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“You know you can always come have dinner with us, right, dude?” Scott reminded him again from the phone wedged between Stiles’ ear and shoulder. Stiles rolled his eyes before topping the sandwich with the last piece of bread in the loaf. Heels didn’t count. “It’s Christmas. No one should be alone at Christmas.”
“That sounded very psychopathic killer of you and that's just making my resolve all the more... resolve-y.” Stiles cut the sandwich from corner to corner, hearing a low whine from the ever puppy dog, Scott. “Is this the part where I remind you about the Jewishnesses?” Stiles laid the knife in the sink before wrapping each half with cling wrap. “Also I have a whole day planned, starting with A New Hope and ending with Return of the Jedi”
Scott gave what sounded like an exasperated sigh. “Star Wars again?”
“At least you know what I’m talking about. Hey, progress!” Stiles loaded the sandwiches on top of the soup and veggie sticks he’d packed for his dad. “Listen, Scott, go enjoy the day with your family. Don’t let your dad douche it up. I’ll see you tomorrow with any new games you got and we can do our yearly post-Christmas pizza and sleep over.”
That seemed to placate Scott, allowing Stiles to end the conversation without Scott sounding guilty over his lack of Christmas cheer, which was rather stupid on his end, seeing as Stiles was Jewish. Stiles blamed Scott’s infatuation with the Hallmark movie channel cheesy Christmas stories. How many ways can you write a ‘some poor soul needs holiday cheer,’ story? Apparently roughly fifty-six thousand grrgillion times. Stiles placed his dad’s coffee mug next to his lunch, as a not-so-subtle suggestion to bring both, and went upstairs to change.
The parking lot was empty when Stiles pulled up to the rundown mini-mart on 49, so it’s not like he was expecting to see Derek. But if Stiles were going to run into anyone in the only open store in Beacon County on Christmas day, it would have to be the Sourwolf. King of the shittastic life. All the stuff Scott’s dumb holiday movies were about.
Stiles stood on the worn rubber mat that did little good keeping the floors dry, watching Derek. He didn’t acknowledge Stiles’ entrance in the store, not even a quick glance or a twitch of his nose, but stood at an old spinner rack that held mismatched collection of knit hats, scarfs and ball caps. Stiles was pretty sure the items on the stand never changed and highly suspected that everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.
Derek didn’t swivel to look at him as he walked over, a procession of squeaky footsteps announcing Stiles’ approach. It wasn’t just that he didn’t look though, it was that he didn’t even seem to notice Stiles was there, like he was completely lost in his own head. He was holding something in his hands that upon closer inspection Stiles could see was a scarf. Nothing special to it. Pastel, flannel, striped blue and white and with just a hint of pink. But Derek was staring at it like he was seeing more than limp fabric, holding it in his hands, thumb and forefinger running over the soft cloth absently.
“I hope you’re not doing some last minute holiday shopping.” Stiles watched Derek drop the end of the scarf like it was on fire. “Although, the colors would look great on Scott.”
Derek’s hands clenched into fists before he shoved them into his coat pockets. “No. I--” Derek cut himself off with a growl, glowering at Stiles. Even Derek’s eyebrows seemed to growl at him.
“Whatever, dude.” Derek’s grumpybear attitude didn’t affect Stiles much anymore. He was always a little more bark than bite anyway. “Didn’t see your car in the lot.”
Derek lifted a shoulder. “I ran.”
“You… ran.” Stiles glanced down at Derek’s boots with the cuff of the jeans tucked in. Unlike Stiles’ heavy winter coat, Derek was dressed in his leather jacket, unzipped. It looked stiffer in the weather. His burgundy henley followed suit, unbuttoned, showing Stiles skin that was neither flush nor sweaty from “running.” He looked more like a bad boy in a B-rated teen movie.
“Right,” Stiles drew out the word. “Must have had a killer craving for their famous mystery meat dogs.” He made a vague hand gesture to some gray hot dogs on the rotisserie rollers. Derek perked his brows at Stiles before looking away at the soda refrigerator case. Stiles moved to the small bread section, looking at Derek from the corner of his eye. “I can give you a ride back?”
Derek turned his gaze to the floor. He stood there, quiet, unblinking. Stiles hadn’t seen Derek look so broken since the night Boyd died.
Stiles tapped the side of leg with his fist, trying to keep himself from reaching out to comfort him. There were times when Stiles missed Alpha-Derek, cocky and sure. Now he was withdrawn. Stiles looked over at the cashier flipping through a magazine, a cheap flashing Christmas pin proclaiming: “Happy Birthday, Jesus,” on her blue vest. Something clicked in Stiles’ brain about the date today. Derek’s birthday. Stiles sighed, he hated his own birthdays because they reminded him of his mother. He couldn’t begin to think how Derek must feel with a birthday that fell on the same day as Christmas, especially after losing not one but two packs.
“You want to come over?” Stiles heard himself ask, once again unable to keep from reaching out for him. That got Derek to move, looking back at Stiles with his brow furrowed. Stiles checked the sell-by date on the bread, picking up a loaf that was three days until it was duck food. He took a detour to the small selection of chips without waiting for Derek to respond, to decline. “Grab your favorite snacks and drinks. Or dog biscuits. Whatever the hell you eat.”
Derek ended up grabbing some beef jerky. And the scarf, to Stiles’ surprise, which he shoved into his pocket after paying for it. The drive back was quiet, the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and Stiles’ fingers drumming out a random beat. Stiles’ radio never worked well in wet weather and the Jeep was never a place you could easily hold a conversation anyway.
“Boots off. I don’t need muddy waffle tracks on the carpet.” Stiles closed the door after Derek, kicking off his own shoes and taking his bags into the kitchen. He left Derek to wander as he got his bread buttered. “I can make a mean grilled cheese and have the complete box set of Star Wars on DVD. Original. None of this remastered stuff.”
Derek remained silent. Stiles tossed the sandwiches on the griddle, one for each of them. “Unless you’re hopeless, like Scott. Then you can choose from the best of Mel Brooks, starting with The Producers skipping over The Twelve Chairs and on to Blazing Saddles, or seasons 1 and 2 of Drunk History that I have DVR’ed.”
Stiles flipped the hot sandwiches over, keeping an ear out for Derek. It was so quiet from the living room that Stiles wondered if Derek had fled. Stiles plated the food and walked back into the living room to find Derek standing in the middle of it, a confused look on his face.
“What?” Stiles couldn’t find anything wrong with his living room, but he'd never been good at those Highlights magazines so there might be. He'd always taken to capriciously shredding them in the hospital's waiting room while the doctors ran tests on his mom.
“I thought there’d be Christmas stuff all over.”
Stiles walked over to the couch, putting the plates on the coffee table, before falling into the worn cushions. “Nope. The Stilinskis are Jewish, born and bred. And we haven’t decorated since mom passed. Frankly all I want for Christmas is a big ol’ nap.”
Derek sat on the couch, close to the edge, hands gripping the edge of the cushions, ready to bolt if needed. He looked uncomfortable in his stiff leather jacket, left pocket still bulging with the scarf hidden inside. Stiles picked up a plate and settled into the couch, watching Derek from the corner of his eye.
For a werewolf, Derek did a good impression of a skittish cat, slowly pulling the plate into his lap. He kept his eyes low, tearing the sandwich into small pieces. “My mom would go all out. Trees. Cookies always in the kitchen. White lights to match the snow if we had any. Family would come in and—it looked worse than the opening scenes from Home Alone.”
Stiles could see Derek’s thumbnail extend into a claw, before sliding back into the nail bed. “It was crowded, loud and horrible. But every Christmas Eve, at midnight, she would bring a cupcake into my room. Sprinkles, birthday candle—she was the only one that remembered.”
Stiles pulled the crust off of the half of the sandwich in his hand. “So, the scarf? The baby blue would bring out Isaac’s eyes, but somehow I don’t think the pink will match his peacoat.”
“Laura and I stopped at that gas station on our way out of Beacon Hills. She bought a scarf just like this one. The last time I saw it was when she left to come back here.”
Stiles hummed, taking a bite, while Derek turned his sandwich into inedible mess. They sat in silence until Stiles snagged the remote off the coffee table and started up the DVD player. By the time Luke entered the Cantina, Derek was eating his cheese sandwich bits. And by the time Han Solo docked the Millennium Falcon on the Death Star, Derek had relaxed into the couch cushions, flannel scarf forgotten by his side.
“Hey, if you want, you can stay for dinner,” Stiles offered, careful to keep his voice unassuming as he picked up Derek’s plate, which perfectly matched his own - nothing but crumbs left behind. “My dad’ll be home by the time we light the last candle on the Menorah tonight.” Stiles didn’t have a lot of family or celebration to offer to Derek, but he was more than willing to shove every last bit he did have at him.
Derek’s eyes were bright when he said croakily, “Yeah, I’d like that.”