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Derek is snoring softly, his face mushed against Stiles’s shoulder. The brunet has a sleepy grin on his face. In front of them, the fire has reduced to a pile of glowing embers, and an amber glow washes over the two figures curled up on the couch.
Stiles finds his hand ruffling the werewolf’s hair. It’s one of his favourite things in the world, especially when he can tickle his mate behind the ears and hear the deep growl of contentment that always ensues.
Derek stirs and leans in, and Stiles hits the sweet spot.
“Mmmm."
“You enjoying that?”
“Mmmh mmh,” the werewolf says into Stiles’s ugly green sweater with the red reindeer he’s insisted on wearing all day.
“Big Bad Alpha likes to be scratched. Even when he’s in human form.”
Derek takes a deep breath and half-opens his eyes. “You’re not telling anyone that.”
Stiles chuckles. “Oh! The scandal! God forbid the pack sees you for the pussycat you are. Which, by the way, they know you are.”
Derek huffs.
“Don’t be grumpy now, Sourwolf.” Stiles half-admonishes. “You were already such a terror in the kitchen today.”
The werewolf straightens up, yawns, and looks at the brunet with a mixture of bemusement and contentedness.
“I’m not grumpy,” he manages. “And don’t call me Sourwolf. I just wanted to make sure the turkey and everything was perfect.
“It was, Der. I haven’t had so much meat in… I don’t think ever. And I know it’s new moon and all. You guys always get ratty. But it is Christmas.”
“And what an awesome Christmas,” Derek says, now with a broad grin plastered on his face that’s even surprising Stiles.
“I can’t believe I got you into church,” says Stiles, lying back on his elbows. “A werewolf at Midnight Mass.”
“I can’t believe what a job you did on this tree.”
“It is pretty awesome, if I do say so myself,” the brunet says, surveying his seven foot masterwork. “But for as long as I’ve lived we’ve always done a big tree. The Stilinskis go kinda crazy with Christmas trees."
Derek takes a deep breath. “We used to, too… it’s been so long since I had a tree up…”
Stiles’s brow knits. He leans in and touches Derek on the cheek. “You mean you haven’t since… since…”
Derek’s voice is soft. “The fire. No. I guess not.”
“Shit, Der, I’m sorry… and, oh fuck, I went and built a huge fire tonight... I’m so sorry, I should have thought about…”
“Stiles. Please. My house… our house has a fireplace for a reason. I like it. I would have filled it up during the renovations if I didn’t want it. I like… this… this fire. Where it’s meant to be. With.. with…”
“Der?"
The werewolf leans in, cupping his mate’s face. “With you. Thanks babe. You brought it back. I never thought I’d have it back.”
“Have what back?”
Derek snorts. “Christmas, dufus.”
Stiles’s eyes are moist. “Come here,” he says, and plants a small chaste kiss on his lips.
Derek sniffs, taking in the brunet’s minty scent. He gets up, grabs Stiles’s hand, and tugs at it.
“Come,” he says, eyes pleading. “Come sit with me by the fire.”
As they sit down, Stiles leans back into Derek, who wraps his arms around the younger man. They don’t say anything for a long time, but stare at the dying glow. It’s still giving off a surprising amount of warmth. Between the heat of Derek’s body, the fire and the stupid sweater, things have become positively tropical.
It’s Stiles’s turn to get sleepy and lay his head against his mate. He feels Derek’s hands on his head, trying to find purchase, and then the giggles as the werewolf rubs his ears.
“Hey!”
“You’re ticklish?” Derek says, smirking.
“Um… um… hey! Maybe just there.”
“So the human doesn’t like being tickled behind the ears. Interesting.”
“Please…” – he bursts into a fountain of squeals – “no… no!"
“Okay, I’ll stop. You’re cute.”
“Don’t stop holding me though,” Stiles says, his voice suddenly plangent.
“Are you dense?” Derek replies, curling an arm tight around the brunet, who’s trying to recover his breath.
“Just checking. You know. It’s our first Christmas… together.”
“Together. I like that.”
“There have been a lot of firsts this year,” Stiles adds, his voice a whisper. “Good ones, of course.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, but stares into the fire and hums. Two bars in, Stiles recognises the tune. Winter Wonderland. Derek starts singing. He’s off-key, and Stiles joins in, trying to rescue the melody, but he can’t help melting a bit seeing the big bad wolf with his eyes closed rocking steadily as he sings.
“Later on we’ll conspire… as we dream by the fire…”
Stiles nudges at Derek with his head, a very wolfy gesture he realises later.
“To face unafraid,” Stiles sings back. “The plans that we made…”
“Walking in a winter…”
“Wonderlaaaaaand…”
“That’s it, though,” Derek says, getting up and beckoning at Stiles to do the same. “There’s an hour of Christmas left and it’s just started to snow. Come for a walk?”
Stiles’s eyebrows are little Russian church domes. “Now?”
“Would be a pity to defy the song.”
“Okay, Big Bad, but if I get frozen…”
Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t think I have to explain how I can always keep you warm.”
Stiles says nothing, but grabs the werewolf’s hand. Right. Yes. Always summer there.
Then they’re outside again, watching the snowflakes dance around them, and it’s Stiles who starts singing first this time, because not in all hell is he going to let A flat major be murdered and resurrected a half-tone downwards.
When it snows, ain’t it thrilling? Though your nose gets a chilling…
This time Derek’s on key as they walk, hand in hand, to the edge of the garden, watching the sliver of moon that’s just appeared through a hole in the clouds…
Walking in a winter wonderland...
Inside, the last ember gasps its last flicker of orange through the window, and the world is silent and still as the snow becomes a heavy whirl of white. There is just the two of them, arms around each other, staring at the quiet of the holy night…
Walking in a winter wonderland.