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“Derek,” Stiles says. “You-what?”
He stops trying to pinch the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and grabs it with his hand. This conversation definitely merits his full attention.
“Just to clarify. You stuck my Christmas gift, on the underside of my desk?” Stiles says slowly, but he’s already walking across his room to the desk.
“I didn’t want anyone else to find it,” says a voice that sounds something like Derek, only doesn’t at the same time. The voice is more distant and, terrified? What? Stiles almost wants to point that fact aloud, except there’s no easy way to say “hey Derek you sound like shit.”
Derek doesn’t actually sound like shit, Stiles is intimately familiar with Derek’s voice of shit. There is snarling and yelling and somehow you can even hear rushing blood. How does that work exactly? If Stiles were a better scientist he would just repeat trials of listening to Derek’s voice of shit, then he’d likely understand everything.
The issue being that the voice of shit is like the voice of God, so incredibly special that it is only used for really really big events. Like when you and half your pack get captured by sad ass (but angry) and friendly (with pain) hunters. Or other werewolves. Or fairies. Or things you pretended didn’t exist in the hopes that they wouldn’t. Let it be said, not so nice creatures know drama and misery.
And this is why terrified sounding Derek is making a slightly terrified Stiles. Seriously? What the hell? The two of them know how to handle their fair share of danger. C’mon! Weapons, ancient strategies, practice, calling for backup. Stiles is actually proud of the fact that despite numerous attacks in the Beacon Hills area, everyone the pack has been watching, hasn’t been killed. It puts him to sleep at night. Ugh, God. He wished that weren’t true, or least sounded more not true.
“Stiles?” Derek snaps on the phone, his voice breaking Stiles’ cloud of thoughts.
“Yo, Derek,” Stiles says back, imitating Derek’s gravelly voice and taking a spin on his desk chair. Which he can totally remember sitting down on.
“Did you open it?” Derek says, and Stiles is suddenly getting visions of a hand on a sasy sourwolf hip.
“Opening is occurring,” Stiles says. He scoots his hand along the underside of his desk and bam. There it is. Success. Pulling the box out into the light Stiles almost lets out a sigh of regret. The thing is really nice, some sort of deep purple silk with simple gold ribbon crossing over it. He had barely covered Derek’s gift, using the plastic-easy-to-break wrapping paper from the hardware store. The purple silk wrapping feels gentle and smooth to the touch.
“Have you found it yet?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says, smiling with sick joy at the irritation forming in Derek’s voice. “Just about to open it. Man, it’s-”
“Good then. Isaac’s at the door, I’m heading out,” Derek says and he clears his throat, like that makes it final. He doesn’t hang up immediately but Stiles can hear an urgent rapping noise in the background. He drops the box in his lap to shout into the phone.
“Derek! Whoa, wait a couple seconds! I’m already tearing off the ribbon, which feels inherently wrong. I hope you realize I am destroying the Mona Lisa of gifts right now. Who wrapped this for you?” Stiles is already betting against himself on Allison or better yet Lydia. There’s a slight fruity smell surrounding the box, that only intensifies as he rips off the purple and yellow wrappings.
“The uh, store manager,” says Derek, but his voice’s cut off by more loud background knocking noises and Isaac’s voice. Huh. Stiles can’t help making a twisted face, since when did any of the store owners wrap their gifts in silk. Who even used silk anymore?
“It’s not silk, Stiles. Listen, you shouldn't open it now,” Derek adds.
Stiles freezes with his right hand pulling the top of the box off. “Shouldnt”, like explosives? “Shouldn’t” like it-will-eat-you? It’s a brief moment where he actually listens to what Derek is saying. Once realizing this, he shoots back, “Nope, I have fallen down the slippery slope and I can’t get up.”
“I’m going to-”
“Derek,”Stiles says quickly and with all due respect. “You leave this phone conversation and you have successfully wasted all efforts to understand the meaning of Christmas. Give presents, receive presents, appreciate thoughtfulness and meaning behind both,” rolls out Stiles, because there are life lessons and Derek needs to get them.
The end of the phone on Derek’s side is quiet, so Stiles just goes for it. He intakes a small breath, yanks off the top of the box, and sharply chokes. Because there is a... in the box, just sitting there in the box. All intricate, soft edges he can’t help thinking how beautiful is is except it’s... Stiles chokes on his breath again. God, this is for him.
The phone clicks with a sound that jolts Stiles from gaping at the lacy panties in the center of the box. The lacy black panties with fleur de lises swirling along the edges and across the center. The panties that Derek gave to him. That Derek wanted him to wear? Oh God, wow.
Stiles slumps back into his chair and lets his head bend over the head rest.OH MY GOD. With his head hanging upside down, he looks out his bedroom window. He lets himself become distracted with the nice and normal thoughts on the weather. Snow, overhanging clouds. High chances of rain. The neighborhood outside is covered in snow, it’s barely recognizable. Except it kind of looks how it did last year in December. After a couple minutes he sits himself up. Ngh, okay.
And while he had been trying to avoid thinking about the panties, Stiles Stilinski is a man with a plan. Most likely he would ignore his plan, but it’s hard to forget the tension in Derek's’ voice, especially at Stiles’ reaction. Please don’t be doing anything obscenely violent, Stiles thinks as he begins to crack out the plan of action.
No finding small animals and trying to cook them. Stiles begins pulling off his shirt. Derek, you are a werewolf with a gas-powered car and a supermarket. He gets up from the chair, unbuttons his pants, and wiggles out of them. Nobody needs you to prove anything about how werewolfy you are. Running over in his boxer’s to the closet, he pulls out the pale blue button up the pack bought him for his birthday. Especially Derek, when you have to completely stain your kitchen table with animal blood.
He slips his arms through the shirt sleeves and buttons up two in the middle. Everyone thought that was gross. With a quick motion, akin to the one made when you make the final step onto the fattest most scary-ass roller coaster in existence, Stiles takes off his boxers. They did though, we were supposed to be having that party for lacrosse season. You said you were going to be busy. And then you were in the kitchen with rabbity bits all over the table. He carefully lifts the lingerie from the box, checks the front and back, and slips them on. Then like clockwork his hand worms its way to the back of the closet and lands on the fabric of his tan trenchcoat.
He slides it off the coat hanger and wraps it around himself. Running out the door, he snatches his keys, and jumps into the jeep.
--x-o-x-o-x-o-x--
“HELLOOOO! THIS IS WHAT THE COPS MEANT ABOUT MANNERS DEREK. GUYS? DOOR! STILES IS AT THE DOOR!” Stiles yells, rapping on the Hale House door. He’s completely changed his mindset in the car ride over. Plan, what plan? It’s the middle of December and there is house in a giant frosty forest, with Stiles standing on the porch. And it’s cold. What is he doing?? Why did trench coat plus lingerie seem good? Brilliant? Sexy?
Sexy unless someone besides Derek answers the door, which Stiles is openly cursing himself about. Sure, he’d sent a flying text to Derek’s phone on the way over but the what ifs of the situation are not making anything look good. What if Derek-
Without a warning of thumping footsteps, the heavy wooden door in front of Stiles opens. It bursts open really. One second it’s jammed tight with no love for frozen teenage boys, and then it’s open wide, Derek standing in the middle. Eying Stiles over he blocks the doorway, leaning an arm against the doorframe. Everything about him looks rigid and unwelcoming, his mouth tightens as Stiles just keeps staring back. Until an icy as ever wind blows at the back of Stiles’ legs, reminding him to duck under Derek’s arm and slip into the hallway.
“Finally, thank you,” Stiles says. The tingly feelings of successfully dodging by Derek are immediately shut down, by the way Derek shuts the door and continues to give Stiles the look of death. It’s also the look of everything Stiles had heard over the phone, shifting glances screaming ‘terrified’. What are you doing, Stiles?
“Looking good in that sweater.” Stiles breaks the silence and points a finger at the deep green knitted bulk. Derek doesn’t look down at the sweater. He crosses his arms and stands there, unsmiling. The bad and bulging fit around his sides reminds Stiles of a mini Christmas tree and he breaks out a smile.
Derek doesn’t smile. His eyebrows twitch, like they’re going to squeeze together in a confused little ‘v’. He lifts his head a notch and enunciates clearly, “It wasn’t meant to be funny, Stiles. You give me the box back, and I’m going to return it.”
Not funny, right. Stiles’ mind starts booting up and he’s suddenly thankful that there was never truly a plan what plan. Speak from the heart, he hears from the heavenly voice of every children’s movie in existence.
“It’s really hot,” he says. Smooth. Then he says it again. “The black lace panties? Not funny. Definitely hot, really really hot.” Derek just looks at him and Stiles can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t believe him or he’s turning into a statue but he takes a couple steps closer to Derek.
“At first they freaked me out right? But like, right before that I saw them in the box and my entire Internet history flashed before my eyes. The Scarlett Johansson-look-alike, the Hermione fan art-those photo shoots had the most beautiful lingerie ever,” Stiles explains, fervently using his hands to point to the invisible images. Derek’s face slowly seems to de-rigify as Stiles plows on.
“And the black panties, they were all wearing them! I have found appreciation for black panties, Derek. And if there were more guys who had photoshoots in lacy underwear, then I probably would have liked it. So maybe I didn’t put two and two together, but I feel very confident saying guys in lace is now up there on the list of good things.”
Stiles takes a breath to move on to more points about something, but his face is mere inches from Derek’s nose. He’s at the distance where he can see the soft dark hairs of Derek’s eyebrows and lashes, but not close enough to feel the warm exhaling breaths from his mouth. Derek’s mouth curls around into a wide smile as he pushes forward, and he slides his arms to pull Stiles forward. He feels his delayed moment of success, and then begins reaping the rewards of Derek’s face joyfully crashing against his.
The panties are definitely a go, definitely hot but there is so much more of that with kissing Derek Hale. Stiles isn’t going to even think about it, just make little notes about what nice lips you have Derek, what nice arms you have Derek.
They pull away for a second. Stiles immediately starts craning his head to move back to the rather agreeable position they’d been holding, until he sees Derek’s disbelieving face.
“Stiles,” he starts out slowly. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s getting at. Just another five minutes, just five and they can talk about this. Then he feels Derek’s hand on his hip, which had at some point slipped under the trench coat. His hands slowly rub against the fabric of the panties. “You were wearing them?”
“Oh,” Stiles says, remembering that part of his plan. He makes a face at Derek. “Yeah, c’mon there. Naked legs on a winter’s day plus trenchcoat? What part of that doesn’t scream ‘lingerie’ to you?”
“Mhm hmm, I must be mad,” Derek says softly. Stiles gives him a sympathetic pat on the cheek, grievously noting “That must be really hard for you, Derek.”