "Thank you." The emotion in your voice rings true, echoes heavily in the breath you pair it with. "You really, really didn't have to." But I'm really glad you did, are the words you don't say, allowing them to hang between you like a gossamer thin thread - a spider's web interconnecting all the different ways you adore him.

"I know," he hums as he moves in for another kiss - one that lingers and pulls and draws you deeper into the abyss that is him. Careful hands slide the breakfast tray to the farthest corner of the bed, far away from wandering limbs, and then he's dragging you closer, over the soft white duvet. Fingers find a home in the small of your back as you find the same nearly in his lap, knees caught against the line of his side. Like this, he envelopes you, all sharply angled shoulders and imposing, but you don't mind. It feels nice being wrapped in his embrace.

FLASHBACK April 24, 2019

You need to get this done. You can't stop until you've finished because you've been losing steam the entire week and now you're running on fumes, halfway to the finish line and about to collapse. The strain behind your eyes feels miserable, like hot coals have replaced your usual organs, and you've nearly chewed a hole through your bottom lip. It feels like a punishment in and of itself to feel the constant throb and the metallic tang on your tongue.

Why did you always do this? You'd had all semester to work on this and yet, here you were, stark raving mad and exhausted on a random Friday.

No, Saturday now. It was almost five in the morning.

Frustration colours your complexion, marks the tired skin in patchy shades of red, and you blow a sharp breath out under your breath. You know you have no one to blame but yourself but you try to ignore the guilt that licks up the column of your spine and settles like a heavy collar around your neck. You can't linger on it too much - you're too busy trying to hack this artist's block to dust.

Lids squeeze shut of their own accord and the heels of your palms dig into the sockets, as if that'll help drive the emptiness from your thoughts or, at the very least, alleviate some of the mind-numbing pressure that's been building since you started this futile task six hours ago. The consistent press helps a little - draws blossoms of light against the back of your eyelids - and you exhale a beleaguered sigh, head dropping ever so slightly. Between the headache that's settled in like an unwelcome house guest and the general tiredness of being up for nearly twenty-four hours straight, you're not sure which is worse.

You also don't have much time to think about it when your phone starts going off, vibrating madly across the flat top of your desk. It's face-down - you'd wanted as few distractions as possible - and you consider ignoring it for a moment.

Only when you consider the time do you decide to answer it. After all, nobody just called at this hour. It might be important.

You hardly hazard a glance at the screen before you're swiping across, dimly noting the familiar silly photo of your classmate and friend plastered across the pixels. "What's up, Jeon?" The words come out scratchy and for the first time, you realize how parched you are. You're not quite sure when you'd last drank or stood up or anything. God, you were a poor excuse for an adult.

"Open the door."

It's equal parts impressive and irritating how chipper he somehow sounds, as if he's just woken up from the best sleep in the world and powered his way through a strongman's breakfast. Chapped lips twist, descending into a pout you know he can't see, and you force yourself to focus on what he's said and not how you'd give anything in the world to trade places with him and his sunny disposition.

Wait— what? Open the what?

"What did you say?"

You can practically imagine the lines at his nose and around his eyes, the dimples that you're sure are carved into those cheeks of his. "I said open the door!"

Before you can think anything of it, you're rising from your chair - nearly knocking over your neglected glass of water with the movement - and allowing your slipper-wearing feet to carry you out of your bedroom and to the front door. You bump into the table in your hallway, earning a grunt and sharp inhale of breath as your fingers soothe what you know will be a bruise in the morning. Maybe you should've turned on the light. Maybe you should've stopped at the washroom to make sure didn't frighten him with your insane hair and sleepless pallor. Maybe you should've done a lot of things.

Instead, you slide the lock, open the door, and nearly shriek when Jungkook’s upon you faster than you can react.

"Happy birthday!" A single solid arm is crushing you to his chest, his breath warm against your temple, before he engulfs you fully. You feel your feet leave the ground momentarily, fuzzy slippers clattering to the floor as he squeezes you with just enough force to steal your breath away. It might be why you're not reciprocating - you physically cannot - or it’s the fact that your brain is playing catch-up and your limbs are already a little boneless from lack of sleep.

"What are you doing here?" You manage to squeak against the smooth fabric of his jacket. It's the same one he always wears - black with Yohji Yamamoto embossed across the left-side of his chest - and it smells intoxicating, a familiar blend of his cologne and laundry detergent. You inhale the scent like it'll sooth your half-asleep, ragged nerves. It does, a little, and you're grateful for that. You don't even pull away when he finally releases you, stepping back just enough to let you slide back into your slippers and peer up into his face.

He really had no business looking so good. Despite the early hour, his dark hair is neatly styled or at the very least, freshly washed. It's fully dry and surprisingly fluffy, falling over those big doe eyes in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it. It's a little longer than usual, too, and you reach a hand out to smooth strands behind a silver-adorned ear.

"It's your birthday," comes his response, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.

A brow quirks - tries to, at least - and you regard him with something not quite suspicious but definitely confused. It plays across your features in shadows, peeking around the fan of your lashes and the frame of your mouth. "It's also... four in the morning."

"Five, actually." There's that stupid adorable smile of his, presented like a gift and topped with squeaky laughter. "And I told you I was coming over."

"No, you didn't." You'd have remembered that - right?

"I did." As if to drive his point home, the glaringly bright screen of his phone is all but shoved into your line of sight, artificial light burning your retinas. You shift away, swatting at his wrist as he watches in barely concealed amusement. He thinks you're frustrated by his very 'I told you so' smile that fits snug over his mouth and wrinkles the delicate skin around his eyes; he's surprised when you take the device back in your hands and peer at it like it's the strangest thing you've ever seen.

Well, he certainly hadn't lied. A handful of texts - maybe more than that - mock you, text bubbles indicating he had indeed sent you messages all throughout the night. Little one-liners asking what you were doing, followed by a gentle head's up much later that he'd see you soon. Of course, you'd ignored them all, far too engrossed in making near zero progress on your semester-end project. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth - equal parts tentative embarrassment and residual fatigue. Lips purse, straighten into a firm line, and arms fold over your chest. It's reminiscent of a spoiled child and frankly, beneath the burnout, you know it's not a good look. Unfortunately, you can’t find it in yourself to rearrange your expression into something more socially acceptable.

Luckily, he's seen you like this enough times to not mind - you always fell into ruts like this when your procrastination met a hard deadline - the irritation seemingly unable to penetrate the sunny turn of his mouth and slope of his wide, open shoulders. "So, are you ready?"

"Ready for..." You trail off, partially out of confusion and partially out of a lack of capacity to consider the question.

"We're going on an adventure."

Again, so simple and yet so cryptic. It draws your eyebrows into a little knot, consternation setting into every thread. "I have a project to do, you know." Despite this, there's a pearl of longing that dangles from your syllables.

He zeroes in on it without hesitation, drawing you easily against him. "I'll help you with it later," he says, as if that's a good enough excuse. You suppose it is. "In the meantime, go get ready? You look like you have a rat living in your hair and I don't want you getting mistaken for a homeless vagrant on the train." Despite the mockery, his expression is soft, smile sweet and playful as it always is.

It's impossible to deny him when he's like this, cherubic and enticing.

With a sigh that blows past chapped lips and disappears into his chest, you relent. "Fine." You're careful to keep your tone just a little grating, as if you're somehow doing him the huge favour. You know he can see right through it but neither of you mind; it's all a part of your silly routine. "Come in and wait for me and don't eat my cereal."

"No promises."

notes. here, take my weird birthday-centric chapter. i wanted to add more to this but my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me lately.

i swear the next chapter will be better - with more exploration of the present! - but thanks for reading. :)

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stereksecretsanta · 7 years ago

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Merry Christmas, @froggydarren!

Read on AO3

*****

Safe in Our Room(At the End of the World)

“Where were you approximately 11 months ago, Mr. Hale?”

Derek just rolls his eyes at the question that’s asked before he can even say hello as he picks up the phone.

“Hello to you, too, Stiles,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure 11 months ago, we were in Chile hunting down those Tinkerbell rejects. I know you remember that whole mess.”

Stiles laughs, no doubt remembering how they’d had to rescue Liam from a pack of honest-to-god sparkling fairies. Mean ones.

“Oh man,” he says, “that was the best. The look on his face!”

“So why the Agent Voice?” Derek asks, “the FBI doesn’t want to frame me for more murders I didn’t commit, do they?”

“I met this baby,” Stiles answers, “ok, this baby and his mom. And it had your eyebrows! Like… your exact, glorious and angry eyebrows! With the scowl to match.”

It’s Derek turn to laugh, at the sheer ridiculousness of Stiles and his everything.

“I didn’t impregnate anybody 11 months ago,” he says. “Or ever,” he adds, because he knows that would be the next question out of Stiles’ mouth.

“He bit my fingers!” Stiles exclaims, “are you sure you’re not related?”

“Why were your fingers near his mouth?” Derek counters, taking a moment to wonder how Stiles even got himself into this situation.

“Because his cheeks were so squishable!” Stiles huffs, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” Derek agrees, smiling into the empty room despite himself.

“You’ll be there for Christmas, right?” Stiles asks suddenly, switching topics so fast that it would have made Derek’s head spin if he hadn’t grown so used to it over the years.

“Well,” Derek says, “I did just build a brand new house, I should probably prepare for all of you inevitably trashing it.”

For a long, beautiful moment, Stiles is absolutely silent. Derek snickers to himself, he does so love when he can render Stiles speechless.

“YOU BOUGHT A HOUSE??” Stiles screeches a moment later.

“Built a house,” Derek corrects.

“Built a house,” Stiles parrots, before his indignation rises again. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Yup,” Derek says, because honestly, it’s just too easy to rile Stiles up.

“You’re such an ass,” Stiles says, grumbling to himself about stupid werewolves and their stupid excellent secret-keeping skills.

“Yup,” Derek agrees.

“Does everyone else know?” Stiles asks, once he’s gotten his hissy fit out.

“Nobody else knows,” Derek says. “Well, except Cora. But I wanted her blessing before I tore down the old house for good.”

“Jesus, Der,” Stiles sighs, and Derek can hear the catch in his voice. “That’s really cool, man. I bet it’s really nice.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Derek says, “unless you aren’t going to be home for Christmas?”

“You just try and keep me away, buddy,” Stiles says, laughing again. “Scott and Mel have promised me as much pie as I can fit in my stomach. I’m not missing that.”

“They do make really good pie,” Derek agrees.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “Shit! I gotta get going, but I’ll talk to you later?”

“I’ll be here,” Derek says, shaking his head in amusement when the phone beeps to tell him Stiles has already disconnected.

“That your boyfriend again, Stilinski?”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his partner, resolutely ignoring the blush he can feel spreading across his cheeks.

“Shut it, Torres,” he says. “You know damn well that I don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. It’s just me and Lettie Lefty, as usual.”

“Well maybe if you didn’t name your jerking-off hand, more people would be interested in you,” Torres teases, reaching out to ruffle Stiles’ hair purely because she knows it bugs him.

“I have a gun, woman,” he warns, swatting at her hand ineffectively.

“This is the FBI,” she says slowly, swatting his hand back, “we all have guns.”

“Pfft,” Stiles says, shrugging, “you and your logic.”

“Kept you alive this past year, hasn’t it?” Torres says, giving Stiles’ shoulder a little push as they head across the parking lot to their agency car.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and ignores her as gets into the car.

It’s not until they’re well on their way to the assignment that Torres speaks again.

“Does he know you’re in love with him?” she asks, casually, eyes still trained on the road like the responsible driver she is, as if she hasn’t just tipped Stiles’ entire world upside down.

“What!” Stiles exclaims, “I’m not…what are you even talking… Derek doesn’t even like… I don’t even!… I mean…I… he…we…what?”

Torres manages to not burst into laughter, but just barely.

“So, that’s a no, then,” she says. “Do you know that you’re in love with him?”

“I am not in love with him!” Stiles says, vehemently, but the words sound wrong even as he’s saying them.

Torres pulls over to park as they arrive at the scene, finally turning to look at Stiles again, cringing when she sees the pure panic splayed all over her partner’s face.

“Oh god, you really didn’t know,” she says, “I’m sorry! Are you ok? Your eyes are like… disturbingly wide right now.”

“I’m just reevaluating every interaction I’ve ever had in my entire life,” Stiles says, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. “No big deal.”

“It’s kind of a big deal,” Torres says, “but hey, it’s cool! We’ll figure it out! Just breathe with me, ok?”

She grabs Stiles hands and wraps his fingers around her wrists, doing the same to his and taking a deep breath.

“Count with me,” she says. “Ten, Mississippi, nine Mississippi, eight Mississippi…”

“Seven Mississippi, six Mississippi,” Stiles continues after a long moment, breathing through it until his heart-rate matches the one he feels under his fingers.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” he says once he’s calmed down enough that Torres is no longer worried about him passing out.

“Nah,” she says, “that was nothing. Remember when you literally walked in on me peeing in the bathtub because I was too drunk to get out of my dress and use the toilet?”

Stiles barks out a laugh at that, and Torres finally releases his wrists with a final soothing squeeze.

“You were White Girl Wasted,” he agrees, still chuckling.

“Exactly,” she says. “And if that didn’t ruin this, a panic attach here and there definitely isn’t going to.”

“You’re not so bad, Torres,” Stiles says, punching her lightly in the arm. “Come on, we should go do our jobs before they send someone to find out why we’re still sitting here.”

“Roger that, partner,” she says, giving him a mock salute before pushing open her door to start their sure to be long day.

Scott picks him up from the airport in the Jeep, which is somehow still running, and Stiles spends a good ten minutes patting various parts of her soothingly.

“I’ve missed you, baby,” he says, stroking the dashboard gently.

“Aww,” Scott says, “I’ve missed you too, snookums.”

Stiles gives him the finger without looking up, and Scott just laughs.

“Come on,” he says, tossing Stiles’ bag in the back. “Let’s get this Christmas thing going.”

“Tidings of comfort and joy, bitches!” Stiles agrees, a little too emphatically if he’s being honest. Traveling always makes him loopy.

“Maybe a nap, first,” Scott says, laughing.

“You’re the best,” Stiles says, sighing and settling his head against the passenger side window as they start the drive home.

Stiles wakes up slowly, the smell of black coffee tickling his nose until he opens his eyes.

His bedroom hasn’t changed over the last few years that he’s been with the FBI, except that it’s less decorated now, and a little dusty and stuffy from being closed up for months on end while he’s gone. When he concentrates, he can hear the familiar sounds of his dad puttering down in the kitchen, no doubt drinking the coffee he’s just brewed and eating something that Stiles would scold him for if it wasn’t Christmas day.

He stumbles down the stairs and into the living-room, still half asleep, and stops dead in his tracks at what he sees.

“Daaad,” he calls out, still staring. “Did you do this?”

John comes in behind him, chuckling as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder in a half-hug.

“Not me, son,” he says, pausing dramatically under the guise of taking a long sip from his coffee mug. “This was all Scott and Derek. Lydia supervised.”

Stiles laughs, because of course she did.

“It looks amazing,” he says, taking in the sight of the lavishly decorated Christmas tree that’s spread out across the entire far corner of the room.

“They missed you, kiddo,” his dad says. “It looks pretty nice though, huh? Almost as good as your mom used to make it.”

Stiles blinks against the tears welling in his eyes at the strain in his father’s voice.

“Almost,” he agrees, and they stand for a moment to collect themselves.

“Go get dressed,” John says finally. “We don’t want to miss all that pie.”

And that, Stiles absolutely will not argue with.

Melissa greets them at the door with strong hugs, and Stiles isn’t ashamed at how much he melts into it. Scott and Malia are in the kitchen, managing several pots and pans in a controlled chaos that Stiles is not going to get in the way of. Melissa ushers them in and immediately pulls the Sheriff into the other room to have some of her fancy roast coffee and let the younger folks work until they inevitably start squabbling and she has to come back and get things back in order. She gives it thirty minutes, tops.

That leaves Stiles standing awkwardly in the doorway for a moment until he spots Derek sitting on the couch, flipping through an Ikea magazine and absently petting Melissa’s fluffy grey cat, Marmalade.

“I didn’t know Ikea still had catalogs,” Stiles says, appreciating the fact that Derek jumps a little at his voice, humoring him as if he didn’t know he was there the moment they pulled up in his dad’s cruiser.

“Stiles,” Derek says, looking up to smile at him in greeting.

“Wow,” Stiles says, before he can stop himself. Because it’s been years and hundreds of life-threatening situations, but he’s literally never prepared for the full effect of Derek’s smile when it’s directed at him.

Derek just laughs, and closes the catalog and puts it back neatly on the table.

He gestures at the rest of the couch for Stiles to sit down. “Tell me about FBI life. Catch me up.”

So Stiles sits, and he does.

The celebrating and eating goes well into the evening, until they’re all full and sleepy Stiles wonders how he and his dad are even going to get home without either of them falling asleep at the wheel.

The answer comes when his dad reappears dressed in sweats and telling him he’s going to crash in the spare room for the night. Stiles knows for a fact that those sweats are his dad’s own, that have lived in the dresser by his bed for the last ten years. And he also knows that Melissa’s spare room is full of boxes and a bed without sheets, definitely not made up for company. He sends Scott a questioning look from across the room, receiving an amused look that promises they’ll talk about it later when their parents aren’t right there and trying to subtle. He shakes his head, deciding to deal with it all later after he’s slept all the sleep. And maybe had some more pie.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Derek offers, when he realizes Scott and Malia are already headed to bed.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, getting up from his position on the couch to stretch and pull his jacket on.

The air is colder than he expects when they get outside, biting into his cheeks and waking him up as they walk towards the Camaro.

“Actually,” he says, once they’re settled into the car. “I want to see your new house.” “If that’s ok,” he adds, belatedly.

“More than,” Derek says, and Stiles thanks all the deities in the universe that he keeps his cool and doesn’t squeal at that answer.

The house is big, and barely decorated besides some sparse furniture a few throw pillows, but Stiles is immediately charmed.

“It’s really nice,” he says, gesturing around at the general lack of gloom and doom and blood-of-their-enemies.

“I’ll show you around,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’ arm gently and leading him down the hall.

He points out the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom before leading him upstairs, fingers still burning into Stiles’ arm pleasantly.

“My room,” he points down the hall. “This one is mainly for Scott, or whoever needs it” he says about the one they’re next to. “Cora,” he says, pointing at the room in the middle, which is already adorned with a Knock First or Die sign that Stiles snickers at.

“And that one,” Derek says, pausing and pointing to the room next to his own, “is yours. If you want it, I mean.”

“Definitely,” Stiles says, and Derek’s grip stutters on his arm.

“I look forward to your calls every week,” Derek says, after a long pause. “at first it was just a pack thing, wanting to make sure you were safe…”

Stiles turns to face him, sliding his arm back so that Derek is holding his hand instead of his arm, and he squeezes their fingers together gently.

“At first?” he prompts.

Derek ducks his head slightly in embarrassment.

“I realized it was more than that when Malia mentioned that you might stay in D.C. indefinitely, and I almost snarled at her for even suggesting it.”

Stiles can’t help but shake his head and laugh at that.

“Not indefinitely,” he says. “That was never the plan.”

“What was the plan?” Derek asks, stepping closer into Stiles’ space until their only inches from each other, leaning against the wall outside the still-empty bedroom.

“Well, initially, it was to marry Lydia and get a picket fence and 2.5 kids and maybe a dog,” Stiles says, smirking.

“And now?” Derek asks.

“Now I think…maybe the dog is enough for me,” Stiles says, so sincerely that it takes a few seconds for Derek to realize he should be offended.

“You’re such an ass,” Derek says, but his hand is already curled into Stiles’ shirt, just waiting for the signal.

“Yup,” Stiles says, grinning wide before meeting Derek halfway into their first kiss.

It’s awkward and unpracticed and absolutely perfect.

“I’m not sure I’ll need that room after all,” Stiles says, heart beating so wildly even he can hear it.

“Make any more dog jokes, and you will,” Derek warns him.

“You knew what you were signing up for!” Stiles says, pushing Derek backwards towards his own room, pushing him against the closed door.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but he turns the doorknob, kicks the door shut after they’re inside, and lets Stiles push him all the way into the room until the back of his thighs hit the mattress.

“Make me,” Stiles replies, because he’s always wanted to have this exact conversation.

Derek just smirks at him and does just that.

The End

#froggydarren #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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