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“I said no, and I mean it.”
“But Derek, it’s tradition!”
“Since when?”
“…2005. But that doesn’t matter! Traditions don’t have to be old to be…traditional.”
“I’m pretty sure they do, Stiles.”
“How could anything be a tradition without getting its start somewhere?”
“I’m not getting into a philosophical debate with you on this. We are not putting an Elf on the Shelf up, and that’s final.”
“Deeeeereeeeeeek. C’mon. It’s cute! How can you resist this face?”
“Jesus! Put that thing away!”
“Seriously, Derek? Seriously?! You can take on an entire pack of alphas, a coven of witches and a fucking gorgon by yourself, but you’re scared of a doll?”
“That little fucker isn't just a doll, Stiles. That’s Chucky’s inbred cousin that stalks you through the holidays and moves around to fuck with your head. Just look at its beady little eyes and that child molester grin. That doll is evil.”
“Oh my God, I cannot even believe you just said that. It’s a fucking toy, Derek. It doesn’t move on its own. You’re supposed to get up before the kids do, and move it around yourself. It’s meant to be a game.”
“I don’t care what the hell you call it, we are not bringing that demon toy into our house. Besides. We don’t have kids. So there’s no point to allowing that abomination into our home.”
“Holy shit, dude, you’re actually serious. This isn’t just an elaborate ploy to play Grinchywolf. You legitimately hate Christmas, don’t you.”
“I don’t hate Christmas, Stiles. Be reasonable.”
“I’m trying to be! But so far, we’ve had to jettison mistletoe which, yeah, totally understand that, what with it being super toxic to werewolves. Then you made me get rid of the holly and poinsettias—“
“I’m allergic!”
“I’m still not sure I believe you, considering I’ve never heard any other shifter so much as sneeze before. Then you told me we couldn’t use the plastic tree I bought.”
“It stinks of chemicals.”
“You see this eyebrow halfway up my forehead? That’s me, incredulous about that claim. But then! Then you made me promise to not bake the apple crumble my dad loves!”
“Baked fruit is disgusting. Why can’t you eat it like nature intended, whole and cold and right off the tree?”
“Derek, by that logic, I should be eating cows while they’re still mooing and trying to run away from me. Ain’t gonna happen, dude. You can just not eat the damn crumble. Why do I have to miss out on the hot gooey goodness?”
“It makes the house smell too sweet, like rotting fruit.”
“…………”
“If you had superior olfactory abilities, we wouldn’t be arguing about any of this.”
“Yeah, but I don’t and all you’re doing now is running Christmas and making me wonder if I should just to go spend the week at my dad’s house instead.”
“….Please don’t.”
“Derek. It’s our first co-habitation Christmas. We can’t be arguing this much over it already. We should at least wait until the ham is overcooked, and the mulled wine has been scorched, and we’ve run out of wrapping paper on Christmas Eve and one of us needs to run out into the madness of last-minute shoppers to get more, and the fruit cake has broken at least two of my toes.”
“You’re right. This is supposed to be a time of joy and family and over-priced presents that will just be re-gifted come the next birthday.”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
“And I just really love the smell of a fresh tree. It’s clean and damp and…homey.”
“That’s fine, that’s all you needed to tell me and I’d have understood.”
“We’re still not putting that evil elf anywhere but the trash bin outside.”
“Dammit.”