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Derek pressed the button to open the garage, smiling when he saw Stiles’ Jeep in its place. His husband had worked a lot lately, having picked up a second job to earn extra money for Christmas presents. He couldn’t remember the last time Stiles had gotten home before him. He even struggled to remember a night Stiles was home before Derek had headed to bed. Christmas was a week away, so maybe Stiles had finally quit the extra job so he would start being home in the evenings.
Climbing out of the car, he grabbed his briefcase and suitcoat from the passenger seat and headed inside the house. He heard Christmas music coming from the kitchen and the sounds of cooking. Hanging up his jacket in the foyer closet, he slipped out of his shoes and lined them up next to the door. He set his briefcase on the bottom shelf of the small storage station next to the front door. He hung his keys on the hook next to the door. He debated going upstairs to change, but the desire to see Stiles outweighed any concern about his suit getting dirty.
He stepped into the doorway of the kitchen in time to see Stiles bent over in front of the oven, taking something out. He enjoyed the view and laughed out loud when Stiles turned around and startled, nearly dropping the bread pan he had in his hands. “Shit,” Stiles muttered, moving to the counter to set the pan down.
Turning around, he took another pan out before using his foot to close the oven. Setting the second pan down, he pulled the oven mitts off and turned to Derek. He spread his arms wide and made grabby hands. Smiling, Derek stepped into his space, sighing when Stiles’ arms wrapped around him. He pressed his nose into Stiles’ neck and breathed deeply. “Missed you,” he whispered.
“Missed you, too, big guy,” Stiles returned, running a hand through Derek’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “All done with that second job, and now I have plenty of time to focus on getting ready for the holidays.”
“Didn’t need to take that job,” Derek muttered. “Make plenty.”
“I know you do, but I wanted to buy your presents with my money,” Stiles reminded him. It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t make decent money as a teacher; he did. It was just he insisted on contributing equally to the bills so most of the money in their joint savings account was from Derek’s income. “I’ve got some ideas to make extra money through the year, so I don’t have to do this again next year.”
“Good,” Derek huffed, managing to snuggle in even closer.
“Now, let go so I can finish the fruitcakes,” Stiles said, pinching Derek’s sides until he let go.
“Fruitcake?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at the idea.
“Yes, fruitcake,” Stiles argued. “I have a bet going with Lydia that I can make better fruitcake than she can buy at one of those fancy bakeries in New York.
“Fruitcake is gross,” Derek argued.
“Have you ever had it?” Stiles questioned, moving the cakes to the cooling racks where three more pans sat. Stiles picked up one and flipped the pan to remove the cake onto a piece of cheesecloth that smelled mildly of alcohol.
Derek opened his mouth to say that, of course, he had but then snapped it shut when he couldn’t think of one time he’d actually even seen a fruitcake in real life, let alone tried one. He’d grown up with all the fruitcake jokes running through media and his family. The attitude must have just made itself at home in Derek’s brain. “No,” he admitted.
“Then try this. Each one is slightly different,” Stiles explained. “Just from ingredients alone, I think you might actually like this one.” He carefully cut off the bread’s end before cutting a second slice and setting it on a plate, passing it to Derek. “Try it like this, and then I have another just like it that I want to coat with an apricot glaze.” He jerked his chin towards a large Tupperware container on the table. “There’s plenty of fruit that’s been soaking since yesterday.”
With Stiles watching with an eager expression on his face, Derek picked up the plate and sniffed at the cake. It didn’t smell awful, a slight scent of ginger and chocolate wafting from it. Meeting Stiles’ gaze, he brought the cake to his mouth and took a tentative bite. He chewed slowly, the cake’s moistness surprising after years of “hard as a brick, dry as the Sahara” jokes in his family.
He swallowed finally and tilted his head to study the plate. “It’s not terrible,” he admitted. “Not something I want to eat often, but not as awful as I’ve always heard.”
“Excellent!” Stiles said, clapping his hands and taking a piece of what he’d given Derek and popping it into his mouth. “Ooh, yeah, the apricot glaze will be perfect.”
He moved to the stove where a small pot was waiting and turned on the heat below it. He was giggling to himself as he stirred the ingredients. Under his breath, he was singing, “I’m gonna beat Lydia,” over and over again.
Derek stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. He turned his head to nip at Stiles’ ear. “You’re my favorite fruitcake,” he whispered, grunting and laughing when Stiles elbowed him in the stomach with a laugh.