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"Sleigh bells ring," Stiles said, before thumping Derek on the arm. "Are you listening?"
Derek tilted his head. "In the lane."
Snow was glistening all around them, turning the reserve into a pristine wilderness. Snow was rare in Beacon Hills – a beautiful sight, and Stiles could have been happy that night if not for the fact that the snow was the work of a visiting Christmas sprite rather than any naturally occurring weather phenomenon. "A monster who moves to the sound of jingle bells," Stiles muttered to himself, struggling to keep up with Derek. He raised his voice a little. "It's still not too late to get the Jeep."
"We're walking," Derek said firmly.
"In a winter wonderland," said Stiles under his breath.
They spilled into the meadow at the reserve's edge, its blanket of snow already run through with children's footprints. In the meadow someone had built a snowman – a snowman who was waving them over as if this were an everyday thing, finding an animate cold-weather sculpture in your almost-backyard.
"Parson Brown," said the snowman as soon as they were within earshot. "You two married?"
"No! Man, why does everyone keep asking us that?" Stiles said, shifting foot to foot. Sure, he and Derek had been together for four years, and the laws in California had changed, making same-sex marriage legal, but that didn't mean there was a proposal in anyone's future, no matter how many times Stiles went back and forth on whether he should be the one proposing (at least four times a day). Also: talking snowman.
Derek stooped and picked up a rock that he gently pressed into the snowman's belly – a stand-in for a button, Stiles realized, that had fallen off. "You can do the job while you're in town," Derek said, and Stiles blinked, jaw working as he tried to find something to say.
"Later on," the snowman said, nodding at Derek. "We'll conspire."
"As we dream by the fire," Derek said, reaching for Stiles' hand and tangling their fingers together. He smiled at him. "To face unafraid the plans that we've made."
"Walking in a winter wonderland," said Stiles automatically, followed by, "Hang on, what the fuck is happening?"
The snowman raised a pair of snowy eyebrows. "Language, son."
"Sorry, sorry, I apologize, but – " He tugged on Derek's hand. "Something very weird is going on."
Derek looked at him impassively. "Other than the snow generated by a jingle-belling sprite?"
"Yes," said Stiles. "This dude, for a start."
Parson Brown seemed to be judging him with his stick-for-a-mouth. "Very nice. This how you treat all your wedding officiants around here?"
"Which is another thing," said Stiles, poking Derek in the chest. "You just ask a snowman to marry us, you don't ask me first?"
Derek blinked. "Do you want to?"
"Well, yes, but . . . "
"So what's the problem?"
"The problem is I think you've been infected with . . . some kind of . . . fucked if I know. Thing. Probably from that sprite. Something that's making you quote song lyrics, and making me think in rhymes, and making Parson Brown here talk to us as if that's normal behavior."
Parson Brown rolled his eyes. "Don't talk about me as if I'm some sort of magical performing circus clown."
Derek frowned a little at that.
"C'mon," said Stiles, twitching as the sound of jingle bells sounded to their left. "You know something's wrong here."
"But we'd have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman," Derek said, a look of horror slowly dawning on his face.
"Sure, until the other kiddies knock him down," said Stiles. "Goddamnit!" He pressed his lips together, determined not to say another word.
"Let me help you kids out," said Parson Brown. "That sprite you're after? It's after one thing and one thing only – the spark of power that passes between two people when they kiss under mistletoe. All of this?" He spread his twiggy arms. "Is just a means to set up the rest."
Derek grumbled low in his throat. "There's no other way to fix this?"
"Ain't it thrilling?" asked Stiles, then dropped Derek's hand to clap both of his own over his mouth.
"No other way," said Parson Brown. "Believe me, I've been in a lot of meadows in a lot of snowstorms. Seen it all."
"But the married thing – it has to be a married kiss?" asked Derek, pinking up (to Stiles' delight) as he asked.
"More powerful if it's a married kiss," said Parson Brown. "Don't ask me, I don't make the rules, I just show up to do the job while I'm in . . . you get the idea."
Derek looked at Stiles. "So – you said you were okay with . . . "
Stiles let his hands drop. "I didn't mean now."
"It'll just keep snowing, son." Parson Brown scratched what might have been his ear. "Two, three feet, he doesn't care."
Jingle bells sounded off to their right.
Stiles sighed heavily. "Fine. But you owe me something. A fancy night out at a restaurant with real, you know, silverware and everything at least. And I want a honeymoon."
"Fine," said Derek. "I want one too."
Stiles smirked. "We'll frolic and play, the . . . "
"Don't!" said Derek.
Stiles shut up.
"You kids ready?" asked Parson Brown.
"Sure," said Stiles.
"Sure," said Derek.
"Do you, tall one with the eyebrows, take this one, the skinny kid with the hands, to be your lawfully wedded husband, la la la, blah blah blah blah blah, etc?"
"I do," said Derek.
"And do you," asked Parson Brown, "with the hands; do you take this one, with the eyebrows, to be your lawfully wedded husband, fa la la la la, la la la etc."
"I do," said Stiles.
The snowman blew out a breath. "Whew," he said, whipping off his knitted hat and producing a sprig of mistletoe from beneath. "Pucker up, partners."
They had to kneel in the snow to contort themselves to the proper angle, mistletoe hanging right above their heads, yet for all of the absurdity of the situation, and the fact that the jingle bell sounds were getting closer, their kiss was A++, thought Stiles, would do again. "Wow," he said as he pulled back just a fraction. "Spark, huh?"
Derek looked a little dazed. "I guess." His gaze dropped to Stiles' mouth. "We should maybe . . . "
"For science," said Stiles, and pulled Derek back in, sighing into his mouth, savoring the warm, press of Derek's lips while the rest of him was freezing.
Somewhere behind them a set of bells jingled happily, and the next thing Stile knew he was kneeling on solid ground without a lick of snow upon it. "Hey," he said. "What the hell just . . . "
"He's gone," said Derek, standing up. "The sprite."
"The snowman," said Stiles, staring at a pile of sticks and rocks by his knee. He glanced up at Derek furtively, hauled himself upright. "So – magical hitching doesn't really . . . I mean. That'd be crazy, right?"
Derek shrugged, no doubt aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. "State of California's probably going to ask for paperwork."
"Which we don't have."
"Nope."
"Because we were married by a sprite-conjured snowman."
"Right."
Stiles took in the tense line of Derek's shoulders, the downward slant of his lips, and stepped forward, cupping Derek's jaw with one hand. "Hey. I still think we're married if that counts for something."
Derek stared at him for a long moment before he began to smile. "Okay," he said.
"Okay, all right," said Stiles, grinning. "Totally the way I always saw this going down. And let's not forget the mutually agreed upon need for a honeymoon."
Derek's eyes darkened. "Oh, I didn't forget."
Stiles swallowed. "Awesome," he said in a whisper. "Also?"
Derek quirked an eyebrow.
"I'm never going out in the snow with you in July ever again."
"Pact," Derek said, taking Stiles' hand and tangling their fingers again. "No more walking in a . . . " He shook his head.
"Summer funderland," offered Stiles, and his heart swelled three sizes as Derek laughed.