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Stiles stares at the stocking in growing horror. It's bright red with a jolly Santa Claus surrounded by woodland creatures, all smiling unnatural smiles. But the worst is that embroidered across the top is his real name. Who on Earth decided that was a good idea?
"You did," Derek says, making him realize he spoke out loud. Embarrassed, he stuffs the stocking back in the box. "You were trying to be an adult."
"It's got grinning, obviously evil, woodland critters on it."
Derek snorts and takes the stocking back out of the box to go hang it over the fireplace next to his own subdued navy stocking with a partridge in a pear tree on it.
Of course it's navy. He'd probably have black if they made them.
"They do. You vetoed that."
Damn mouth.
There's a twitching of an almost smile around Derek's lips, but Stiles can see the tension there as well.
It's been six days since he woke up without any memories after going to Scott's house to drag him out to find a dead body.
That was nearly eight years ago.
And, apparently, since then there have been werewolves and nearly dying, and marrying Derek Hale.
Stiles remembers the Hale family, the fire that killed most of them, but only with a kid's memories. They're living in a house on the same site--well, a few hundred yards from the garden that's become the memorial to the family that died there--and he's a CSI and a witch. Derek's a born werewolf and owns a landscaping company. Scott's a werewolf, the werewolf, the one in charge--Alpha, his mind supplies--and that's just too bizarre to contemplate.
They have no idea what happened to Stiles. Naturally, he freaked out. He's not ready to be twenty four and having sex--he supposes--with the hottest guy he's ever seen. Hell, he's not gay. Or...well...he's not sure. He feels sixteen! So he ran home to dad, who's married to Scott's mom, and...
Too much has happened. He spent six days in his childhood room trying to absorb eight years of stories that have no emotion behind them, but now he's back here, decorating a house he doesn't remember with a husband he doesn't remember except for seeing pictures of him after the fire, because...
It feels right.
"Stiles," Derek says softly and Stiles jerks his head up to find him crouched in front of where he's sitting on the couch. He looks...sad and somehow resigned, as if he's used to his life going crazy like this. "We don't have to do this. Christmas is more than two weeks away."
"No, I want to. I want to do normal stuff and maybe that'll break the block on my memories." Because they're not gone. He blocked them. His own magic--magic!--is doing this. With a shake of his head he pushes his way up and Derek gets up as well, plasters a smile on his face and claps his hands together. "So, when do the others get here to trim the tree?"
"An hour or so."
The house, like the previous one, is not small, and the main room has a cathedral ceiling. The tree, freshly cut by Derek and his uncle that morning, stands in one corner at least twelve feet tall, the branches spreading wide, which explains the larger than normal ornaments in a couple of the boxes. As Derek searches through a couple other boxes for the tree skirt, Stiles idly paws through some of the ornaments and finds one that seems...familiar.
It's a wolf, wooden, simple, hanging from a red cord.
And, all of a sudden, he remembers it. Their first Christmas together, though no one knew they were dating, he bought it as a joke.
Derek loved it.
He kissed him in front of the whole Pack and his dad and...
He remembers.
With a squeal and a brilliant smile on his face he launches himself at his mate to kiss him silly.
End