Work Text:
I.
Derek got home from grading papers in his office at Sacramento City College the day after Thanksgiving; he had gone in early to beat the Black Friday traffic, and stayed longer than planned to avoid it on the way home - as it was, he would have made better time staying parked in the faculty lot, shifting in the woods and running home along the side of Cali 160 in the brush back to Beacon Hills. But he was home now, parked beside the blue Jeep that refused to lay down and die, and which Derek loved almost as much as Stiles. He gave the hood a friendly pat and found it cold to the touch - Stiles hadn’t been out, not recently.
That was weird; Stiles always went full out for Black Friday - he considered it combat shopping and he and Lydia made a formidable team. Their prior romance ending had not, oddly enough, impacted their friendship - if anything, it had strengthened them and they remained the best of friends, and shopping allies. Normally, the hood would be warm, and the car would be filled with the smell of whatever fast food Stiles had indulged in on the way home from his mission.
But there was no particular smell other than Stiles and okay, petroleum cause his gas line had a slow leak that Stiles meant to get to after New Years.
Derek slung his bag over his shoulder and paused outside the door; normally, there would be smells of Thanksgiving leftovers recreated into something new and delicious, and along with that, the dulcet tones of Dean Martin and Perry Como singing swinging 60’s Christmas carols would reach his ears before he even got into the yard.
But there was no smell, and no music.
Derek paused, hand on the doorknob of the small house he and Stiles shared on the edge of the Preserve, and listened harder. Still nothing. Breathing, that was all.
He entered then, and didn’t even have to bellow for Stiles, cause he was right there at the kitchen table on his laptop, working on his final presentation for one of his Master’s seminars; he looked up when Derek came in. “Hey, hi.”
“Hi yourself,” said Derek softly, and looked around for the garlands. The lights, the nativity scenes Stiles secretly collected, the angels, Santas, snowmen. Dear God, the SNOWMEN. Never mind “Elf on the Shelf,” Stiles had “Snow Everywhere You Go,” including the toilet, which would no doubt be covered by a Frosty cozy and matching bath mat.
But there was nothing. Not an angel figurine in sight. No roly-poly snowpeople with folksy twig arms. No Santa sitting on the toilet groaning “Please, no more cookies!” when you poked his stuffed belly. No rustic creches with bears dressed as Wise Men. Only their usual furniture, pictures, books.
He stood there for a moment, looking confused, until Stiles looked up again. “Did you forget something at your office?”
“Uhm, no,” Derek managed, then looked around. “Don’t you … I mean, it IS Black Friday, right?”
“Pretty sure,” said Stiles, and made an expressive face. “Let’s just say that Melissa’s whole cranberry sauce from yesterday has made its annual slip and slide through my intestines and left the building, so Thanksgiving must have been yesterday. It’s damn good stuff, but is a definite harbinger of the holiday season.”
Derek snorted, cause the cranberry sauce had much the same effect on him, and their bath and a half with it’s two toilets came in handy. He set down his bag by the door and ran both hands through his hair. “Okay, so where is it off limits for me to look? Your closet? The crawl space? Behind the stairs?”
Stiles blinked myopically at him and shook his head. “You can look wherever you want,” he said. “You live here too, right? Mi casa es su casa.”
Derek eyed him. “Okay. You sure?”
“Pretty sure. You can check the lease if you don’t believe me.”
Huh. Maybe Stiles was just stressed; his Master’s program was intense, and his group partners were predictably useless, so his boy was shouldering most of the work himself. Derek had offered to help, and been told kindly, but firmly, that his degree wouldn’t be his if he didn’t do all the work, so maybe he just wanted to get that done before indulging in the holiday spirit. But for sure, Stiles must have made his special egg nog. That was a must.
Derek dropped a kiss atop Stiles’ head, nosing the buzz cut Stiles had recently re-adopted for the ease of grooming and more sleep time in the morning, and went to the fridge, mentally rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Where’s the eggnog?” he asked from the depths of the cold. “Did you hide it behind your nine hundred jars of pickles again?”
“No, I did not. I assume the eggnog is in the dairy case at Kroger,” replied Stiles, tapping away on his keyboard. “Where it usually is this time of year.”
The sarcasm was briefly lost on Derek, who shook his head. “I mean YOUR eggnog, your special blend.”
“My special blend is Hood eggnog,nutmeg and enough whiskey to see double, a shot of butter bourbon for sass and a day in the fridge while it melds. We have whiskey, bourbon and hell, schnapps if you’re feeling festive, so all you need is Hood. It’s all good in the Hood.”
Derek stood up and blinked, shutting the door. “Are you mad at me for something?”
Stiles slid off his glasses and sighed. “No, Derek. I’m not mad. I’m tired, I’m stressed, I have a headache the size of the Golden Gate bridge, but I’m not mad.”
“Oh,okay. I’m sorry your head hurts, babe,” he said and moved over to Stiles, standing behind him and placing soft fingers on his temple, pulling the stress and tension out, or at least what he could - there was a lot there. He was rewarded though, when Stiles let out a deep sigh, and tilted his head back, reaching up for Derek’s hands and drawing them down to cup his cheeks, lips inviting Derek down for a sweet kiss, a kiss that lasted for either 30 seconds or an hour, depending on one’s perception of time. It was sufficiently long that Derek needed to lean back against the counter for a moment or two and breathe afterwards.
After that, he left Stiles alone to work, only slipping into the kitchen later to make them both large turkey sandwiches with sides of pickles and olives, and yes, cranberry sauce, cause they were both gluttons for punishment.
There was only minor cuddling that night, which Derek understood, and Stiles was asleep soon after the lights were out - but it took Derek a long time to fall asleep that night, not being able to shake the feeling that somehow, he’d done something wrong.
He just had no idea what.
II.
The next couple of days were much the same; Stiles finished his presentation and went back to his thesis, Derek finished grading papers on Saturday and when Stiles showed no sign of looking up from his work, went for a run, a long run. A run to tire him out, a run to shake off the nagging feeling of something brewing, a run to help him remember who he was.
Invariably, he wound up at the old house, which, in the gray light of late November, looked somehow sadder and more hollow than ever. He remembered how his mother always did it up for Christmas; lights, lights and more lights, all over the outside of the house. He remembered his Dad and Peter on the roof, replacing bulbs while Talia stood away from the house and shouted directions at them as to what strands of lights needed to go where. He also remembered Peter shouting back at her as to where she could shove her bulbs, and the inevitable fistfight-turned-wolf wrestling match that would ensue. It had signaled the start of the holiday season for him and his sisters, and they’d all run out and gather around, cheering either their mom (he and Laura) or Peter (Cora) on, while their father watched and shook his head, wondering how the hell he’d wound up wedded to a wolf. A scrappy one, at that.
Derek was pretty sure Talia showed him why later, cause nothing riled his mom up like a good fight with her brother. When he was young, he’d never wanted to think about their private life, but now, it made him smile - his parents had loved each other fiercely, and their kids, even more than that, and they’d never shied away from showing them. And after they’d all died, Derek had stopped showing affection to anyone … until Stiles came along and broke down all his defenses, wolf and human both, and coaxed him back to Feelingsville, which was still sometimes an uncomfortable place to be. But Stiles seemed to understand that, loved him anyway, put up with his occasional distant behavior, as well as his inability to speak fully about how much he cared. And Derek got used to that, got used to Stiles doing the heavy lifting in their relationship. Stiles made it easy. Or made it look easy.
Fresh from his reverie, Derek washed in the icy brook and headed home, stopping at the end of the drive, feeling disoriented, and realized why - no lights. A lone light in one window, but there were no outside lights, not even those little electric candles Stiles put in the windows every year. Nothing.
Inside, Stiles was on the couch, watching TV; some murder show, Stiles’ personal porn; years of growing up with a cop father and a short stint in the FBI had given him an insatiable thirst for everything gory and wrong, and the ID channel was his favorite guilty pleasure. He and Scott had joked about pitching a supernatural murder show based on personal experience to the network but figured no one would believe it, though Stiles was pretty sure a naked, on-fire Jordan Parrish, resident hellhound, would bring in viewers. Lydia concurred wholeheartedly, having seen the goods both on and not on fire. Maybe if he ever got this goddamn thesis done, he could turn his brain towards literary fame and fortune. Or just fortune. Fortune would be good.
“Hey Derek,” he greeted him, noting the wet hair. “Have you been stomping in puddles again?”
“More of a full-body dunking in a rushing body of water than a puddle, but whatever. It was wet.”
He went for the linen closet and pulled out a hand towel to dry his hair more thoroughly, and rubbing briskly, noted, “The house looks really dark from outside.”
“Funnily enough, It looks dark from inside too,” replied Stiles. “You can always turn on a light, you know? Free country, lights and hot water for all, basic rights and so forth.”
Derek raised a brow at him. “I kind of miss the candles in the window,” he said, finishing drying. “You know, those little LED ones you put up every year? They always look so serene, especially when you do the white lights around the door, too. I like that.”
“I like it too,” said Stiles. “I agree, it looks very welcoming.”
Derek stood there, waiting, until Stiles looked up. “There’s pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said. “And a few beers if the spirit moves you. Wolfsbane enhanced, even.” A pause, and when Derek didn’t move, Stiles tilted his head. “Wolf got your tongue?”
“I just … it’s past Thanksgiving,” he managed. “And there’s no lights up. And no decorations and no CDs playing, or, or anything. Like nothing. Like it’s not the holidays at all.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” said Stiles. “Looks pretty bare around here, and usually, the halls are already decked. Or in the process of decking. Weird. You should tell your resident house elf to get on that shit, because the clock is ticking.”
He tapped his giant scientific space watch on his wrist, shrugged and went back to his TV. “Damn elves, after we gave them socks, shoes and a Christmas tie, even, and still, no fucking holiday cheer. Tragic.”
He could feel Derek not moving, could feel his confusion, and had to hold himself down from screaming “Who the hell do you think does all this shit? ME! I’m the bloody house elf!” But he managed by taking a slow breath, and leaning back against the cushions. He was not going to snap or yell or act all passive aggressive and sigh a lot. He was just not going to do it.
“It,” being everything. Lighting. Decorating. Baking. Caroling. Buying. Wrapping. Merry-making.
And why? Because Derek didn’t care. He didn’t give a single damn. He never commented on the decorations, never said thank you for the baking, never sang along, never did a little soft shoe to “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree,” never stuffed a stocking, never wrapped a gift. He just mopey-wolfed his way through the holidays, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He drank the nog, ate the cookies, sighed and rolled his eyes under the mistletoe, like it was a chore to be kissed. His holiday present to Stiles was a gift card to GameStop or Barnes and Noble, and while only an idiot looked a gift card in the mouth, it still just felt hollow. How hard was it to order a gift card online, and stuff it in a little envelope, then stick it in the tree?
Not very.
He lived with Derek 24/7, 365 days a year and Derek couldn’t pick out a book he’d like? See what games he had and look for the newest in the series? Look at what size his shirts were and buy him one in the blue color Derek swore he loved for him to wear? Go to the mall and buy him socks with snitches and lightning bolts on them? Anyone, anyone?
Bueller? Stilinski?
Stiles knew damn well that Christmas - any holiday, really - wasn’t about money. He could care less about what anyone spent. He loved that his Dad made ribs with his special sauce every Christmas Eve, because he knew they were Stiles’ favorite. He loved that Scott and he spent Boxing Day every year playing PS4 in their underwear and got drunk on whatever was in the liquor store discount bin that morning. He loved that Melissa had made him mittens every year since he was six and would likely not stop till she couldn’t hold knitting needles anymore. Or that Lydia called him every Christmas Day night to plan their New Year’s Eve bar crawl.
It took so little to make him feel loved, and while Derek said the words - sometimes - and expressed it in bed, Stiles was pretty sure that he never thought about what Stiles did to make their lives - and holidays - merry and bright. He just accepted it and took. And took.
And now, apparently, expected.
Well, fuck that noise. Stiles had never been the Grinch in his life, but he was starting to understand that antisocial bastard’s worldview. Also, he wanted his own Max - antler optional.
All this went through his mind as Derek stood there awkwardly like it was his first day on new legs, and then finally went out to the kitchen, leaving Stiles on the couch.
There was no cuddling that night.
III.
By December 15th, Derek was feeling a little frantic.
Stiles had set aside his thesis till January, citing cranial fatigue and the less scientific, but more descriptive “Not giving a shiticus,” and Derek was sure, SURE that when he came home that night, after a late lecture, that somehow, when he drove up the driveway, the house would be ablaze with lights, those giant, obnoxious candy canes Stiles had got at 50% off two Christmases ago would be standing sentry on either side of the door, and “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town,” would be blasting from the speakers while a cute, tipsy boyfriend worked on his signature “Stocktail,” for the Christmas party Lydia gave every year. There’d be gingerbread. Frosting. Gumdrops.
For the love of God, let there be gumdrops.
There were no gumdrops. Also no frosting, gingerbread, Stocktails or Stiles. The light over the kitchen sink was on, and one in the living room, but there was no Stiles.
He must be off getting a tree, thought Derek. That had to be it. He’d drive in with a way-too-big and expensive tree, all flushed and bouncy, and guilt Derek into lugging it indoors and getting it into the stand, and when Derek had finished tightening the screws and filling the base with water, Stiles would grin at him, jump on him and kiss him till neither of them could breathe. That had to be where he was.
Derek breathed, breathed, and went to take a shower, glancing at the clock; 7 PM. He’d be home by the time Derek got out of the shower.
8 PM. The tree lot must be busy as fuck.
8.30 PM. And traffic was a bitch.
9 PM. He must have stopped for more eggnog base and maybe another fifth of bourbon.
9.30 PM. Traffic must REALLY be a bitch.
10 PM. Derek called Stiles’ mobile. Voicemail.
10.30 PM. Derek called the hospitals.
10.45 PM. Derek called Scott. Voicemail.
11.00 PM. He called the Sheriff.
“Yes, he’s here,” said John, and sounded tired. “A little the worse for the wear, but he’s here. He didn’t answer your phone call?”
“NO,” Derek nearly shouted, then forced himself to calm. “He didn’t. Is he okay?”
“He’s …” A pause. “He’s upset, but he’ll be alright. He’ll handle it.”
“I’ll come get him. Is it school? Is he drunk? I’ll come drive him home.”
John sighed. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea right now, Derek. I don’t think he really wants to come home at the moment.”
“What? Why? John, what’s going on? He barely talks to me, he hasn’t decorated or cooked or sang or danced or made drinks or put up lights or anything! There’s no tree, no dumb candy canes, no eggnog. No. Eggnog.”
He sounded desperate, and Stiles, in a sad little ball on the chair, could hear his voice, Derek’s voice, and still, he felt so angry and hurt that he couldn’t even trust himself to talk to him.
John rubbed his face. “Derek, I don’t know what to tell you other than that you two need to talk, and the sooner the better, but I don’t think right now is the time. Stiles came here, he needs a moment, he loves you - and yes, I’m sure of that - and he’ll talk to you soon. All right?”
It was not alright. It wasn’t at all, and Derek’s claws were drawing blood in his palms, and he was gripping the phone so tightly that it felt like the screen was bowing under the pressure.
“I guess … I don’t have a choice, right? I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know what I did and I’m just …” Derek’s voice was thick. “Just please tell him to call me, okay?”
“I will. I promise,” said John softly, and ended the call, looking over at his son, whose face was on his knees and he went to him, sitting on the arm of the chair and hugging him into his side.
Derek’s phone wasn’t going to be taking any calls after that though, cause he threw it against the wall, watched it shatter, and then bolted out the door, shifting and running. And running. And running.
IV.
The house loomed before him, and for the first time in a long while, Derek stepped on the creaking wood steps, careful to not put weight on the burned parts. He stepped around holes and gaps, ducked under broken beams and hanging wires.
It was cold, but he wasn’t feeling the chill as he prowled around the house, not needing light, knowing every single step, the width and breadth of each room.
When he descended back into the kitchen, he stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, seeing his mother, his sisters, Peter, his father, all around the table, competing in the annual Hale House Bake Off. Each year, they created a gingerbread house, drawing up the plans in secret, and then Derek’s grandmother would bake all the pieces at her home, deliver them that day, and the construction wars would begin. His mother had liked the old carols too, and she and his Dad - and later, Peter - would drink spiced, enhanced rum, get silly, houses would be judged by his father’s brother, and then the houses would be eaten like a pack of, well, wolves had descended.
The memory was so vivid that Derek actually gasped, swearing he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder, her voice murmuring, “Isn’t this the best time of the year, Der? All of us here, loving each other, having fun, wearing Santa hats? I love this, I love YOU.”
And Laura. “Smile, for God’s sakes, it’s Christmas! And God, if Peter makes me wear this hat one more second, I’m gonna claw his ass, so smile, little bro! Here, have a candy cane. Have two.”
His father. “Look at your mom, Derek - look at that smile. Isn’t she beautiful? She loves doing all this, and she loves making us happy. Her happiness is ours. How did we get so lucky?”
His eyes opened, glowing yellow in the otherwise pitch dark of the house, and he could see it all - everything his mother did, everything they all did, was to make each other happy. They all took part, they all gave of themselves, their love, their time. And those times were the best, the very, very best.
Derek swallowed the lump in his throat down for a moment before he sat down on the floor and broke, the memories rushing over him, through him, around him and he cried till he was spent.
He slept that night on the kitchen floor, not waking till five AM and making his way blearily home.
His old Nokia flip phone was pretty useless but it still worked. He left Stiles a voicemail, trying hard to find the right words.
“I know you’re upset and angry, and I think I finally get why. If I don’t, please help me understand. Take the day for yourself and come home at 5 PM, okay? Please, Stiles. I love you. I truly, honestly do, and… please.”
Stiles got this message and bit his lip hard, but there was something about Derek’s voice that made him stop, made him rub his face and trust. Trust that even if Derek didn’t get it, that he would listen to Stiles, that he would see what Stiles meant, that he would …
He would something. Something.
Stiles slept a little, fitfully. He went and got his car washed. He got his hair cut. He did some minor shopping for his father and Scott - booze, mostly. He watched the clock, and at 4.45 PM, he got into the Jeep and headed home, blinking at the sudden glare at the end of the driveway
The glare turned out to be the lanterns that were held by two giant snowmen at the end of the pavement. And the lights that lined the driveway. And the lights that twisted and looped over the porch rails and doorway. And the oversized candy canes guarding the door.
“Holy Clarke Griswold,” breathed Stiles when he put the Jeep in park and got out.
Every window had candles. The lights were white, Stiles’ favorite.
He took a breath and stepped inside, immediately hit by the scent of fresh pine emanating from the 6 foot tall tree, lush and full. Every available surface was covered by every Christmas item Stiles owned, even ones he hadn’t used in years.
Derek stood there at the foot of the stairs while Bing Crosby sang “Silver Bells,” and his face, beard and hair had hastily scrubbed-off traces of flour sprinkled within; he was flushed. “My cookies are more like lumps of coal than cookies, but I did try. Guess they were missing the magic touch. Or I haven’t had enough Stocktails. Or I suck at all this, and you don’t.”
He licked his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I expected and took and never said thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t understand that you doing all this wasn’t just for you, it was for me too. I didn’t know how much I needed it - and you - until it wasn’t there. I know you live with my demons as much as I do, but I swear to you, I notice it all, everything you do for me, for us. And I could not ever imagine finding or wanting anyone more than I want and love you. Even if we had none of this? I have you. You’re my holiday, my every day, my …”
His arms were full of flushed boy, just like always, and he whimpered and pulled Stiles tight to him, scenting him, rubbing his face on his skin. “I’ll be better at telling you,” he whispered. “I’ll be better at loving you, I promise.”
Stiles couldn’t even speak, could only use his mouth for one thing, and one thing only, so he did, and it was a high more intoxicating than his most inspired Stocktail.
V.
It was midnight before all the flour was cleaned up, all the ornaments on the tree, all the pots thrown in the sink for another day, and before they were curled on the couch, in the glow of the tree, sated on cookies, shortbread and yes, eggnog. They were more than a little drunk, raspy-voiced from talking, lips sore from kissing, and more in sync than at any time before in their relationship.
“I got you something,” said Derek, and Stiles smiled. “Is it a candy cane? Is it in your pocket? I think I felt it earlier.” He batted his lashes and Derek smirked.
“Well, it is and you did, but no.” He reached for the end table drawer, nearly fell off the couch and into the tree, but Stiles managed to pull him back before disaster struck, and his reward was a thick, heavy, inscribed copper band; written inside was “You made my heart grow three sizes today.”
Stiles didn’t know if he was laughing or crying more, but it didn’t matter. This was better than Hogwarts socks, or Jedi Fallen Order, or new air pods. This was Derek’s heart, all sizes included, and as Derek slipped it on his finger, his hand closed around Derek’s and held it tight.
The glow of the lights didn’t go off until well after Christmas was past, there at the edge of the Preserve, and every time Derek pulled into the driveway he was reminded of what was inside - all the light he’d ever need.