There are several voices speaking over each other, but Stiles' can't make out a single, coherent word.
They're whispering, and the weight of their breaths push around ash that is what makes up the air, constricting his breathing.
He tries to turn over, feeling something like a drug-induced lethargy, but a heavy weight in the center of his chest stops him. He wants to open his eyes, and see what the weight is, but he can't; his eyelids are heavily, tightly shut. Maybe sewn.
The whispering gets louder as his weak, bloodless arms go to shove at the weight on his chest. His palms meet something fiery hot, and inhumanly dense.
He whimpers fearfully, his fingers skittering across its surface, searching for purchase, something to grab on to, or push down on – for any give in the weight.
His breath starts coming in short, his throat seizes, and he's plunging into a blind, jostling panic.
His arms flail at his sides, pushing and pushing, trying so hard to get his body up, to force the weight on him to move. It only pushes further into him.
He gets this horrible dread that it's trying to push through him, and it will succeed. He thrashes his weak legs, until he's kicking his bedpost, bruising his foot, and waking himself up violently.
He pants, clutching his sweaty chest, barely conscious of the painful pulsation in his foot. He sits upright, touches his cellphone to give him light, and counts his fingers.
He grabs his phone from its charger, gets up to cross the room, and switches the bedroom light on, and off a few times.
Once he believes he's in touch with reality, he whispers to himself, "it's okay. I'm real. I'm here. Here is real. Everything is okay."
He looks out his bedroom window, and feels like shadows are pinching at the edges of his vision. He intakes sharply, shuts his eyes, and makes a small, quiet, but distressed noise.
His hand flies to his neck compulsively, wanting, and needing to feel is own pulse under his fingers.
He focuses on breathing, trying to get a good, deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. His stomach still quivers anxiously, his heart rate is still too fast, his pulse jumping, and speeding under his fore and middle finger.
Too put off by his bed, he slides down onto his bedroom floor, against his door.
He stares at the moonlight spreading across his floor, and finds himself fixating on the feel of his pulse. His eyes go unfocused while his heart rate declines gradually.
He contemplates texting Scott, but doesn't ever actually intend to.
He wants to be able to take care of himself entirely. He wants control over his mind, and body. He wants such tight, strict discipline over himself that no one would ever wonder if something were wrong with him.
I sound like Derek, he thinks to himself.
He takes a moment to wonder if Derek has ever had panics, or if Derek was born with a stone in his heart. He doesn't think that's right, though – Stiles believes firmly in nurture over nature, and he tends to believe that Derek was once as plush, and naïve as the rest of them.
Stiles believes Derek's frown was painstakingly etched into place over many years of attempting to maintain a smile there, and having it burned off over, and over.
Stiles lets go of his neck, his stomach feeling floaty, and ticklish in a way that reminds him of having just been in free-fall.
He breathes in deeply through his mouth, and sighs.
He watches the streetlight outside his window flicker for a few seconds.
"Derek," he mutters to himself thoughtfully. His voice is tired, and scratchy in the silence of his room.
He remembers Scott telling him how Derek tracked him from the hospital, how Derek knew Stiles' scent so well, he was able to tell Scott everything he had been up to. What he had been feeling.
Scott told him about their conversation in the waiting room of the hospital, how Derek had been so foreign with kindness, and sincerity.
In a strange, and fucked up way, Stiles feels close to Derek like this; coming down from a panic enough to think about it, in just enough agony to consider the fine details of its torture. Here, in the roughly approximate middle ground between real and unreal, he feels closer to Derek than he had ever been, if he ever was.
He wonders if Derek was ever comforted.
He wonders what Laura, and Derek got up to in New York, to kill the pain.
He wonders if they ever succeeded for more than a few numbing moments.
He wonders what methods they used to kill the pain; maybe Laura bedded every and any willing partner, maybe Derek started fights in bars and lost on purpose just to feel blood pool in his mouth. Maybe Derek twitched every time the burner turned on and he refused to talk about it. Maybe Laura could smell the panic rising off him when it would come and she would help him through it.
Maybe losing Laura cost Derek his last painkiller.
Stiles thinks to himself that he'd like to kill Derek's pain.
He belatedly notices his pulse has reached a normal, relatively calm rhythm.
Stiles thinks to himself absurdly that Derek might be his own painkiller.
"Scott," Stiles calls gently, very gingerly opening Scott's bedroom door.
He hears Scott groan from his bed. Tissues are piled on his bedside table and some strewn on the floor where they've fallen off. Melissa had asked Stiles to try to woo Scott out of bed, if he can manage it. He doesn't know if he can, but he's determined to try.
"Scotty," Stiles says as he comes into the room, approaching the blanketed lump on the mattress.
The lump readjusts itself and Scott's rough voice comes out,
"I'm not ready for reality. Make it go away."
"I don't know if you have much of a choice, Scott," Stiles sighs apologetically, sitting down near what he assumes are Scott's knees, "I need your help, oh Alpha, my Alpha."
Scott lowers the blanket enough to reveal the upper half of his face, his eyes red and looking cry-swollen. Stiles knows Scott has been in this state every moment he's had alone; it seems that when his hands aren't busy, he's consumed with thoughts of Allison.
This past week without school to busy him has been particularly bad for Scott, according to Melissa and based on the glassy, far-away look in Scott's eyes that Stiles sees when the room goes quiet.
"I can't help anyone."
"Dude," Stiles starts sympathetically, "Yes, you can. You're the most helpful guy I've ever known."
Stiles wants to say so much more, but he can't muster the right words. Stiles wants Scott to know how loved he is, that Allison would never blame Scott, that everyone should have hatred in their hearts for Stiles and not him, but it all turns to dry dust on his tongue.
He feels that bond to Derek again. It feels like a knotted, thick red rope binding his heart to Derek's with suicidal self-hatred and an unbearable weight of responsibility blended neatly with an all-consuming, crippling love for others. He's reminded of why he's here.
He sighs in frustration, runs a hand through his hair and announces,
"We need to throw a Christmas party."
Scott quirks a brow and asks, "A Christmas party? Dude, that's in three days! Your Dad put you in charge of it, or something?"
"No," Stiles answers, "It's for Derek."
Scott sits up on his elbows at that, hair unkempt and going in every direction, and asks, "…Derek wants you to throw a Christmas party?"
Stiles looks up and away innocently, offering, as if this were a negotiation, "Derek doesn't know he wants me to throw a Christmas party. Yet."
Scott's lips twitch, sparking hope inside Stiles. His resolve is strengthened and he smirks, carrying on,
"He's a Grinch. The Grinchiest Grinch to ever Grinch, Scott. We need to bring the magic into his painfully unfurnished home. We're the most magical bros the world has ever seen and no one does Christmas like us."
"That's true," Scott concedes, a smile starting to form.
Stiles leans his weight onto Scott comfortably and says, "So, let's try to make Christmas happen."
"You reek like feelings, Stiles," Scott comments, scrunching his nose up.
"Christmas feelings? Do they smell pepperminty? Maybe like mistletoe or fresh fallen snow? Anyway, we're going to need to break into the loft to – "
"Stiles," Scott interrupts knowingly, "You've given off these scents every time you've brought Derek up since the whole Jennifer thing."
"Is that what you call it, in your head?" Stiles redirects, "You call it 'the whole Jennifer thing?' Not, like… I don't know, 'the whole ritual virgin sacrifice thing?' Or 'the whole True Alpha thing?' or 'the whole – "
"Stiles," Scott repeats, smiling, "Are you trying to Love Actually Derek?"
Stiles feels heat rush up his face, "I don't have cue cards ready, if that's what you mean."
Scott sits upright, grinning romantically, a sparkle coming back his eyes just a little. Though Stiles is feeling horribly embarrassed, he's glad to see Scott acting like himself.
"Dude, is this a Christmas seduction plan? For you and Derek?"
Stiles rolls his eyes, "No, Scott. Christ, I'm just…"
"Smelly," Scott teases, "Smelly with affection and want."
Stiles stands up, groaning with awkwardness. He faces Scott's door with burning ears while he listens to Scott chuckle.
"Okay," Scott tells him, "Okay, I'm in. Let's make Christmas happen for Derek so he can open his eyes to the wonders of dating you, the guy who once snorted pixie sticks to get a better sugar high."
"Hey! It worked til I threw up that rainbow on the sidewalk," Stiles defends, turning to face him again.
He watches Scott slip out from under his covers and go towards his bathroom to shower. Once the door is closed, he leaves Scott's room to see Melissa down the hall and gives her a thumb's up. She smiles sweetly, mouths her thanks to him and disappears around the corner.
"Sweet potato pie," Stiles demands.
"Stiles, seriously, I'm telling you, sweet potato pie is a side dish. It's not a dessert," Scott insists for the fifth time in the hour.
Stiles pushes the grocery cart past the deli, in a rush to get to the bakery and find his favorite treats. He scoffs and says,
"It's a pie, Scott."
"I understand, Stiles, but it's a side dish. It's not meant to be a dessert."
"That's absurd, it's a pie," Stiles repeats, looking at the sell-by-dates on the containers, "I put whipped cream and cinnamon on it."
"Stiles," Scott chuckles, "You can't just put whipped cream on it and call it dessert – we need to get a real dessert."
Stiles twists around from the display case of cakes and pies to scowl at Scott and reprimand him,
"Oh my God, Scott, what if the sweet potato pies heard you say that? How do you think they'd feel?"
Scott looks fondly bewildered for a second and then starts to say, "They wouldn't feel anything, because they're pi – "
"Fine, we'll get two pies. One sweet potato pie and some other, lesser pie," Stiles interrupts.
Scott laughs, shaking his head and already eyeing a blueberry crème pie in the display. He's about to suggest it when he catches a familiar scent and says as much to Stiles. They both start looking around until Stiles spots Isaac by the frozen meat section down a way. Scott goes rigid and Stiles inserts himself before a train of self-hate can start plowing through Scott's head.
"We should invite him."
"What?" Scott whispers, now very conscientious of the other werewolf within hearing proximity.
"Invite him," Stiles presses, leaning in closer, "We all need each other right now. Just go invite him."
"Why do I have to do it?" Scott complains in a showcase of the utmost maturity, clear anxiety crawling up his face.
Stiles smirks and says, "Because you're the Alpha."
Scott grimaces, glances at Isaac's back, back to Stiles and then sighs heavily. He walks off toward Isaac without another word, shoulders tense and squared. Stiles can see the way Isaac's eyes soften once Scott starts talking, though. Isaac's eyes move to Stiles and Stiles goes waves awkwardly at him.
He has a flashback of someone wearing his skin, sitting on his own bed, waving into a camera he could somehow sense.
He gets a full-body chill and drops his hand back onto the cart. He nods at Isaac instead, smiles in a hopeful, strange way and Isaac smiles back timidly.
Stiles looks down at his hands clutching the grocery cart and counts his white knuckles and strained fingers there. He definitely has ten fingers. He looks at his reflection in the dessert case, at the warped, elongated version of himself and mutters to himself,
"It's okay. I'm real. I'm here. Here is real. Everything is okay."
The mantra brings him something familiar, but his hand still finds his jugular in a sign of compulsive anxiety. His heartbeat doesn't slow down until he imagines the way Derek's eyelashes cast shadows down his sharp cheekbones in the right light. His pulse stops jumping against his fingers when he pictures the way Derek's broad, rounded shoulders move under his soft, cotton shirts.
He wonders if, even as a human, he's got an anchor and if that anchor is Derek.
Before he can get too heavily distracted with that line of thought, he sees Isaac and Scott approaching and he hears Scott say,
"Isaac says sweet potato pie is a side and it's a side for Thanksgiving, Stiles."
Stiles lies in bed, contemplating the shadows spiraling across his ceiling and every mistake he's ever made. His arms are folded under his head and he looks lax, but he's tense, wired and wishes he could sleep. He tries to remember what a good night's sleep felt like, but can't recall the last time he had it. He sighs longingly and reaches for his phone. He opens up his contacts and stares at Scott's name for a second, then moves down and hits Sourwolf.
There's an open text message box blinking at him, ready and blank.
His fingers shake over the screen and he painfully slowly types out a greeting. Fifteen minutes after having opened the blank message, his phone finally reads;
There's no response for a few, terrifying, deafening moments, then it vibrates and lights up.
Sourwolf: Are you okay?
Stiles doesn't know what to write back. He should say yes, because he's relatively safe, he's not in immediate, physical danger and he's tucked in his bed, in his room. Safe and sound, right? But he doesn't feel okay. He doesn't feel safe.
You: Kind of? I'm not in imminent supernatural danger. I'm just not feeling right.
He bites his lip. He wonders what Derek will say; he expects some variation of "why are you talking to me about this?" Or maybe something more cutting, like, "gee, that must be so hard for you." And Stiles gets it – if he were in Derek's shoes, he may have been more cutting in situations like this. He comes up with about nine different, rude ways Derek could belittle his anxiety, until he gets Derek's response;
Sourwolf: Don't spend too much time alone in your head, Stiles. It's a bad neighborhood.
Stiles smirks, even gives a little chuckle.
He's not sure what to say back. That's untrue, though – he wants to tell Derek to come over. He wants to tell Derek that Derek's been on his mind 24/7 lately and that the curve of his brow, slope of his nose and that dip between his nose and upper lip have helped him escape panic attacks this past week.
He'd like to invite Derek into his bed and into his space. He wonders what forbidden pleasures Derek's hard body could bring him, what tantalizing sweetness he could find in Derek's physical self.
He doesn't say that, though.
You: Thanks, Derek
He pauses and goes to put his phone down, but before it touches the bedside table, it lights up and buzzes once more.
Sourwolf: Sleep well.
What an interesting choice of word.
Stiles knows Derek could have chosen other words. Really, the most he'd expect from Derek is, "Get rest." And his message is certainly not, "Have sugary sweet dreams!" – but considering it's sender, it may as well be. Derek doesn't want for him to get rest, though. He doesn't really seem to care if Stiles dreams at all either.
Derek's hope for him is that he sleeps well.
That's such a nice wish to have for someone.
Stiles smiles meekly to himself, despite knowing the nightmares that are coming for him.
"Hey," Scott begins curiously, "You're not wearing your red jacket?"
"I know, right?" Stiles asks rhetorically, "It's finally the right season for it and I can't fuckin' find it anywhere!"
They're standing in Party City, staring at a large display of atrocious looking glittered balloons. Stiles had been weighing the pro's and con's of purchasing roughly fifty of them to fill the loft with when Scott finally noticed Stiles wearing a plaid, grey jacket. Scott purses his lips,
"But, dude, you have to wear it for the Christmas party. It's the perfect red that matches your – "
"SANTA HAT, I KNOW, SCOTT," Stiles shouts with disproportionate fury that makes Scott laugh.
Stiles smirks at Scott holding his chest and laughing, while the cashiers at the front registers peer down the aisle suspiciously. While Scott is recovering from his laughter, Stiles shoves their small basket full of these balloon packets and says,
"I'm making you and Isaac blow them up, by the way."
Isaac appears at the end of the aisle, trying on a rubber mask that has a comical werewolf's design. He asks,
"You," Stiles says, pointing, "and Scotty will be using your supernaturally powerful lungs to blow up balloons for the party."
Scott groans and complains, "I passed out the last time I had to blow up balloons!"
"The last time you had to blow up balloons, you had asthma," Stiles chides, "You've got special, superhuman lungs now. You're blowing up the balloons, damn it."
"Hey – is Lydia coming?" Isaac asks suddenly.
Stiles' eyes widen and he throws his arms in the air, dropping the basket to the floor.
"Why didn't I think to call her? She's just the girl for this job! She's a party-planning pro! She'll make this party so boss!"
Stiles is busying whipping out his cellphone and opening a new text when Scott mutters,
"You didn't think of her, because your head's been full of Derek."
"Ew," Isaac comments reflexively.
Stiles' ears get hot, so he rolls his eyes and turns away from them while he types. He hears Isaac go, "Oh," a little more seriously. He imagines that Scott must have leveled Isaac a look that explained how Stiles is about crushes. (Stiles is nothing about crushes, because he doesn't get crushes. He gets head-over-heels, he gets soulmate, he gets bone-deep-heart-quivering-cellos-crescendo-ing-love. And nothing in between.)
You: Scott, Isaac and I are throwing a surprise Christmas party for Derek. We're all fuck-ups and feeling terrible and I don't know what we're doing, but we could use your help.
He doesn't expect to hear back, really. He slides back to the lock screen of his phone and then turns back to Isaac and Scott. Scott has picked up the abandoned basket and Isaac is closely examining the packets of balloons. He looks up at Stiles and says,
"Just so you know, I'm shit at tying them off."
"I'll teach you how. It's easy once you get the hang of it," Stiles offers.
Scott smiles at him and Stiles can see the daydreams bubbling up in Scott's head. Daydreams about them being three bros and Stiles is not on the same page, but he's warming up to Isaac. There's hope for them yet. His phone vibrates and he announces excitedly,
"Yo – Lydia said she'll help us!"
(Well, what the text actually reads is,
Queen: You /would/ plan a party the day before. And by 'surprise' I'm assuming you mean 'unwelcome.' Fine. Tell me what you have and I'll take it from there.)
"Great!" Scott grins, "We should invite Kira too."
"You text her," Stiles encourages, taking the basket from Scott, "I get the feeling she'd be way happier getting that invitation from you."
Scott smiles in a shy, telling way and Stiles shares a conspiring glance with Isaac. He texts Lydia back.
You: We have pies, an uncooked turkey with necessary ingredients for a huge dinner, we have ugly streamers and the most obnoxious red and green glittered balloons the decorative world has to offer.
He's shocked when Lydia texts back immediately;
Queen: Get seasonal window stickers, red and green disposable plates, napkins and cutlery. See if wherever you are, they have those blankets that go under the tree. You're coming to pick me up in an hour. We have to go to Macy's and get some last minute gifts.
Stiles stares at the text, waiting for his heart to bump anxiously. He's dreamt of receiving this kind of message from Lydia for years. He's had real, highly pleasant, full length dreams about Lydia telling him when to pick her up and here he is, in this plane of reality, where it's happening.
And he feels nothing.
He bites the inside of his cheek and worries at how long he may have been falling away from Lydia and toward Derek.
"Everything okay?" Isaac asks.
Stiles looks up at him and says, "Oh – oh, yeah. Fine. We gotta get some specific stuff, though and now she's expecting me to come pick her up in an hour, so we better get a move on."
Stiles pulls into his driveway and parks the Jeep, texting his father that he's home, since he's on duty and won't be inside to scowl at him for being late. The car's clock is glaring at him, "1:32 IN THE MORNING, YOU ASSHOLE," it screams. He's absolutely drained from being tugged around the mall by Lydia all day and he wonders how Jackson handled that abuse so well. Stiles doesn't even have faith that the arches of his feet could manage another trip to the mall with her in this lifetime, much less on the regular basis that Jackson managed.
Stiles didn't ask Lydia about the circles under her pretty eyes, or the slowed tempo of her usually proud strut. He held all the bags without complaining, he let her lead the way across the mall and back. He let her talk about surface topics, let her skate over the fact that neither of her parents will even be in state for Christmas. He stayed present for her and found himself enjoying her friendship; it felt a lot like Lydia was acting out a scenario with him that would make more sense if he were Allison.
He doesn't mention it, though. He doesn't mention Allison at all, because her name demands to be heard in their silences anyway.
While walking through the mall, Lydia explained how Isaac and Scott should be in charge of putting the window stickers and streamers up (and, yes, blowing the balloons.) She then said that Kira and she should be in charge of cooking and setting the table and Stiles should be in charge of distracting Derek outside the loft, so that they can all get a tree inside. The idea being that Derek would come home and be greeted with a complete Christmas party.
Stiles doubted her briefly, unsure of keeping Derek away from his loft, but she told him that she's never met a person more capable of diverting attention. He grinned proudly at that. She kissed his cheek when he thanked her for all her help and he hugged her when he dropped her home. All in all, it wasn't a bad investment of his time.
He contemplates the oversized Macy's bags in his trunk. The first bag is full of matching scarves and glossy, multicolored mugs for everyone in the Pack, all neatly wrapped and labeled with bows and nametags. The second bag is full of tree ornaments and Scott has the remaining three bags of purchases made at Party City. He considers bringing the bags inside, but decides no one will notice them in his trunk. He steps out of the car just in time to hear a bodily thump. He looks up and on his roof is Derek Hale, in all his stubbly, leather-jacket-clad glory.
"Derek," Stiles greets happily, as if they're friendly neighbors passing on a midday stroll.
Derek rolls his eyes, like he's reluctant to explain why he's prowling the top of Stiles' house or putt off by Stiles not being intimidated by him. Stiles is too tired to tease him much.
"Come inside, dude. Stop being a creeper, it's too cold out for this shit."
He watches Derek swing his body down to the front lawn, landing primly on his feet. There's some envy in Stiles, regarding the Weres. He's not immune to the simpler humanity in him that craves more grace, more fluidity, more power and control. He doesn't want to sacrifice what the Weres sacrifice for it, though and when he thinks about it long enough, he considers that he doesn't really care about it enough to sacrifice anything at all. He smiles at Derek and Derek says gruffly,
"You're home late."
"You've been creeping long? Sorry," Stiles feigns an apologetic tone.
Derek follows him inside and locks the door behind them. Stiles feels a rush when he hears the familiar click, because he knows whose fingers are around the lock. He's alone with Derek and that never seems to happen to them anymore.
The situation itself is a rarity and now that Stiles has a better grasp of the previously messy, incoherent emotions that would fog up his mind whenever Derek got too close, the situation is a gift. Instead of existing on the unclear periphery of his inner vision, Stiles' feelings are sharp and crystal clear, focused and heavy and right in front of him. Right where he can examine them closely, learn their origins and keep them close.
He allows for Derek to follow him up to his room and once the bedroom light is on, he asks conversationally,
"What are you doing here?"
Derek shrugs and leans against his doorframe. He rubs a hand over his hair (which is getting long and Stiles starts to imagine what it might be like to rake his own hands through) and mutters,
"I was worried."
"About what?" Stiles asks curiously, suddenly concerned that there is something supernatural he should be worrying about that he's been blind to.
Derek shakes his head, sensing his anxiety and answers, "I figured you'd be asleep. I know your dad works tonight."
Stiles cocks a brow and inquires wondrously, "You mean, you came over here to make sure I was sleeping okay?"
Derek hesitates before meeting Stiles' eyes and it makes for a greater impact when their gazes finally meet. Stiles is able to see twinkles in Derek's eyes, there's a relaxed slope to his shoulders and a softness to his neck and face that has never been there before. Derek doesn't exactly confirm that, not even in his eyes. His eyes seem more to Stiles as a question, like, 'if I was doing just that, would that be okay?'
Stiles nods unconsciously and says softly, "Thanks."
Derek's stare flickers down again, in this torturously shy way. Stiles licks his lips, always so unprepared for the demanding silences Derek brings with him.
"Uhm, well, I… I'm going to get ready for bed now. Sorry for screwing up your niceness plan by being conscious."
Derek smirks, looks at him and says, "It's fine. Will you be okay?"
Stiles ponders that in all seriousness. The silence is lingering and Derek is maintaining his steady gaze, worrying over Stiles. Stiles scratches at his wrist distractedly, nervously and then crosses his arms tightly, high on his chest, like he might be cold. He admits,
"I don't know."
Derek nods, like he understands or he's thankful that Stiles is sharing this with him. Or both, maybe. There's a few more beats of silence until Derek asks,
"Is there anything I can do?"
Stiles' heart bumps loudly, shaking his chest and he's so smitten with Derek and he knows already that he'll be replaying this moment over and over in his head for possibly the rest of his life. He swallows, his fingers clutching at his own jacket.
"I don't think so. But…thank you," Stiles manages to say.
Derek nods again, brow furrowed with concern. Stiles eventually finds that the heat Derek's eyes bring to his face is too much to bear and he looks down at his dirty converse instead. Derek breaks the tense quiet and mentions,
"It sometimes helped Laura and me sleep, to leave the living room television on."
Stiles looks up at Derek and, he's not sure whether he's happy or sad about it, but Derek is looking down and away. Derek explains,
"It made us feel like someone was awake. Like maybe mom or dad or grandma were up, watching t.v."
When Derek looks up at Stiles again, it's to ask,
"Do you think that might help you?"
Stiles feels bolted to the floor. His heart is making a valiant attempt at catapulting itself up his throat and he's sure his knuckles have gone white, holding onto his chilled jacket. He wants so badly to run over to Derek, to wrap Derek up in his arms, to have permission to come so close to him, to put his hands on Derek. In the span of half a second, he plays out almost fifty scenarios in his head of what might happen if he were to invite himself into Derek's space right now.
None of them end well.
He nods stiffly and replies,
"Yeah. That might help."
After all, Stiles thinks, if that helped Derek, King of Angst, sleep at night, maybe it will help.
Derek bobs his head dutifully and turns to go down the stairs. Stiles listens to him go down the steps and fiddle around the living room. He breathes in deeply, if a little shakily. His body is tight with nerves as he takes off his jacket, shoes and socks. He's removing his belt when he hears Derek finally turn the television on.
He slips out of his jeans and into old, threadbare pajama pants while he listens. As much as he listens, he can't figure out anything other than an occasional, specific word. The volume is just right. It's a soft, indiscernible lull. It's background noise. It's just enough to create the illusion of a person enjoying a quiet night in.
Derek stands in the hall while Stiles brushes his teeth and follows him back into his room once he's done. He sits on his bed, plugging his phone into its charger. He looks up and watches Derek cross his room to his window and lean against the sill. Derek glances out at the moon, looking peaceful and handsome and lost in thought. Stiles admires the view like timeless art. Derek eventually feels Stiles' stare on him and moves his own eyes to him.
Derek gives a half-smile that reads loud and clear to Stiles, 'I wish I could do more.'
"I think it might really help," Stiles tells him honestly, working his legs under the blanket.
Derek nods and pulls the window up. He goes to leave, but pauses. He turns and asks,
"Hey, are you… are you doing anything for Christmas?"
Stiles' heart stutters.
By the tone of his voice, it's a pre-question. It's a lead-up. He wants to ask Stiles something else and Stiles knows if he says 'no,' he'll get to hear what it is. But he has already decided what he's doing for Derek and he won't back down. Though it pains him to say so, Stiles replies,
"Uh, yeah. Yes."
Derek's mouth shuts and his jaw works a little. He nods again, though and says,
"Right. I figured."
"But, uhm – I'm free. Tomorrow. You know. Christmas eve. If you want to… hang out?"
They stare at each other for a long few beats, where Stiles is inwardly chanting to himself,
Don't smell the conspiracy on me. Oh my God, don't be able to smell holiday shopping.
Derek glances out the window, then back to Stiles and says,
"Yeah. I'll come here tomorrow. Around two."
Stiles beams and says, "Yeah. That'd be perfect."
Derek's lips give way to a humble smile and Stiles' stomach erupts in butterflies.
"Goodnight, Derek," Stiles replies weakly.
And just like that, as mysteriously as he appears, he is out of sight, Stiles thinks to himself.
Derek is only a flash of black jacket, shutting the window behind him and leaving a thick silence in his wake.
Well, a semi-silence.
The buzz of the television downstairs really does ease some of Stiles' tension. He is able to picture his father, sitting on the couch, eating leftovers and watching reruns of Three's Company. The tactic does more than help Stiles fall asleep.
It helps him sleep through the entire night.
By one-thirty, Stiles is unhappily grey-jacket-clad, sitting on his bed, anxiously awaiting Derek and staring down at his phone. There's a multi-person chat going on and his screen reads;
You: Is everyone in place?
Scotty: Me and Isaac have the decorations and we're picking up Kira rn
Queen: *Isaac and I
You: Scott, move fast once you guys get in there. You still need to get a tree in there before we're back and I have no idea how busy I can keep him
Queen: you'll do fine, Stiles
Scotty: yeah you're great at distracting him ;)
You: ugh stop
Queen: is /that/ what this is all about?
Queen: Stiles, you want Derek?
Queen: Stiles! Answer me! We need an exit plan if things get steamy!
You: OMG STOP. THIS IS 100% UNREQUITED, JUST DROP IT
Queen: Don't shout at me.
Scotty: yeah, take it easy bro. plus derek's totally got a heart boner for you too
You: omg just stfu please
You: please update me throughout the day and tell me when you guys are ready for us to come in
Queen: For the record, you're too good for him.
Scotty: I second that
You: that's sweet guys, now for the love of everything holy, please stfu
Stiles' fingers hover over the keyboard, wondering if it's worth it to ask Scott if he's able to smell that kind of thing on Derek (affection not…ugh). He doesn't want to show how badly he wants Derek, though. He doesn't want the Pack to know how much it means to him, he doesn't want them to all be embarrassed on his account when Derek inevitably finds out and shoots him down. So he doesn't ask.
A few more stressful minutes pass and then he hears the doorbell ring. He scrunches his brows in confusion, looking at his closed window.
"That can't be Derek?" He mutters to himself.
He descends the stairs two at a time and opens the door.
"But it is."
"Is what?" Derek asks.
He's wearing this green sweater Stiles has never seen him in, that's loose around the collar, still shows the shadows of his collarbone and Stiles can even see the hint some of Derek's chest hair. The jade color of the sweater sharpens the kaleidoscope colors in Derek's eyes, make his eyelashes seem impossibly darker and flatter the tones of his skin. His hair looks soft, almost slept on (but much too neat to have been) and his hands are tucked in his jacket pockets like he's nervous. The image quietly tortures Stiles.
"Nothing," Stiles insists, "Nevermind. You used the front door. Just weird."
Derek gives him a dry look and doesn't offer an explanation for his decency. He just turns like he's leading Stiles away and down the drive, where the Camaro is sitting. The Jeep's door is unlocked for Scott and Isaac, so that when they come by with Kira, they can take the remaining bags from it. Stiles works too hard on trying to look inconspicuous as they pass it and Derek cocks a curious brow at him.
"So," Stiles starts as he climbs into the passenger seat of the Camaro, "Where we going?"
"On the eve, dude? You're one of those last minute shoppers?" Stiles chides, "Very irresponsible."
"I need your help," Derek grumbles, starting the car.
Stiles' brows spring up with intrigue. He looks at Derek and Derek returns the stare and makes eyebrows at the seatbelt. Stiles rolls his eyes, but clips himself in. Stiles' heart stutters when Derek's arm goes near and around him, so he can back out of the driveway. Stiles may get a little carried away, gazing at the shadows and muscles on Derek's neck and shoulders. Once they're out on the road, Derek looks to him and says,
"I couldn't pick anything out for anyone but Lydia."
"Oh? What'd you get her?" Stiles interviews.
"It's a little flashy," Derek prefaces, seeming embarrassed, "But I wanted this to be… a type of apology and thanks. I got her designer earrings."
"Oh yeah?" Stiles grins, getting warm, fuzzy feelings about Derek's care for Lydia, "Give me the deets, bro. What do they look like?"
Derek sighs, like it's a chore, "They're eighteen karat, white gold diamond chandelier earrings with pearl centers."
"Holy shit," Stiles breathes, feeling his wallet ache, "Dude, how much did that run you?"
"Doesn't matter," Derek brushes off.
Stiles turns toward him, "Seriously, dude. I gotta know, I won't breathe a word."
Derek side-eyes him suspiciously, but concedes and says,
"You seriously can't say anything."
"Dude," Stiles laughs, "How much did you drop for them?"
Derek's mouth twists up, anxious and embarrassed.
"A little under twelve grand."
"Twelve gra – you mean," Stiles stammers, "you mean, like, twelve thousand? Not twelve hundred. Twelve thousand? Twelve thousands? Like twelve followed by three zeroes?"
Derek sighs and when they come to a red light, Derek reaches into the glove compartment between them and reveals a black, velvety box. He hands it to Stiles and Stiles hesitates before opening it.
The earrings glisten and shimmer like something out of a fairytale. He removes one to dangle it in front of his eyes and see how much light it catches and reflects. He lets out a reverent, "Whoa."
"I saw them and knew those were the ones. Once I saw them, I knew I wouldn't want anything else for her. The price started at fourteen grand, so I actually got a pretty good discount."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Derek," Stiles breathes out, gingerly placing the earring back into its case, "that's… I mean…"
Derek asks nervously, "Is it too much?"
Stiles' wide eyes have made Derek anxious and Stiles makes an apologetic face.
"Sorry, no – I mean, yes, it's way too much, but she's going to love it. She'll never forget this. You'll be in her good graces until the end of time. She'll… I mean, I just don't think I've ever been near anything worth that amount of money."
Derek shrugs and puts the case back into the glove compartment. When quiet falls between them again, Stiles asks cautiously,
"Derek… are you a millionaire?"
Derek's brow pinches like he's in physical pain.
"I don't do anything with it," Derek says, like he might need to defend himself.
Stiles laughs semi-hysterically and exclaims, "Of course the dude that squats in abandoned train cars is loaded, I mean, I should've known, really."
"I don't want to waste it."
"Dude, you dropped twelve grand on earrings for a teenage girl."
Derek surprises him by defending,
"She's not just a teenage girl. She was hurt by Peter, she's made sacrifices and she deserves something nice."
Stiles considers Derek's serious profile, feeling a flutter in his chest. He nods, agreeing. Derek's squared shoulders relax and drain a little, his grip on the steering wheel goes a little looser and Stiles realizes just how nervous Derek is about Christmas. He smirks and asks,
"Wanna get me a new car?"
"Don't even pretend like you'd give that trashed Jeep up for anything."
Stiles belly-laughs and asks mostly rhetorically, "Dude! When did you get to know me so well?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Derek smiling.
"We already got Scott three presents, he's not getting anymore," Derek reprimands.
Stiles chuckles, "He's the one I know best! I can't help it!"
Stiles leans his weight into Derek's side as they go down the escalator, pretending like he needs help distributing his weight more than he really does. (Derek smells so good, Stiles has to take every advantage given to him to get closer.)
He's holding two bags from Hot Topic (Derek dropped over a hundred dollars on Doctor Who apparel for Stiles, Rilakkuma toys for Kira and Captain America paraphernalia for Scott), one bag from Spencer's (filled with crude t-shirts for Stiles and DC character-trivia books for Isaac) and one bag from Lush (a spa set for Lydia and Kira both, and sweet smelling hair care for Isaac). Derek makes a point to stop at a kiosk to buy a handmade Kitsune-keychain. The guy charges Derek fifty bucks for it, which Stiles balks at and he lectures Derek on frivolous spending, but Derek seems pretty pleased with himself.
Derek had insisted that if Scott was getting more than one present, the rest of them had to have more than one. Stiles had been staring at the Doctor Who section in Hot Topic when Derek had casually asked who his favorite doctor was. Before he knew it, Derek was picking up a police telephone box keychain, sonic screwdriver laser pointer and bowtie. He just happens to mention how much he likes the Spiderman beanie and the next thing he knows, he's the proud owner of it. He gestures at the Slytherin house clothing and smiles, says, "Slytherin pride," under his breath and now he's got a Slytherin uniform tie, Quidditch jacket and Death Eater sleeveless shirt.
He's grinning wildly at Derek, making him notably uneasy. Derek doesn't shrug him off, though. He's breathing in the masculine, romantic scent of Derek when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out. The time reads four forty-two and he's got an alert for an unread text;
Queen: We're ready for you two whenever you want to head over. The tree is up and undecorated (which we'll all be doing together), there are wrapped gifts underneath, dinner is about an hour from being done and we're playing oldies. The decorations are everywhere and the balloons look atrocious. I think you'll be pleased.
Stiles beams and as he slides back to his lock screen and opens his mouth to suggest they drop the gifts home, Derek asks,
Stiles pauses, because – yes, he is, but he's holding his appetite for the amazing Christmas dinner they're all about to have. He shakes his head and says,
"No, listen – we should go to the loft."
Derek quirks a brow as they step off the escalator and Stiles tries not to think too much about Derek's hand lingering on his elbow to help him off the last step. Derek inquires,
"Yeah," Stiles hurries, "Yeah, no, everything is fine."
"Your heartbeat is fast," Derek comments, looking worried.
"Dude," Stiles practically coos, "it's just your dashing good looks, making me nervous."
Derek rolls his eyes and starts in the direction of their parking lot, so Stiles assumes that Derek has ignored the honesty in what he's said.
Derek pauses outside the door to the loft, very obviously knowing what's going on. He doesn't look at Stiles when he opens the door, though. Stiles studies him closely as Derek's eyes widen at the sparkling Christmas lights hanging all over, the aroma of baked potatoes and brisket wafting around, Kira and Scott sharing a bag of mini marshmallows to put in their hot chocolates. The loft is adorned in red and green and glitter, there is an unfolded buffet table with food out and steaming, the tree is lush and vibrant and Derek looks floored.
He crosses the loft silently, examining everything as he passes it, until he makes it to the tree and sets down the bags from the mall. He looks up the tree and then to every individual face before he asks with a shaky, unsure voice,
"Where are the ornaments?"
"We waited for you," Isaac replies, lifting a large moving box full of multicolored tree decorations.
When finally Derek's face splits into a grin, it takes Stiles' breath away. He's still standing in the open doorway, bleeding heart pounding loudly in his ears. Scott looks at him, then Isaac and he's nervous that his heart is too loud, so he jokes with a dramatic tone,
"And what happened, then? Well, in Whoville they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day! And then - the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!"
Isaac rolls his eyes and Scott smiles dumbly at him. Lydia walks into his line of vision in a beautiful, short length, red dress and he remembers her special gift. He grins at her, eager to see how much she'll love it.
"Well?" She starts sweetly, "Everyone make a plate and let's get started on the tree!"
The Sheriff stops by during a break while they're still decorating and the Pack is shocked to see Derek accept a hug from him. He leaves with a full belly, though the Pack knows there will be leftovers still. Melissa drops by when they've started having dessert; she delivers a kiss to Derek's cheek and gives him a gift of homemade shortbread cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. He seems genuinely moved by it, and the night is generally filled with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennet, Etta James, cinnamon-sugar and disruptive laughter.
When Lydia opens her big gift, she's sitting down (and lucky for that) and she curls over, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders shake a little and Derek shoots a worried glance at Stiles, who shrugs uselessly. Derek mutters,
"I-I'm sorry. I can return it if you don't – "
She picks up her head, a few tears rolling down and she shakes her head, red curls bobbing fervently and she begs,
"No, oh my goodness, no, I love it, I love it! Derek!"
She joins him on the floor, where he's sitting cross-legged and hugs him tightly from her knees. Stiles tries not to laugh at how stressed out Derek looks, confused by her happy tears. (She finds herself too scared to ask how much it cost him, only wears them the rest of the night and touches them reverently with the very tips of her manicured fingers.)
Scott does most of his happy shouting about a pricy GameStop gift card and Isaac, to Stiles' surprise, seems most stoked about his DC characters-trivia books. (Stiles assumes Derek must have learned about Isaac's affinity for DC villains while they lived together.) Kira and Lydia take time to appreciate the particular treats in the spa kits and Kira hugs Derek for her keychain before immediately clasping it onto her house keys. Stiles admits that he saw all of his own presents bought and was an active participant in picking them out.
He does trade his grey jacket out for the Slytherin one, though. They all receive their mugs and scarves and then one by one, they drop off into the night. Kira asks Scott to drop her home and they leave close to midnight. Isaac helps Lydia clean up in the kitchen and Derek assists in straightening up the general living space that's covered in torn wrapping paper and orphaned plates. While helping Derek do that, Stiles manages to spill lukewarm hot chocolate all over himself (carefully avoiding staining his new jacket, by some miracle). He laughs it off easily enough, but asks to use the shower. Derek loans him a pair of his own sweatpants, far too big and loose around Stiles' slim waist, but he's not passing up the chance to wear them.
When he comes out of the shower, the loft is nearly silent. He's toweling off his head, walking past Derek's bed when he sees a sliver of red in the corner of his eye. He turns to stare and he sees the sleeve of his red jacket peeking out from under Derek's pillow.
His heart just about restarts itself.
He swallows and his throat clicks.
Unsure of how to address it, he keeps walking out into the loft and sees Derek organizing Tupperware in the open fridge. He looks at Stiles and shuts the door, leaning his hip against it. He cross his arms, his muscles rounding and the emerald sweater stretches gorgeously over them.
"Where's Lydia and Isaac?"
"They just left," Derek replies.
Stiles nods, feeling almost lightheaded with nerves.
"You did all this," Derek says more than asks.
I Left My Heart In San Francisco is playing behind them, the night sky is dark outside the French windows, but the stars are glimmering brightly. The tree is lit up and the multicolored lights are making for warm tones in the otherwise dim space. Stiles shrugs and responds humbly,
"Well, not all of it. I mean, I was just in charge of keeping you out of here for a couple hours."
"But you put this together," Derek says like he already knows.
He steps out of the kitchen area and towards Stiles, who is standing next to the tree now. He shrugs again, wanting to tuck his hands under his arms as a nervous habit, but too scared Derek's sweatpants will fall off him completely if he does. He's paranoid about Derek looking at or maybe judging his naked torso, but he's definitely not going to risk the pants falling, so he puts his hands in the pockets of the sweatpants.
"They didn't need much persuasion or anything," Stiles brushes off.
Before he knows what's happening, Derek is in his space and sweeping an arm onto his lower back. He takes his hands out of his pockets and puts one on Derek's shoulder and the other in Derek's open palm. He looks directly into Derek's polychromatic eyes, speckled with gold and green and blue. He feels a sense of unreality, like Derek is so happy that he's ceased to remember who he is. As though Derek were a person that danced and laughed and came so close to Stiles' face.
Stiles has certainly never danced formally and he has never claimed to be anything other than uncoordinated, but he finds it relatively easy to follow Derek's lead. He doesn't spin them much or move too fast and when the song ends, he spins Stiles and then pulls him in close, looking intensely and deeply in Stiles' eyes.
"You have my jacket," Stiles utters suddenly.
Derek doesn't react at first, just flickers his eyes back and forth into Stiles' for a moment. He eventually answers lowly,
"Yes. I do."
Stiles considers tripping over the mood and exclaiming that he'd been looking for his jacket for weeks, that he needs it for his father's Christmas party tomorrow because it matches his Santa hat perfectly. He knows he could belittle Derek, make fun of him being monosyllabic, could make a joke about marking territory, but he doesn't. He asks simply,
Derek doesn't disappoint.
"Your scent eases my anxiety. Lets me sleep."
Stiles swallows loudly and Derek's eyes move to watch his throat bob. He can't help but feel that Derek has opened the door to some opportunity he will never have again and to not take a plunge now would mean forever regretting it. So, Stiles leans in, tilts his head and presses a gentle kiss against Derek's lips.
He opens his eyes, barely moving away, their lips still touching. His heart is somewhere in his esophagus, but he's not about to apologize. He watches wondrously as Derek's eyes open, like he's waking from a dream. A small, almost excited noise comes from Derek's throat and before Stiles can begin to try to replay it in his head and pick it apart, Derek's mouth is on his again, gentle but persistent.
The fingers of his right hand interlock with Derek's and his left hand moves from Derek's shoulder to his neck, his jaw and rake through his hair. Stiles tilts his head and opens his mouth and then Derek's tongue is on his and he gets a full body chill from it. He might moan out loud, but he's not really sure, because he can hardly hear anything over the pounding of his heart. Derek's stubble scratches in this adorable way and he grins into the kiss, trying and failing to stop it from forming. Derek smiles back against him and he gasps out,
"I'm sorry – this – I – this is like the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Stop saying things like that," Derek says with a smile.
Stiles moves his nose against Derek's in something like an Eskimo kiss and asks,
"Saying things like what?"
"You say things that sound like they should be lies, but you're not lying."
Stiles shakes his head, fondly exasperated until Derek moves both his hands to cup either side of his jaw and hold him place so he can kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.
Stiles is the one that initiates the movement toward the bed and he's thrilled when Derek follows without so much as a, 'we shouldn't.' They fall together, Stiles on his back and Derek on top of him, warm and hard and protective. Stiles sighs dreamily, relishing the nearly overwhelming sense of safety that comes in Derek's strong arms. They kiss for a long time there, sighing and sucking and biting gently at each other's lips. Eventually Derek tugs away long enough to brush his lips along Stiles' cheek, to kiss by the corner of his eye and at the square of his jaw. He kisses below Stiles' ear and follows his jugular downward.
Stiles' fingers grip at Derek's back when he starts sucking on a particularly sweet spot in the curve of his neck. He realizes he will finally get his first hickey and it's Derek Hale giving it to him, six foot and four inches of hot like burning. He moans a little loudly when he feels the tease of fangs there and cants his hips up to show his approval. He feels Derek pull away enough to chuckle and say,
"You really enjoy straddling that danger line."
"I would really enjoy straddling other things," Stiles retorts, moving his hips up again.
Derek backs away enough to face him and holds Stiles' ribs on either side with his broad, warm hands splayed across the skin. He watches the flex of Stiles' chest while he breathes in and he examines the stretch of Stiles' lithe body under him. His eyes follow the trail of dark hair that starts at Stiles' navel and disappears beyond the waistband of his sweatpants. He runs his hands up, petting his thumbs along the muscles of Stiles' sides as he leans down and kisses the center of Stiles' chest.
He spends a few minutes kissing and licking at Stiles' nipples and kissing a few particular beauty marks along his chest and collarbone before running the tip of his nose through the hair on Stiles' abdomen. Stiles giggles a little nervously and Derek smiles up at him. He stares at the loving bruise forming on Stiles' neck, then he quirks a brow and Stiles asks in a rough voice,
"Are you asking for permission to go lower?"
Derek nods and Stiles' laugh bounces against Derek's chin. Stiles' heartbeat is loud between them and Stiles says,
"Holy – of course, Derek. You – yes, you have permission, yes."
Derek nods and rubs his hands down Stiles' sides again, curling his fingers into the waistband and pulling it down inch by inch. Every sliver more of flesh revealed, he kisses. He kisses incline of Stiles' hips and the veins on his pubic bone. He kisses and breathes deeply, the skin and dark hair before Stiles' cock. He kisses the base of Stiles' cock when it shows, kisses a vein that follows the center of it and when the head bobs free from his sweatpants, he licks off the bead of precum gathered there, making Stiles gasp. He takes the head into his mouth while his hands work Stiles sweatpants the rest of the way off.
Most of Stiles' neurons are focused on the mind-melting sensation of Derek's hot, watering mouth around the head of his cock, but he does register Derek's hands moving beneath him, spreading against the backs of his thighs and squeezing. He groans, feeling too close to coming already and looks down to the serene look on Derek's face, like he's been dreaming of this, like it does something to Derek the same way it's doing something to Stiles. Stiles slaps his hand against his forehead, tilts his head back and moans again. He chances looking a moment later and to stop himself from coming immediately, complains,
"Oh my God, you're too dressed – stop being dressed, Derek."
Derek swirls his tongue around Stiles once more before sliding his mouth off and sitting up. He reaches behind his neck and pulls the sweater off, mussing his hair a little and making Stiles' cock twitch excitedly. He reaches down and removes his belt, pushing his jeans down and away.
Stiles would never say it out loud, but his first thought upon seeing Derek's hard cock is, I want it inside me.
No niceties, no explanation needed in his own mind. Just want.
He watches Derek crawl over him again, eyes half-lidded and feeling deliriously happy. He looks up into Derek's eyes and mutters in a way that sounds like it's meant to stay inside his head,
"God, you're so pretty."
Derek smirks, but it hints at being flattered and Stiles calls it a success. Derek leans down, touches the tips of their noses together and mumbles in a gravelly voice,
"So are you."
Derek captures his mouth again and their kisses stay heated and hungry. The stubble leaves this tingling burn in its wake that makes Stiles feel recklessly desired and the feel of Derek's back muscles bunching and stretching under his hands thrills him like he's never felt before. Derek lowers his hips and ruts against him, groaning so that the sound vibrates through him and makes him moan back.
He grasps at Derek's hair and bites on Derek's lower lip, licks into his mouth and moans shamelessly into the quiet air of the loft while they thrust against each other. Derek pulls away and stares him straight in the eye when he says,
"I want to taste your cum."
The noise Stiles makes in response isn't entirely voluntary. He nods vigorously, because there is enough blood in his body for his higher brain functions and for his dick to be this hard, but not both at once.
Derek moves more quickly down his body this time, rubbing his stubble along the way, licking stripes up Stiles' stomach to make the muscles there quiver and twitch. Derek lets out a pleased noise when he takes Stiles' cock into his mouth again and Stiles whimpers at the wave of heat that falls over him like a tidal wave. He grasps at the sheets of Derek's comforter so he won't do anything embarrassing like pull or push on Derek's head.
Derek's tongue swirls around him, massaging along the underside of his cock and in circles around the head. He uses the broad spread of his tongue and he moves slowly, like he could spend days at it and Stiles' legs fall open a little wider. Derek sinks down further on him until the head touches the back of Derek's throat and Stiles manages to whisper in a wrecked, cracking voice,
"Oh my God – oh, Christ, I'm – I'm going to cum, don't stop."
Derek moans back his approval and bobs his head again, patiently moving his tongue along the underside and taking Stiles' full length into his mouth. He does that twice before Stiles orgasms, throwing his head back, clutching the sheets with white knuckles and curling toes, moaning Derek's name loudly.
While Stiles' ears ring and his vision returns, Derek moves up his body breathing in deeply along his figure. Stiles rakes his fingers into Derek's hair and hauls him up by it, kissing him desperately and moving his hips against Derek's. He's eventually able to pant out,
"I should – I should do that for you."
Derek shakes his head and gives a little laugh. When Stiles meets his eyes, he's amazed to see how wide Derek's pupils have blown. Derek confesses,
"I can't last much longer."
Stiles smirks proudly, amazed that he's brought Derek Hale to this state and he reaches down between them. He wraps his dexterous hand around Derek's length, admiring the girth and licks into Derek's mouth while he pumps his hand. Derek cums easily into his hand, growling against Stiles kiss-swollen lips when he does.
After cleaning themselves and settling back into sweatpants, they find themselves curled into one another in Derek's bed. Stiles shoots a text to his father, saying he's too tired to drive and will be home tomorrow, which is approved by the Sheriff. He throws one lanky leg over Derek's waist and tucks himself in close to Derek's chest, listening to Derek's heartbeat. His chest is long expanse of dense muscle and smooth skin and Stiles rubs his hand absently back and forth over it. Derek's own hand runs through Stiles' hair contentedly and before Stiles falls asleep, he says,
"Merry Christmas, Derek."
He's elated when he feels Derek's shy kiss against his forehead and Derek's warm breath there when he says back,
"Merry Christmas, Stiles."