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There had been a time in Stiles’ life when finding out who had left him a mysterious present with no name attached to it would have been a depressingly quick affair. Dad? Scott? Dust bunnies under bed? End of list. Stiles wouldn’t even have needed one of those regular sized post-it pads to make the list, he’d just get those tiny ones that he’d never understood the point of until just now.
Now it’s an entirely different matter, though. These days he might actually need an extra large post-it note to make his list and he has one in bright green because Stiles loves lists, so he’s prepared for this. He’s ready.
Stiles has gotten a wide variety of presents today already. There was the one from his dad that had obviously been wrapped at the store because there’s no way his dad knows how to handle wrapping paper. Scott had proudly presented one that wasn’t so much wrapped as it was kind of haphazardly tucked. From Isaac he’d gotten a box of chocolate chip cookies wrapped in newspapers. Erica had thrown her unwrapped present at his head.
So, really, this may be the least strange present he’s gotten so far. It’s just sitting there innocently and kind of humbly in its shiny blue wrapping paper. There’s a silver bow on it, though, which means that it’s definitely from Lydia, because Stiles’ logic is flawless, thank you very much.
He removes the paper with more care than he usually would because he’s basically treating the entire thing like evidence at this point. The paper and the silver bow get tucked into his nightstand for further inspection before he turns his attention back to the contents. For a moment he forgets about the whole mystery sender thing as he sucks in a breath. It’s a new t-shirt – the exact same one that he’d ripped on a fence as he and Jackson had been sprinting away from danger last week.
And.
And!
There’s a spy pen. A spy pen. Which is, literally, the best present Stiles has ever, ever gotten. Awesome.
***
“Hey, thanks. It was great.” Stiles slows down as Lydia does, his smile feeling almost too wide for his face. That’s a recurring problem, actually. “I didn’t think you knew me that well, to be honest. Not that I’m complaining, I was just surprised. It was basically spot on. T-shirts and excitement are my two favorite things.”
His grin falters under the blank stare she’s giving him and his hand moves up to finger the pen he’d clipped to the collar of his t-shirt.
Lydia’s expression is rather pinched when she says, “Stiles, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The gift?” he says, his words coming out faster than his realization does. “The anonymous birthday gift?”
Lydia startles and her entire demeanor changes within seconds. There’s no need for any heightened werewolf senses in this case: the guilt is practically pouring out of her.
“You forgot it, didn’t you?” Stiles can probably admit that the silver bow may have been a tad underwhelming on the evidence front. His dad would not have approved of the really lackluster investigation.
Scoffing so violently that Stiles raises an eyebrow in response, Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’m planning something. You know: like I do. Planning. Always.”
Stiles doesn’t have the heart to call her out on it, really, even though he probably should because if he’d been the one to forget Lydia’s birthday all hell would’ve broken loose right now. There would be fire-breathing dragons chasing him through the hallways and an avalanche of wounded Bambi eyes raining down upon him.
“Someone got you an anonymous gift, though?” Lydia says, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Why would anyone? I mean, you don’t really know anyone but us, do you?”
“Wow, we’re going there. Okay. All the way there!”
“Stiles.”
“I know plenty of people, Lydia. Plenty of them. They’re all lining up for a taste of this,” Stiles says and waves an arm in large circles in front of himself.
Lydia rolls her eyes and leads the way into class, moving to her usual seat by the window and Stiles settles in behind her, leaning in to repeat again just how many people he knows.
“Great, then I guess you’ll just have to trawl through your huge circle of friends to find out who got you the gift,” she says, smirking.
Stiles drops his head forwards onto the desk and whines.
“Why wouldn’t they just sign it?”
“Maybe they know you and don’t want your cloying gratitude all over themselves.”
“Harsh, Lydia. Way harsh,” Stiles says to the back of her head.
She doesn’t say anything for a few moments and Stiles loses focus, staring out the window as he gnaws at his lip and wonders who on earth would know him well enough to know that his favorite shirt had been ruined and that he’d always harbored a secret dream to become a spy.
“Look, this better count as my birthday present,” Lydia says suddenly and he looks up to see her watching him like she really hates being helpful. “There’s an easy way to figure this all out. Obviously, I don’t expect you to think of it yourself, but that’s why you’re just so lucky to have me, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the Queen of the Universe and Everything in it, Especially Sparkly Things and Jackson.”
She grins at him, looking about two seconds away from patting him on the head. “Your best friend is a walking lie-detector.”
Stiles stills, staring at her for a moment before he launches forwards and kisses her hard on the cheek. Rubbing at the spot, Lydia gives him a murderous look, but he’s too busy trying to get Scott’s attention to give a fuck.
***
“It’s my birthday,” Stiles whispers when Harris’ back is turned.
Scott gives him a look out of the corner of his eyes. “No, your birthday was yesterday.”
“Dude, I’m so awesome that my birthday spans several days.” Stiles leans across the aisle, but Scott pushes him back. “Come on, I need your help.”
When Harris turns around, Stiles snaps to attention, trying to arrange himself in a way that looks totally attentive. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his arms, so he ends up fake-writing until Harris resumes talking, his eyes back on the blackboard.
“I’ve already told you I have to work,” Scott says out of the corner of his lips. “You don’t need me to find out who gave you the present. Just ask people like a normal person.”
“If it were that easy they would’ve already told me who they were. Obviously this person just doesn’t want to be found.”
“So what about letting them, oh, I don’t know… not be found?”
Stiles gives him a look and waves a hand in front of his own face.
“Point taken,” Scott says dryly.
“Great, so you’ll do it. I think we should start with Erica. I know she already gave me that keychain thing, but I think she could be harboring a secret urge to give me more symbolic gifts.”
Scott glares at him and leans closer. “I can’t skip work, Stiles. Because, you know, it pays me.”
“Rude.”
“I’m not the only person who can help you, though, am I?”
“You kinda are,” Stiles says, sulking. “Can’t ask someone who could lie and cover themselves, can I?”
Scott nods to someone behind Stiles and Stiles turns his head, following the nod until he sees Jackson sitting hunched over his desk, his head propped against his hand. His jaw is slack and his eyes are blank.
“No,” Stiles says flatly, but Scott just grins at him.
***
Well, fuck. There are few things in life Stiles wants to do less than grovel for Jackson’s help. It’s so far down his list that it doesn’t even register on it. It’s fallen out, clattered to the floor and been kicked under the table.
So there will be no groveling. It will at least be highly disguised and sneaky – like a ninja.
“Hey, relax.” Stiles throws his arms up. “I just thought I’d give you the chance to like… buy my good will. I’ll be less annoying and all. Stay out of your perfectly sculpted hair – that kind of stuff.”
Jackson looks really unimpressed.
“You are, literally, never going to be less annoying.”
“Wow, even literally? You mean business.”
The look he gets from Jackson is enough to tell him that he might’ve just proved Jackson’s point, which he hadn’t really meant to do, but it’s hard to put a lid on all this Stilesness and why would he want to?
Stiles opens his mouth to try again, but Jackson cuts him off with a “No. Not now, not ever.” If Stiles didn’t know Lydia, he’d take that as defeat, but he does know Lydia, so it comes as no surprise when she appears in front of him ten minutes later with Jackson in tow saying “He’ll do it.”
Jackson’s face turns even more murderous the wider Stiles’ grin gets and when Stiles is positively beaming, it looks like Jackson’s face is trying to fold in on itself in anger. It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside. Stiles is not beyond quoting cheesy songs because things like that are allowed in moments of victory.
“Come on, Wolfie,” Stiles says cheerfully. “We have work to do!”
Stiles yelps and flails when claws skim down his neck.
***
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. It’s not Erica and it’s not Allison and it’s really not Danny and, no, Danny doesn’t think you’re a ‘hot piece of ass’, stop saying that.”
Jackson’s nostrils are flaring and Stiles should probably be kind of relieved that Jackson has gotten his wolf more or less under control over the past couple of months.
“Testy.” Stiles shifts, unable to get comfortable, on one of the lumpy cushions spread out in Derek’s apartment (the one Lydia and Erica had strong-armed him into getting only a few months ago and Stiles was never really going to stop them.)
Having made a point of placing Scott between them, Jackson refuses to acknowledge him and stares very intently at Derek instead. Derek is deep in conversation with Allison, his shoulders tense, but tense in the ‘this is a serious discussion’ kind of way and not in the ‘fuck, talking to an Argent, trying really hard not to murder everyone in the world’ kind of way, so there’s always improvement.
Stiles leans over Scott who bends out of the way. “Maybe it’s Boyd.”
“Why on earth would it be Boyd?” Jackson asks, his face etched in frustration. “You guys barely even talk.”
“Maybe he wants us to do less of the silence and more of the talking, ever thought about that? Not everyone’s you, Jackson.”
“It’s against my religious beliefs to assume that anyone ever wants you to talk more.”
Scott snorts with what sounds suspiciously like laughter and Stiles turns his head, slowly, giving him a pointed look. Scott’s lips quiver.
“Traitor,” Stiles says.
The betrayal is heightened by the fact that Jackson grins and clamps a hand down on Scott’s shoulder like they’re a team or something. Stiles studiously ignores it.
“Well, it must’ve been someone at school,” he says, not willing to let this go since he doesn’t know how long he can actually get Jackson to play along.
Scott raises a questioning eyebrow at him. (Jackson doesn’t seem to care about this revelation.)
“It was in my backpack when I got home. Someone must’ve slipped it in at school when I wasn’t looking.”
“So?” Scott says, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean they’re from school. Maybe that’s what they wanted you to think.”
Stiles pauses, frowning. “So, what, you think someone at school left it there on behalf of someone else? Oh, god, that actually makes perfect sense. Right, Jackson?”
Jackson gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t think so. That sounds really elaborate just to give you a dumb present.”
“It wasn’t dumb,” Stiles says. “It was perfect.” He reaches for the pen, running his finger across it almost subconsciously.
Even Scott rolls his eyes at that, but Stiles doesn’t even care. He just doesn’t care because he has a spy pen and everything else is irrelevant. Everything is spy pen and nothing hurts.
Not even when Derek says, “If Stiles could shut up about his stupid gift, maybe we could discuss the fact that an unknown group of hunters seems to be hovering at the outskirts of our territory” and everyone says “thank god” as if blood lusty hunters are better than Stiles talking.
“Oh, fine, let’s not ever discuss anything pleasant around here,” Stiles says and everyone ignores him. “Maybe the one who sent it could just consider piping up and we’d be done with this.”
Unsurprisingly, no one does.
It isn’t until later when all the werewolves lump themselves together with Allison to hash out a plan that Scott brushes past him and mutters, “Jackson was lying.”
What? Jackson was lying about what? Stiles spends a ridiculous amount of time trying to rewind everything they’d talked about the entire night, and that’s really a lot harder than it sounds because as much as Jackson complains that Stiles talks a lot, he sure as hell never seems to be very fond of shutting up either.
Wait. Waaait. Jackson had said that no one would’ve left the gift on behalf of someone else. The slimy bastard.
“You left it in my backpack,” Stiles says, jabbing his finger into Jackson’s chest after he’s cornered him outside Derek’s apartment after the meeting. “You know who it is!”
“Just give it up, Stiles, oh my god. Just be happy someone actually bothered to give you anything, because trust me, it’s actually a fucking miracle.”
“Why’d you bother to be the go-between, then?” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, his car keys dangling from his finger.
There’s a drop of rain on Stiles’ forehead and then another. He looks up at the sky in indignation and then back at Jackson whose face clenches as if it pains him to be there.
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Fine, I don’t care. I wouldn’t do it for you either.” Stiles edges towards the Jeep, not willing to be caught in the rain. “Why won’t you just tell me, though?”
Jackson suddenly smiles wryly, as if something is terribly funny, and fuck him, really. “Because I enjoy living.”
It really says a lot about Stiles’ circle of friends that this doesn’t even narrow it down at all.
***
It’s not really an outlandish suggestion. Superhuman noses are one of the actual perks of being a werewolf, so Scott might as well use it.
“Dude,” Stiles says, pushing the wrapping paper at him. “I’ve had to deal with absolutely all of the drawbacks to you being a werewolf. The least you can do is share from the perks.”
“No!” Scott scrambles backwards on Stiles’ bed and he looks so desperate not to sniff the wrapping paper that Stiles stops in place.
He frowns at Scott who is propped up on his elbows, eyes widened slightly.
“You know who it is, don’t you?” Stiles shakes the wrapping paper at him.
“No,” Scott says with the inflection of someone who totally does.
“Then why won’t you just sniff it?”
Scott looks at him, bemused. “Because it’s weird. It’s really weird.”
“But I’m supposed to be Sheriff and you’re supposed to be my police dog. This has always been the plan!”
Scott’s foot is painful against his shin.
“Alright, fine. Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes and settling back down to do his biology homework.
Unfortunately, Scott is completely prepared for the “I’ve totally given up”- fake out because Stiles has been doing that one since age three and he really needs a wider repertoire. So the attempt to push the wrapping paper at Scott while he’s not looking only ends with Stiles getting stuck in a headlock.
Mission very much failed.
***
He’s pretty sure Derek would’ve exploded into a million furry bits if he’d even mentioned it.
So he hadn’t mentioned it, and mostly forgotten about it. At least he’d forgotten about it until he’s rummaging around every closet and cupboard in the Hale house hoping to find a first aid kit, which he realizes is probably a ridiculous endeavor because what would Derek use a first aid kit for, but they’ve used the abandoned house as a safe spot at times when there’s been nowhere else to go, so there could be something there.
He cradles his hand against his chest, opening the first closet he’d found on the second floor by hooking his foot around the door. There’s a deep gash by his wrist and it throbs, blood trickling over his skin and soaking his shirt. He’s pretty sure it’s not close enough to his wrist to be a real concern, but it still hurts like fuck.
Instead of finding a first aid kit or even a band aid, he stumbles upon a roll of shiny blue wrapping paper tucked into the back of the otherwise empty closet. He stops, wide-eyed, holding it limply in his uninjured hand. Stiles has probably never reacted so quietly to anything in his life and it may be cause for concern, all things considered.
On the bright side: his hand stops hurting because he forgets it exists.
On the not-so-bright side: Derek stares at him from the doorway, his eyes stuck on the blood on his t-shirt. His eyes narrow dangerously and he takes three quick steps forward until he sees the wrapping paper and stops. Derek’s back goes completely straight and he stands so still that he looks like he’s not even a living, breathing thing.
His own reactions finally catch up with Stiles and he starts jumping from foot to foot, flailing his uninjured hand.
“You!” he says.
Stiles has seen Derek in a lot of horrible situations – a lot of them life-threatening and most of them plain uncomfortable. He’s seen Derek with stuff sticking out his chest and he’s seen him two seconds away from losing his arm, but Derek has never looked as terrified as he does now. Stiles would laugh at the fact that Derek has terrible priorities in life, but he’s too busy bouncing on the balls of his feet, waving the wrapping paper between them like a matador’s cape.
“You sent me the mystery gift.” Stiles stares at him and back down at the paper. “You made Jackson slip it into my bag.”
Derek looks like he wants to die.
“You.”
Before Stiles has time to catch up with the thought that pushing this might be a really bad idea, Derek is up in his space, snatching the paper out of his hand and throwing it back into the closet.
"No. Not me." Derek gives Stiles a long look, as if holding his stare long enough will make Stiles believe him.
“Wow, dude, hold up.” Stiles holds his hand up. “You don’t have to get all bashful about it, man. There’s no shame in sending a secret gift. A really thoughtful secret gift, yes, but come on. So what if you knew that my favorite t-shirt fell victim to The Fence of Evil? And that I love spy things. And mysterious, secret stuff.”
“Shut up.”
“I don’t think I will. Quite frankly, you don’t own this. I can’t be bought. Not even with gifts.”
Derek’s eyes are narrowed so much that they’re nearly closed and if Stiles was a human being with healthy survival instincts, he’d be running for the hills, but fuck that.
“You’re bleeding,” Derek says, face unreadable as he continues to stare Stiles down as if Stiles can be scared off by a little eye-contact. Stiles is not a wolf, he doesn’t buy into that shit. “Who did this to you?”
“Oh.” Stiles looks down to find a large spot of blood on the gray of his shirt and the pain comes into focus again, sharp like the edge of a knife against his nerves. “That.”
Derek’s eyebrows are angry at him. Probably. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
“Yes. That,” Derek says dryly and, yeah, he’s definitely angry.
Stiles cradles his hand with the other, looking down at the wound. “Look, I just hit my hand on something while I ran. None of them did anything to me. It’s fine.”
“So you’re running around treating it like it’s nothing?”
“I’m not treating it like it’s nothing. I was up here looking for a first aid kit,” Stiles says, more than a little indignant about Derek’s tone. “And you’re one to lecture me about taking care of injuries. You heal like you just popped out of a superhero comic. There’s no room for you to say anything on this subject. No room. Negative room, actually.”
Derek doesn’t say anything as he reaches out to take Stiles’ hand, ignoring the protests. His palm is warm against Stiles’ skin as he holds him in place, his thumb on Stiles’ wrist.
“The first aid kit is in the kitchen,” Derek says and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“That’s an extremely logical place to keep it.”
“It’s a lot easier to find than if I hid it in a closet no one ever uses on the second floor.”
Stiles doesn’t answer because the press of Derek’s thumb on his wound makes him shudder with pain, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he heaves for breath. The pain is what makes him follow Derek down into the kitchen without protest, his stomach turning with sickening flops.
“Don’t pass out,” Derek says, throwing him a look as he rummages through the kit.
The kit that Derek doesn’t need.
“Thanks for the advice.” Stiles tries to ignore the way the dancing spots obscure half of Derek’s face. “Where are the rest?”
“Around,” Derek says, his head bent. “Safe.”
Stiles would complain about the lack of information, but in the end it’s really all he needs to know, isn’t it?
Pulling his chair up in front of Stiles, Derek grips his hand tightly and presses a piece of wet cotton to the wound, making Stiles hiss in discomfort. It stings and Stiles grits his teeth, keeping his eyes locked on the dirt on Derek’s cheek.
“My shirt’s ruined,” he says when Derek wraps the bandage tight around his wrist. “Unless I want to go as a zombie for Halloween.”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
They both freeze and Derek looks so disgusted with himself that Stiles’ lips quiver with the laughter threatening to tumble out. He thinks about Derek sitting by his kitchen table, wrapping the gift in the blue paper before adding the silver bow, and instead of being amused, he feels impossibly warm. And he looks down at Derek’s hands, holding his bandaged one between them, fixing him up with the first aid kit that Derek doesn’t need.
“Yeah, you will,” Stiles says, looking up at Derek, his lips pulling into a beaming smile.
Derek frowns so deeply that it looks like it might hurt. “I won’t. I lied.”
“You really, really will.”
“I won’t.”
“Dude, you went through the trouble of sending me an anonymous gift using Jackson as a mule.” Stiles raises his eyebrow at him. “You will.”
Sighing heavily, Derek’s jaw works as he gives Stiles a withering look. “I’ll deny it until I die.”
Stiles has no doubts that Derek would, and the sincerity with which Derek says it makes him bite down on his lip. Because Derek may be dead serious about denying it, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did it in the first place.
Later, Stiles might blame the pain or the lingering adrenaline from the fight, but deep down he’ll know it’s not true. Because there are other reasons entirely for why he leans in, pressing his lips to Derek’s in an openmouthed kiss that catches Derek so off guard that he responds immediately, mouth hot and soft under Stiles’. Stiles closes his eyes and pushes into it, his thumb running across Derek’s jaw, pressing down until his mouth opens enough for Stiles to run the tip of his tongue over his upper lip.
It doesn’t quite catch up with him what he’s doing until he pulls away for air and Derek’s face is unbearably close, his eyes large as he stares back at Stiles. Feeling suddenly jittery and self-conscious, Stiles jumps up from the chair, ignoring the stab of pain in his arm and hovers in the doorway to the kitchen.
Derek just looks at him, mouth slightly parted.
Stiles backs away towards the front door, his heart beating so fast in his chest that he’s is pretty sure he has no control over it. He smirks a little. “And I’ll deny that until I die.”
He reaches the porch before Derek has him pinned to the wall, somehow managing to be rough and careful at the same time. His breath blows hot across Stiles’ neck as his teeth graze the skin.
“No, you won’t,” Derek says, pressing his mouth to the beat of Stiles’ pulse.