Work Text:
Trampling up the sticks and leaves toward the Hale house is about the last place that Scott wants to be—but on the other hand, he can't just let Derek keep to himself. Not right now.
For one thing, it's only a few days until Christmas—not that the holiday itself is Scott's favorite, but there are certain aspects about it that he likes. Like togetherness, and being there for each other, and good will toward other people. And not that Derek's done nothing to deserve the opposite of good will, but it sucks, thinking about him being alone right now. Boyd and Erica have each other, Allison and Lydia have each other, Isaac and Danny have Jackson and his guilt over how he left and came back, Stiles has his dad and his plans for a Christmas paty, Stiles's dad has Mom and Mr. Argent…
But Derek kind of, sort of doesn't have anybody. Not since Peter died and thankfully stayed like that. Not that Scott can see, anyway.
All Derek has is this old house—which leads to the other reason Scott's here. Winter's been bone-chilling cold in Beacon Hills this year, and tucked underneath his arm, Scott has a gift-wrapped sweater. Mom helped him pick it out at Macy's, and he's not sure Derek will even like it very much, but he needs something warmer than his leather jackets or he's going to catch his death from cold. It's been almost six years now that Scott's been a werewolf and he still doesn't know if werewolves can catch their death from cold, but that doesn't stop Mom from worrying about it when Scott doesn't wear a heavy enough jacket. And it doesn't stop Scott from banging on the front door, louder than he needs to do, just to be sure that Derek hears him.
Derek doesn't answer, and for a moment, Scott wonders if Derek's at his lair instead—but the door's unlocked, so his guess would be, "probably not." Scott lets himself in—he sighs and dashes upstairs to check for Derek, doesn't find him—only finds that the house is like walking into a meat locker, cold enough that Scott can feel it past all three of the layers lurking underneath his jacket. Derek doesn't make himself evident until Scott checks the (he guesses he should call it a) living room, finds Derek sitting in front of the fireplace with an open bottle of cheap vodka. Since they can't get drunk for ridiculous werewolf reasons, Scott supposes Derek's going after the way the alcohol burns going down his throat—
"Which is really, really depressing to think about," he says, lingering in the doorway in case Derek's mood is ugly enough that he feels compelled to leave. "I thought about calling first, but then I thought you might not pick up…"
"Shut up and sit down," Derek says without looking up from the fireplace—without so much nodding by way of acknowledging Scott's presence. So his mood's pretty sour, but he still kind of, sort of, maybe wants somebody else around—Scott has no idea what he's walking into, but he won't just leave Derek alone when he's being that contradictory.
He sits down next to Derek, and for a long while, they don't say anything. Derek shivers. Scott hands over his present without a word or an attempt at explaining it. Derek sets it on the floor instead of opening it—and finally, he says something. He says it to the fireplace instead of to Scott, but he still says, "Christmas was Laura's favorite holiday. Not the part where it's commercialized—she used to yell at people about that, and she used to yell at Salvation Army collectors about how they don't support gay people—but she loved everything about the, 'peace on Earth, good will toward men' part. We didn't even believe and she loved that."
"So how do you think she'd feel if she knew you were using how much she loved this holiday to be alone and miserable during it?" Scott points out. "Open your present or I'm going to drag you to Stiles's Christmas party by your freaking ears. I swear to God, I will make you put on a Rudolph nose and a headband with antlers, and I'll take pictures, and then I'll put them on the Internet, too."
"You have a very interesting idea of what constitutes a threat." Not that this stops Derek from picking the present back up—or from leaning into Scott's shoulder.
Scott huffs instead of laughing—because laughing might be a bit too much for the mood between them right now—and wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders anyway. It's nicer like this—warmer (he hopes for both of them), cozier. It takes Derek a while to actually open the sweater and he stares at it, once he does. It's dark grey and mostly nondescript, aside from how thick the fabric is, which Scott liked because of how cold it's been. He snickers, wriggles around underneath Scott's hold and relaxes into his chest.
"Thank you, Scott," he says, voice growling as usual but almost gentle.
"If you really want to thank me, come to Christmas dinner at my place," Scott says—because he still doesn't trust Derek on this count. "Chris and Allison aren't going to be there—it's just gonna be me, my Mom, Stiles, and his dad. And it'd be a lot nicer than eating gas station ramen noodles by yourself or whatever you're planning on."
Derek says nothing back to that, but at least he has the decency to nod.