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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

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Merry Christmas, @haletostilinski!

A/N: a little note, here, that a friend gave me ideas that helped this along, lol;; a soft warning for a vague Hale fire mention;; I hope it’s a good gift, and I hope you have a very merry christmas!!!

Read on AO3

*****

Loneliness, Food, & Mistletoe

It starts with a dorm.

Or, more accurately, it starts with a waterfall.

Specifically, it starts with Stiles waking up to a flooded dorm, water rushing from the ceiling after having had the craziest dream about being in a snow-strewn field with his mom and a group of people he didn’t know, having a feast and drinking flower wine, as they all chatted with him, all beatific expressions and an ambiance of aching joy. His mother had hugged him, before he’d woken, whispered something he can’t remember into his ear, and then his eyes had fluttered open to a personal, theatrical, indoor waterfall.

It takes him about three minutes, blinking and smacking his lips and generally being only barely awake, before he actually realizes what’s going on to the tune of shrieking curses and scrambling to save everything he doesn’t want to lose to spectacular water damage.

His roommate, the ass, has been at his girlfriend’s place since the day before yesterday, and has enough money that his only response to the informative, sarcastic, slightly melodramatic text Stiles shoots off to him is the equivalent of a shrug and an, I’m good here, so you’re on your own with that shit-tastic fiasco. Have fun.

The dormkeeper, TA person is… daunting? Stiles has never talked to him, anyway—no matter how hot like burning the guy is, storms live in his tsunami eyes, ‘I’m going to kill you’ is written in the line of his impressive eyebrows, and intimidating might actually, in this case, be an understatement. But, nevertheless, he doesn’t really have the option of avoidance now, since it’s four in the morning, water’s still actively flowing, and Derek’s the guy.

(If there was any other guy, but, nope, Derek’s the only one.)

So, gingerly, clothes and computer and cheap-ass griddle piled haphazardly in his arms, he—tries and fails to knock at least four times, almost dropping everything in the process, cursing some more, until the door’s opening all on it’s own, a sleep-mussed, startlingly soft Derek Hale standing there, glaring at him, and narrowing his eyes hatefully at Stiles’ armful of things.

“Oh. I, uh. Have a feeling this is already off to a bad start? Um, so, okay. My room? 320? I’m Stiles, by the way, I’d shake your hand, but… uh-hm.”

One of Derek’s eyebrows steadily rises as Stiles babbles, and now he’s leaning on the door-frame, arms crossed over his chest, looking distinctly unimpressed.

Stiles gets the feeling, if he doesn’t get to the point soon, Derek’s going to slam the door in his face. In hindsight, introducing himself wasn’t necessary.

“My dorm’s flooding, is the thing.”

Derek’s eyes widen, something like a growl filling his chest as he whips around to grab something from his room. “Stay here,” he orders, his voice a little like smoked sugar-grain, higher than Stiles would’ve expected. The man prowls away intently without another word and Stiles sighs heavily, sets his stuff beside Derek’s door and settles down next to it to wait.

Derek comes back more than a little soaked around two and a half hours of bejeweled, tetris, and candy crush later. He looks harried and two shades shy of homicidal.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” he bites, and Stiles looks up from his phone to gape at him.

“I—no? Is there no way to fix it? Is it still flooding?”

“Yes,” monosyllabic monotone, but there’s something incredibly dry in his eyes and it takes Stiles a second to realize the man wouldn’t have just left it like that, then another to realize that, even if the flooding itself has been stopped, it probably hasn’t been fixed, and he really doesn’t have anywhere he could possibly go.

He tells Derek as much and the man glares at him for an endless moment, it feels little better than being an ant pinned under a microscope and infinitely more awkward. A huff, and then firm, thick-corded muscles are wrapped around his pile of stuff and lugging it into Derek’s room.

“Wai—woah, hey, hey, dude, what are you—?” Stiles calls, exasperation and incredulity warring with annoyance as he scrambles to follow after. Derek drops Stiles’ stuff on the right side of his perfectly pristine room- the side with the bean-bag and the nineties bulk-tv and the pale-blue carpet and the closet door, without the bed and the distrubingly neat study desk and the bookshelf- before regarding him with a scowl.

“Don’t make a mess,” the man says, “it’s temporary.” Then he grabs a change of clothes from the closet and leaves Stiles stranded with the implication that Stiles will probably be staying here until whatever piping problem turning his dorm into a nature documentary gets fixed.

Here with the annoyingly uncommunicative TA dormparent who is simultaneously terrifying and vaguely infuriating.

He blinks at his stuff, breathes. He’s pretty sure he’s been through worse… maybe.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

He gets desensitized fairly quickly, gone from mildly scared of the guy to downright vexed by him.

He’s obsessively clean, which is something Stiles struggles with, but is more capable of understanding—after all, up until now, this has solely been Derek’s space. Still, the half snarky, half antagonistic, half animal sounds of irritation don’t actually tell him anything- except that Derek’s upset, and there could be any number of reasons why, because, man, this dude is tightly wound as fuck- until his side of the room is being invaded and forcefully cleaned before Stiles can protest, let alone do anything about it. He has some definite anger management issues, and isn’t spectacularly good at dealing with Stiles’ particular brand of hyperfocus versus hyperactivity, and cheap, unhealthy college student habits. Stiles has some problems with how quiet he is, how he’s never tactile unless he’s aggro, and how he’s always huffy, grumpy, sour.

Needless to say, they grate on each other, and it might be a month yet before Stiles’ room gets fixed, which is just, you know, great.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Snip.

Derek tries valiantly to focus on his book.

Tnk, szznip.

A vein in his forehead is throbbing, he can feel it.

Stiles mutters unintelligible gibberish around the highlighter he’s holding between his teeth.

Clip, snip, tnk, snap.

“What. The hell. Are. You. Doing.”

Stiles spins around quickly, the chair making two dizzying rotations before he stops it, facing Derek, and yanks the marker out of his mouth. There’s a neon yellow mark right next to his lips, cuddling up to his freckles, pen and glitter coating his bone-nimble fingers. Derek doesn’t want to be endeared, really, he should be annoyed.

“Writing an essay on how to use inflections correctly, how to make them flow, y'know? So that questions sound like questions, sentences sound like entiresentences. It might be surprising how many people struggle wi—”

“Stiles,” he snaps, annoyance abruptly far brighter than fondness.

“Oh my god, can’t you just… chill, a little? I’m doing classwork��although the depths of the internet may’ve distracted me, on that one, I’ll admit—and I’m making decorations for Lydia’s christmas party, because she’s terrifying, and I’m pretty sure if I don’t she’ll gut me. Or steal my roommate—.” Stiles cuts himself off, a tiny recoiling flinch in his eyes that Derek doesn’t understand at all, but it’s there and gone so fast, it might not have been there at all. “Which would actually border on a good thing, considering, well, Jackson.

"Wait… have you ever met Jackson?”

A headache. Derek’s pretty sure he’s getting a headache.

His question answered, he contemplates just ditching for the quiet of the library, only. Well.

(This is the first time in a very long time he has shared his space with anyone, and his feelings about it are complicated, to say the least, but part of him whimpers at the idea that, if he were to leave right now, when he came back, Stiles might be gone. Another part says that he’ll come back to a mess that would be too much work to clean and babysitting is just altogether a better idea.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he worries about Stiles’ oddly mournful pause.)

In the end, he sighs heavily, and returns to his book.

“Don’t make a mess.”

Stiles starts muttering about being the cleanest person in the world, and Jackson and he would probably get along, and just wait, he dyed Jax’s hair blue in the fourth grade, he can fucking do it again if he wants to, fucking Sourwolf.

Sourwolf? Derek wonders; then, I better keep an eye on my shampoo.

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Derek watches Stiles do the same thing he’s been doing every day for a month and a half.

The egg sizzles on the griddle, gets tossed on top of a bowl of instant ramen, which is downed along with two red bulls, before Stiles’ full attention is returned to his work, which is, as always, at least ten things at once, armed with a highlighter, no less than four books, his computer, two notebooks, a dozen differently colored pens, and maybe a thousand color-coded sticky-notes, half of what he’s writing is either seemingly encrypted or in a different language altogether. In a few hours, Derek knows, he’ll blithely down another redbull.

He barely fucking sleeps, and he’s paler than the moon, and, jesus christ, if he keeps going on like this he’s going to die, his body won’t be able to take it.

The next day, Derek shoves a plate of banana peanutbutter bagels with granola and yogurt on the side in his face along with a cup of caffeinated tea, and Stiles looks up at him with wide, wide eyes before smiling, those eyes crinkling, the honey in them warm and gooey as his cheeks dimple and plush, crushed-pastel lips curl something happy. It’s the brightest thing Derek thinks he’s ever seen, and everything around it gets cotton-soft, tempered with gentled sweet, and his breath catches, heart tripping over the bubble of wonder billowing out in his chest.

Stiles says, “Thank you,” on the edge of an awed breath, and Derek swallows, nods curtly, stalks away.

He tries to remind himself that Stiles can be annoying and loud, talks too much, asks too many questions, doesn’t take care of himself at all, is, quite possibly, one of the messiest people he’s ever known, and that it shouldn’t matter how nice it is to share space with someone again- because sharing space isn’t something he should be allowed, anyway- it shouldn’t matter that, when he does decide to talk, Stiles actually listens, or that he gets Derek’s dry humor, snipes back easily and mostly good-naturedly, or that he smiles like… like that.

It shouldn’t matter. This is temporary and Stiles is an asshole most of the time.

(It does matter, and Stiles isn’t the kind of asshole Derek could ever hate, anyway.)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles’ room gets fixed. And that’s fine, that’s seriously fine, it’s not like he wanted to sleep on a borrowed air-bed in the corner of someone else’s room much longer, anyway, but…

He’d just started to get used to Derek, just started to be able to maneuver around him and with him with any kind of ease, could now translate the scowls and the serial-killer eyebrows from the emotionally clumsy, socially awkward language he’d finally realized they were into mostly… unexpectedly sweet intentions. More than that, he’d begun to realize just how much of a dorky mom friend Derek secretly is, with him spending any time he wasn’t studying or cleaning- or cleaning up after Stiles- reading some really old, complex book, cooking (for them both, because every time Stiles eats a mildly unhealthy meal or foregoes food for caffeine, Derek’s eyebrows twitch like he literally cannothandle watching Stiles’ unintentionally self-destructive habits without overloading on discomfited concern), and drawing these steampunk looking ink sketches of buildings and construction.

It had taken less coaxing than Stiles had thought it might to get Derek to admit that he wanted to be an architect, and that a lot of those books he was reading were either historical diaries, euro-romantic literature, or spanish or french poetry, with occasional visits from obscure fantasy and science fiction. He has a weathered set of books by Tolkien, and the whole of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, dozens of ragged, rugged, heavily used art journals, along with a complete collection of star trek and star trek: the next generation and old school doctor who cds on his bookshelf. He’s sassy in an almost inspiringly dry way, quick witted, funny, and, just, genuinely good.

Yeah, his social skills leave a lot to be desired, and he can still be annoying as all hell sometimes, but. An almost permanent glare doesn’t stop him from dropping everything and helping anyone who needs anything the moment they ask, doesn’t stop him from kindness and chivalry, for all that it’s masked by his gruff, almost wolfish demeanour.

And yesterday, for the first time, he saw Derek laugh. It was an odd kind of thing, because he’d woken up grumpier than Stiles had ever seen him, and it had felt like the first day all over again, like five thousand steps back, a doom-gloom quiet descended and everything Stiles did seemed to grate, everything anyonedid seemed to, and after all the discoveries he’d made about Derek’s character, it had felt like such a loss.

So he’d taken the lashing out in stride and done whatever he could to cheer Derek up.

The tension broke when, after corralling Derek into a daredevil marathon- because he had a feeling that Derek might… relate, a little- he began rambling about parkour and cinematography and “sinful red leather, oh my god.” He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, exactly, that made it happen, he’d just turned his brain-to-mouth filter off and let the words come, but the next thing he’d known, Derek was curved toward him and in, knuckles to his mouth like if he just pressed down on it enough it wouldn’t come. His eyes had gone so vivid, vast forests, willow trees tangoing, dipped back into the lakes their roots curled so close to, sunshine scattered across a dusk-smoke sky as a smile spread helplessly, as a sound a little like joy bubbled up and overflowed, and the thing that shocked him most was that he’d been rooming with this person for three months, and this was the first time he’d ever seen anything like it.

Mist still lingered in that small, frangible piece of joy.

Something devastating taints most things Derek does, Stiles thinks, and begins to hate all the more that he suddenly needs to leave this temporary haven, because he wants to know why.

He wants to see Derek smile more, wants him to laugh so much this whole room is saturated with it. Wants to be the reason for the sound, the expression, wants more.

Derek turns from his drawing when Stiles clears his throat, square black framed glasses perched on his nose, charcoal smudge on his cheek, and Stiles bites back a burst of something utterly fond.

“I’m gonna head out.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch a little, his mouth tilting firmly down when he eyes Stiles’ stuff packed, a little less haphazardly than last time. Unhappy, Stiles can read easily, but the rest is inscrutable.

The man nods and Stiles huffs. The less comfortable Derek is, the less communicative he is, and Stiles gets it, but he’s unwilling to leave on this note, so he digs his phone out of his pocket, flicks it to contacts, adds a new one, names it Sourwolf, and hands the thing over. Derek peers down at it, glares at him.

“We’re friends now,” Stiles informs him, “insufferable nicknames are a necessary evil.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise, a little sarcastic quirk to his mouth.

“Yes, friends. Dude, give me your number of your own free will, or I’ll get it on my own using my awesome investigatory powers and I’ll spam you pictures of dirty dishes and piles of laundry and unorganized bookshelves. You know me, you know that I can, and I will.”

Derek scoffs a half disbelieving sound and rolls his shoulders meaningfully.

“You wouldn’t block me,” Stiles smirks, “we’re besties, big guy.”

Derek glares at the slight mess Stiles has left on his desk, gives Stiles a blank look with black at its’ edges, raises an eyebrow.

“Face it. I’m a slob and you love me anyway.”

Stiles moves to tidy up a bit, anyway, and when he returns to Derek, the man’s holding out his phone, Sourwolf’s contact page completely filled in.

“Text if you. Need… food,” Derek orders, voice saturated in a grudging growl, and Stiles knows he’s grinning like a fucking loon- he doesn’t even care- as he leans in, smacks a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek.

“Definitely,” he agrees, delightedly, before spinning toward his stuff, heaving it up, and swanning off.

(He doesn’t turn back or stay long enough to see the deep, candied-cherry flush that fills Derek’s cheeks, coats the tips of his ears. Doesn’t hear him exhale, sharp and heavy.

Doesn’t hear him breathe out a soft, strained, “Fuck.”)

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Stiles sighs when he sees the sock on the door, for a whole, huge, sack of incredulous reasons.

The first being that it’s three a-fucking-m, and Jackson knew he’d be getting back around now. The second has to be how absolutely cliche it is, nevermind the actual state of the sock—maybe Derek’s rubbing off on him, because all he can think of is that fucking germ song Derek texted him a few days ago, and how he’s going to have to disinfect that doorknob if he ever wants to feel safe using it again because eughh.

So he’s stuck, slumped outside in the hall, with absolutely nothing to do.

He barely even hesitates to snake his phone out of is jacket pocket and start texting Derek. Yeah, it’s ass'o'clock in the morning, but Derek turns his phone off when he goes to sleep, because he’s lame, so Stiles is pretty assured in just complaining to a non-existent audience, figuring Der might get a kick out of it later.

He tries not to look too deeply into the fact that Derek’s the first one he wants to complain to, the person he’s been talking to the most lately, refuses to analyze how overjoyed he’s been to discover that, as long as you give him the time to, Derek’s communication issues don’t hinder him as much over text.

Derek’s sometimes so dry it takes Stiles a whole fifteen minutes to realize he wasn’t actually being serious, on tuesdays he only responds in iambic pentameter, and he uses shakespearean insults on occasion because he’s nothing less than a sarcastic little shit; he’s still monosyllabic, every once in awhile, and his punctuation is as terrible as it is in real life, but it’s like the distance, the phone between them, makes Derek feel more confident, makes it easier for him to be… himself.

The week before last, they got into a conversation about past relationships, that led to a discussion about fire and the confession that Derek had only ever had three relationships, one that ended because he’d made a childish mistake his high school lover couldn’t forgive, another that ended in flames, a trial, and a prison sentence for a woman Stiles would… probably kill without a second thought, if he’s being honest, and a third that was too self-destructive for both of them to have ever been healthy or sustainable.

Soon after, Stiles had opened up to him about his mom’s disease and his dad’s drinking and his bills—he hadn’t really had the time to date much, his romantic entanglements tend to be of the more one-night-stand, friends-with-benefits variety, and even when he’s wanted more, no one else has seemed to.

Every day since Stiles moved out, even after he’s annoyed the hell out of Derek to the point of radio silence, the man comes to him with a tupperware full of healthy, incredible food, and a cup of tea, his scowl fermenting on his face, the storm of it worsening when Stiles inevitably giggles (how can he not?) as he takes the gift. There are days, too, when they’ve ribbed each other, chatted extensively about conlangs and architecture and psychoanalyzed star trek characters in between memes and jokes and Stiles’ ever fickle focus, and Derek will come bearing his small feasts with this soft, tender, breathtaking expression, a smile curling in his eyes that never touches his lips, and hot cocoa or coffee with whipped cream and cinnamon and marshmallows and extra chocolate instead of tea.

(“I’m going to get fat if you keep bringing me this-” a bite, then, choking back a moan- “glorious, sacred—oh my holy god.”

A hand, large and warm, calloused and covered in ink-stains, in charcoal and lead, had smoothed tenderly through his hair, gentle enough to make him almost thoughtlessly lean into it, to make him want to shiver.

“It’s better,” he’d said, then left before Stiles could ask what he meant.)

He doesn’t know what to do about how much part of him, lonely and withering, the same part that would view Lydia taking Jackson away as some form of punishment, because then he’d be alone, craves every little interaction, and then some.

Mostly, he ignores it, as he starts to type out how much of an asshole Jackson can be, and couldn’t he have gotten his nookie a little earlier? which all devolves into an anecdote about that time he painstakingly filled Jax’s locker with water for being an asshole and all his stuff got soaked but he kept the freaking fish.

He’s surprised when he gets a text back calling Jackson a goodly rotten apple, and then asking if Stiles realizes what time it is.

〖did i wake you? don’t you turn your phone off when you pass out so it can charge or some shit?〗

〖There could be an emergency.〗Derek texts back, succinctly, 〖And I don’t want you to starve.〗

〖… you keep your phone on at night, now, because i could have an emergency craving?〗

Stiles bites his lip, hard, warmth bursting in his chest, champagne-fizz rushing through his veins. His heartbeat’s skipping along to an odd tune of half embarrassed hope, and he’d known he was probably crushing on this man, but, god, he’s so fucking gone for him it’s ridiculous. For one, completely insane moment, a giddy part of him wants to send a bunch of kissy, heart-eyes, I might be falling head over heels for you emojis.

But, no. No way. Too awkward, silly, and he’s still not… sure. About how he feels.

Derek texts,〖Yes,〗 and it takes longer than it should to remember how to breathe.

〖you’re being sarcastic right now, aren’t you? you’re such a fucking tease, i was totally craving one of your crazy sandwich concoctions〗

〖Stiles.〗

A minute or so passes.

〖You woke me up.〗

〖yes. i gathered. the hazards of being my friend, oh, such a horrible atrocity, how much sleep have you lost, woeful der-ber? how much? shall i just call in the queen to chop off my head right this very minute?〗

〖Stop being an asshole or I’m going back to sleep.〗

〖you wouldn’t leave me in the lurch like that, would you?〗 He stops being an ass, anyway, though, just in case, only feels a fraction of guilt as he steers the conversation toward Lydia’s fast-approaching christmas party, one which they’re both attending, because Lydia’s a force of nature, and she somehow met, cajoled, and garnered a befuddled promise out of Derek at some point after the whole dorm-waterfall incident. Derek’s still mildly lucky, at least he didn’t get roped into decorating duty.

For all Stiles knows, if Lydia had known Derek’s architectural ability, she would’ve demanded he construct her an entire building for the affair.

Time ticks by, and Stiles is enjoying himself enough that he doesn’t notice until his phone starts complaining at him how low his charge is. The only problem? his charger is in the room.

He has no fucking clue how long Jackson’s going to be keeping their room… occupied, and he’s far too invested in this silly little conversation he’s having, anyway. (How could he not be? He can practically see Derek smiling through the phone.) So, vaguely hopeful, he tries knocking on a few other doors, begging after anyone who might be willing to lend him their charger. The only one who isn’t so pissed off about him waking them up or interrupting their study time as to simply slam the door in his face, doesn’t have a compatible charger, and…

You know what? fuck it. He needs to talk to Derek, this idiot who cares enough about Stiles to wake up at three in the morning and endure Stiles’ spazztic assholery, who, if Stiles actually asked him for food seriously right now, would probably make him something and come without a second’s hesitation, whatever black look he may’ve worn the entire time, who said 'emergency’ like part of him expected having a friend meant the maw of disaster was ten seconds away from chomping at the bit, the dork who… yeah, he must be totally fucking in love with.

He sincerely doubts he would have opened his door, army crawled through a room hosting a veritable pornographic lovemaking scene on the bed, snatched his charger out of the outlet, and rolled the fuck out of there for anyone else. Not even candy crush and boredom are that important.

But Derek is.

A silly conversation about crows being one of the most mischievous animals on the planet and seagulls being generally shitty is.

Fuck.

What the hell is he going to do now?

–❄❆❅❆❄–

Christmas eve brings the ice queen Lydia and her spectacular winter gala that… pretty much the whole college has been invited to and is attending.

But Stiles doesn’t let himself get distracted by the two guys covered in glitter, dancing and making out on a table to the cheers of a bunch of drunken peers, or the various decorations put up, scattered around, that he had a hand in, or the numerous people trying to get is attention or get in his way. He’s on a fuckingmission.

He’s on a hyper-focused and overthinking for two weeks about how to approach the Big Emotional Elephant In The Room, before giving it up as a lost cause and going for the first stupid thing he could think of, mission.

Which is why, when his eyes catch Derek’s across the room, he rushes for him, which is just as well, since the man seems greatly relieved to have an excuse to run away from the group of people cornering him, trying to elicit conversation.Derek still makes a noise of surprise, though, when Stiles’ saving him comes in the form of grabbing Derek’s arm and impatiently dragging him away, calling a brusque, “I need him more!” over his shoulder at the gawking partiers.

“I—Stiles?” Derek murmurs, mildly wary, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Stiles’ ear.

Valiantly, he doesn’t let himself shiver, instead, he jerks to a halt, hand still wrapped tightly, terrified and hopeful at once, around Derek’s wrist. His breath is short, heart beating too fast, and he’s scared.

What if this doesn’t work? What if it’s… not meant to be? What if he loses Derek to these useless, silly feelings?

“Stiles?” Derek urges, softer, more worried, and he pulls his wrist away, replaces it with his hand, wide and warm and so, so gentle.

Stiles swallows, forces himself to take a breath, to turn enough to look Derek in the eye as he squeezes his hand, indescribably grateful for the contact. Vast seas reflecting vaster galaxies stare back at him, solicitous, fond, questioning, and there’s this little confused smile twitching at his lips.

A smile Stiles thinks was knitted and weaved together just for him by a man who doesn’t like to smile at all, has too many reasons not to, besides.

God, it’s probably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Stiles breathes, and those impossible eyes widen, too-lovely lips part. “And, goddamnit, I really want you to come to this doorway with me where there’s mistletoe so I have an excuse to kiss you?” The words trip over his tongue, come out all in a rush, flutter and skip like his heart, a terrified, hopeful sort of babble, his eyes scrunched up because he has no idea what Derek’s reaction will be, and he doesn’t dare look.

The fingers laced with his curl in further, a staying kind of thing, as Derek responds, a little husky, wanting, soaked in every type of sugar imaginable, “Or you could just kiss me here?”

Stiles’ eyes snap open, and Derek’s grinning, all impish rogue, glittering amusement. “No,” Stiles blurts, logic pretty much knocked clear out of him, “no, I have this all planned out; the mistletoe’s important.”

Derek leans in, eyes hooded, heated, brazen, his free hand sliding up Stiles’ cheek, tender but no less shocking for it, their lips nearly ghosting when Derek whispers, all alluring, seductive-smoke, “How important?”

Stiles feels a bubble of hysteria climb up his throat as he tugs a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket to hold above their heads. “Important enough that I have contingencies,” he tells him, and Derek blinks a little, laughs almost suddenly, warmer than any fireplace, sweeter than any confection, and the best gift Stiles could’ve ever fucking asked for.

This may, in fact, be one of the best christmases he’s ever had.

It only gets better when they bridge the gap, a caress that turns filthy on the edge of a gasp as Derek pulls Stiles flush to him, both of them greedy for the taste of each other, biting and humming and mewling softly. Stiles’ arms end up around Derek’s neck and Derek’s clingingly around his back, their kiss ending breathlessly, both of them melting further into their embrace, drinking each other in, nuzzling, and just. Holding on.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Derek presses the words into Stiles’ pulse-point, barely heard over the chaos of festivities and overly loud, remixed christmas music, “I love you, too.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh, and holds all the tighter.

“I think I lost that mistletoe.”

“Mmm. Merry christmas, baby.”

Stiles can’t suppress the shiver this time.

“Merry christmas, Der.”

#haletostilinski #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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