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"It's Christmas," Stiles says. "Or it was, anyway. You missed the big day, so happy new year, I guess. Here." He shoves a package into Derek's hands, messily wrapped in the comics section of the Beacon Hills Weekly Gazette.
Derek raises his eyebrows and stares. First Stiles just stares back; then he starts to fidget.
"What," Stiles says, "Oh, my God, seriously, what? It's just a present. I know you're not culturally opposed to the practice; I specifically asked Cora what you guys celebrated when you were growing up, and she assured me you could mangle the lights on a Christmas tree with the best of them. Just open it, okay?"
It's a small, rectangular box, with scotch tape at both ends and along the sides, and a lurid red ribbon wrapped around the middle. Derek holds it up to his ear and gives it a good shake.
Stiles's scent sharpens abruptly and his face goes red; Derek wonders if it's embarrassment or anger. He's been letting Stiles think he can tell the difference, and so far the others have gone along with it, but the truth is adrenaline just smells like adrenaline, most of the time.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Give it back. I'm giving this to someone who'll appreciate it. Like the Grinch, up in the mountains over Whoville."
"I appreciate it," Derek says. He sniffs the box, but all he gets is a whiff of Old Spice strong enough to knock even a normal guy over. "Ugh."
Stiles grins. "Ha! Foiled!"
Derek rolls his eyes, and steps back from his door. "You're here; you might as well come in."
"See, thank you. This is the kind of civil behavior a giver of gifts expects and deserves and oh, holy hell, is that your kitchen? What happened to the rest of your house?" Stiles reels back.
Derek glares, and shuts the door behind him. It's a new apartment, a one-room studio with all the appliances and counters lining one long wall at the back. 'Kitchen' is a kind name for the area rug with a cheap dinette set on it that sits in front of the sink; Derek appreciates the generosity, but not the dazed expression of horror.
"I just got back," he says tightly. "I had to take what I could find on short notice."
"Are you sure this is even an apartment?" Stiles says, staring around him in awe. "Maybe you accidentally rented a storage closet."
"Are you here to critique my living arrangements, Stiles? Because if you are, the door's right behind you."
"No, no. Sorry." Stiles blinks, and refocuses on Derek's face. "Sorry, really. I was just. Wow."
Derek grits his teeth. He's beginning to -- no, he seriously and completely regrets letting him in. But Stiles's hair is all ruffled from the cold wind outside, and his eyes are bright and warm, and Derek can't send him away. Plus, he's wearing that hoodie, the one that wraps around his wide shoulders in a way Derek has always appreciated.
Derek thinks Stiles might have gotten a little taller in his absence, too. Unfortunately, he hasn't gotten any less annoying.
"Sit," Derek orders, and pulls a chair out from the table. He sits down opposite Stiles, and applies himself carefully to the wrapping paper.
Two minutes later, Stiles says, "Oh, for God's sake, just give it here."
Derek yanks it out of Stiles's reach. "It's not my fault you put enough tape on it to keep an invading army out."
"You're a terrifying creature of the night! Just rip the paper!"
"Uh, no," Derek says. "That may be how you human peasants do things, but werewolves treat gifts with respect."
Stiles's eyes and mouth go wide, and whatever he's trying to say chokes him on the way out. Derek smirks, flips out a single razor-sharp claw, and slits the paper neatly down the middle.
Stiles sputters. "You could have just done that to start with!"
"And the fun in that would be where, exactly?" Derek says absently. He pushes the paper aside, and gives the tape around the lid the same treatment. When he's done, he opens the box and looks inside.
Across the table, Stiles is silent, and perfectly still. Derek looks at what's in the box, then looks up. Stiles's cheeks are flushed, and his eyes look a little wild. His hands are folded together in front of him, white-knuckled.
Derek looks back into the box.
"It's, uh. I know there are possibly two ways to take it. But I'm offering it in the traditional way."
Derek blinks at Stiles, frowning. "Whose tradition?"
"Mine!" Stiles's eyes go even wider. "Sorry, I meant the traditions of my peasants. People! My people. Happy traditions. Which can be taken in many ways, but all of them are warm, and at least friendly, and generally involve -- well, hey, you're an American werewolf in California, you know what the traditions of my people are, right?"
"Mistletoe?" Derek says. "Really?"
"It's symbolic!"
"Of what, exactly?"
"I like you," Stiles says. He stands up and comes around to Derek's chair. "I mean. I really, really like you, to a fundamentally disturbing degree. So the way I see it, either you've put some kind of super duper like spell on me, in which case this should break it and I'll be free of your nefarious powers forever... or I've got some kind of weird annoyance fetish that makes me want to kiss you and punch you at the same time. In which case, I'm hoping the mistletoe will facilitate the kissing thing. Just to be polite, if nothing else. It's Christmas," Stiles points out again, "-ish. Traditionally, there's no punching allowed."
Derek pushes the box with the mistletoe aside and stands up. He puts his hands on Stiles's face, which has two extremely beneficial effects. First, Stiles shuts up -- never a bad thing. And it makes Stiles blush even more, warmth flooding his face under Derek's fingers. It feels good in an easy, uncomplicated way. It's been a long time since Derek felt like he deserved to feel good, but Stiles is a smart guy, he's here, and he's offering something Derek really wants to take.
Stiles thinks Derek deserves this. So maybe... maybe he does.
"So on a scale of one to ten," Derek says quietly. "How annoyed are you now?"
Stiles swallows, and stumbles closer. "Somewhere around a million. You're the most annoying person I've ever met. I can't believe how... completely, ravenously annoyed I am."
"Maybe it's just my nefarious powers." Derek pulls him in, and Stiles helps, fitting himself against Derek's chest and winding his arms around Derek's neck.
"Mistletoe cancels those out," Stiles reminds him. "I think this is just me."
Derek grins. "Just us. I'm pretty annoyed, too. You did insult my apartment..."
"Yeah, well. I take all that back," Stiles says, his eyes fixed on Derek's mouth. "As of right now, I'm standing in my new favorite place."