#*fic18

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Jennoasis!

Read on AO3

*****

Tattoo My Heart

Stiles was born with the phases of the moon tattooed down his spine. Most of the earliest pictures of his existence were of him laying on his stomach with his back on display. Sometimes he was on his father, sometimes on his mother, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not. As he grew older, he would wonder what it meant.

He would wonder whether his soulmate would be whimsical and free-spirited. Whether it meant his soulmate would be prone to pessimism and hopeless thoughts and contemplations about the vastness of the universe. Whether they would know all the constellations and prefer the darkness to light. Whether they would be brilliant in a soft, muted way, or ever-changing, or have the ability to make slow but constant impact on vast things, the way the moon affected the ocean.

Stiles would lay awake at night wondering.

Why the moon?

And when Scott got bitten, he laughed until he cried. And then laughed some more.

-

Derek grew up knowing his soulmate had an insatiable curiosity and an extremely short attention span.

Images flitted over his skin constantly.

Peter teased him about having a soulmate so entirely different from him. Someone capricious, that tended to lean toward dangerous things.

He howled with laughter when a wolf settled onto Derek’s skin, only to replaced by a panther the very next day.

Even if Derek were at all inclined to tell his uncle secrets the man hadn’t already figured out for himself, he still would never have explained that the wolf had simply moved from his bicep to curl up with its head on its paws just underneath his collar bone.

Peter found out anyway, because it was impossible for two wolves in the same pack to never see each other shirtless at the very least. Peter waited for the wolf to really disappear so he could tease, but had to content himself with mocking the way the wolf shrunk until it was just a small little thing in the pocket of Derek’s shoulder.

But his scathing comments barely registered to Derek, because it was what let him know that when his soulmate truly loved something they never let it go.

-

A cello appeared on Stiles. At first, it was a lovely instrument. The burnished teak color contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. The bow leaned gracefully against the cello, and one could almost hear the soft strains of soothing music.

And then one day, not that long after its first appearance, the instrument had snapped strings and warped wood. The hair of the bow lost its sheen and was cut in half to hang loosely. There were deep gouges.

Stiles didn’t realize they were claw marks until much, much later.

-

Derek had a sand castle on his skin. It looked like a child’s drawing of a sand castle mostly.

Did his soulmate love the beach? Did it represent a cherished memory?

Derek had the sense it had to be something specific. He felt that if it was about his soulmate loving the beach, he would be marked with something representing the ocean.

They seemed like that to him. Tempestuous and wild. Ever-changing. A chaotic surface and boundless depths. Peter said making assumptions about his soulmate would only lead to disappointment.

Still, Derek wondered if ocean waves ever appeared on his soulmate’s skin.

-

Siles had a basketball on him. He wondered whether his soulmate was on a team or whether they just liked the game. Did they play for their school? Was it something for fun, just to let loose?

What if they were more athletic than him? It wouldn't exactly be hard after all. Stiles could already tell he was going to grow up scrawny with barely any muscle at all. He wondered if his soulmate would laugh at how different they were.

-

“Your soulmate is so weird,” Laura murmured. Her eyes were on the picture of a brain scan that colored Derek’s skin.

Derek shrugged. He thought the same thing, though with much more fondness than Laura did.

Peter stared for a while, but didn’t say anything. Not even the slightest teasing comment.

Laura and Derek shared a glance.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

“Nothing,” Peter said with a casual shrug. “It’s probably not their brain.”

Laura’s spine went straight. She placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “What if it was?” she demanded to know.

Peter shook his head. “All I know is the colors are in the wrong places.”

Derek tried to convince himself that his soulmate was just learning something new, had found some new obsession to explore with their boundless curiosity. But the days passed by and the scan didn’t move or shrink or fade.

Derek was torn about how to feel.

Because if the scan didn’t belong to his soulmate, it certainly belonged to someone they loved dearly.

-

There was a necklace on a bed of purple flowers.

After research, Stiles figured out it was aconite.

Wolfsbane.

He didn’t really understand the necklace. But the wolfsbane made him wonder. Was his soulmate into mythical lore? Or was this some kind of oblique reference to being poisoned?

The way the necklace was settled into the petals, the subtle twist of the chain. It seemed intimate. Stiles thought of poison and how love could hurt. He thought of his obsession with wolves in the fifth grade. He wondered.

Stiles knew a lot about werewolves long before his best friend became one. And he wasn’t that surprised they existed. Not really.

-

There was a star on his skin. It appeared not long after the brain scan faded. It wasn't gone, but the colors had lost their luster in a way that made Derek think whoever it represented was gone forever.

The star was big, five pointed, and gold. It looked like a sheriff star from old western movies. Unlike most other things that appeared the star never grew smaller. It was in a strange minority with the brain scan and the sandcastle. In fact, sometimes the star would even grow bigger.

But it lost some of its brilliance over the years. It was difficult to explain how the image had its own overall vibrancy that stayed the same, and even grew at times, but the star itself got a bit dull. A bit scuffed, the points not as sharp.

Derek wondered if the star represented a person. If it was that person that was deteriorating. Or if his soulmate’s perception of them was becoming disillusioned.

-

Stiles woke up with a symbol on his chest one day. It was a triskele, he found. It seemed different than his other marks somehow. More vivid. A deep red in the center that faded to black. He would get caught up staring at it in the mirror.

He would think of the broken cello, the intimate poison, and this symbol pulsing blood red in the center like a weeping wound.

He knew his soulmate had been hurt. Was still hurting.

His dad caught sight of his chest one day and paused with wide eyes.

“There is something different about it!” Stiles exclaimed.

John checked his expression, but it was too late.

“Your soulmate got a tattoo,” he said.

Stiles blinked at him. “Tattoos show up?”

“Not always,” John said, “Not usually.”

Stiles stared at his father, trying to beam the full force of his curiosity out of his eyes.

John sighed. “Stiles, I told you to stop doing that. You look demented.”

Stiles shrugged. It worked to get him the information he wanted more often than not, so it was all good as far as he was concerned.

John studied his son. Stiles would only go look it up himself if John didn’t tell him. “Tattoos don't usually show up unless the bond is particularly strong.”

Stiles began to smile. It faded when he took a closer look at his dad’s expression.

“Isn’t that good?” he asked uncertainly.

John shook his head. “Intensity isn’t always a good thing when it comes to soulmate relationships.”

Stiles thought of the case descriptions that had trickled through to him over the years. Vicious abuse cycles. Codependency. Murders because of jealousy. Suicides because someone’s soulmate died.

He nodded at his dad to show he understood.

Intensity wasn’t always a good thing.

“Will it be on the same place on them?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” John said. “It might not even be that color.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Over time, he found out the triskele absolutely would not be the same color, since the outer edges seemed to change according to his soulmate’s most prevalent and constant mood.

The center always stayed that fresh-cut red.

-

Derek didn't like Stiles when they first met. He knew his own inability to protect people. He didn't want someone like Stiles involved in what was going on. Someone so pretty and fragile, with such wide innocent eyes.

He soon learned Stiles was beautiful like the ocean, and even less likely to be tamed.He had a steel spine, an iron will, and those innocent eyes sparked with fiery passion at the slightest provocation.

Derek knew the dangers of fire by now, knew how easy it was to get burned. And yet there he still was, drawn like a moth, fluttering at the edges of a light he knew he was not allowed to have. A light that would only deepen the darkness around him, in him, if it were ever to go out.

The most he would allow himself was a slight suspicion and a resolute indifference to confirmation.

-

Stiles suspected Derek Hale was his soulmate from that first time in the woods. Even though Derek clearly didn’t like him, everything about the man made Stiles hum. From his cheekbones to his hostile glare, his leather jacket to his surprisingly soft voice.

And then he thought Derek was a murderer and he was still pretty sure, but he was hoping he was wrong because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life hiding bodies.He would do it, and more, for his soulmate but he didn't actually want to.

Stiles would always be surprised at his own reaction when he found out for sure.

He saw the triskele first, right in the center of Derek’s back.

Stiles had the fleeting thought of how they would match up and maybe Derek preferred being the little spoon, before the wolf turned around.

Stiles caught sight of his mom’s brain scan and mentally noped the fuck out. He stayed mostly silent through the following interaction, as blank as he could possibly be out of sheer self-preservation.

He didn’t have a panic attack until he got home.

It was hours later when Scott called him to assure him that just because they both had triskeles didn’t mean Derek was Stiles’s soulmate. They weren’t even the same color or in the same place.

-

In the end it was Boyd who spilled the beans, though Jackson was the trigger.

“Shut the hell up, Stilinski. Who wants to listen to you? You can't even get your soulmate to look twice at you. You really think he doesn't know it's you? That he's not ignoring you on purpose because he would rather have anyone but you?”

Stiles went white. He stared at Jackson for a moment and then promptly left, pointedly not looking at anyone else in the room. Derek slowly turned to stare at Jackson with crimson eyes until the young wolf left also.

After a drawn out moment of silence, Boyd said, “You're the reason he can throw shit like that in Stiles’s face.”

Derek looked at him with wide eyes, the confirmation he hadn't wanted suddenly given to him.

But he had a different perspective of his reticence as selfishness now, and he couldn't bear the hurt he could clearly see he had caused his soulmate. The sense of embarrassment and shame lingered where Stiles had been standing.

-

Stiles made it home only to find Derek in his room waiting to command him to take his shirt off.

“Fuck off, Derek Hale. Get out of my room.”

“Stiles,” Derek said standing from where he was leaning against the window sill. He stared intently at the human boy. “Take off your shirt.”

Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to demand an explanation for why Derek had come here, now, to order him to do this. He wanted to yell some more, tell Derek to get out and to not expect to see him for at least two weeks. But he was tired of knowing who he belonged to and knowing that person didn't want him back without getting to say anything at all about it. If Derek wanted to have it all out right here, right now, then that's what they would do.

So he took off his shirt. And he watched as Derek took in his own life and love and hurts on Stiles's skin. He could practically see Derek thinking, “It's true.” But he wasn't prepared for the wolf to just whip his own shirt off. He’d seen Derek shirtless before, but it was different now.

Now it was to prove that they were made for each other. That they'd been marked by what made each other.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Derek asked.

“What was I supposed to say?” Stiles scoffed, “You didn't even like me when we first met.”

Derek looked away. Of course Stiles knew that.

“Plus, I thought you were a murderer,” Stiles added.

Derek raised an eyebrow. They both knew that point didn’t matter nearly as much as it probably should have.

“I love you,” Derek said.

Stiles scoffed at him again. He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling with pursed lips like he was trying to hold back laughter. Or tears. When he looked at Derek again, he was smirking, but his eyes were bleak.

“Because I’m your soulmate?”

“Because I love you.”

Stiles closed his eyes. This was too much.

“Derek,” he murmured brokenly. He opened his eyes and his soulmate was right there in front of him, close enough to touch.

Derek reached up and cupped his cheek.

“I love you, Stiles,” he said.

Stiles gave up fighting, and fell into his other half.

-

They found each other, and all their questions were answered.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @magicmagnus!

Read on AO3

*****

this year, i'll give it to someone special.

The morning of December 16th is one of those mornings.

First of all, Magnus sleeps through his alarm.  Then the hot water doesn’t work in the shower so his hair is absolutely not standing up to the best of its potential, and he cuts his finger chopping up fruit for breakfast, and the only band-aids he has are pink Barbie ones, and his car won’t start for five whole minutes because it’s so icy-cold outside.  To top things all off, it’s a Saturday. Magnus finds the concept of having to get up and get anywhere early on a Saturday completely repugnant.

But having a five year old changes a lot of things.  Bea has decided she wants to become a figure skater , this winter –– of course, in the spring she was going to be a gymnastics champion, and in the summer a soccer star, so he’s not putting all his eggs in that basket.  But because he loves his daughter, Magnus will keep dutifully getting up early on his precious Saturdays, and ferrying her to the local ice rink for the weekly ‘Little Penguins’ under-7s skating class.

“And last week Adam said I fell over the least I ever have  and he’ll let me go backwards this week if I can do my wiggly skating for twenty whole seconds,” Bea tells him, straining enthusiastically out of her booster seat to peer through the windshield as they approach the ice rink.  One of her long black plaits swings with the motion of the car. “I’m the best in the whole group at that!”

“That’s very exciting, pumpkin,” Magnus tells her, trying to hide his amusement while he looks for a parking space.  Magnus has all the faith in the world in his daughter, but it has to be said, she is not the best skater of the bunch.  She’s probably settled comfortably at the very bottom of the list.  Still, if Bea is happy and confident and enjoying herself, Magnus couldn’t care less that she falls down more often than she manages to let go of the sides of the rink.  It’s not like he has any vested interest in skating.

The ice rink is busy this time of year, getting busier each week; in the depths of the festive season, it makes sense that more people are coming, Magnus figures.  At the start of fall, the ice rink was always quiet, and only a handful of kids came to the club. Now that they’ve reached the clutches of mid-December, snow is falling outside as well as in the rink, and winter coats and woolen scarves have been brought out for casual use anyway, and everyone’s feeling magic of the season -- couples are cosied together everywhere you look, mistletoe hangs from doorways, sparkling lights illuminate everywhere you turn and the nights come so early that the city seems to be in a permanent state of glittering evening.

Magnus hates Christmas, but he’s trying not to think about that.  This is only going to be his second Christmas alone with Bea, but he’s trying not to think about that, either.  

Luckily, the rink is closed down for other customers while the kids’ group is going on, so Magnus doesn’t have to deal with any annoying couples or festive-minded tourists crowding the place up too much much.  Bea is still chattering excitedly, her legs swinging back and forth against Magnus as he carries her in on his hip. One of her mittens is dangling haphazardly out of her sleeve. Magnus fixes it back onto her hand while he waits for the woman at the front desk to swipe their membership card, overly aware that they’re running a few minutes later than usual –– thanks to his morning, which still has a bad mood settling like freshly fallen snow on the landscape of his mind, and which he’s only pushing back for Bea’s sake.

“Enjoy the skate, Little Penguin!” the front desk lady says, leaning towards Bea with a voice a touch too high-pitched and patronising.  Bea only ignores her and looks impatiently towards the doors of the rink.  Just before Magnus can rush off, the woman adds, “Oh, and there’s a new refreshments stall inside for the holiday season, so be sure to get a themed hot chocolate while you’re here!”

She’s clearly been told to upsell that, but ooh, Magnus thinks.  He does have a weak spot for hot chocolate.

It’s several more minutes of getting Bea inside and lacing her skates onto her feet and making sure her coat is buttoned up to her chin before he can unleash her onto the ice, where she immediately stumbles off towards the gaggle of little kids and their cheerful instructors in the middle of the rink.  Magnus watches to make sure she reaches them without falling on her face, and then, once she does, finally lets out the huge sigh that’s been building in him all morning.

Okay.  They’re here.  He’s still groggy from waking up late and his hair still doesn’t look its best, and his finger is still smarting underneath the Barbie plaster Bea had so helpfully applied, but at least Bea’s not missing her club, and he now has at least one hour to get some writing done at one of the shaky picnic benches that the parents sit on while this club happens.  He’s only mildly distracted by looking up every ten seconds to make sure Bea hasn’t crashed into anything and caused herself grievous bodily harm.

There are several loud screams from the kids in the middle of the ice, but they’re screams of excitement, so Magnus doesn’t stress too much about it.  He sits down on the first bench he finds, takes out his notebook, and begins to write.

It’s only ten minutes later that he admits it: the writing isn’t coming.  It’s one of those disjointed days in his mind, when none of the words flow together and none of the ideas are coming in order –– actually, he's irritatingly been feeling like this for weeks now, the new draft of this novel stopping more than it starts. None of it is helped by the grouchy, groggy mood he’s still trying to fight.  He can feel his hair deflating more by the second, and Magnus’s hair is always the best indication of his mental state that day. His jeans crash horribly with the turquoise shirt he’d grabbed in a rush this morning, and he’s only just realising it.  There’s a stain on the lapel of his coat that he can only attribute to a five year old being set loose with a banana. He just doesn’t feel his best, and the writing knows it.

He decides to take a break.  He’s not giving up, he tells himself adamantly, although it probably will end up with him not writing anything else today.  But Bea’s amused for an hour, at least, and getting a break that long outside of school hours is rare for a single dad.

Then he remembers: they’re serving special hot chocolate today.

Magnus loves hot chocolate.  That, he’s sure, will brighten up his mood.

He hadn’t even bothered to glance around the edge of the rink when they arrived, since it never usually changes week to week, but now that he’s remembered that all of a sudden, he looks up.  Sure enough, on the other side of the oval-shaped ice rink, he spots a little booth -- set up to look like a log cabin with Christmas lights draped across the top, although it’s quite clearly fake wood and the illuminated reindeer next to it just makes the whole thing look hideously tacky.  But if they have hot chocolate, he doesn’t care.

Magnus stands up and bundles his things back into his bag, heading around the edge of the rink, his eyes set on that booth.  He glances onto the ice for just a moment, in time to see Bea attempt to skate backwards and immediately take a spectacular tumble onto her bum, but she leaps back up with a bright grin the next second.

“Well done, pumpkin!” he calls across to her, and she waves before throwing herself back into the fray of kids.  As soon as it’s clear that she’s okay, Magnus heads right towards his hot chocolate. He makes it around the tacky novelty reindeer, leans right up against the counter with an eager tap of his fingers, and the employee turns around, and ––

And.   Oh.

Here’s the thing about the man behind the counter: Magnus has seen him before.  Magnus has seen him, actually, so many times in the last month that it nearly feels like fate, if Magnus were still optimistic enough to believe in such things.  

The first time was just at the bodega on the corner of Magnus’s street, at the start of November, when Bea had a stomach bug and Magnus had to run down there in his pyjamas, utterly un-made-up and smelling slightly of vomit, to buy chewable ibuprofen and the only plain crackers that she wanted to eat, and he’d been so harried that he’d bumped right into this guy on his way out of the store, dropping all his groceries -- which had stressed him out, until the guy just said woah, there, in a friendly if slightly breathless voice, and helped him pick it all us.  That day, Magnus had been too stressed to notice how gorgeous he was, but two days later when he saw the same man crossing the street, carrying a bag of groceries for an older woman who might have been his grandmother, his biceps curling pleasingly as he did it, Magnus had been able to think nothing but tall glass of water.   It really had been too long since he got laid, if he was lusting after random strangers on the street.

The guy hadn’t noticed him that time, but it was only another two days until they’d seen each other again, while Magnus was walking Bea to school, and she’d been swinging off his hand and chattering at a mile a minute, before stopping when she realised her dad’s attention had been lost to the guy jogging down the street -- he’d been in unseasonably short shorts, and Magnus did not make a habit of commenting on people’s appearances while his five year old was there, but damn.   The guy’s eyes had lit up with recognition as he jogged past, and he’d given the littlest wave, a gesture of familiarity Magnus wouldn’t have expected from someone he’d just bumped into one time while looking an absolute mess.  Bea had immediately bombarded Magnus with questions about who he was and not been satisfied with Magnus’s dismissals, and that had only increased when they saw him again at the park the same week; he was stretching out his long legs, in running clothes again, while Magnus pushed Bea on the swings.  Magnus got so distracted looking at him that Bea had to call his name five whole times before he remembered to push her again.

Since then, it’s been a barrage of other coincidences.  At the library, while Magnus was picking up some easy reader storybooks for Bea and the man was carrying some sort of thick hardback; standing a couple of people apart in the queue at the same coffee shop; the busy steps of city hall when Magnus had just got done paying a parking ticket and the tall drink of water man had been wearing a smart black suit that made him look even taller and even more drinkable.  Every time, they’ve exchanged familiar smiles or polite waves, but they’ve never actually spoken.

And now, they’re in an ice rink, and it’s definitely not fate, but at least Magnus will be able to talk to him this time.

“Hey,” the guy says, his voice warm and drawling, as he leans curiously across the counter.  They are, at this point, less than a foot apart. His eyes are hypnotisingly multicoloured close up.  “You again.”

“Me again!” Magnus confirms, in a trilling, confident tone that in no way reflects how much of a nervous mess he actually feels in that moment.  “Fancy bumping into you here, of all places.  So, this is where you work?”

‘Hot chocolate vendor at an ice rink’ isn’t the most glamorous job in the world, nor does Magnus imagine it pays more than minimum wage or comes with many perks, but he’s hardly one to judge.  This man manages to pull off the reindeer-themed apron without looking absolutely ridiculous, which is a miracle in itself.

“I guess so.  I mean, just for the winter break.  I’m in law school,” he explains, which makes a lot of sense, and which is also pretty hot.  Magnus has a bit of a thing for academic achievement.

“Oh, really?” He tries to sound only casually interested, the way anyone might politely ask, but he’s aware that he’s still leaning awfully close across the counter.  “I've heard that's stressful. What year?”

“Final year."  His voice is wry as he adds, “Stressful doesn’t begin to cover it.  I was actually just researching for a torts paper while there was a break in the customers, but don’t tell my boss.”  

Magnus glances around him and notices a thick textbook cracked open on a back counter of the little booth.  He can’t help but laugh a little, remembering when he used to do the same while he was working in a Starbucks to put himself through his English degree.

“Well, I won’t keep you for long, then.  I just wanted a hot chocolate.”

“Peppermint candycane, gingerbread, or holiday snickerdoodle with chocolate whip cream?” the man rattles off, sounding like he’s repeated this list so much it’s burned into his very muscle memory to say it.  Magnus blinks.

“Er.  I’m a big fan of all hot chocolate, so I suppose just whichever one you’d recommend.”

“One holiday snickerdoodle with chocolate whipped cream coming up,” he says, punching something into the cash register, and glancing at Magnus’s hand a beat too long as he accepts the money.  As he’s grabbing a tall red cup from the stack beside the drinks machine, he glances back over his shoulder and adds, “Er, I’m Alec, by the way. Just, you know, since we’ve been bumping into each other so often.”

“Magnus,” Magnus replies, trying not to sound quite as breathless as he feels.   Alec is a very nice name, which very much suits this tall, handsome law student in a reindeer apron who is looking at Magnus a touch too intensely from underneath his thick eyelashes.  Magnus really wishes his hair looked better today. He realises suddenly that his hand with the Barbie band-aid is the one he used to pass over the money, and hates himself the smallest bit.  “Nice to formally meet you.”

He wants to say something else, something wittier or maybe just the tiniest bit flirty, just to make sure he still has a touch of his old game, but then –

“ Daaad!” Bea’s piercing voice appears out of nowhere, and she clatters into the boards of the ice rink behind where Magnus is stood, startling him so much he jumps as her little hands reach across the top.  “You gotta get me a hot chocolate too! You promised!” “Beatrice, pumpkin, there’s still forty minutes left of your club.  You can get one at the end,” Magnus promises her.

But Bea has already been distracted.  Staring curiously over the top of the ice rink wall, which she’s only just tall enough to see across, she points right at Alec and says, “ Hey.   Are you that man Daddy was looking at in the park?”

His cheeks aren’t flushing, Magnus tells himself.  He also thinks he should get Bea a hot chocolate just to stop her from talking, before she can bring up any of the other times.  Hoping that maybe Alec didn't hear that, Magnus just hurries towards her, and realises that one of her mittens is hanging off her hand again, and all her hair is escaping from her plaits, and her nose is running.  He fixes her mitten, and wipes her nose on an old tissue he finds in his pocket. Parenthood really isn’t that glamorous. A little more firmly, he then spins her around on the ice and adds, “No hot chocolate until the end.  Go enjoy the rest of your club.”

It’s not until Bea has stumbled her way back across the ice that Magnus finally turns around.  Alec is looking at him, amusement curling his lips, as he adds a final dusting of chocolate powder to Magnus’s drink and slides it across the kiosk.

“Your daughter?” he asks.  Magnus thinks the fact that she’d repeatedly called him dad makes that rather obvious, but nods.  “Yeah, I remember seeing her at the park with you that one time. I didn’t know if she was a niece or a goddaughter or something, though.”

Magnus is a little flattered that Alec had put in enough thought about him to even wonder at who Bea was.  After he’s done feeling flattered over that, he spends a moment feeling a little sad -- he doesn’t know if Alec even likes men, but if he does, clarifying that is probably him taking Magnus off the table as a prospective dating option.  Not that Magnus is thinking about dating. But if he was going to start thinking about it, he’d start with a cute man like this, except no budding law student is going to want to bog themselves down dating an overwhelmed single dad.

So no, romance isn’t on the table here.  But that’s fine. That’s fine, Magnus tells himself.  And it feels almost close to true, that it’s fine, when he takes his hot chocolate and could walk right away, but Alec keeps smiling at him, doesn’t turn immediately back to his textbook and dismiss Magnus as just another customer gone.

Somehow, Magnus ends up staying right where he is, lingering at the counter of the cheesy little fake log cabin as he sips his hot chocolate -- it really is delicious, he tells Alec, thanks him for the recommendation, and Alec smiles like he’s pleased with himself -- and as much as he knows he should be using this one free hour to be productive, he just can’t bring himself to leave.  No other customers come to get a drink, since it’s just a few other parents waiting outside the rink now, and Alec never tries to go back to his book. So Magnus asks Alec about law school, and his torts research, and what exactly torts is, anyway, and Alec explains it all in wry, exasperated terms, and then asks Magnus about his own job and looks far too impressed when Magnus talks about the historical novels he writes, says I can’t write at all but I nearly majored in history at undergrad, I’m so interested in that –– and they manage to talk about 14th century French kings for so long that Magnus doesn’t even notice the time passing, doesn’t notice that his and Alec’s elbows are inching closer and closer to each other across the counter of the hot chocolate stall, doesn’t even notice that the hour is ending and the kids are dispersing on the ice behind them until ––

“HELLO,” says Bea, so loudly it might even be called screaming, as she thumps into the edge of the ice rink.  Her long plaits swing across her shoulders as she climbs through the exit, and does the slow bambi-walk involved with wearing ice skates on a regular floor right the way over to them.  Then, she sticks her hand towards Alec, barely reaching over the counter but still all intense eyebrows and serious posture.  “I’m Beatrice Bane but you can call me Bea if you’re going to be Daddy’s friend. Who are you and can I have a hot chocolate?”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Bea,” Alec says, shaking her tiny hand.  Somehow, his voice has just the right tone for speaking to a five year old -- not patronising or babyish, but still sweet enough to please her.  Magnus’s heart flutters and he furiously stamps it down. “I’m Alexander, but I have a nickname too, so you can call me Alec. You can absolutely have a hot chocolate, so long as your dad says it’s okay.”

They both look to Magnus in unison, twin pairs of enchanting puppy dog eyes.  As if he can say no to that.

“Just a small one,” he says, voice warning, but Bea beams anyway.  She reaches her arms into the air with a silent demand, so Magnus scoops her up, ignoring how she immediately comes to fiddle with his hair once she’s perched on his hip.  Bea’s small for her age at five, skinny and short the way Magnus was most of his childhood ( the way her mom always was, he doesn’t think ) , and still so easy to hold like this.  He’s slightly dreading the day that she’s too big for him to carry.

Alec smiles at them both one last time before he sets about making Bea’s drink; Bea then restlessly makes Magnus put her down again, far sooner than he’d have liked, and spends the whole minute standing on her tip-toes and peering across the counter to watch her hot chocolate being made.  When Alec’s done, he passes the child-sized cup across the counter, and Magnus hands it down to Bea.

When he then scoops a couple bucks out of his pocket, Alec says, “Oh, don’t worry about it, on the house.”

Magnus’s cheeks go pink, and he’s not sure why.  It’s not like Alec really knows him, and Magnus had paid for his own drink; why’s he now trying to give a gift?  Is he attempting to get on Magnus’s good side, or Bea’s?  It’s not like Bea cares whether her dad pays for something or not, so presumably it’s some gesture towards Magnus, and truthfully, any kind act that relates to his daughter is the best way to get Magnus absolutely fluttering inside, but considering he barely knows this man and is sure he’s not interesting in dating him, anyway ––

It’s confusing, that’s all.  But Magnus is spared from replying, from unravelling the confusing emotion in his out-of-practice-with-flirting mind, when Bea suddenly screeches.

“ Daddy,” she says, and flings herself at his side, holding up one tiny index finger with a pout.  “I put my finger in my drink and it was too hot and it burned me.”

“Why did you put your grubby finger in your drink?” Magnus asks, first of all, as he peers down at her hand.  It’s just a little pink and when he touches the edge of her cup he can tell the milk isn’t really hot enough to scald, so he knows not to be too worried.  Sensing that she’s not getting the sympathy she wants, Bea turns to her newest friend, instead.

“ Aleeeec,” she complains across the counter.

“Oh, no,” says Alec, putting on a very serious face with furrowed eyebrows, and he comes out from the edge of his hot chocolate stand just so he can crouch down beside her, his absurdly long legs folding in a very pleasing way.  “Do you need a band-aid? I have some extra special ones in my bag.”

Bea absolutely does not need a band-aid, and Magnus goes to say that, but her face has lit up and she’s enthusiastically nodding before he can get a word in.  And, well, part of him wants to see how this goes. So he hangs back, drinking the dregs of his chocolate, and watches as Alec digs out a sparkly blue band-aid, which he applies to the non-existent burn on Bea’s finger.  He pats it down extra carefully and with all the care of a serious wound, and then says something to Bea, low enough for Magnus to miss, that sends Bea into a fit of giggles. Alec glances around her, a smile on his own face, and meets Magnus’s eyes.

Magnus’s heart thump, thump, thumps.   Tall drink of water who helps old women carry their groceries and jogs in tiny shorts and is an intelligent law student who likes to discuss obscure history is also incredibly sweet with kids.  Because of course he is. Because the universe wants Magnus to be torn up inside, and want things he can’t have.

“You can come to my birthday party!” Bea says then, out of the blue, and so loud it startles both Magnus and Alec out of their little staring contest.  “I’m allowed to invite whoever I want.  You can bring hot chocolate for me as a present!  Give my daddy your phone number so he can tell you when it is.”

Bea’s birthday isn’t until weeks after Christmas, still almost a month from now, and Magnus has barely thought about her party beyond promising her it could be a tea party with, indeed, any of her friends that she liked.  When he said friends, though, he meant other five year olds from her kindergarten class, not cute strangers in reindeer aprons who her dad is confusingly lusting after.

“Um.”  Alec looks amused, from where he’s still crouched down beside Bea, as he turns his gaze up to Magnus.  He’s clearly wondering how to say it would be very weird if I came to your birthday party but thanks in a language five year olds can speak.  “You know, I might be busy that day, but I’ll give your dad my number just in case, and we can see.”

Bea shrugs one of her skinny shoulders, unbothered.  “Alright. It’s not for ages anyway.”

But she keeps watching, so Alec clearly feels obligated to take Magnus’s phone and key his number into it.  “ Sorry, ” Magnus mouths, feeling rather embarrassed that Alec’s having to humour his daughter so much, but Alec somehow doesn't look like he really minds.  He shakes his head, still smiling, and hands Magnus’s phone back over; Magnus reflexively glances down and sees Alec Lightwood as a new contact, a little smiley emoji keyed in afterwards.

It’s probably a fake number, Magnus thinks, just to get Bea off their backs.  But it’s cute he’s humouring her anyway.

He thinks this is probably when they should leave, stop intruding on Alec, but then, just as Bea is sat on the bench taking her skates off and Magnus is still lingering by the hot chocolate stall’s counter, she suddenly, loudly, unmissably announces, “Daddy, Alec, look!  Isn’t that that plant which makes you have to kiss!  Mister toes!”

Mistletoe.   Oh God.   Magnus looks up, and sure enough, some bright soul far more festive than him has tacked a strand of mistletoe onto the fake log-cabin roof above the counter.  Alec is stood just on one side of it. Magnus is stood just on the other.

Bea’s face is absolutely delighted.

“Oh, no,” Magnus tries to deflect, taking a step back.  “It’s fine, honey, that rule is only for people who want to kiss.  You don’t ever have to kiss somebody just because you’re under mistletoe.”

But this backfires on him.  Bea frowns, looks at Alec, and says, “Don’t you want to kiss my daddy?”  Magnus, mortified, doesn't dare glance around at Alec –– it can’t get much worse than his five year old trying to pressure a guy into kissing him, like it’s not clear enough already that Magnus has zero game.  “Alec, why don’t you want to kiss him? Don’t you like daddy? We can’t be friends if you don’t.”

Groaning, Magnus resists the urge to drop his head into his hands and spins around to look at Alec again.  By some miracle, he realises that Alec isn’t looking like he wants to sink into the floor, or run away screaming -– if anything, he seems rather amused.

“No, your dad seems lovely,” he tells Bea, and then beckons towards Magnus.  “You’re right, we should follow the rules.” And then, in a lower and far more humorous voice, where only Magnus can hear, “Don’t worry, I’ve kissed guys for far worse reasons than this.”

Magnus is sure he’s blushing to the point of ridiculousness and wishes he’d thought to wear foundation that day instead of just his usual eye makeup, but there’s nothing to be done about it now, except freeze on the spot and feel restless and tingly all over and hold his breath as Alec leans in, in, in ––

And plants a tiny, chaste kiss on Magnus’s cheek.

“There,” Alec says, pulling back and immediately raising an eyebrow across at Bea.  “Are we still friends, now?”

“Yep,” Bea decides.  She’s kicked both her skates off and pulled her shoes most of the way on, and for once, her meddling little mind does seem to be satisfied with their actions.  Thank god.

With that, though, Magnus decides it’s definitely time to go, before she can make Alec do anything else he doesn't want to.  And quite apart from that, the Little Penguins hour is definitely up, and crowds of regular patrons are starting to file into the ice rink -- exactly what Magnus wanted to avoid today -- and there’s suddenly other people queuing up at the hot chocolate stall, too.  His cheek is still tingling in the spot where Alec’s lips had touched, but Magnus is choosing not to think about that so that he can maintain his sanity, and he scoops Bea up onto his hip without another moment’s thought.

“Well,” he says, just as the customer waiting for Alec to serve them begins looking impatient, and Alec ducks back into his little hot chocolate stall.  “It was nice to properly meet you, Alexander.”

“You, too,” Alec says, smiling in a way that reaches his eyes, just as warm and lovely as the hot chocolate he's making, but twice as satisfying.  Magnus finally steps back, dodges the tacky neon reindeer, and lets his legs carry him and Bea away. They have a rest of their day to be getting on with, and Alec has a job to do; they’ve distracted him far long enough.

Still, as Magnus walks away, he can’t help glancing back just once or twice.  And when he’s strapped Bea into the car outside and thrown their bags in the back, just before he slides into his own seat, he lets his fingers drift up to his cheek, pressing the warm spot where Alec’s lips had touched.  Chaste as it was, that was the closest Magnus has come to a proper kiss, one not from Bea or Catarina, since Bea’s mom –– over two years past. It’s a boundary he’s been nearly terrified to cross.

Now that he's crossed it, he’s finding that it wasn’t, actually, so bad.  He’s actually finding that, now it’s happened, he can’t stop thinking about it.

Later that night, when Bea is engrossed in a colouring book and Magnus has a quiet minute while dinner cooks, he finds himself getting out his phone.  It’s just to see, he tells himself –– he’s not hanging any hopes on this, not at all.  With his experience of romance in general he can definitely say his expectations are through the floor.

But, to Alec’s number, he sends, Hi :) This is Magnus, from the ice rink! Sorry about Bea, today, she’s a cutie but we’re still working on the social skills. I’ll definitely let you off the hook of coming to her birthday party, but it was nice to properly meet you, anyway!

There, he thinks, that’s pleasant enough.  It’s not quite flirty, but it’s not quite distant, either.  And it won’t matter in the end, because he's sure Alec gave him a fake number.  Magnus goes back to chopping up vegetables for the pasta sauce, writing the whole thing out of his mind.

Except, in the end, it isn’t a fake number at all.  It’s only two minutes until his phone lights up with a reply that sets Magnus’s cheeks flushing, his heart thumping –– and, maybe, just a little bit of the festive spirit encroaching on his fractured heart.

He just can't quite believe that he has hot chocolate, his meddling daughter, and a man in a ridiculous reindeer apron to thank.

[notadirtyweed]

Capítulo 18

- Amoooooooor, acorda! - senti Katy balançando meu braço e gritando parecendo estar animada para algo

- ah, oi Katy! - virei-me de frente pra ela e esfreguei os olhos

- Levanta dessa cama, olha como o dia tá lindo! Vamos sair! - ela disse com os olhos radiantes e um sorriso enorme no rosto

- O que houve pra você está toda felizinha hoje? - disse, virei-me de lado novamente para poder calçar o chinelo que estava na beirada da cama

- Não sei, mas acordei muito animada hoje! - ela dizia e eu ia caminhando até o banheiro para fazer minhas higienes 

- Ah que bom! Sabe se meus pais já acordaram? - disse e estava pegando a toalha de rosto para secar minhas mãos

- Acordaram sim! - ela disse, levantou da cama e correu para pular em meu colo

- Você que ir aonde hoje? - segurei ela apoiando meus braços em suas costas e esfreguei meu nariz em seu pescoço provocando arrepios

- Não faz assim- ela disse com uma voz toda manhosa e tombou seu pescoço pra traz 

- gostosa - mordi seus lábios inferiores e logo deu um beijo nela. Ela puxou meu cabelo e nos beijamos novamente 

- eu não sei onde podemos ir... - ela disse e ficou me encarando com uma cara pensativa 

- Vamos descer tomar café e ai decidimos onde vamos certo? - disse e dei um beijo na testa dela 

- certo! - concordou e desceu do meu colo

Descemos e ela foi fazer suco de laranja, peguei meu jornal e quando virei-me vi eles descendo a escada. 

- Bom dia filho! - disse minha mãe e deu um beijo em minha cabeça, meu pai não disse nada e deu dois tapinhas em minhas costas

- Bom dia mãe! - dei um beijo nela 

POV's OFF

Eles tomaram café e conversavam, mas de repente Margaret olhou pra Katy e ela estava se desfalecendo e ia fechando os olhos "JOOOOHN" ela gritou, pois ele estava sentado do lado dela, ele logo olhou pra Katy e a apoio em seus braços

Katy's POV

- Katy, amor acorda! - ouvi John dizer e passava vinagre em meu nariz, soltei um espirro e abri os olhos

- Ai, o que houve comigo? - passei a mão pela minha cabeça e olhei em volta do quarto, Margaret e Richard estavam assentados do outro lado da cama com aparência preocupada 

- Você estava tomando café e do nada desmaiou - disse Margaret, ela apertou meu pulso para ver se era pressão e em seguida passou a mão em minha testa

- Ah é? Eu não tô me sentindo bem! - disse e fiquei de conchinha virada pro lado do John

- Melhor irmos ao médico né Katy? - John disse e acariciou meu cabelo

- Ai, eu não sei amor. - disse e puxei-o pela mão para que deitasse ao meu lado

- É melhor sim, Katy! - disse Margaret e passou a mão pelo meu ombro. O celular de Richard tocou e ela saiud o quarto para atender

- Tá bom, vou colocar uma legging e um blusão e vamos! - levantei-me da cama e Marg saiu do quarto, John continuou no quarto comigo e foi logo vestir-se também. Estava colocando a acabando de abotoar a blusa e comecei a ficar tonta e ver tudo escuro. - Amor, me ajuda aqui eu tô ficando tonta. - segurei na porta do guarda-roupa e estiquei o outro braço para dar mão a John

- O que foi? - ele disse e me abraçou, me apoiando enquanto eu andava até a cama para não cair

- Eu comecei a enxergar tudo escuro e me deu tontura, vamos logo pro médico. - disse e tentava me levantar da cama

- Amor, continua deitada ai, eu vou chamar meus pais para irmos logo! - ele disse me dei um beijo e saiu do quarto. Fechei meus olhos por alguns instantes e parecia ter pegado no sono, mas logo que abri vi John voltando! 

- Amor que bolsa você vai levar? - ele perguntou e olhou para o cabideiro 

- Pega a Louis Vuitton, acho que minha carteira está ai. - disse e tentei sentar-me na cama para levantar, mas logo a tontura voltou

- Abraça-me pelo pescoço. - ele disse e me pegou no colo, saímos do quarto e ele gritou pelos seus pais. Richard gritou e disse que já estava lá em baixo.

- Por que vocês estavam levando as malas de vocês? - John perguntou 

- Do hospital vamos embora meu filho, houve alguns probleminhas em casa e temos que ir, ma não é nada sério. - respondeu Margaret e logo, em seguida saímos para ir pro hospital.

x

No hospital

Logo que entraram dentro do hospital deram de cara com o médico de Katy, o doutor Mark. 

- Oi John, o que houve com Katy? - disse o doutor totalmente atencioso ao ver Katy, que estava desmaiada nos braços de John

- Ela está passando mal desde cedo doutor, eu não sei exatamente o que é. Enquanto tomavámos café ela desmaiou, depois ela disse que estava enxergando tudo preto e que sentia sua cabeça girar. - disse John um pouco nervoso

- Bom, isso pode ser sintoma da gravidez mas é melhor fazermos um exame pra ter certeza. - disse o doutor e guiou John e seus pais, para que fossem até a sala dele. - A ponha na cama John. - disse o doutor e fechou a porta

- John, amor - Katy resmungou e tentava abrir os olhos

- Calma amor, eu estou aqui. Já estamos no hospital. - disse John e segurou firme na mão dela

- Katy, o que você está sentindo? - disse o médico e pegou a bomba de medir pressão 

- Uma tontura estranha, minha cabeça começa a girar e eu começo a enxergar tudo escuro - Katy disse e fechou o olho, pois a luz a encomodava

- Bom, eu vou medir sua pressão. Mas provavelmente é algo normal da gestação, nesse primeiro mês você deve ficar assim mesmo. - disse o médico e colocou a bomba no braço de Katy. - Agora feche e abra a mão lentamente 

- Ok. - ela respondeu o fazia o que o médico dissera

- Sua pressão está boa, está tudo normal. Isso é coisa da gravidez mesmo, não se preocupe. Eu recomendo que você tome sucos feito da própria fruta e pegue Sol de manhã cedinho, isso fará bem a você e ao seu filho. - ele disse e estava retirando o aparelho do braço de Katy

- Pode deixar, eu vou fazer isso. Doutor, eu posso fazer ultrassom hoje? E que os pais de John ainda não viram o bebê - disse Katy

- Pode sim, eu vou pegar o gel. - disse o doutor e saiu da sala

- Estou muito animada para ver meu netinho! - disse Margaret extremamente empolgada. 

Katy sorriu para ela e logo o médico vinha entrando na sala ligando o outro aparelho, para fazer a ultrassom de Katy. Ela levantou a blusa e ele começou a esfregar o gel na barriga de Katy antes de passar o viber. Esfregou e começou a passar o viber e logo ia se formando a imagem de um pequenino feto, todo encolhidinho na barriga de Katy

- Ele é tão lindo! - disse Margaret, seus olhos estavam cheios de lágrima por ela estar emocionada

- Não exagere mãe. - disse John e riu 

- Largue disso John, meu netinho é lindo sim. Mesmo ele sendo ainda apenas um feto. - respondeu Margaret e deu um tapa nas costas de John

- Katy, você terá de começar a fazer o pré-natal. Para que eu possa acompanhar a evolução de seu filho durante os próximos meses. - disse o doutor e pegou um lenço para limpar a barriga de Katy

- Ok, quando eu tenho que voltar aqui? - ela respondeu em reposta ao médico, abaixou sua blusa e sentou-se na cama

- Então, você deve voltar aqui quando completar dois meses de gravidez, conte os dias começando de hoje ai você não irá se perder. Ah, Katy eu consegui capturar uma foto do bebê, você que levar pra você? - disse o médico

- Ah sim, eu vou marcar. É claro, primeira foto do meu bebezinho! - ela disse e passou a mão pela barriga

- Tome - o médico esticou amão e entregou um envelope nas mãos dela

- Obrigada Mark, já vamos indo. - disse Katy, pronta a se retirar do quarto

- De nada Katy, até a próxima. - disse o doutor, despediu-se de todos e continou em sua sala e eles saíram

- Mãe, vamos almoçar depois eu levo vocês no aeroporto ai vocês vão. - disse John 

- Ok meu filho. - Margaret concordou

Depois de uns 10 min eles chegaram ao restaurante Del Posto, John deixou seu carro na calçada, pois não prentendia demorar tanto e logo entraram. John acompanhou Katy primeiro, pois havia alguns paparazzis em volta. Depois que Katy entrou ele voltou para acompanhar seus pais.

x

6 horas depois

Katy já havia dormido e John assistia alguns programas na TV. Se destraía do que estava vendo e pensava como seria sua vida agora com Katy grávida e ele prestes a iniciar uma turnê, isso o preocupava, mas o amor que ele tem por Katy, faria o desistir de qualquer coisa. 

Depois de um tempo ele, já cansado de assistir TV deitou-se para dormir. 

[esvaecimento]

CAPITULO 18

Grace estava de mãos dadas com outra menina, outra menina, cara! Pensei, por um segundo, com algum pingo de esperança, que elas podiam ser apenas amigas, mas durou pouco, até que as vi se beijando. Levantei-me furiosa e fui até ela: - O que é isso, Grace???? - perguntei irritada, como se ela ainda devesse alguma explicação a mim. - Catarina! - ela disse em um tom alto, um tanto surpreso. - Como pôde? Como? Me diz. - comecei a chorar, sem me importar em estar no meio da escola inteira - Eu te dei o meu amor e eu lutaria com você. Eu acreditei na droga das tuas palavras, Grace! Você disse que me amava e que eu era tudo pra você, disse que era comigo que viveria para sempre, você disse! Também já levou essa aí no seu-lugar-preferido-pra-pensar? Já jurou amor eterno à ela também? Eu não acredito, eu... eu não sei o que dizer. Essa foi a maior humilhação da minha vida. - Catar... - ela começou, mas nem a ouvi terminar, virei-me e corri até a saída. Já estava voltando a andar quando senti alguém tocar meu braço. - Catarina... - ela sussurrou abaixando a cabeça, era Grace. - Eu... ela... é... - Eu não preciso das suas explicações. Achei que você, tanto quanto eu, estava sofrendo, sofrendo muito. Achei que você também estava sem rumo, sem vontade alguma de viver e com medo, que foi o motivo pelo qual me disse que estava me deixando. - Desculpa, Catarina. Desculpa. Eu estava com medo, mas você sumiu e... - Eu sumi? - interrompi-a - Grace, eu me sentava todos os dias naquela maldita padaria e esperava ver se a encontrava. Algumas vezes até fui até sua casa e fiquei balançando esperando vê-la. Mas nenhuma vez bati à porta. Eu respeitei as suas vontades e esperava que você viesse até mim quando se sentisse melhor, com coragem. Você não veio e não faz tanto tempo, Grace, só fazem alguns dias. Como pôde? As lágrimas rolavam novamente, dessa vez em uma quantia muito maior. Ela estendeu a mão e passou seus dedos finos em meus olhos, secando as lágrimas. Com a mão em meu queixo levantou me rosto para que pudesse encará-la, ela chorava também. Aos poucos foi se aproximando e quando seus lábios iam tocar os meus dei um passo atrás. - Não. - eu disse, tentando manter a voz firme. - Agora você tem a ela - completei, apontando para a menina que nos observava no portão, junto a um bom tanto de pessoas. - Ela não é ninguém, Catarina. - Não foi o que pareceu, Grace. E a única coisa que tens de mim agora, é o meu adeus. Adeus, Grace. Ela tentou segurar meu braço novamente mas dessa vez me soltei. Fui andando em direção a minha casa. Uma ponta de arrependimento me incomodava, mas era a coisa certa a fazer. E nem sempre a coisa certa é o que desejamos.

[for-midnight]

fanfic jaty cap18

Katy’s POV

Acordei assustada por causa do sonho que tive com Russell, pedindo que eu não me casasse com John que eu iria me arrepender, bom ignorei esses meus pensamentos e sai da cama sem acordar John. Desci, preparei meu café e abri a porta. Esperei o carteiro passar , 10 minutos depois parada na porta com uma caneca de gatinho na mão ele jogou o jornal e acenou pra mim, que fiz o mesmo pegando o jornal ainda no ar. Sentei na cadeira giratória e li as notícias. Deixei o jornal aberto na bancada, e abri uma das gavetas procurando algo que abrisse a embalagem da comida dos meus gatos, quando abri a penúltima gaveta achei uma caixa e eu curiosa, abri pra vê oque tinha.

-Ai meu deus, que lindo esse colar – falei comigo mesma. Mas o que um colar lindo desse jeito e com pedrinhas de ouro, estaria fazendo na cozinha? Fiquei intrigada com aquilo. Depois de ficar um bom tempo observando o mesmo, guardei cuidadosamente na gaveta imaginando que poderia ser alguma coisa da mãe de John  ou coisa do tipo.

-1 hora depois-

Pov’s OFF

John estava se espreguiçando, e ao perceber que Katy já havia levantado ele entrou no banheiro se trocando e logo descendo as escadas viu Katy parada no quintal, a abraçou por trás dando um beijo estalado na bochecha

-Bom dia meu amor – ele disse tirando os abraços que envolviam o corpo de Katy e indo pra cozinha conferir se o colar ainda estava lá.

-Bom dia, achei que fosse demorar mais pra acordar – ela disse fazendo o café pra John e dando pra ele tomar

-Hum, não... – Katy subiu pro quarto e se arrumou, descendo logo em seguida

-John, eu vou na casa de Shannon, mais tarde eu volto – a namorada disse dando um selinho em John, e batendo a porta de casa

Katy’s POV

Precisava conversar com Shannon sobre tudo, eu estava confusa. Não sabia se era certo aquilo de ter aceitado o pedido de John, a gente já estava namorando a quase 1 ano mas não sei se já estou preparada pra enfrentar tudo de novo. Cheguei a casa de Shann e toquei a campainha

-Katy, que surpresa – ela disse me abraçando

-Preciso conversar com você

-Entra – e eu fui até a sala, larguei minha bolsa na poltrona e fui até o sofá

-John me pediu em casamento ontem e eu aceitei – ele ficou me olhando com a boca aberta e assustada

-Bom, não esperava ter essa notícia agora – ela falou passando a mão no cabelo – mas o que tem de ruim nisso Katy?

-Não sei se estou me precipitando, não sei se estou preparada – respirei fundo – eu amo muito John, ele foi um verdadeiro cavalheiro esses meses todos, ele é o namorado que eu sempre quis mas eu tenho medo

-Katy, você se sente segura com ele? Vocês estão totalmente apaixonados, todo mundo percebe isso. Acho que já está na hora de você formalizarem esse relacionamento, acho que tem tudo pra dar certo – ela tocou na minha mãe – se ele realmente mudou, ele vai fazer de tudo pra nunca acabar esse casamento

-Obrigada Shann, sabia que se viesse conversar com você me sentiria mais calma – a abracei – eu amo ele de verdade e eu acho que posso ter um futuro feliz ao lado dele, só estava nervosa porque vou viver tudo isso de novo – dei um sorriso abobado pra ela

-Quando vai ser o casamento já decidiram isso? E a despedida de solteira? – ele me perguntou entusiasmada

 -Não resolvemos nada, hum.. não sei vou conversar com ele depois sobre tudo isso.. Mas a gente converso já um pouco ontem e achei melhor deixar mais pra frente

-Hum, certo. Mas não adia muito não – ela sorriu – eu curti a ideia, vai te fazer bem Katy

-Espere que seja diferente dessa vez. Bom é melhor eu ir porque eu nem falei direito com John quando saí de casa - Peguei minha bolsa e bati a porta.

-John – gritei já na sala de casa e ninguém respondeu – John, pode parando de palhaçada – falei subindo as escadas até o nosso quarto, peguei o celular e disquei o número dele

Pov’s OFF

John aproveitando que a namorado tinha saído e imaginava que ia demorar pois estava com Shannon, saiu pra comprar rosas pra ela.

-Alô – ele disse entrando na loja

-Aonde você está?

-Eu sai pra fazer uma coisa, já estou voltando pra casa Katy mas agora vou desligar, beijos – e colocou o celular no bolso e pedindo a atendente que pegasse um buque de rosas pra ele, pagou e saiu da loja, andou mais uma quadra e comprou uma caixa de chocolate, cheia de corações e voltou pra casa.

-Katy – ele gritou – cheguei

-Demorou hein – ela falou parada na porta séria e ele revelou o braço que estava nas costas segurando o buque e o chocolate – que lindo John, não precisava disso tudo – ela falou dando um beijo nele

-Mas é claro que precisava – ele falou indo pro banheiro colocar uma roupa mais a vontade – e vou te levar pra jantar hoje

-Acho que você está querendo me engordar hein Sr. Mayer

-3 horas depois-

Eles já estavam prontos, Katy só estava colocando o celular e a carteira na bolsa.

-Vamos? – ela perguntou já saindo do quarto

-Sim – e ele a acompanhou. Ele no banco de motorista e ela no de carona, como sempre.

-Posso saber em que restaurante você vai me levar?

-The Cut, conhece?

-Já ouvi falar, mas nunca fui

-Então vai hoje – ele deu um sorriso e apertou a coxa dela. John estacionou o carro, e eles passaram por uma turbulência de flashes, sentaram-se numa mesa reservada mas no fundo do restaurante, passaram-se 15 minutos e eles estavam naquele papo furado, até que o celular de John tocou e ele começou a conversar com Ricky, e Katy aproveitou pra ir no banheiro retocar a maquiagem.

Katy’s POV

Fui até o banheiro, me olhei no espelho um pouco e depois fui procurar o gloss na bolsa e quando voltei o olhar pro espelho vi Jennifer Aniston me olhando.

-Assustada? – ela perguntou pousando uma das mãos no meu ombro

-Quanto tempo – falei meio sem graça e me virando pra ela

-Não vou nem te perguntar se está bem, porque já sei a resposta – ela falou com um sorriso no rosto

-Você vai se casar não é mesmo? – perguntei fechando a bolsa

-Sim, e soube pelas fofocas que você e o John estão realmente sérios – minhas bochechas coraram – Katy, não acredite em tudo que ele te diz. Ele só que se aproveitar e depois – ela respirou – eu não quero te ver mal

-Eu sei, obrigada mesmo – passei a mão pelo seu braço – mas eu sei oque estou fazendo. Agora tenho que ir – e saí do banheiro. Sentei-me a mesa junto com John, e fiquei calada só pensando em tudo que Jennifer tinha me dito.

-Tá tudo bem? – ele perguntou segurando meu queixo levantando meu olhar perdido pra ele

-Melhor do que nunca John – talvez seja melhor eu esquecer tudo aquilo ou seria melhor eu pensar melhor se me casaria com John? Pensei comigo mesma

-Eu quero te dar um presente, não é exatamente um presente porque isso é muito importante – ele falou tirando uma caixa preta, era á que eu já tinha visto na cozinha mas fiz cara de surpresa, abri a caixa e tinha um colar maravilhoso

-John é perfeito

-Essa joia tem um significado muito grande, era da minha avó e minha mãe usou no casamento dela, e me pediu que desse pra mulher da minha vida e bom, não era o mais certo a fazer do que da ela á você – ele disse levantando e pegando a mesma da minha mão – posso colocar pra ver como fica?

-Claro – ele abriu o fecho e depois passando o colar pelo meu pescoço, peguei um espelho que sempre tinha na bolsa e ela era perfeita –não tenho o que falar

-Não precisa falar nada – e ele deu um selinho rápido pra que não ficassem olhando pra gente

-Vou guarda-la e só vou pega-lá de novo no dia do nosso casamento – guardei a joia na caixa e coloquei na mesa do lado do meu iPhone

-Calma que as surpresas não acabaram – ele pediu a conta, e nos dirigimos até o carro

-Então, posso saber pra onde vamos agora?

-Você já vai saber

-15 minutos depois-

-Cinema? Essa hora? Logo hoje? – fiz várias perguntas aleatoriamente

-Da pra esperar – ele abriu a porta pra mim, e entrelaçou nossas mãos – me espera aqui, já volto

Eu fiquei parada na frente do cinema, estranhei o fato de não ter ninguém no cinema logo hoje – vamos – ele falou vindo 5 minutos depois com um homem de terno preto que falava naqueles microfones preso ao terno mesmo “Já pode acionar” a cada minuto eu ficava mais confusa. Ele cobriu meus olhos e me guiou até a sala de cinema, já descobertos vi uma mensagem na tela “Happy Valentine’s Day Katy” e logo começou a passar algumas fotos nossas, fiquei emocionada

-Isso é maravilhoso – falei gritando e pulando no colo dele – meu deus, como pensou nisso tudo?

-Só queria torna mais especial uma simples data

-Cade as outras pessoas?

-Hum, digamos que eu fechei o cinema só pra gente

-John, por que está fazendo isso tudo pra mim?

-Porque eu te amo, e quando disse que mudei e que eu estou apaixonado por você não menti, e estou mostrando isso agora

-Eu te amo muito, eu estou emocionada – selei nossos lábios – ninguém nunca tinha feito nada assim pra mim

-Fui o primeiro e serei o ultimo então – ele abriu um sorriso – agora vamos, porque ainda tem um filme pra gente assistir

Pov’s OFF

Já havia se passado 1h de filme, e o clima esquentou na sala de cinema mesmo; Mas eles não seriam capaz de transar ali ou seriam? Depois de muitos beijos e carícias na maior parte do filme, finalmente o casal foi embora.

-Katy, deve está cansada né? Vou preparar um banho pra você e depois a gente dorme certo?

-Na-na-ni-na-não, quem disse que eu estou com sono? – a namorada falou tirando o vestido e revelando a lingerie preta com furos na meia-calça e uma cinta que fazia os seios quase pularem pra fora

-Não está mais aqui quem falou – ele disse mordendo o lábio e admirando o corpo dela – to começando a gostar disso

 Ele puxou a lingerie com força, desfazendo os nos a deixando completamente nua e logo depois ele mesmo tirou sua blusa mostrando seu peitoral, a tacou na cama e começou a beija-la descendo até seus seios, já despido continuou beijando a namorada até chegar em seu sexo, ele acariciou levemente, lhe fazendo soltar um gemido alto ao sentir onde ele estava tocando, a penetrando devagar, gemidos altos de Katy excitava mais ainda John, até que Katy virou ele com força ficando encima, de quatro, ela o  masturbo devagar e depois começou a lamber a cabeça de seu pênis. John puxou o pescoço da namorada a beijando com menos urgência, já quase sem fôlego descolou o lábio do dela

-Você é maravilhosa em tudo que faz, já te falaram isso? – Katy  se jogou na cama, e suas respirações voltavam ao normal aos poucos

-Você é o primeiro – ela disse abrindo um sorriso – hoje foi um dos melhores dias da minha vida

-E por que não foi o melhor dia da sua vida? – ele perguntou virando-se e apoiando no braço podendo observar Katy de perfil

-Porque o melhor dia foi quando eu te conheci – ele todo bobo deu um beijo na namorada

-Nunca amei ninguém como eu te amo – Katy deu um sorriso abobado e acariciou o rosto de John pensativa.

Katy levantou e pegou uma blusa de John, que particularmente ela preferia dormir com uma blusa dele do que de pijama e tacou um short pro namorado, deitou-se na cama abraçada a John, quando já estava quase dormindo John quebrou o silêncio.

-Você está certa de que quer casar comigo?

-Nunca estive tão certa em minha vida toda – ela se encolheu mais nos braços de John, adormecendo.

[seeverdadeirocontinua]

Capítulo 18 - ...And the Same End

Pedro Lanza POV:

Eu não estava prestando atenção em nada do que Priscila estava falando no microfone, minha ficha só caiu quando ela disse meu nome. Não podia ser verdade, até podia... mas eu não queria.

– Pedro, essa menina tá doida né? Ela não pode estar falando sério....

– Ana, eu não... eu não sei – respondi confuso – Não era pra acontecer.

– Não era pra acontecer?! Você tá brincando comigo!

– Eu não lembro o que aconteceu aquela noite, Ana, acredita em mim, não era pra ser!

– Não precisa me explicar nada, aliás... eu sei muito bem como se faz um filho! Na boa? Acabou.

Ela se soltou da minha mão e seguiu até a saída. Caralho! Porque você sempre faz tudo errado Pedro Gabriel?

– Anamari, me espera! Vamos conversar direito, por favor!

– Conversar? – ela parou e se virou pra mim – A gente não tem nada pra conversar!

– Vem cá – puxei ela pra fora da boate – Eu te amo, Ana!

– Quem ama não trai!

– Eu sei... – suspirei – Mas eu sou todo errado...

– Sério que você vai reciclar o mesmo papo de três meses atrás? – ela me interrompeu – Eu devia te dar uns bons tapas na cara, sabia?!

– Eu sei, e eu mereço. Seus tapas ainda iam ser pouco.

– Sabe porque eu não vou te bater? – ela perguntou segurando as lágrimas e eu neguei com a cabeça – Porque eu não consigo te machucar, eu não sou capaz de te bater! Não consigo te ver sofrendo!

Aquelas palavras me machucaram mais do que qualquer tapa. Como eu pude magoar ela? Eu não merecia tanto amor. Eu não a merecia. As lágrimas começaram a rolar no rosto dela e eu não pude evitar abraçá-la forte. Por alguns segundos achei que ia ficar tudo bem, que nós íamos ficar bem.

Ana POV:

Quase agradeci quando Pedro me envolveu em um abraço. O abraço dele era tudo que eu precisava. Ironia mesmo é quando só o abraço da pessoa que te deixa mal consegue te acalmar... Eu me sentia segura nos braços dele, me sentia protegida e por alguns milésimos de segundo me esqueci do que tinha acontecido. Eu queria tanto que fosse mentira. Queria que ele olhasse pra mim e dissesse “Esse filho não pode ser meu!”. Eu não conseguia mais segurar minhas lágrimas, eu queria ir embora, ficar sozinha.

Pedro Lanza POV:

– Eu te odeio! Eu odeio te amar, eu me odeio por te amar tanto! – ela disse se soltando do meu abraço – Eu quero ir embora, eu não quero te ver mais Pedro Gabriel.

– Vou pedir pro Thomas te levar em casa... A gente se fala melhor quando você esfriar a cabeça.

– Qual a parte do “eu não quero te ver mais” você não entendeu? – ela disse fria secando as lágrimas.

– Pequena a gente não pode acabar assim!

– Não me chama de pequena! Caralho Pedro! Tem uma mulher grávida de um filho teu lá dentro! Porque você não vai encher o saco dela e me esquece? Me esquece, tipo pra sempre! Vai cuidar do seu filho, da sua mulher, me esquece!

– Ana será que você não percebe que é isso que ela queria? Que você ficasse com raiva de mim... Ela queria separar nós dois!

– Não Pedro, não joga a culpa nos outros! Quem tá acabando com o nosso namoro é você! Quem dormiu com ela foi você e quem transou com ela foi você! O pai do filho É VOCÊ! Você, ela e um bebê, sem espaço pra Ana! Entendeu?

– A gente pode... a gente pode superar isso junto.

– A gente?! Eu não ajudei vocês a fazerem o filho, pelo o amor de Deus! Acabou!

– Tem certeza que você quer assim? – perguntei com a voz falha.

– Absoluta.

– Você que sabe... vou deixar você esfriar a cabeça, enfim... Vou chamar o Thomas... Não sai daqui, espera que ele vai te levar em casa. Fica bem, por mim... ou por qualquer coisa que você ainda ame.

“Como eu sou tão burro, tão idiota.” Eram as únicas coisas que ecoavam na minha cabeça. Eu não suportava vê-la tão triste assim e por minha causa, por causa de um erro inconsequente, se eu pudesse voltar no tempo...

Voltei pra festa, que já não estava com mais nenhum clima de festa, e encontrei Thomas sentado em uma mesa com a Débora. Quando ela me viu me fuzilou com o olhar.

– Sério que você ainda ta vivo? Se eu fosse a Ana já tinha te matado e escondido o corpo. – ela falou séria – E aliás, já era pra eu ter te dado uns bons tapas na cara mas o Thomas não deixou!

Olhei pra ela e não respondi nada. Não estava com tempo pra começar discussões infantis.

– Thomas eu preciso que você leve a Ana pra casa...

– Tá tudo bem, eu levo.

– Depois eu preciso falar com você... Me liga ou passa no meu apartamento. Vou precisar de alguém pra conversar...

– Eu passo... Fica bem, mano.

Ele seguiu até o estacionamento e Débora foi junto com ele. Tenho certeza que se ela não estivesse com ele já teria me deixado com uns bons hematomas.

Procurei Priscila por todo o lugar até achá-la sentada tranquilamente em uma mesa, como se nada tivesse acontecido.

– Qual o seu problema, garota?

– Olha só quem chegou... o papai do ano. – ela riu

– Quem garante que esse filho é meu?

– E quem garante que não é? Qual é, nós dois sabemos que tem grandes chances de ser!

– Não aconteceu nada naquela noite e você sabe muito bem disso!

– Ah, sério? E por acaso você se lembra? Você tava pra lá de bêbado Pedro! Aliás, nós dois estávamos, mas ao contrário de você, eu bebo e me lembro de tudo o que eu fiz na noite anterior! Pensando bem, nem tem como esquecer né.

– E você acha que se realmente tivesse rolado algo eu não ia me lembrar?

– Quer saber o que eu acho? – assenti - Eu acho que você está tentando fugir da sua responsabilidade! – ela alterou o tom te voz.

– Cara, se o filho for meu eu assumo numa boa! Mas me diz você como quantos você dormiu depois daquela noite!

– E é da sua conta? Pedro, a gente vive em um mundo onde existe teste de paternidade... Simples assim.

– Precisava anunciar pra todo mundo ouvir? No microfone? Precisava fazer aquele show todo?

– Desculpa se eu estraguei o seu disfarce de bom moço. As máscaras caem um dia. Só dei uma ajudinha – ela deu um sorriso provocativo.

– Você tem problemas...

– Sabe o que eu quero? Quero que você assuma o filho.

– Já falei que eu vou assumir... – respondi de cabeça baixa.

– Preciso de um lugar pra ficar, quero morar com você no seu apartamento.

Olhei pra ela como se perguntasse se ela realmente estava falando sério. Não podia estar. Assumir o filho é uma coisa, morar junto é outra bem diferente. Diferente e desnecessária.

<< Capítulo Anterior || Próximo Capítulo >>

[p-q-na]

18

            Eu me lembrei do meu celular, eu poderia ligar pra ele... Se eu tivesse coragem. E é óbvio, se eu tivesse o número dele! Como sou idiota.

            Depois eu tomei um banho, um longo banho, de mais ou menos quarenta minutos. Só saí do banheiro mais cedo porque minha mãe começou a resmungar da cozinha, dizendo que eu estava gastando muita água. Eu bufei na hora, é claro. Mas enxaguei meu cabelo que ainda estava com condicionador rapidamente, depois enxaguei meu corpo inteiro e me enrolei na toalha que estava no meu quarto havia mais ou menos dez dias... Depois eu a coloquei num cesto de roupa suja e busquei outra toalha limpa na cômoda do quarto da minha mãe.

            No dia seguinte eu acordei uns vinte minutos mais tarde que o normal, eu já tinha tomado um longo banho no dia anterior, por isso eu só troquei de roupa, ajeitei meu cabelo, fiz minha higiene matinal e fui pra escola.

            Passamos a tarde inteira juntos – como de costume – já que os parentes dele tinham ido pra casa do avô e ficariam lá até a noite. Mas na maior parte do tempo, dormimos em baixo da árvore – cuja já era nossa segunda casa – e acordei sentindo uma pedra acertar minhas costas.

            - Vagabundo! – eu gritei assim que vi Justin rindo um pouco longe de mim. – Volta aqui, seu lerdo! – gritei e corri o mais rápido que pude atrás dele.

            - Oh, lé! – ele disse assim que desviou rapidamente de mim.

            - Volta aqui, Justin! – disse autoritária e parei. – Volta! – tentei parecer brava, apontando pro chão a minha frente.

            - Não obedeço nem a minha mãe e você já quer que eu obedeça a você? – ele riu.

            Cruzei meus braços e o celular dele tocou. Ele fez uma careta assim que fitou o visor do celular.

            - Oi, mãe – ele disse nervoso. – Tá, mãe, vou voltar pra casa agora – ele revirou os olhos e comecei a rir escandalosamente.

            - Não obedeço nem a minha mãe e você já quer que eu obedeça a você? – eu o imitei fazendo uma voz fina e irritante. – Vai embora, Justin, sua mãe tá te esperando com uma vara, agora – gargalhei enquanto ele ia pegar a mochila.

            - Vai lá, desobediente – ri mais e fui atrás dele, que ainda estava embaixo da árvore.

            Ele lançou um olhar desafiador pra mim e soltou a mochila.

            - Quer me ver desobedecer a minha mãe, é isso?

            Arqueei minhas sobrancelhas e ri mais.

            - Claro que não – disse ainda entre risadas.

            - Para, Demetria, você quer que eu desobedeça a minha mãe pra passar mais tempo comigo – ele se gabou.

            - Claro que sim, não sabe como eu amo você, Justin, já cansei de chorar porque você não me ama todas as noites, por favor, fica comigo? – fiz novamente a voz fina e irritante, o zombando.

            - Por pura dó, eu fico com você sim, Demetria – ele fez biquinho pra mim, como se eu fosse o beijar e gargalhei.

            - Não tem como não rir desse biquinho.

            - Você disse que me ama, tem que amar o meu biquinho.

            - Você é muito idiota – eu ri fraco dessa vez e peguei a mochila pra ele. – Tchau, não quero que apanhe hoje – tentei segurar a risada, mas falhou, já que meu sorriso saiu de canto.

            Ele deu a língua e pegou a mochila.

            - Tchau, meu amor! – ele gritou, tentando imitar a voz irritante que eu fazia às vezes.

            - Tchau, minha vida! – fiz a mesma voz irritante e ele se virou rindo.

            Minha expressão risonha desapareceu assim que Justin virou a esquina que ia até a casa dele. Suspirei varias vezes, peguei minha mochila e finalmente criei coragem pra voltar pra casa. Durante o caminho, eu chutava uma pedra que eu encontrara na primeira esquina que passei, mas parei quando um pé pisou na pedra. Engoli a seco e olhei de baixo a cima pra pessoa.

            - Oi, Demetria – ele sorriu malvado.

            Fechei meus olhos com força, desejando que fosse tudo um pesadelo e abri quando uma lagrima escorreu.

            - Vim aqui infernizar a sua vida.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @inatshej!

Read on AO3

*****

Beautiful Surprise

Hale Corporations was perfect the way it was. Derek loved the way there were tons of employees working for them, but not so much that they weren’t able to afford to be able to get each worker a holiday gift of some sort. He loved the way that he could learn everyone's name in HC headquarters but still had to make an effort to do so. He loved the fact that even though he was the CEO of the company, everyone still talked to him like another employee.

What he absolutely did not like was the fact that some California native who would probably come to work in some fucking swim trunks instead of the proper three-piece suit was going to be co-CEO with him, all because of some bullshit clause his grandfather put in his will and nobody bothered to tell him about.

Now, don't get Derek wrong. There was absolutely nothing wrong with sharing, but that didn’t mean Derek was okay with sharing the business he had to fight tooth-and-nail for with some stranger. His parents kept telling him that it was someone who he used to be very close with and that he would “just love him!”, but he doubted it and he would not be swayed because his family thought that this newbie was his type.

It was fucking annoying.

Add that to the fact that they said that this guy was out into the will as a requirement because they felt like Derek was working himself too hard, but they just didn’t understand. This was how it had to be if they wanted to continue to have their lavish lifestyles and buy expensive cars on a whim, then give them away to total strangers. Personally, Derek just felt like they were doing this because they felt like he couldn’t handle the task and fill the shoes Emery Hale had left for him, which he took extreme offense to.

He felt like he was more than competent enough to run the family business. After all, he made this into what it was today and for this bullshit to just come up and ruin his master plan of turning his company into a near-monopoly and obliterating Argent Technologies sucked ass. To Derek, he felt as though the rug was being completely pulled from under his feet and he hated that feeling when he was younger, and he hated it now.

Trying to explain all of this to his family felt like he was talking to a child with a high IQ: they were very smart, but they were still children and didn’t understand everything because they hadn’t experienced everything. Trying to explain this to them was just too mentally taxing, so Derek didn’t try after the one time, but at least he had one person who understood, and that was just enough for him.

Stiles Stilinski-Hale, also known as Derek’s husband of three years, understood why he was feeling this way. Stiles let Derek rant to him about anything and everything, never making him feel stupid about his thinking, but also helped Derek see other’s viewpoints on any given topic, which was a real bitch to deal with when they got into arguments and Stiles tricked Derek into agreeing with him. Still, Stiles was one-hundred percent the only reason that he wasn't currently pitching a hissy fit in the middle of the conference room while waiting for this new CEO.

Stiles was supposed to meet Derek right before the conference that would be the first meeting and the formal introduction of the new co-CEO, but he apparently got some emergency and told him that he would arrive a bit later. All in all, this meant Derek was basically angrily hyperventilating about the entire situation with about two-and-a-half minutes before he had to look completely presentable.

Fuck.

Shaking himself out from his internal crisis, Derek straightened up from his slumped position in the elevator, straightened his tie, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He was an amazing boss and felt like he was a decent guy. If this guy turned out to completely suck, he could at least fake it until he makes it.

Right?

Nodding to himself, Derek stepped out of the elevator as soon as it pinged and the doors open, with entirely feigned confidence, but a true this-shit-is-going-to-end-terribly feeling.

Damning to all to hell, he gave a small nod to the floor's receptionist and headed to Conference Room B, where he could make out a thick hair of full brown hair waiting for him along with a seemingly familiar set of broad shoulders through the glass walls of the room.

Confusion painting his face, Derek stepped in the room and immediately stopped dead in his tracks when the owner of the aformentioned hair and broad shoulders turned to face him.

"Stiles?"

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @gswritings!

Read on AO3

******

Stilinski’s Supernatural Rehabilitation Center

Stiles crossed the small living room to the front door of the cabin. The soft pine scent from the trees outside almost reminded him of the Christmas tree his dad would get every year. A smile twisted his lips as he opened the door.

The preserve looked plain. Just pine trees, dirt paths, a bit of bramble here and there. But it was so much more than that.

Wind rustled the branches, carrying with it a low growl.

“I know you’re hungry!” Stiles called, stepping onto the porch. A feed shed sat just before the tree line. He ambled toward it.

Whenever he thought back to his dad’s face the day he told him he was going to run a magical creature rehabilitation center, he cringed. His dad had laughed at him. Assumed Stiles was joking. Then he got concerned when Stiles didn’t start laughing with him.

Stiles entered the shed, immediately going to the oversized freezer. Most of his patients ate meat. He pulled pounds of frozen veal, venison, and boar out, stuffing them into buckets that were labeled and kept neatly on the wall.

His dad’s first concern was that Stiles would need to live outside of town and if something happened, no one would know where he was.

Stiles had countered that that was what cell phones were for.

The second thing he brought up was the soulmark on Stiles’s left wrist. How will you find them if you’re ankle deep in mud in the woods?

Stiles had rolled his eyes and replied, I guess they’ll just have to find me.

Stiles heaved the buckets up, tottering for a second as his balance was thrown off. Once his feet were steady under him, he headed out.

His boots crunched over the cold earth, breath fogging the air in front of his face. Thankfully, the first patient, an imp with a missing eye, wasn’t far away.

The imp had wandered into the preserve on his own.

Stiles wasn’t sure how exactly the injury had happened, but he’d tended the bloody wound and found a vacant part of the forest for him to stay. “Are you feeling better?” Stiles stepped lightly into the clearing.

A bush rustled half a second before a big, brown eye appeared through the branches. It blinked up at him sleepily.

Stiles crouched; he was still a ways away from the imp but had learned early on that it was best to let it come to him.

He set the bucket down and pulled out a handful of ribs.

The imp’s head jerked up in interest. Twigs snapped and remaining dead foliage fluttered to the ground as it crawled toward him.

Stiles frowned. The wound on the imp’s face was still red and raw. He leaned forward half an inch.

It froze.

“It’s alright,” Stiles soothed, nudging the rib closer to it. “I just need to look closer.”

The imp cautiously approached.

Black crust made a ring around the injury, smelling of decay.

Stiles’s frown deepened. His magic was supposed to prevent infection. Sparks flicked around his fingertips as he called his magic to the surface.

The imp watched him warily, chewing on the rib with small, pointed teeth.

Stiles touched the skin around the wound.

The black decay fell to the ground, the scent fading.

The imp blinked.

“There you go,” Stiles said. “Hopefully there’ll be more progress tomorrow, yeah?”

Charlie, a gnome with the flu, also appeared worse.

“What happened, guys?” Stiles asked, listening as Charlie hacked a cough.

Stiles placed a hand on her rough back. He felt the mucus in her lungs gurgle with each breath. That definitely wasn’t good.

He pulled herbs from his bag and mixed together a tea in a thermos. “Here, drink this.”

Charlie took it, shaking her hands irritably at the too-hot container.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Stiles said.

Charlie glared but tentatively took a sip, sticking her tongue out in disgust.

The water creatures were last. They were furthest from the cabin, located in a large pond that tied into a creek.

The pond came into view quickly; it was grey in the early light, a thin fog hovering just above the surface.

Ripples broke the water, a flash of a fin cresting the surface.

“Good morning,” Stiles greeted, squatting by the edge of the water.

A thin purple-tinged face stared back at him from the depths, sea-weed green hair billowing around her face.

The mermaid hadn’t given him a name to call her. Which was fine, only Charlie and Loti, the water nymph, had given him names.

Stiles looked up, first out over the water, then toward the trees, looking for her.

A low growl reverberated through the woods. More ripples broke the surface, turning into small waves as they hit land.

Stiles rose to his feet. The growl didn’t sound threatening, but it was clearly a warning.

The mermaid twisted around, dark tail glinting in the water.

Stiles watched her swim into the deeper area before vanishing entirely through a film of sediment.

“Loti?” he called.

There was no answer. Not even a chirp of birds in the trees behind him.

The mermaid’s head popped above the surface several yards away. She looked at Stiles, then down at something in the water, then toward the shore. Whatever she was carrying appeared to be heavy; she struggled a couple times to roll what looked like mud onto the land. It took Stiles a moment to realize it was Loti covered in a thick black rot. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp. The smell was horrendous, but as he approached, he could see her breathing. He could save her.

The mermaid swam backwards again, out into the deeper water.

Stiles dropped to his knees next to Loti, magic already flying across his fingers.

In the corner of his vision, the mermaid hunkered lower into the water. He’d have to figure out what was wrong with her in a moment.

Stiles’s head jerked forward, vision blurring as pain exploded behind his eyes.

Loti growled, multiple rows of sharp teeth flashing, and Stiles pitched sideways onto the ground.

Dark…pain…heavy….Everything hurt. He heard a groan. Was someone else with him? Cracking his eyes open hurt, but he managed. He saw Loti’s arm, still charred black. He lifted his head; it bobbed unsteadily as he looked around the darkening trees. He was definitely alone. The groan must have been from him.

He looked back at Loti. He couldn’t tell from the view of her forearm and shoulder if she was still breathing or not. Someone was trying to kill his patients. Pain lanced through his head and down his neck. Someone had tried to kill him.

Water sloshed somewhere close by. Stiles tensed. His attacker had returned.

Purple-tinged skin cut across his vision.

He blinked up at the mermaid. She held something out to him, fingers curled around a dark object. His phone. It was wet, like whoever had attacked him had thrown it in the water.

He rolled onto his side, gasping in pain when it seared down his arm. He gingerly reached out, taking the device. From within its case, it turned on. He’d have to thank his dad for the “life-proof” case he’d once insisted wasn’t “Stiles-proof”.

The mermaid shifted and Stiles looked back at her, realizing for the first time that she’d crawled onto land to reach him. “Thank you.”

She slid back into the water.

Stiles hit the emergency call.

Hands were moving him.

His left wrist felt like it was on fire. Had he fallen on his wrist? He’d have to ask later.

There was a bed beneath him. His bed.

Stiles woke up gradually. His head throbbed and overall, he felt like he’d been mauled by a hellhound. By the time he felt alright enough to open his eyes, he was sure an hour had gone by. Voices floated through the cabin from the kitchen. The bastard was back!

Stiles threw his legs off the side of the bed, snatching up the baseball bat he kept next to the nightstand. He’d beat their head in for touching his patients. He crossed the room, wobbling and distantly noticing that he was in the same pants and socks he’d been in but was now shirtless. He’d deal with that later. He flew down the hall, bat raised as he skidded around the corner into the kitchen.

He swung.

A large hand caught the bat with a solid smack. “It’s alright!” a man said quickly, holding the bat mid-swing. “We’re here to help.”

Stiles’s glare slowly faded, taking in the paramedic uniforms on two men, and the medical kit on the table.

The man holding the bat loosened his grip, slowly pulling his hand back in case Stiles took another swing at him. “I’m Derek. My partner here,” he gestured to the man at the table, “is Jordan.”

Jordan lifted his hand.

“We’re EMTs with-”

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles interrupted, seeing the name on his uniform. “I, uh, can read.” The room spun.

Derek and Jordan were clearly not a threat. Which was nice. Stiles was done with getting into fights…for hopefully the rest of the year.

“Sit down.” Derek put a hand on Stiles’s arm, applying just enough pressure to guide him.

Stiles’s skin grew warm where he touched.

A sense of calm overpowered the nerves and made the spinning stop. He allowed Derek to lead him to a chair. Technically, his chair. They hadn’t taken him to a hospital, and they hadn’t run off screaming at the sight of Loti. Or maybe they had. He’d been unconscious. He didn’t know.

He propped his elbows on the table and set his head in his hands. They had to be supernaturals of some kind. He looked at the medical kit on the table. A decoy.

“Was Loti—the nymph—alright?” Stiles knew she was far from “alright”, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask if she was alive. Whatever had effected the imp and Charlie had also gotten her.

Derek and Jordan exchanged a glance. Jordan gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked at Stiles seriously. “How hard did you hit your head?”

Stiles’s face reddened with fury. “Don’t bullshit me right now. I know she was next to me, by the lake. I know you two didn’t drag me to the hospital because if what happened is supernatural related, you don’t want to scare the humans.” His left wrist tingled painfully. He flicked it in irritation, involuntary sparks shooting from his hand. “You,” he pointed at Derek, “stopped a bat mid swing without even flinching. And your,” he pointed at Jordan, “medical kit is out of date.”

Jordan blinked, stunned.

Derek laughed. “New kits are on the way,” he explained, taking a seat next to Stiles. “Good eye, these technically expire next week.” He placed his hand on Stiles’s arm again, and the pounding in his head faded. “I’m a werewolf, and Jordan’s a hellhound. Care to tell us what happened?”

Stiles buried his face in his hands. “I rehabilitate supernatural creatures and they’re taking sick with black rot. It wasn’t there yesterday. It’s progressing fast. Loti was the worst.”

Derek hummed understandingly. “She’s alive.”

Stiles’s had shot up. “What?”

“It’s wolfsbane,” Jordan said. “We were able to slow down the effects, but we won’t be able to cure them unless we find the same wolfsbane that poisoned them.” Jordan placed his hands on his lap, eyes flicking over Stiles’s face. “Druid?”

“Spark,” he muttered. So, he had to find whoever hit him, find out where they keep their poison, heal his patients, and, he glanced at the clock, feed them a very late dinner.

His left wrist burned.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. He dropped his wrist on the table and twisted, expecting to see a bruise or swelling. Anything to indicate where the pain was coming from. The soulmark that had sat for years just below his palm had changed. Once a simple circle, it now held three connected spirals. “Please tell me one of you is my soulmate, and not the crazy asshole who knocked me over the head.” He looked up, first to Jordan, who looked at Derek.

Without prompting, Derek flipped his own wrist over, exposing the same mark.

“Huh.” Stiles nodded. “You did have to come find me, I guess.”

A concerned frown wrinkled Derek’s face. “You need to get some rest.”

Stiles opened his mouth, halfway to agreeing when a tree snapped in the woods. He paused. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he was sure he would have missed it. None of his patients ventured this close to the house. The bastard, Stiles thought, jumping to his feet. That bastard. The chair he’d been sitting in toppled over as he bolted toward the door. He could hear Jordan and Derek protesting, but he didn’t care; he had his bat and magic pulsing through his veins.

He didn’t know how he moved so fast, but he flew across the yard, racing for the figure he could see crouched and frozen.

She spotted him and straightened up. “Well, this is awkward,” she said, and leveled a gun at him.

Stiles was not normally an idiot, but no one messed with his patients. He barreled right into the crazy lady with the gun. He flinched when it went off, nearly deafening him, as they hit the ground in a tangle. He wrestled it from her hands and threw it off to the left, into the woods.

She reared back and punched him in the face, dazing him.

He came back swinging, managing to clip her jaw with her fist. He swore when she rolled them over, pinning him into the dirt with her knees on his arms. “Don’t! Touch! My! Patients!” He twisted his wrists under her legs and grabbed her calves, jolting electricity through her like a homemade Taser.

She screamed and fell off of him, trembling.

Stiles, panting, sat back.

There was a pouch on her belt, purple dust spilling out.

“What is that?”

“Death,” she spat.

“So the wolfsbane.” He lunged at her; her nails raked across his cheek, but he didn’t care, fumbling the pouch from her belt.

She kneed him in the jaw, knocking him sprawling.

He held up the pouch, triumphant. “I win—fuck!”

She tackled him, her knees plowing into his gut and winding him.

He clenched his fingers tight around the opening of the pouch, keeping it from spilling, and rolled. When she wouldn’t release her grip on him, he went with instinct and slammed his head forward, right into her nose.

She shouted in pain, putting her hands over her bleeding nose.

Stiles bolted to his feet and ran. He tripped over a root three yards in, cursing and holding the pouch close to his chest.

“Ha,” the woman said softly.

Stiles looked over her shoulder and swallowed audibly.

She’d found her gun, it looked like. She was aiming at him again.

He flexed his ankle and wondered if he would make it if he bolted to the left. He braced.

A shadow rose up behind the woman. “Kate, long time no see,” Derek said, reaching out and snapping her neck.

Stiles watched her body topple to the ground. He blinked. Looked at Derek. “Remind me to thank you later,” he said weakly. He turned and got sick in the dirt.

Jordan and Derek took Stiles to where they’d laid Loti on some brush, partially blocked from view by a tree.

From the water, the mermaid watched as Derek walked Stiles through the steps of curing wolfsbane poisoning. First heating the powder, then applying it like a lotion.

Loti immediately started squirming, becoming more aware of her surroundings and more aware of how much she didn’t want to be this close to Derek and Jordan.

She grumbled at them as she slunk back into the water.

Charlie was next, then the imp.

By the time they got back into the house, Stiles was exhausted.

“I’m going back to the hospital,” Jordan announced when they got to the porch.

Derek nodded. “Have fun. I’m sure Erica will try to rope you into going to the Christmas party.” He wrinkled his nose.

Jordan gave a shuddering sigh. “Probably.” He looked at Stiles, then back at Derek, one brow quirked. “Standard time off when you meet your soulmate is three days. Should I tell them you’ll be back then?”

Derek turned to Stiles, who was leaning against the side of his house.

Stiles shrugged. “You can stay here if you want.” The recent events made his typically loose brain-to-mouth-filter basically non-existent. “I’d like you to stay. So we can get to know each other.”

“Yeah, tell them I’ll be back Monday.” Derek stepped closer to the door, to Stiles.

The warmth and comfort radiating from his body had Stiles leaning toward him. Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around his middle.

Derek hugged him back automatically.

Stiles sighed and sagged into his embrace. “Thank you for your help,” he muttered into his chest. Exhaustion washed over him. “Let’s talk tomorrow.” He closed his eyes.

Derek chuckled quietly and brushed his lips against the back of Stiles’s head. “Deal.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @withtheredlights!

I had a good time writing this, and I hope it’s enjoyed. Happy Holidays!

Summary:  Stiles’s magic has been restless under his skin all morning. Usually, that means something big is about to happen, but Stiles hopes it happens after the boring lawyer meeting he’s being forced to attend.

(or, Stiles meets Derek and it’s love at first sight)

Read on AO3

*****

This Magic Moment

Stiles's magic has been restless under his skin all morning. Usually, that means something big is about to happen, but Stiles hopes it happens afterthe boring lawyer meeting he's being forced to attend.

Apparently, there's a mixup with his official emissary paperwork, and he needs an actual attorney to untangle it.

He would let Lydia handle it, but she swore up and down he had to do this one himself. He didn't quite understand the explanation, any more than he understands what's the problem itself, just that when he tried to apply for workman's comp two days ago, he was denied on the basis of being employed by the Hale pack — a pack he's barely heard of — and not the McCall pack, the one he's been filling in for since Deaton got sick a year ago.

So, okay, apparently Scott never filed the paperwork when Stiles started filling in for Deaton. He doesn't see what the big deal is. Why can't Scott just do it now? Why does it require Stiles to go down to the city and see some overpriced lawyer?

The firm's building is slick, all glass and chrome, impersonal and too shiny. Does he have the right place? He checks in at the desk and yes, he's supposed to be there. Mr. Lauden is running late, though, and Stiles should have a seat in the plush waiting room.

It's not until he sits down (accidentally banging his arm cast on the chair as he does) that he realizes he's feeling suddenly at ease. His magic is practically purring. He frowns to himself and looks around, his eyes falling on the man seated across from him.

The man looks like a model. He's scowling at his phone, which does nothing to take away from his overall gorgeousness, and Stiles wonders what about him has his heart beating suddenly twice as fast as normal. It's not like Stiles has never seen a beautiful man before.

As if he's wondering the same question, the man looks up, nostrils flaring, and pins Stiles with an intense stare.

Stiles waves nervously. His good hand needed something to do. He waved. That's not too bad, right?

Now the man just looks confused. The little furrow between his eyebrows is adorable and Stiles wants to maybe smooth it with his thumb. He tries smiling, instead.

The man isn't looking away. Did Stiles mention how intense his eyes are? He can't tell what color they are at this distance but — whoa! The man's eyes flash red.

Stiles is staring an alpha werewolf in the eye and doesn't know what to do. He gulps audibly. The werewolf smiles.

Oh. Oh. That smile is devastating. Stiles couldn't look away at this point if his life depended on it. And it might!

What the hell is going on, Stiles wonders, but his magic is moving beneath his skin like it knows exactly what's up. Well, Stiles wishes it would tell him because he's completely clueless.

The alpha werewolf gets up, walks over, and sits next to him. His nostrils flare again. He's sniffing Stiles, and Stiles is so grateful he took a shower before heading into the city.

"How'd you do that?" the gorgeous alpha asks him, gesturing to the cast on Stiles's arm.

Stiles flushes. He's still embarrassed. "Fell off a roof."

"What were you doing on a roof?" the alpha asks him. "That's dangerous. You could've been killed."

"Warding a friend's house," Stiles says defensively, wondering where the hell this guy gets off acting like he cares what happens to him. It's weird.

The gorgeous alpha frowns. "You're a witch?"

"A spark, actually," Stiles says. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" His magic has been purring since the alpha sat next to him.

"I'm Derek," the man says, looking at him intently. He leans in, nostrils flaring again.

Stiles isn't sure if he's creeped out or flattered. Maybe both. "Dude. Are you smelling me?"

Derek leans back, an abashed look on his face. "I'm sorry. You just… I've never…" Instead of finishing the thought, he trails off. He looks frustrated.

"I'm a wannabe emissary, I've been around plenty of werewolves. I'm assuming this is some wolfy thing," Stiles says dryly.

This close, Stiles can see the color of Derek's eyes. Or rather the colors. They're beautiful, like everything else about him.

"Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale?" someone calls, and the moment is broken. They stand and follow the young assistant to Mr. Lauden's office, and Stiles is only a little confused why they're going together. The day keeps getting weirder and weirder.

Hale, Stiles thinks as he's seated in front of Mr. Lauden's desk. That's the name Lydia said when she tried to explain this mess. Not that Stiles understood at the time. He doesn't understand now, either.

He manages to bump his cast again on the arm of the chair when he sits, and this time he winces as a throb starts up around the broken bone.

Mr. Lauden clears his throat but Derek doesn't seem to be paying attention. He reaches out and brushes Stiles's fingers, the ones that are poking out of the cast. Derek's veins go dark gray as he pulls Stiles's pain.

Stiles relaxes in his chair, blinking at the alpha he only just met. "Thank you," he says gratefully, though he's never had someone drain his pain without asking before, no one but Scott, and not often at that.

"So you do know each other?" Mr. Lauden asks.

"No," Stiles says, his words tripping over Derek's.

"He's my mate," Derek says softly. At least that's what it sounds like. Stiles blinks at him and drops his jaw.

"I thought this was a case of accidental bonding?" Mr. Lauden says with a frown.

But Stiles is still staring at Derek. "What did you say?" then to Lauden, "Wait, what?"

Stiles's magic is rushing under his skin. Purring. Urging Stiles to move closer to Derek Hale, the man he only just met, the alpha werewolf who just maybe said they were mates. How is that possible? What is going on?

"As far as I can tell, there was a paperwork mixup about two years ago, and the two of you were put into a legal alpha/emissary bond," Mr. Lauden is saying. Derek nods. Stiles thinks this sounds like a simplified version of what Lydia tried to explain to him. The attorney goes on with, "But now you're telling me it wasn't accidental? Are you wasting my time, here?"

"No, it was definitely some kind of bureaucratic mixup," Derek says. "But when we met just now, I recognized him immediately." He looks at Stiles, a little shy now. "My wolf did."

Stiles realizes Derek's still touching his fingers, and where their skin is touching, Stiles's magic is very happy. Could it be true? Could they be mates?

"But mates are so rare," Stiles blurts out without pulling his hand away.

Derek smiles. "So are sparks."

"And so is the kind of mixup we're looking at here," Lauden says. "Apparently a clerk in the Beacon County Supernatural Relations office spilled something, made the paperwork stick together, passed it on to someone else… I'm not sure. But in the end, you were legally bonded, and because of the length of time that's passed, if you want to dissolve the bond you're looking at hundreds of billable hours and at least two appearances before a judge."

"I don't have an emissary," Derek says slowly. "But I do need one."

Lauden gives a hopeful smile. "Because of your apparent mate status, it might just be easier to see if you want to keep the bond…"

Stiles's magic is doing somersaults. He looks at Derek, his heart in his throat. Mates. "I need some time to get my head wrapped around this, I think." That little furrow between Derek's brows shows up again and Stiles immediately wants to smooth it away. "There's a coffee shop next door, I saw."

The furrow disappears as Derek gives him a smile that looks like a sunrise. Stiles smiles back helplessly.

Lauden huffs. "I see I'm not actually needed here. I'll send the bill to…?"

Derek nods at him, then turns back to Stiles. "I'll take care of it."

"I have money," Stiles says. He may not get paid well for filling in for Deaton, but he takes enough side jobs that he's comfortable.

Derek shrugs. "Let me pay the attorney's fee and I'll let you buy me a cappuccino."

"That's hardly the same," Stiles says wryly, but he really doesn't care. He just wants to sit down with Derek and learn everything he can about him.

"Is your arm feeling better?" Derek asks, and Stiles looks down at the cast. For a long moment, he'd forgotten about it.

"Much. Thank you," Stiles says, and watches as Derek reluctantly draws his hand away. Stiles's magic sulks.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head, then holds out his good hand. "Hi. I'm Stiles Stilinski. It's good to meet you."

Derek looks surprised, then takes Stiles's hand in his own. He doesn't so much shake it as squeeze and caress it. "I'm Derek Hale. I've been waiting to meet you all my life."

Stiles feels his cheeks heat. He squeezes back. "Yeah. Um, let's get out of here, yeah?"

Derek turns to the attorney and smiles. "Thank you."

Lauden smiles at them both. "My pleasure."

Derek and Stiles walk out of his office hand in hand. Stiles doesn't care if they're headed to coffee or wherever, just as long as he gets to spend more time with Derek.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Rebekahdarian93!

Read on AO3

*****

This Awkward Love

Derek hates parties. He doesn't like crowds or having to smile for complete strangers. He particularly hates the Hale Pack's Annual Christmas party because his parents will inevitably use it to try and set him up with their friends' children or people from allied packs. They've even done it when he wasn't single, though really the less said about the year he brought Kate Argent to the party, the better.

If it had been any other party, he might have been able to find a way out of attending—like suddenly visiting another country or drinking just enough wolfsbane-laced alcohol to send him to the hospital without risking his life—but the annual Hale Christmas party in Beacon Hills was a big deal and his parents would literally drag him here, IV bag and all, if he didn't voluntarily attend.

They know how bad he is at talking to people outside of their pack. He is the embodiment of awkward and this, right here, is a prime example. There's a gorgeous guy hanging out near the buffet table—young and skinny with large brown eyes, delicately thin hands, and a smile full of mischief—and Derek's instincts are screaming at him to go talk to the guy, that he might be The One, Derek's mate, the absolute love of his life, but his feet are rooted to the floor and all he can do is stare.

Another man approaches Derek's possibly-mate and grabs his arm. Derek has to fight down the urge to bare his teeth in challenge. He's not a jealous guy but he has the strangest urge to throw the man across the room for getting too close to his maybe-mate.

"Stiles," the man hisses, voice low, frown firmly in place, "what did you do? That werewolf looks like he's about to murder you."

Derek's eyes narrow. Who's threatening his potential mate, Stiles? He glances around but no one is looking at Stiles with more than a fleeting glance. The other attendees seem happy, for the most part. He doesn't scent any overt aggression.

"You promised you weren't going to do anything," the man says in a bit of a whine. "You promised."

Stiles places his hand on his chest and gapes at his friend with mock-affront. The move seems practiced in its theatricality. "Why, Scott, the very insinuation that I would start any kind of mischief is just absurd. I am the picture of innocence."

"Stiles..." Scott's tone is long-suffering, suggesting that Stiles and mischief are well-acquainted.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I haven't done anything." Scott raises an eyebrow and Stiles adds, "Yet. I swear, I haven't even talked to creeper-wolf over there." He jerks his thumb in Derek's direction.

Derek blinks. He looks behind him. There's a bare wall and a small scattering of people, none of whom are facing this way.

"And I haven't seen Peter yet, so really, what could I possibly have done?"

Stiles knows Peter? He could be referring to a different Peter—it's certainly a common enough name—but what are the chances of him meaning anyone other than Uncle Peter at a Hale function? How does Stiles know Peter? Why haven't they crossed paths before?

"Do you need me to get your dad? One of the Alphas?" Scott whispers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You do realize that's Alpha Hale's son, right? Derek Hale."

Shit! Shit. He's the creepy murder werewolf. He needs to look away. Anywhere else. Ceiling? No, lights are too bright. Floor? Now he looks pathetic. There! The Christmas tree. He can stare at the tree and it's like he's admiring it instead of trying too hard to not creep out his mate. Maybe mate. Probably most definitely mate.

"Hey, there's Cora. Cora!" Stiles raises his voice a little to catch Cora's attention. "Cora, come over here for a sec."

He risks a glance at his sister. She's got a glass of cider on one hand. She walks up to them with a familiar, "Yo! What's up, Stiles?"

Does everyone in his family know Stiles? This could be bad for him. Gods, if Stiles knows Laura there will be no end to the embarrassing stories.

"Did I do something to piss off your brother?" Stiles asks. He sounds more amused than concerned. "He's glaring some serious daggers my way."

"I didn't know you two had even met," Cora says. Which is true. They haven't. Until now, but that really doesn't count if he hasn't actually said a word to Stiles. Or come within three feet of him.

"We haven't," Stiles agrees. "Did Peter say something? I feel like this could be one of Peter's pranks, in which case my revenge will be swift and glorious."

"Not that I've heard and Peter usually tells me his evil plans." There's a slight pause where none of them speak and Derek stares very hard at a snowflake ornament on the tree so he doesn't look at Stiles.

"I think he's planning to murder the tree now," Stiles says. His amusement is obvious.

Cora sighs. "Derek, what are you being all pissy about?"

He frowns and scuffs his foot against the carpet. "I'm not being pissy," he mutters back.

"Did you swallow a lemon?" Stiles snorts. "Seriously, why are you mad at Stiles?"

He huffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not mad."

"Then what are you doing?"

He considers hiding in the woods until the party's over but the only direction his body wants to move is closer to Stiles.

"Do I need to get Laura?" Cora threatens.

His cheeks flame red at the very suggestion. "Ithinkhe'smymate," he says, all in one breath.

He dares a glance over. Cora is frowning at him. Next to her, Stiles is watching him, bemused. Scott keeps looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek like he's waiting for a fight to break out.

Cora raises an eyebrow when she notices him looking. "I'm sorry, try again. Maybe in English this time."

He sighs. He's never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Laura is going to put the story on his tombstone. "I think," he says slowly, "he's my mate."

Someone tackles Derek from behind, sending him stumbling. He barely avoids falling on his face. "What the hell?" He turns to find Laura standing there with an insane grin.

"Who's your mate?" Laura asks, voice full of excitement. She even bounces a little.

"He is," Cora says, pointing at Stiles, who looks very confused.

"I'm what?" Stiles asks.

"Going to meet my brother," Cora answers. She grabs Stiles by the arm at the same time as Laura grabs Derek's arm. They're both dragged across the room to meet in the middle. "Stiles, meet my brother, Derek. He wants to make babies with you."

Laura gives Derek an extra push toward Stiles. He shoots Laura a quick glare and then rubs the back of his head. He's not sure his face can get redder but he's about to find out. "Um, hi." He can't quite bring himself to look straight at Stiles. He doesn't want to come off as creepy. Again.

"Hi," Stiles says, voice thick with humor. "I'm Stiles. I require at least one proper date before there's any attempt at making babies. Which, given we're both guys, babies are highly unlikely to occur but I'm willing to put in the effort." He holds out his hand. His smile is absolutely blinding. Cora and Laura can both hear the way it makes Derek's heart skip a beat.

Derek stares at the appendage. This is it, the turning point of his life. If he takes Stiles's hand, it will confirm what his instincts already know. If he doesn't.... Well, that's not really an option.

He takes Stiles's hand in his. Electricity courses through his body, setting his nerves alight. In the space of an instant, he's broken apart and remade anew, his very being reshaped to include Stiles. He can feel Stiles's presence. Stiles is his personal North Star, a guiding light that pulls Derek home. Stiles's scent is so thick, Derek can taste it—electricity and midnight rain and freshly turned earth.

"Oh," Stiles says after a minute. His eyes are wide as saucers. He hasn't let go of Derek's hand.

Cora claps them both on the shoulder, startling them into letting go. "Well, my work here is done. You kids have a lovely time and don't start humping at the party, Mom will kill you."

Oh, gods, his parents are going to be insufferable. They'll announce it over the loudspeakers and pull him and Stiles up on stage. He has to get out of here. At least finding his mate will make a good excuse. They can't fault him for wanting to spend time strengthening the bond with his mate.

"Dinner?" Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks and his face shifts back to that amused grin he had before. "It's a thing I enjoy, yeah."

"We should..." Derek swallows. "Do you want to? Now?"

There's something soft in the way Stiles looks at him. Almost fond, growing fonder. "You mean, would I like to have dinner with you?"

"Yes." Derek nods. "That."

Stiles moves to Derek's side and wraps his arm around Derek's elbow. "I'd love to. For future reference, I love diners and curly fries are the food of the gods."

Derek nods, far more solemn than the situation calls for but he wants to do everything he can to please his mate. "I can do curly fries."

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @lover95!

This is my Sterek Secret Santa gift for lover95! I hope you enjoy your fluffy soulmark AU! I certainly enjoyed writing it!

Read om AO3

******

you left a mark on me

Stiles is a klutz.

That much is well known.

What is less known is how only about half of the scrapes he gets into are his own fault- if that! Because in this universe you are lucky enough to share every injury with your soulmate - even if you don’t yet know the bastard.

With the amount of injuries they amass in a week, Stiles’ soulmate is either an even worse klutz than Stiles himself, part of a circus troupe (probably the always stumbling and falling clown), or a spy - James Bond style. Stiles would of course prefer the last option - purely because of the coolness factor. Who could resist James Bond?

When Scott gets bitten, a whole new world of options suddenly opens up. In Stiles’ newfound experience, supernatural beings spend most of their time injured in some way or form. To add insult to injury- literally!- they barely even notice it most of the time!

It would be just like Stiles’ luck: having a werewolf for a soulmate who spends most of their time getting injured - and probably doesn’t care to think about how that affects him. Ouch.

~*~

Soulmates aren't a very well studied phenomenon.

It is not known what percentage of the population has a soulmate, mostly because most people don't even know it themselves. You don't get a neat tattoo of your soulmate’s name or of the first words they say to you or anything helpful like that. Stiles wishes he lived in a universe like that. Instead he gets soulmarks - literal marks appearing on his body, reflecting the injuries of his soulmate.

Soulmarks can be anything - from light bruises to red scratches to even the occasional sprain. There's some stories about people breaking bones, but Stiles doesn't give any credit to those - he certainly hasn't ever broken a bone because of his soulmate and he has carried just about every other soulmark known to mankind on his skin.

Hence the thinking his soulmate was a super spy before realising werewolves were a thing.

Thankfully soulmarks are usually less severe than the original injury and never fatal. So instead of the deep scratch your soulmate has, you might end up with a heavy bruise, or a sprain instead of a break. But that right there is also why most people never even realise they have a soulmate. How many bruises do you discover on the regular without remembering how you got them? How would you ever know which came from knocking into the corner of the kitchen cabinet and which appeared because your soulmate accidentally dropped a hammer on their foot?

You see, most people don't suffer from severe injuries on the regular, and thus neither do their soulmates. Unless your soulmate is a werewolf of course.

It took cataloguing all of his cuts and bruises very meticulously, while also keeping track of which scrapes his friends got into, but the evidence finally seems to suggest that his soulmate is one of the pack. That's as far as Stiles has gotten, though. The only one he can rule out for sure is Scott and thank God for that. Stiles loves that guy like a brother, but that's just it - like a brother . Allison can keep his dick, as far as Stiles is concerned.

Everyone else is fair game though, even Jackson, perish the thought. He has mellowed out somewhat after his stint in good, old England, but still, the universe would have a very sick sense of humour if Stiles’ soulmate turned out to be Jackson Whittemore of all people. Stiles wouldn't mind any of the other betas, but really, there's only one member of the pack he is truly interested in.

That's the crux of the matter with soulmarks: How do you know you’ll even like your soulmate? What if you don’t? What if you love someone and they aren’t your soulmate? Or you aren’t theirs?

All of those are reasons why a lot of people do not actively attempt to search out their soulmate.

There are of course those who do - ritualistic woundings are a thing that unfortunately still exists, and pricking the fingers is a wedding rite that is occasionally celebrated, too. Hollywood loves the soulmate trope of course, soulmarks front and centre on posters even if they barely play a role in the film. Whole rows of bookstores are filled with soulmark romances - from Ancient Rome to outer space and everywhere in between. The question whether Cleopatra’s true soulmate was Caesar or Antony is a hotly debated one in certain circles.

Stiles himself has always dreamed of finding his soulmate.

His parents had been soulmates, though they only realised it years after being married, when his dad got shot on patrol by the only bank robber Beacon Hills has ever gotten and his mum bruised like a peach in the same place his shot wound was. Stiles has gotten his delicate complexion from her.

And the hopelessly romantic streak apparently.

His mum had loved that his dad and her had turned out to be soulmates after they married; it made her believe in fate she used to say and that “you'll find your soulmate, too, kochanie , and they’ll leave an even deeper mark on your heart than on your skin. Just be patient, baby.”

Well, Stiles has certainly got the marks on his skin, and someone has also left his mark on Stiles’ heart, but he's not sure those belong together. So, rather than risking learning an answer he doesn't want to know, he stops searching for an answer all together.

He'd like to imagine that his mother would approve of him being patient and waiting for whatever will happen. She'd probably just scold him for giving up, though.

The thought is not enough to make him risk his heart however.

~*~

Over the last few years, a tradition of pre-Christmas pack dinner has developed. Christmas is spent with their respective families, but the last weekend before Christmas is for the pack. It’s done potluck style - everyone likes different things, so instead of trying to find a compromise everyone’s happy with, they had decided to just let everyone bring what they want to eat. Stiles has learned to make an extra large batch of his pierogi , because that is eaten by just about everyone, whereas Lydia’s kale salad goes largely ignored by everybody but her and Jackson (the poor guy really is whipped).

Another tradition that has grown out of that one is the decorating the day before.

That’s not a pack tradition, though. This one is just for Derek and Stiles.

Because while pack dinner happens at Derek’s loft, it has long been decided that Derek is not to be trusted to decorate appropriately for the occasion. So Stiles always comes over the day before to help, and afterwards they order in and watch at least one Christmas classic. In a way it feels like their own little Christmas tradition, and Stiles has grown very protective of it. It’s when they reminisce about the past year and plan ahead for the next. Derek told Stiles about his plans to go back to uni while hanging up tinsel and Stiles spoke about his fear of losing his dad while spraying fake frostwork onto Derek’s windows. It’s as if no secrets exist between them when hanging up Christmas decorations - none except for Stiles’ soulmarks. Those he hasn’t dared to bring up yet.

This year’s decoration theme is definitely forest-y - gnarly roots as candle holders, cones and acorns instead of golden stars and red baubles, and even some mistletoe. According to Derek, Laura hated the artificiality of most Christmas decorations, all those garish colours, plastic-y scents, and the glitter that sticks to everything until Valentine’s Day comes around and covers you in more glitter, just this time in pink. Apparently the Hale siblings used to take turns decorating the house for Christmas, and when it was up to Laura, she did her best to bring the forest into the house.

“When I saw that mistletoe in the Reserve on my last patrol, it made me think of her, and how much she loved hanging them over every single door frame in the house. We never got anything done when Laura had decorated for Christmas because everyone was too busy kissing everyone else,” Derek says, a small smile on his face while his eyes show that he is far away, lost in memories. “I thought it would be nice to remember her through this - decorating like her,” he adds, and then asks, suddenly sounding very unsure: “Unless you think the pack would prefer more traditional decorations?”

“There’s nothing more traditional than mistletoe,” Stiles replies firmly. “And if Lydia says anything, I’ll remind her of the year she thought burnt orange and dark teal would make good Christmas tree colours.”

Derek smiles softly in response, and Stiles would have liked to blame the answering flutter of his heart on heart burn but he has long ago learned that lying to himself is of no use.

So, rustic decorations it is, which brings Stiles to the predicament he is currently in: balancing precariously on one of Derek’s bar stools, mistletoe in one hand, hammer in another and four, no three nails in his mouth. One nail just slipped out and possibly scratched one of his toes on its way down. Stiles doesn’t trust his balance enough to dare look down to check for blood. He’d call for help, but he’s honestly afraid of accidentally swallowing a nail if he opens his mouth. His genius idea to nail the mistletoe to the ceiling in the middle of the room, so that everyone ends up stuck under it again and again suddenly doesn’t look so genius any more.

Carefully, Stiles switches the mistletoe to his other hand, and takes one of the nails out of his mouth with his now free hand. So far, so good, but when he attempts to hammer the nail into the ceiling, he slips, and loses his balance.

Strangely enough, his last thought as he falls goes out to his soulmate. Maybe he’ll feel that.

But instead of hitting the hard floor, Stiles is caught in two strong arms, which break his fall. Somehow he even manages to spit out the remaining nails instead of swallowing them and killing himself that way. When he looks up, Derek’s face is dark with anger and white with fear.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he scolds and shakes Stiles slightly. “You could have broken your neck!”

“You caught me, though, didn’t you?” Stiles says, smiling angelically and tries not to feel disappointed that he didn’t at least break a leg or something. Surely his soulmate would have noticed that .

“And I’m starting to regret it already,” Derek snarks back, but his hands are gentle as he makes sure Stiles has regained his balance enough to stand on his own two feet again.

“Liar, you love me,” Stiles singsongs, and tries to ignore how much he wishes that were true.

“I hate you,” Derek throws back at him over his shoulder, having already turned away, so that Stiles can’t even see his face. And he doesn’t have a built in lie-detector.

“Hate to love me, you mean,” he still needles, and follows Derek, drawn like the moth to the flame, as always.

“If you say so,” Derek replies noncommittally, and Stiles forgets the snarky retort he’d had on the tip of his tongue, because he had been too focused on Derek to look where he was going and had run into the coffee table. Hard. Ouch.

In front of him, Derek stumbles.

Stiles’ shin throbs, and his thoughts are running wild.

He knocks his shin against the coffee table once more, and Derek stumbles again.

Elated, Stiles keeps kicking the coffee table, until Derek finally gets a clue and turns around. His eyes are wide and the look on his face is one of pure astonishment and disbelief. Stiles on the other hand can’t feel his cheeks anymore, he’s grinning so widely. Derek’s gaze caught in his, he deliberately kicks out one last time and his heart jumps when Derek flinches in reaction.

“I was hoping it was you,” he breathes, but at the same time, Derek says: “I was hoping it wasn’t you.”

“What?”

Stiles’ stomach is suddenly a ball of ice, all the elation he was just experiencing gone like a tendril of smoke in the wind. But Derek shakes his head hurriedly and steps closer, hand stretched out towards Stiles.

“No, that’s not what I meant! It’s just - I’m so broken, literally , and I couldn’t bear the thought of having inadvertently hurt you. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do. I know I don’t experience soulmarks the way you do, but the pain I must have caused you!”

The ice in Stiles melts as suddenly as it appeared and he steps forward in turn to take Derek’s still outstretched hand.

“I was hoping it was you,” he says, but then amends: “Well, actually, I was hoping it was James Bond for quite a few years. But once I knew werewolves were a thing, it was always you I was hoping for. I couldn’t know for sure, and I was too scared to ask, so I just kept quietly hoping. My soulmarks didn’t cause me pain so much as they gave me hope!”

Derek is obviously still sceptical and not convinced yet, so Stiles decides he has to haul out the big guns. Pun intended. He squeezes Derek’s hand in reassurance before dropping it and whipping off his shirt. Werewolves run hotter than humans, so the air in Derek’s loft is cool on his skin. The urge to cross his arms in front of his chest to hide himself is almost overwhelming, but the whole point of this exercise is to bare himself to Derek. So he gathers his courage, pulls his shoulders back and stands proud and tall.

“See this?” Stiles points towards a white scar on his right side. “That’s from when Scott fell off his chair in maths and I let myself fall off my chair, too, so he’d not be so embarrassed. Only I managed to cut myself somehow and bled all over everything, so then he was embarrassed for us both and worrying about me to boot.” He points towards a greenish bruise on his hip next. “I got that when I ran into our dining table earlier in the week. No particular reason why, I’m just spatially challenged apparently. I’ve got countless more marks like these, some visible scars, some fading bruises, most gone forever. I only remember the very visible ones, like that scar, or the most recent ones, like that bruise.”

He swallows and then turns half away from Derek.

“See my right shoulder blade? You see nothing, right? That’s where my first soulmark appeared. Or well, it probably wasn’t actually the first one ever, but it was the first one I noticed and recognised. It was just a small scratch with a pale purplish bruise. But I kept looking at it in the mirror because I was so happy. It was proof I had a soulmate, someone just for me. Someone who’d love me for who I am, because, not in spite of. That mark is long gone, but I’ll never forget about it. I’ll never forget about any of them. Like here,” he says, turning back around again, drawing a finger down his stomach and then repeating the motion on Derek’s clothed stomach.

“That’s when I knew for sure it was someone from the pack. That’s when I really started hoping it was you. But you all heal too quickly for me to properly catalogue your injuries, so I couldn’t ever be quite sure. Until now.”

Derek doesn’t immediately say anything. Instead he gently traces the path Stiles’ finger took, stroking across the skin on Stiles’ stomach, which breaks out into goosebumps at the touch.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper and Stiles admits: “You probably will. But I’ll heal - not as quickly as you and the rest of the puppies, but I’ll heal. And I’ll treasure my soulmarks even more than before. But you can always mark me up in more pleasurable ways, too,” he adds with a wink and tilts his head to the side, hopefully revealing his throat in a tantalising way.

“You are the worst,” Derek replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his lips that lets Stiles repeat, this time with conviction: “And still you love me.”

“I do,” Derek acknowledges, and then curves his hand around Stiles’ shoulder, palm touching where his first soulmark appeared. The touch seems to shoot sparks through Stiles’ body, electrifying him. Gentle pressure on his back encourages him to lean in and then Derek’s other hand comes up to guide his chin up, so their lips can meet in a soft, careful kiss.

Before his attention is entirely consumed by Derek and his kisses Stiles thinks: “I didn’t even need the mistletoe.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @drgrlfriend!

Merry Merry!

My gift for the good Doctor for SSS 2018. Hope you like it. :D

Enjoy!

Read on AO3

******

Stiles Stilinski: Baker Extraordinaire, Amateur Detective, Oblivious Idiot

“I swear to god, there’s something weird about him.”

“Stiles, you are so fucking paranoid,” Erica informs him, clearly only half-paying attention.

Stiles watches as Derek Hale, the new florist across the street from Stiles’ bakery, carries a bucket of roses out of his shop and refills his sidewalk stand. He waits until Derek goes back into the shop, trying to see if he does anything suspicious.

“Have you seen him, Erica? He doesn’t look like he should run a flower shop.” For one thing, he’s incredibly buff and looks like a supermodel that got lost on the way to the catwalk. And for another, his eyebrows are drawn down in a distinctly stern fashion that makes Stiles think he’s got murderous thoughts.

Erica sing-songs bitingly, “Are we judging books by their covers, Stiles?”

“No.” He gnaws on his lip, intent on dropping the subject. The door to the flower shop opens again and Stiles sees Derek bring out another bucket of flowers, this time some white frothy thing. “It’s just… well… I mean, look at him.”

Erica sighs, hops down from her seat at the counter, and peers out the window without even trying to hide what she’s doing.

Stiles rolls his eyes at her utter lack of stealth. He stands to the side of the window, biting his thumbnail and watching his best friend’s face for any reaction.

After another moment of openly staring, Erica gives her verdict: “Well, he’s hot as fuck.”

“That’s it?”

She shrugs, heading back to the counter. “That’s all I got.”

He throws his hands into the air. “You are utterly useless.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Stiles. He’s just a really hot guy who’s apparently really good at making bouquets.”

“There’s something weird about him,” he insists. “And I’m gonna find out what it is.”

She glances at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be getting the muffins ready? Our after-school rush starts in fifteen minutes.”

He lets it lie, for now.

-----

Stiles lives above his bakery, like any proper city dweller. He closes the shop in the evening and retreats upstairs to read or watch movies or sleep. Whatever he wants, since he’s single. So single. Single as a Pringle, which doesn’t really make much sense, considering Pringles come in sleeves with like, a hundred more…

Anyways.

Stiles enjoys his time alone, really he does, but sometimes it’s nice to have company. Lately, company has come in the form of a big stray dog that ambled up onto his balcony one night a couple weeks ago.

It’s become routine, now, that Stiles closes up shop and his visitor is usually by about thirty minutes after.

That night, he smiles at the sound of claws on the steps and grins when two black ears poke over the edge of the steps followed by a long snout and curious eyes.

“Hiya, bud,” he greets, patting his knee. “How was your day?”

The dog huffs and trots over to him, leaning hard enough to almost knock him over.

“Easy, dude. God, you’re strong. Who’s a big, strong man? Hmm?” he coos, scratching under the dog’s chin while its eyes half-close in bliss.

He pushes up his sleeves, prepared to reach around to get both hands on the scruff that drapes over the dog’s shoulders. Stiles laughs as the dog licks at the exposed tattoos climbing up his arms.

“Like them, big guy?” he chuckles.

He points to each one, explaining them: the compass for his mom, the star for his dad, the stylized measuring cups for his babcia, the sleek black cat for Erica…

“I want more, but I figure two sleeves are good for now.” He pats the dog’s chest as it pants happily at him.

The dog’s ears prick forward and it gives Stiles’ cheek one last lick before it clicks away down the stairs.

“Later, dude,” Stiles calls before going back to his computer.

See the thing is, Stiles is a researcher.

Well, obviously, professionally he’s a baker and a damn good one at that. But in his personal life, he’s been known to be sucked down many a rabbit hole when it comes to an obscure subject.

Since he’s suspicious as all hell about Derek Hale, he looks Derek up online. He gets a website for Derek’s shop and a couple of articles from the Beacon Hills newspaper about the place opening. Though he’s tempted to hack into the BHPD database with his dad’s access credentials, he leaves that route alone and settles for getting his information another way.

He moves on and researches flowers. The meanings of flowers, the uses of herbs, the symbolism of certain corsages, and anything else he can find. There’s a lot of occult use for flowers and medicinal ones, but Derek doesn’t strike him as witch. But hell, maybe he is. Stiles doesn’t know what a witch looks like since he doesn’t know any.

At least, he doesn’t think he does.

Hmmm. Another mystery for another time.

On one Tuesday morning, he catches sight of Derek putting out flowers and notices that the sides of his displays are lined in white heather.

“Why does he have protection flowers around his stands?” he mutters to himself.

Erica makes him jump when she replies lowly from right next to him, “Maybe to keep creepers like you away.”

Stiles glares at her and doesn’t bother to comment, just storms away into the kitchen as Erica goes back to the counter to talk to the customers.

-----

The first time Stiles actually speaks to Derek is weird.

Stiles is perusing the avocados at the grocery store when someone reaches across him, picks one up, and holds it out for him. “This one is perfect.”

Stiles takes it, then he realizes who’s standing next to him.

Up close, Derek Hale is even more magnificent to look at. Long lashes, thick beard, some kind of kaleidoscope eyes. Goddammit.

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbles, dropping the avocado in his basket and about to dart when Derek speaks again.

“You’re Stiles, right?” Derek’s voice is soft, softer than Stiles thought it would be. “You own the bakery across the street from my flower shop.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Derek smiles and it’s soft and slightly flirtatious. “I heard you have the best cookies in the entire county.”

Stiles smirks, always apt to brag about his baking reputation. “Three counties, actually.”

“Three counties. Well now I’m impressed,” Derek teases and something flutters in Stiles’ chest.

He reels himself back. Don’t fall for that smile and those dreamy eyes! He’s hiding something! “Mmhmm.” Maybe I can get it out of him. Or at least talk to him enough to figure it out myself. He slyly offers, “Come by the bakery sometime and you’ll see. They’ll change your life.”

Derek nods. “That sounds great.”

“Okie dokie,” Stiles replies, turning around and walking in the direct opposite direction.

The first step of his plan is done. Now all he has to do is catch Derek in the act. The act of… whatever it is that he’s clearly up to…

-----

Stiles didn’t really expect Derek to come the next day, so he’s confused when Erica pops her head into the kitchen right when they open and says, “Hottie McHotstuff is here to see you.”

“Who?” Stiles asks, half-distracted as he pulls muffins from a tin and places them on a tray to cool.

Erica sighs. “Derek, obviously.”

“Oh.” He dusts off his hands. “Wonder what he wants.”

“I wonder…” she mutters as she goes back out front.

He glances down at himself and unties his apron, patting at himself to shake off the excess flour and scratching at a patch of dried blue frosting on the stomach of his t-shirt.

When he emerges, slightly less floury, he sees Erica talking to a pretty redhead girl at the end of the bar. Rolling his eyes, he scans the place and finds Derek looking at the shelves filled with his babcia’s baking tools.

“Cool, huh?” he asks, sliding up next to Derek.

“Very.” Derek glances over, his nostrils flaring a little, and nods at the hand-mixer. “Family heirloom?”

“Remarkably spot on.” He points at the bowls, propped up to display the painted bottoms. “I learned how to make my first cookies with that mixer and those bowls.”

Derek’s looking at his arms, running his eyes over the tattoos if Stiles had to guess, but he smiles and teases, “Your Three-County-Wide Famous cookies.”

Stiles grins, heading back behind the counter. “What kind do you like?” he asks, leaning over the glass.

Derek points out the peanut butter – not serial killer material, most people like peanut butter – and white chocolate lemon – Stiles’ mom’s favorite, he can’t be mad about that – and caramel – perfectly normal choice, his caramel cookies are divine.

Half mad that he can’t narrow anything down by the man’s cookie preferences, he puts the special twist in the bag that keeps it closed and hands it across the counter to Derek with a smile. “Enjoy them. Have a good one.”

Derek blinks then smiles. He takes the bag, shaking his head a little as he leaves, the redhead trailing behind him.

When he turns around, Erica is staring at him, mouth open. “What?”

“Did… did you just brush off the hottest guy that’s ever flirted with you?”

“I didn’t brush him off. And he is not the hottest guy to ever flirt with me.”

“Ehhhhh…” Erica squints and wobbles his hand in the air.

He glares at her. “Why the hell are we friends?”

She shrugs. “Got me.”

“It doesn’t even matter,” Stiles adds under his breath. “He obviously just left with his girlfriend.”

“Who, Lydia?”

“Whatever the redhead’s name is.”

“She’s not his girlfriend. She said they’re practically brother and sister and she came to help him with the flower shop for a couple months.”

“Really?”

The small voice in Stiles’ head starts shouting, insisting that there’s something extra weird going on.

He’s just got to figure out what it is!

-----

Stiles sprawls on his back porch and fiddles with the dog’s toes.

His new friend is almost wriggling with pleasure, which is odd because normally dogs hate having their feet touched, but it’s helping him think, so it’s whatever.

“I have a problem, dude,” he sighs. “There’s this guy…”

The dog huffs when he stops his ministrations, snorting and kicking his feet.

“Oh, right, sorry.” He starts back up. “Anyways, there’s this guy who is… a conundrum. I don’t know what to think about him. He’s… man, he’s good looking and he’s a florist, of all things. And, I’m not exactly an expert on flowers even after all my research, but he seems really good at it.”

He sighs, wondering how he can get Derek to talk to him.

“Maybe… maybe I can get a tour of the greenhouse? Or his shop…” he muses half-aloud. That could definitely work. “We are new neighbors, after all…”

The dog snorts again and rolls to its feet, shoving its nose against Stiles’ face and licking him.

“Ew, dude, gross!” he laughs, pushing the dog away.

The dog’s tongue lolls out and it wags its tail before trotting away and down the stairs.

-----

Derek looks up as Stiles enters the shop a couple days later. “Stiles.”

“Hey,” he greets, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thought I’d come by and see the place. Maybe get a tour, if you’ve got time.”

Derek nods, looking pleased, and gestures to a side counter. “I have to finish an order, but I’ll only be a second.”

“No worries.” He ambles over and looks at the vases on display, enjoying the smells and colors of the flowers around him.

Lydia pops up next to his elbow and he jumps. “See anything you like?” she asks with a cat-like smile.

“Uh, not… not really?” He glances over her shoulder as two guys come from the back and walk over behind the counter.

“This is Scott and Isaac,” Lydia offers. “They work here too.”

Scott gives him a look, takes a deep breath, and asks, “Can you make stir-fry?”

“Uh,” he shakes his head, “I’m not a very good cook.”

“But you’re a professional baker,” Isaac almost accuses.

“Yeah, I bake things. It’s not exactly the same.” He thinks about it and adds, “I mean, I guess I’m okay at like… casseroles but that’s about it.”

“So you can’t make stir-fry?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I could try I guess.”

Scott frowns. “How are you alive if you don’t cook? What do you eat?”

He laughs. “I subsist mainly on take-out and frozen food.”

Lydia pokes a sharp-nailed finger at his abdomen. “How are you so skinny then? That food is terrible for you.”

“Hey, I’ve got muscles. I can carry three bags of flour by myself.”

“Not bad, I guess,” she sniffs.

The three of them look toward the door as Derek comes through.

He looks between them. “What’s going on?”

Stiles notices the angelic faces that Scott, Isaac, and Lydia wear and he turns to Derek. “Hi again.”

“Hi.”

“Would you care to save me from the Inquisition? They’re making me feel bad about my inability to cook and also my weight, I think.”

“Sure,” Derek laughs, jerking his head toward the door. “Come on.”

They go through the back of the shop, past coolers and sinks and a big storage room, and end up in a small alley that leads to a door.

“Greenhouse,” Derek explains, opening the door and gesturing him inside. “I need to water the plants anyway.”

“Cool.” He keeps his hands in his pockets, sure that he’ll kill something if he touches it. He’s got a notorious Black Thumb. “So,” he starts, aiming for casual interest, “what brings you to Beacon Hills?”

“My family lived here before.”

“What? When?”

Derek frowns at him. “Your dad is the Sheriff. Surely you’re familiar with the Hale fire?”

It clicks – he’s an idiot because it shouldn’t have taken him this long to put two and two together – and Stiles shakes his head. “Holy shit. I guess I just didn’t…” He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s fine.”

“Wait… so… you moved back to town, even though your family’s house almost caught fire?”

Derek shrugs. “No one was hurt. And the land is still in our name. I wanted to branch out to my own shop. It made sense.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he mutters, but his mind is going a mile a minute. There’s not really anything strange about Derek’s story… so why does Stiles still have the weirdest feeling that he’s hiding something?

Derek holds a sunflower out to him with a smile.

“Oh, cool, thanks.” He tucks the flower behind his ear and grins. “How do I look?”

His eyes do a slow sweep over Stiles’ face, lingering on his mouth. “Really good.”

“Aw, thanks dude.” Stiles claps him on the shoulder.

Derek clears his throat, stating slowly. “I have to be honest, I’m kind of getting some mixed signals here.”

Stiles blinks at him, half-started on another spiral of thought about what Derek’s deal could be. “What?”

Derek smiles, shaking his head. “Never mind. Do you want to see the hybrid orchids I’ve been working on?”

“Sure.”

-----

Everything is hunky-dory for a while. Stiles tries to figure Derek out, Derek shakes his head at him with that strange smile and always sends him back to the bakery with flowers or plants.

It’s all good until the night of the full moon when he realizes he’s forgotten his phone charger at Derek’s shop.

He wonders if he has an extra somewhere, but guesses he probably doesn’t since the port on his new phone has rendered all his other chargers useless.

“Stupid upgrades,” he mutters, pulling himself up from his bed and shoving his bare feet into his shoes.

It’s a quick jaunt across the street and he loops around the back. The door to the greenhouse is open and he’s about to slip inside when he sees the black dog that’s been hanging out with him.

Before he can call out to the dog, it shivers and starts to change. Its body shifts, elongating and twisting and moving until Derek Hale, in all his glory, is standing in the dog’s place.

Stiles freezes, his heart climbing into his throat.

Derek is… Derek just… what the fuck? What the fuck?!

He takes a step back and Derek whips his head around, snarling with a mouthful of sharp teeth as his eyes flash bright red.

Stiles squeaks and takes off, sprinting across the street and scrambling up the stairs until he half falls into his apartment. He locks his doors and windows, pulls all his curtains closed, and sequesters himself in his bedroom with a baseball bat.

He has pretty fucked up dreams, so he barely sleeps. When Erica comments on how tired he looks the next day, he just levels her with a flat stare and keeps kneading his bread dough.

“Damn, okay,” she says quietly, clearly getting that he’s not having it today.

The only other time she bothers him is to poke her head into the kitchen and tell him Derek is out front.

“I’m busy.”

She frowns, studying his face. “Is there something I need to kick his ass for?”

“No. Just tell him I’m busy, please.”

“Okay…” She goes back out front. A few minutes later, she comes back in and asks, “Are you sure I can’t kick his ass?”

He snorts. “No. It’s not something you can fix by kicking his ass. No matter how entertaining that would be.”

“Hmf. Well, let me know if that changes.”

“Will do.”

-----

A purple hyacinth is waiting on the doorstep of the bakery when Stiles comes downstairs the next morning. Curled up next to the pot is his phone charger.

He stares down at it and sighs, lips pursed. He grabs the charger and thinks about taking the plant inside but, when he thinks about Derek’s glowing eyes, he decides to leave it where it is.

Even though he knows purple hyacinths mean that the giver is saying I’m sorry and he’s not actually sure that Derek needs to be apologizing for anything anyways.

At seven, when he’s locking the front door, he sees the flowers are still there. After a moment, he leans down, grabs the pot up, and brings it inside, placing it in one of the windows.

“What is that?” Erica asks as she sweeps.

“Purple hyacinth.”

She studies it, touching the flowers gently. “What does it mean?”

Stiles hums, leaning on the counter. “‘I’m sorry’.”

She glances at him. “You gonna forgive him for whatever he did?”

He shrugs, walking back into the kitchen.

-----

It's been a week and he misses Derek.

It just freaking figures that while trying to figure out Derek’s secret, all Stiles did was end up developing a fondness for the guy.

He curses his own foolishness as he tries to figure out a plant that he can bring by that says sorry I freaked out once I realized you were apparently a creature of the night please hang out with me again and also maybe go on a date with me because I kind of like you a lot.

It ends up being too hard, so he does what he does best: he bakes.

When Stiles enters the shop, it’s empty. He looks around, still a little jumpy, and rings the small bell.

Lydia is suddenly behind the counter and Stiles knows she wasn’t there a second ago. She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

Stiles plays it cool and holds up the container in his hand. “I come bearing a peace offering.”

Lydia eyes him then gestures for him to go through the opening in the counter. “He’s in the greenhouse.”

Stiles tries to stay out of snatching range, just in case, and Lydia snorts, clearly amused.

When he pokes his head into the greenhouse, Derek is standing stiffly next to the herb garden.

Stiles makes his way over. “Hey.”

Derek eyes him warily. “Hi.”

“So, uh, I was gonna get you a mistletoe plant but I researched it and apparently mistletoe is just a giant parasite, so. Then I thought, well, maybe a holly plant. It kind of reminds me of you. It symbolizes hopefulness, but that seemed a little too Christmas-y, you know? Next it was red tulips, to tell you that I like you but I couldn’t find any red ones for some reason.”

Derek blinks at him, looking startled at the flow of words.

Stiles, of course, keeps talking. “Plus, I don’t really speak Flower the way you do, at least, not that type of flower.” He chuckles nervously. “F-L-O-U-R I totally speak fluently. So, here, I made these for you with my sick translation skills.”

Then, like a totally reasonable adult, Stiles shoves the container at Derek and flees before the other man can even say a word.

When he gets back into the bakery, he walks straight past Erica and into the kitchen, throwing himself down on the ratty couch in the corner and putting his hands over his face.

“What’s the matter? He didn’t like the cookies?” Erica asks after a moment from somewhere near his feet.

“I have no idea if he liked them. I just word-vomited about plants and then shoved them at him before I fled like the hounds of Hell were chasing me.” He almost chokes on a laugh at the inadvertent turn of phrase.

Erica sighs. “You’ve got serious issues.”

“I know!” Stiles wails. “I’m gonna die alone!”

“Probably,” Erica tuts sympathetically as she pats his foot. “I, on the other hand, am going to marry Lydia and we’re going to have lots of pretty, pretty babies.”

“You’re really bad at comforting people,” he complains.

“Yeah… luckily that’s not why we’re friends.”

“Why are we friends again?”

Instead of joking, she answers honestly: “Because it’s important for you to have someone to kick you in the ass every now and then.” She stands up and points down at him. “Now, you’re going to get up, finish baking those cranberry orange scones, and then, if Derek hasn’t come over by then, you’re going to go back and calmly ask him out on another date.”

He stares up at her, trying to figure out if he’s more disconcerted by how bossy she’s being or by the fact that it’s all good advice.

“But what if he says no?” he asks, his voice oddly small.

She gives him a look. “He’s not going to say no, Stiles. Not even you could blow this one. He’s smitten with you.”

He scowls at her. “I’m sure there was a compliment buried in there somewhere.”

She smiles, patting his knee. “I’m sure there was.”

When she leaves, he only wallows on the couch for another couple of minutes before pulling himself up and baking the scones, moping and pouting the whole time.

Instead of going back across the street, though, he chooses the coward’s route and retreats upstairs. Sitting on his porch, he sighs, wondering how long it’ll be before he lives this down.

Footsteps on his stairs make his head jerk up and, instead of the black dog, Derek appears at the top of the stairs. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He jerks his chin at the chair next to Stiles. “Can I join you?”

“Uh… sure.”

Derek looks around curiously, brushing his fingers over the edge of the seat and scuffing his feet as he sits. He looks like he wants to say something but he’s holding himself back.

“So what’s up?”

Derek blinks at him slowly. “Just thinking that I’ve never been up here on two legs before,” he explains softly.

Stiles stares at him, taking that in. “Y’know, I… should maybe be mad at you for not disclosing that you were a person under the fur, but, if I’m being completely honest,” he winces, “I may have hung out with you so that I could figure out your secret.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, but not like in a bad way?” He waves that away. “Okay, even I hear how that sounds. What I mean is… I could tell there was something about you that was different. I just… didn’t know what it was.”

“And so you decided that being alone with the suspicious person was a wise decision?”

“Well, I didn’t think you were dangerous. Just…” he shrugs, “on the run, maybe. Like, witness protection or something.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Look, I know it was pretty dumb, I just, sometimes I get hyper focused on things and can’t let them go. You were a mystery I was trying to solve.”

Derek huffs a laugh. “Well, did you solve it?”

“Almost, but I… I have to ask.” He pauses, trying to phrase it the right way. “What are you guys? Like… you know what I mean.”

He nods. “Scott, Isaac, and I are werewolves. Lydia is a banshee.”

“That’s… interesting.”

“That’s it?”

“Forgive me if my reaction isn’t what you expected,” he drawls. “My former take on reality is kind of imploding a little.” He lets out a long breath. “Okay, so, you guys are werewolves. Why are you really back in town?”

“My mother told me that someone from the Hale pack is always supposed to live in Beacon Hills. There was one relative still living in town, a human pack member. Recently, she got married and moved to be with her spouse. My mom sent me and my pack to take her place.”

Stiles stares at him. “You’re being very forthcoming with information that seems pretty sensitive.”

“I guess,” Derek muses, “I feel like it’s okay if you know. I… I trust you.”

“Well that’s…” Stiles can feel his cheeks warming. “Um, thanks, I guess.”

“So, was that the only reason?”

“What?”

“That you hung out with me. Because you were trying to figure out the mystery?”

Stiles answers honestly. “Initially, yeah. I can’t lie that I’d like to get to know you, though, for real this time. Uh, if you’re… if you’re still interested.”

Derek studies him for a moment, then holds out his hand. “Derek Hale, Alpha werewolf, florist, still interested in you.”

Stiles smiles. “Stiles Stilinski, human, baker extraordinaire, amateur detective, oblivious idiot, definitely interested in you too. Would you like to go on a real date with me tomorrow?”

Derek smiles back. “I’d love to.”

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Areiton!

I really hope you like this! ♥

Title from "Post Blue" by Placebo.

Read on AO3

******

it's in your frequency

Stiles wakes up early on Christmas morning with the distinct feeling that something is very wrong, gasping and shaking and reaching for someone who isn’t there.

It’s a miracle his dad hadn’t woken up, too. Despite the lack of comforting, however, Stiles is glad. His dad had been far too exhausted coming home late in the night from his shift. It hadn’t even been a supernatural problem, just a regular people problem—the kind of people problem that only gets worse around the holidays.

It’s only 3am, Stiles realizes as he starts to process his surroundings. He’s still shivering. Maybe he just had a nightmare, but it doesn’t feel like it. (Does it ever with him anymore?)

Rubbing at bleary eyes, Stiles thinks it looks unnaturally light out. There’s a weird glow coming through the window but he knows it isn’t the full moon—just past, though, so the waning gibbous is still big and bright, but not this bright. It’s one thing Stiles actually keeps track of.

He gets up to at least look out the window, perhaps close the blinds even though the urgency in his veins hasn’t sizzled out, but he finds himself blinking, awed. And confused.

Outside, there’s a layer of snow. Real, brilliantly white snow that reflects the moonlight until everything is awash in a strange glow.

Now, Stiles has seen snow, but not in Beacon Hills. Usually they have to drive a couple of hours up into the mountains.

Snow.

“The hell?”

Stiles should probably take that as a sign to stay in, and yet there’s a tug in his chest. His curiosity—or something else—must urge him on because he’s throwing on layers and grabbing his keys. When he gets outside, he just stares at his Jeep for a long moment. He’s never driven in the snow before and he has chains for his tires in the back, just in case. He just never thought that’d be a thing unless he, you know, went somewhere.

The snow isn’t that bad though, and Stiles is climbing into his car before he remembers that he should tell his dad he’s gone. Fumbling his phone out of his pocket, he sends a quick “be right back” and then he’s driving.

Something is pulling him, drawing him out, telling him where to go. He has no idea what it is, but he can’t deny it.

He finds himself at the edges of the Preserve and his breath catches. He hasn’t really been out here since—

Since someone left.

It hurts to think about him so Stiles generally tries not to. He’s tried valiantly to tell himself that Derek should’ve left and was right to leave and the million reasons why Derek shouldn’t be in Beacon Hills, but it doesn’t quell the ache. Some part of him had thought— had thought that—

Well. It doesn’t matter.

Still, he’s here.

Stiles gets out, his breath coming out in large white puffs, and he stumbles because he’s not watching where he’s going. The insistent tug is harder now, stronger, and Stiles can barely keep up with his own feet as he makes his way through the trees.

The woods are deathly quiet beyond the crunch of snow and leaves beneath his shoes and he can feel his face going cold and numb.

Suddenly, sound comes back to him. He hears whispers on the wind, the occasional skittering of squirrels and birds and whatever other little creatures must live in the woods, and then he’s stopping, like he’s close enough to whatever homing beacon that he now has to figure out the exact location on his own. The thing that’s drawing him in has to be almost beneath him because he feels a thrumming down to his bones that wants to shake him out of his skin.

He spots a large pool of darkness in the stark white snow, shadowed though it may be by the trees.

Stiles approaches slowly and his heart is in his throat as it comes fully into view.

There are no wolves in California.

He takes another step.

A sleek black wolf is lying there in the snow and it isn’t moving. With a terror more chilling than the icy winds picking up around him, Stiles kneels beside the wolf, knees wet and probably freezing. If Stiles could feel anything except his own fear, his body would likely protest.

His hand trembles as he reaches out, smooths it gently over the wolf’s soft cheek.

Fur melts away, leaving flesh behind.

“Derek,” Stiles chokes. And he had known. As soon as he had seen the wolf, he had known without a doubt what it was, who it was.

Normally, the fact that Derek is naked would be more alarming—and in some of the best ways—but right now Stiles just wonders if he’s going to freeze to death. Or if he already has.

Derek is heavy, stiff from the cold, and Stiles holds back the tears but can feel them welling up hot and desperate in his eyes, his vision blurring. He pulls Derek’s head up onto his lap and feels for a pulse and his hands are so numb it should be impossible and yet—

And yet when he touches Derek, it’s like a shockwave. He knows immediately that Derek is alive, but barely. Derek needs help, and soon.

With the kind of adrenaline strength that allows mothers to lift cars, Stiles slings Derek’s arm over his shoulder and carry-drags him back to the Jeep. It’s a whole new struggle to actually get Derek into the backseat, but he manages. He has an extra sweatshirt in the back, tossed aside a few days ago, and he places it over Derek, removes a couple of his own layers to add to the makeshift covers.

Derek moves for the first time on his own, snuffles a little into Stiles’s clothes, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief that Derek can do even that.

Only when Derek is as settled as he’s going to get and Stiles has gotten into the driver’s seat does Stiles realize how badly he’s shaking. The adrenaline has faded enough for the ache and panic to return. It takes him a couple of minutes to even get the key into the ignition, dropping it to the floor more than once and scrambling to find it again. He swipes a hand over his face, cold on cold, like touching someone else’s skin. Flurries have formed outside, ruthless, blocking out the road and everything else.

“I need to go,” Stiles says, voice high and reedy. “I need to get him somewhere. He’s not— He’s not gonna die here.” His brain supplies the image of Derek so soon after they’d met, pale like he is now, on the verge of death like he is now.

His blood still stains the passenger seat and Stiles has to glance back, look at Derek, reassure himself that that hadn’t been the end and that Derek is here, at least in some capacity. But for how much longer?

He needs to get out of here.

The falling snow parts before the Jeep, keeps swirling off to the side, but not in front of him.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate, starts driving before he thinks to decide where to go. Home? To Deaton? To Scott?

Peter is technically Derek’s family but Stiles can’t completely rule out Peter as a culprit for this...well, whatever this is that’s happening to Derek.

He hopes Deaton doesn’t have plans for the holidays as he heads toward the veterinary clinic at 4:30 in the dark.

He dials Deaton and pumps his fist victoriously when Deaton answers, sounding less sleepy than anyone really should anytime before the sun is up.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Stiles tells him, which is a push. It should be at least twenty and he should really be careful in the roads, but so far the snow has been staying out of his way. For some unknown reason that Stiles is choosing not to spend much thought on.

Stiles glances between the road and Derek the entire drive.

At the clinic, Stiles pounds on the door, having seen Deaton’s car in the lot.

“Come on, come on, you crazy—”

Deaton clears his throat behind Stiles and Stiles spins around, clutching his chest. “What was that?”

“Whatever, sorry,” Stiles puffs out. There are wet spots on Deaton’s shoulders where the snow is falling on him, melting, and Stiles looks down at himself. The snow isn’t hitting him. He glances up, sees dark, open sky, but nothing touches him.

The Jeep should be dusted in white, but it, too, is just wet with the snow that had come earlier.

Deaton reads his thoughts far too easily. “Spark,” he reiterates, and Stiles gawps at him.

He really would love to know more, but not as much as wants Derek to live. He waves Deaton over to the Jeep and opens the door slowly, doesn’t want Derek overly exposed to the cold or Deaton’s eyes—as if Deaton isn’t about to see his whole naked body anyway.

“Has he said anything? Where did you find him?”

Stiles answers Deaton as best he can as they manage to get Derek into the clinic.

“So he was just there in the snow?” Deaton emphasizes. “As a wolf? Nothing around him?” At Stiles’s shake of the head, he continues. “No blood?” Again no. Deaton pauses, his next words too deliberately casual as he starts his examination. “How did you find him?”

Stiles swallows. It’s a fair enough question to ask...at five in the morning on Christmas Day. “I just… I just found him. I woke up and I knew something was wrong and I found him.” Stiles tries to shrug it off. “Maybe it’s the spark thing, like you said.” His tongue feels too thick in his mouth, like it could choke him.

Deaton hums and continues looking over Derek, poking and prodding and testing things.

Stiles bites at his thumb and fidgets, paces, keeping his eyes on the two of them and searching Deaton’s expression for any telltale signs of what they might be dealing with. Deaton’s frown stays pretty much the same the whole time as he keeps going.

Stiles is shocked from his concentration when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He answers the call with far too much forced cheer. “Heyyy, Daddy-o. Father of mine. Father Christmas.”

“Where the hell are you, Stiles?” His voice is sleep-rough, like a normal person’s should be.

“Deaton’s,” Stiles says, explaining quickly over his father’s concern that everything is a-okay and that he’ll be home soon, and you better not be eating anything fried when I get there.

Deaton is writing notes when Stiles hangs up and Stiles bounds over, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“So?”

Letting out a sigh and glancing sidelong at Derek, Deaton’s frown actually deepens. “My best guess? Someone tried to rip out his soul and it didn’t work. It’s going to take powerful magic to bring him back to himself again. If he wakes up now…”

Deaton doesn’t continue and Stiles rolls his eyes. “If he wakes up now, what?”

“If he wakes up now, if this isn’t fixed, Derek won’t be Derek anymore. I’m not sure he’ll even be able to shift.”

Panic rises, clawing its way up Stiles’s throat. “But he’s a born werewolf and this isn’t— This isn’t like what Kate did to him? Something he can fix in himself?” He can’t even look at Derek because if Derek is going to— If Derek wakes up—

Deaton shakes his head. “Some deep part of him is broken, can’t fit into place as it should.”

Stiles wills down his anxiety, tries to concentrate on the useful parts of what Deaton said. “Powerful magic? Don’t you have, like, magic? Power? Can’t you fix him?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Stiles. Do you remember when Cora had been poisoned? Derek gave up his alpha power to save her. That’s a lot of power. This—” Deaton tilts his head. “With what’s happened, it needs to be strong. A connection might work, but it’s unlikely you would be able to…” Deaton trails off, considers Stiles in a way that Stiles does not like to be considered by Deaton. “But you found him.”

“Yeah…?” Stiles flails his hands. “What does that have to do with saving him? I don’t think ‘spark’”—complete with air quotes—“equals mega powerful magic.”

“It doesn’t,” Deaton confirms, but he’s barely listening. He starts to move to the side of the metal exam table, then looks at Stiles peevishly like Stiles should’ve known to follow.

Stiles glares at Deaton the whole five steps over and then jerks back when Deaton grabs his hand. “Whoa! What are you doing?”

Deaton inhales deeply, centering himself, and Stiles really thinks that he should be the annoyed one, not Deaton. “Stiles, I need you to remain calm, for Derek’s sake.”

Stiles goggles at him, but then he very purposefully rolls his shoulders, tries to even out. “Why?” he asks, as calmly as he can.

“Because if this doesn’t work, things may get worse.” Deaton doesn’t give Stiles a chance to react after that, instead taking a scalpel and slicing it across Stiles’s palm, then Derek’s. “Grab his hand, quickly!” he urges.

“But—” Stiles knows you aren’t supposed to press gaping wounds together. It sounds like the most basic tenet of hygiene that one can possibly follow, and yet, here he is, slotting his sliced palm against Derek’s. “What is this supposed to—”

He can feel it, can feel Derek stitching back together inside. Stiles nearly falls to his knees, but Derek’s hand is gripping his tightly.

“Don’t let go,” Deaton tells him, as if Stiles could.

He doesn’t have the energy to spare to shoot Deaton an incredulous look because there’s a conduit between him and Derek, life force flowing back and forth through it until Stiles can’t help but close his eyes, exhausted.

He’s being tugged upright by the grip on his hand and, groggily, he stares...into Derek’s now open eyes.

“It worked,” Deaton says, sounding smug. “Derek, I think you should be the one to explain.”

“Explain?” Stiles asks, still blinking, still exhausted.

Derek is sitting on the exam table and pulls Stiles closer to hold him up, looking far too amazed and guilt-ridden all at once.

“You and Deaton and your stupid mysteries,” Stiles murmurs, but he falls against Derek’s chest anyway. “Was it the spark?”

Stiles feels more than sees the way Derek shakes his head.

“Then, what?” Stiles pushes back, wants to look into Derek’s face.

“You want the whole story?” Derek asks, obviously struggling with the idea of it

Stiles shakes his head, but points a finger in Derek’s face. “But later, yes. Just the”—and he gestures between them, to their hands—“this thing right now. Because I think I’m going to pass out in, like, two seconds.” He pushes the finger into Derek’s chest accusingly.

“I don’t know everything about it,” Derek says, “but I know what I felt. I’ve never— I never thought I would feel it.”

“Feel what exactly?” Stiles demands.

Derek lifts their conjoined hands and closes his eyes. Breathes in, out.

Stiles can feel something wiggling its way through them, something grasping him— No, not grasping. Holding. Safety and comfort and rightness.

Derek opens his eyes, squeezes Stiles’s hand. “You’re my mate.”

“‘Mate,’” Stiles repeats, but he starts to nod, everything making sense in his fuzzy brain.

“It’s a lot,” Derek tells him, scoops him up into his arms. “Sleep.”

Stiles starts to nod, then shakes his head. “Christmas!” he shouts, trails off again. “Gotta...home...dad…”

“Okay.” Derek carries Stiles to the car with far more grace than Stiles had done to Derek. After he grabs some clothes from Deaton, he drives Stiles home.

In his sleep, Stiles grabs for Derek’s hand, lets out a happy sigh when Derek holds on.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @bloodgutsandstarbucks!

Read on AO3

******

Love Don’t Lie

Stiles set his paperwork on his desk and caught the eye of his new partner, Scott McCall. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Scott grinned. “I have the best idea.”

He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Oh?”

“Since you’re new in town, I was thinking, you probably don’t know many people, and you moved into that big house outside of town…I could set you up with someone!”

Stiles’s jaw hung open. “Like a date?”

“Yes! But don’t worry, I have someone in mind. It’s perfect, because he’s new to town, too!”

Stiles laughed a little hysterically. “No, no, I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m actually happily-”

“No, really, he's perfect. His name is Derek Hale, he works with my wife. He's new to Beacon Hills, just like you, and he hasn’t gotten to know anyone yet, either!” Scott’s eyes widened and rounded, shining like a cartoon.

Stiles paused. “...Oh? And he's single?”

“Well, we’re pretty sure. He doesn’t have a ring, and he hasn’t mentioned anyone. How about this!” Scott waved his phone. “I’ll tell Kira to relay the message that you’re interested, and then he’ll let us know if he’s single or not.”

Stiles covered a laugh with a cough. He could just imagine what Derek's face would do at that little invitation. “Sure. You do that.”

“Great! I’ll let her know! Oh, also, we’re supposed to go check out a gnome thief on Saundersville Road,” he added cheerfully.

“Small towns are nothing but excitement, eh?”

Scott laughed.

Stiles grimaced at the menu in front of him, trying to avoid eye contact with his…date.

An irritable sigh made him finally look up. “You shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“There were circumstances,” Stiles hissed. “And excuse me, you agreed, too!”

“I only agreed because I was told you’d already said yes!” Derek set his own menu down with a slap.

Stiles pointed at him. “And you didn’t want to disappoint your new buddy, right?”

“Kira is my boss, I couldn’t just tell her no after she said you’d agreed! It would be rude!”

“Yeah, well, Scott’s my partner, and I couldn’t say no to him, either!” Stiles held up his hands. “Look, we just have to pretend to date for a little while, until they lose interest. No big deal, and no sad puppy eyes from Scott.”

Derek stared at him. “Stiles,” he began.

“No, really, it’ll be no big deal, I swear. All we have to do is go out after work together once a week for a staged date. Like this!”

“I hate going out to eat.”

He sighed. “Homemade is better, but seriously. Three dates is all it’ll take for them to take a step back.”

Derek sighed deeply.

“If you’d seen Scott’s puppy dog eyes, you’d understand.”

“Kira’s got them, too,” he said.

“So, it’s a deal?”

“Fine,” he mumbled grudgingly. “It’s a deal.”

Scott cornered Stiles at the station the next morning. “So?” he asked eagerly. “How’d it go?”

Stiles almost spat out his coffee; he’d briefly forgotten about the nonsense that was his life. “Uh—good. We’re going to go out again on, uh, Friday,” he fabricated, nearly wincing. He’d have to let Derek know.

Scott lit up. “That’s awesome! I knew you two would get along.”

“Uh-huh, yep. It was great.”

“Where are you guys going?”

“Ummm…”

Scott beamed. “You should volunteer at the animal shelter!”

Stiles’s face must have done something weird.

“No, really. I know it sounds weird, but it’s actually a good way to get to know someone. Plus, cute animals and doing a good deed! It’ll be perfect, I have a friend who works there, and she can make sure you get an easy job, you won’t even have to clean up any poop.”

“Ah…”

Scott’s eyes rounded just a little.

Stiles sighed. “That sounds…fun. We’ll do that.”

“Great! Also, we got assigned to take statements for a robbery.” He grinned and clapped his shoulder before walking out of the break room.

Stiles rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone out. He was sure Derek was going to love the plan.

Stiles was in love. Their names were Snickers, Milky Way, and Kit Kat. “No, really. I’ll obviously take care of them, and Scott would love the story.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “And this is all for Scott’s benefit,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t Scott find it suspicious if you adopted two dogs and a kitten on our second date?”

Stiles held up Snickers, a three year old mix of some very small dogs. “I want him.”

“Don’t you have enough pets?”

“Scott obviously thinks I’m lonely.”

Derek scoffed.

Stiles set Milky Way in Derek’s lap. Technically, they were supposed to be bathing the dogs for the coming adoption fair, but Stiles considered pre-bath cuddles part of the bathing process. They deserved it.

“Do we really have to continue this?”

“Oh, what else did you have to do tonight?” Stiles scoffed.

“Unpack! And I could have had plans!”

He rolled his eyes. “It is one night out of your week. You can spare that much time for a fake date with your fake boyfriend.”

“This is only our second fake date, so I think you’re jumping ahead calling yourself my fake boyfriend. Fake boyfriend is after at least three fake dates, and you have to walk me to my fake door, and give me a fake kiss goodnight.”

“You’re very high maintenance,” Stiles observed, kissing Snickers on the nose. “Maybe I don’t want you to be my fake boyfriend.”

Derek smiled pleasantly. “Then you can tell Scott and Kira the truth.”

“Uh, you agreed, too. You’ll have to tell Kira.” Stiles lifted Snickers to eye level, staring into his sleepy brown eyes. “Look, pal, this is gonna be traumatizing for both of us,” he said seriously. “But I promise, I will be here for you the whole time. We’ll be quick and thorough.”

Snickers didn’t seem to mind the bath; he even seemed to enjoy the warm water and gentle massage.

“Dramatic,” Derek muttered while Stiles dried him off.

“Rude!”

The next day at the station, Scott and Allison Argent, another officer, looked way too eager to hear about his date.

“It went well,” Stiles said, feeling harangued. “We’re going, uh, out to eat on Saturday.”

“That’s so awesome! See, I told you I was a good matchmaker,” Scott boasted.

Allison’s eyes narrowed. “I guess. But historically, you really aren’t. You’re almost always terrible at setting people up.”

Stiles laughed awkwardly. “Well, he was bound to get lucky once, right?”

That made her relax a little, flashing a quick smile. “That’s true. Well, I’m glad your date went well. Tell us how Saturday goes!”

“Yep, sure.” He nodded maybe a little too enthusiastically, because they both stared at him. “Uh, I just remembered I have some paperwork left over. See you later!”

“So if they’re onto us,” Derek said on Saturday, “why don’t we just tell them the truth?”

They were at a restaurant, since they had to eat sometime, and it’d might as well be on their date.

“Because you didn’t see Scott’s face. He was so proud of himself for successfully setting me up.”

Derek nodded while staring at the table. “So, do you like him?”

“Sure, he’s-” Stiles caught on a second too late. “No, not like that.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s the first friend I’ve made! I don’t want to crush his spirit.” He looked around the restaurant; at least four sets of eyes quickly looked away. Small towns. He smirked. “Hey, I had an idea.”

“Oh?” Derek did not look enthused.

“What if,” Stiles lowered his voice, “we kissed a little, here? I’m sure it’ll get back to them in a town this size, and they’ll know everything’s just as I said, and it’ll all be fine.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “If we kiss, they’ll know we aren’t dating.”

Stiles scowled at him. “What, you don’t want to kiss me?”

“You know-”

“Yes or no.” Stiles leaned forward and grinned. “Chicken?”

Derek grinned and leaned in, too. “Never.”

They were still kissing when someone cleared their throat right beside their table.

Stiles jerked back, flushing all the way to his hairline when he saw their audience. “Hey, Scott,” he said in a high pitched voice. “Whatcha doing here?”

Derek blinked. “Hi, Kira…Boyd.” His gaze darted over to the blond man and woman with them. “Date night?” he asked weakly.

“Nope,” the blonde woman said brightly. She leaned around Boyd and dropped something on the table.

Stiles stared at the matching silver rings.

“This is Isaac,” Scott said, gesturing at the blond man. “And Erica. We’ve all been friends since high school.”

“Hi,” Stiles said weakly.

“Isaac works at the Kenzie Jewelers on Main Street.”

“Oh?”

Derek dropped his head in his hands.

“Apparently, about four weeks ago—right before your first day at the museum, Derek,” Kira said brightly, “a man dropped off his and his spouse’s wedding rings for a cleaning.”

Scott picked up from there. “I was telling Isaac about my new partner, and how I set him up for a date with Kira’s new curator of prints and drawings, and you know, he said those names sounded awfully familiar.”

Stiles winced. “I can explain,” he said earnestly. He grabbed his ring and put it on, letting out a little sigh as it settled; he’d felt naked without it.

“Do tell. Please.” Kira crossed her arms.

Scott pulled the puppy eyes again.

Derek lifted his head. “Stiles didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

Scott made a face. “You could’ve just told me you were married.”

Stiles waved a hand frantically. “I tried! You kept interrupting me to tell me how great my husband was!”

Scott winced.

“And then,” he continued, “you told me his name, and I figured, hey, that’s fine, we’ll go on a date, no big deal. We could use a break from unpacking anyway. But then you were so excited that you successfully set someone up that I couldn’t come clean!”

Isaac let out a muffled snort.

Erica held up a hand. “So…Scott’s only success in matchmaking…was an already married couple?”

“Looks that way,” Boyd said. He glanced at Stiles and said, flatly, “He set me up with Isaac.”

Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. “We all took an oath to never speak of that again!”

“The point is,” Scott said loudly, “you could have just told me. I wouldn’t have been upset.”

“I figured you’d just…back off, once we’d been on a few dates,” Stiles said weakly. He frowned at his wedding ring. “Why did the cleaning take so long, anyway?”

Derek rubbed his temple, avoiding eye contact as he put his own ring on.

“What, did you forget to pick them up or something?” he snickered.

“No, the cleaning only takes about fifteen minutes, maybe an hour if we’re really busy,” Isaac said cheerfully. “But since we’re the only jeweler in town, the engraving can take three or four weeks, especially near the holidays.”

Stiles’s mouth fell open. “What engraving?”

Derek sighed and reached for Stiles’s hand. He gently removed the ring and tilted it. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbled.

Stiles took it so he could read it. He smiled, then laughed at the engraving: Dramatic. He lifted his eyes and found Derek holding his own ring, tilted so he could see the engraving on that one: Rude.

“What does it mean?” Isaac asked. “We were all trying to figure it out.”

Stiles cleared his throat. “It’s the first thing we said to each other when we met.” He swiped at his nose surreptitiously. “We met in a bookstore back in New York; we ran into each other, literally, and I spilled hot coffee all over myself. I started swearing and…stuff, and Derek called me dramatic, I called him rude.” He shrugged. “We got some napkins and had lunch together.” He slid his ring on and rubbed his thumb over it. “I love it.”

Derek smiled at him. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

Isaac winced. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s alright.” Stiles snorted. “I get the feeling that secrets don’t survive long around here.”

“No,” Scott agreed, laughing.

Stiles leaned over the table to kiss Derek, because he had to. Then he looked up at their friends. “You guys should join us for dinner, since you’re already here.” He grinned. “We still have a ton of unpacking to procrastinate on, might as well do it right.”

Derek sighed. “The only things we’ve unpacked are the cats’ beds and food bowls.”

“Madame Socks can’t sleep unless she has her own bed, Derek. Tip can sleep anywhere!”

“Madame Socks is the oldest cat,” Derek explained with a grimace. “Tip is the dog.”

“This is so weird,” Scott said with some awe. “You guys are so married. I should have guessed.”

Stiles folded his hand in Derek’s. “Probably. I’m starving, seriously, if we don’t eat soon, there will be tears.”

Derek lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Dramatic,” he murmured.

“Rude,” Stiles laughed.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @Princessabitchessa!

To my giftee, @Princessabitchessa, this is a round-about way of delivering on some of your favorite troupes, and I hope you enjoy the ride. Happy Holidays!!

Read on AO3

*****

Count your Blessings (instead of sheep)

John

Judge John Stilinski doesn’t intend to eavesdrop, but his robes are hanging from a hook on the back of his office door, and the hushed, heated whispers in the corridor draw his ear like a moth to a flame.  

“I can’t let you do this, Derek,” says a soft voice edged with ivory and steel.  “I won’t let you do this.  You could go to jail.”

“Then I go to jail.  We’ve talked about this, Laura, and you know it’s the only way.  Peter promised to check himself into a treatment facility, and we’re going to hold him to it.  After today, no matter what the verdict, it will all be over.”

John flips open the file folder of documents in his hand, thumbing through the records until he sees the case titled Hale, Derek (DES alpha) vs Argent, Katherine (DES alpha).  He’d only breezed over the case before lunch.  Something about an assault at a bar; two alpha’s fighting over an omega.  John had reviewed the arresting officer’s statements, but hadn’t read the omega’s deposition.  He flips to it now, sees the name Lahey, Isaac.

John should open the door, make his presence known, but the girl, Laura, laments, “This is all my fault.” Tears threaten her voice.  “If I hadn’t asked you to keep an eye on Peter, you’d never have been at the club in the first place. And it will never be over, Derek.  You’ll be forever labeled as a violent alpha. Your chances of finding a mate will be—“

“Stop.”  He doesn’t raise his volume, but the alpha command is evident.  “My mate is dead, Laura. I don’t want or need another. If my going to jail ends this insanity, it’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“Even though you’re innocent?”

The blood freezes in John’s veins, the papers between his fingers crunching like ice when he squeezes his fist.  

“I may not have committed this crime,” the man called Derek says, “but I’m far from innocent.”

__________

Hale v. Argent is the sixth hearing on his docket, after two drunk driving cases, an arson, a petty theft and, finally, a flasher.  John bangs his gavel, nicking the varnished wood and causing half the courtroom to startle in their uncomfortable chairs.  

At the defendants table sits Derek Hale, one of the two whispered voices from the corridor.  The young alpha can’t be a day over thirty, with piercing eyes and jet black hair. He wears a look of hopeless determination that, for some reason, makes John think of his deceased wife, Claudia.  Behind him sits his sister, Laura, the second voice from the hallway. David Whittemore lords over the prosecution table, slick and smarmy as usual.

“Counsel and parties in the case of Hale versus Argent, approach the bench.”  John takes great satisfaction in the furrow of confusion carving across David’s brow.  Laura, hands white-knuckling the railing separating the gallery from the court, looks like she will be sick all over the floor.  

“I’ll cut straight to the point,” he says, once David and Derek stand before the podium.  “Derek Hale did not commit this crime.”

Whittemore and Hale start speaking at once, trying to talk over each other.

“Be quiet,” Judge Stilinski demands, and he’s no alpha, but every mouth in the room snaps shut.  “For whatever reason, Mr. Hale seems determined to take the fall for the assault of the alpha, Katherine Argent.  But witness testimony is telling a much different story.” He turns to Derek. “Care to shed some light on what happened last month?”

“I’m an alpha. Ms. Argent is an alpha.  We were out at a bar, both perused the same omega, and got into a fight over him.  The witnesses were drunk. They don’t know what they saw.”

“Your Honor, this man is—“

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet, Mr. Whittemore?” John’s voice cracks like a whip.  “Don’t make me hold you in contempt.”

John Stilinski scrutinizes Derek’s face.  The alpha stares back, green eyes desolate and challenging.  “Nope. I don’t buy it. I’m a father, Mr. Hale. When he was young, my son and his best friend found themselves involved in all manners of mischief, and whenever something bad happened, my son Stiles would always take the fall for his friend Scott.  Even when he was blameless. That’s exactly what is happening in this situation.”

Derek’s face is a stoic mask, but there’s panic seeping out from underneath. “I’m pleading guilty.  How much jail time do I need to serve?”

Judge Stilinski shakes his head.  He opens the case folder and flips over a document so it faces Derek.  It’s an intake form for the regional food pantry. “No jail time. But after you’ve served some time here, you might wish I’d locked you up.”

Whittemore squeaks in protest.  “Community service?! My client was in the hospital!  The Hale’s are vicious animals and—“

“Your client was in the hospital for eight hours.  Most of that time was spent sitting in a chair in the emergency waiting room.  And, Mr. Hale,” the judge continues as if the Argent lawyer never spoke, “you will attend mandatory counseling sessions and, in addition to that, one year’s probation.  If you fail to serve at the food pantry three evenings a week for six months, you’ll be back in front of this bench before you can blink. And trust me, I’ll find out if you step even one toe out of line.”  Judge Stilinski leans forward, mock whispers to Derek. “I’ve got a very dependable man on the inside.”

He smashes a stamp dripping red ink onto several pages of paper. He hands over the first paper to a slack-jawed David Whittemore.  “Give this to Pamela at the front desk.” The second paper he hands to Derek. “Have the therapist sign this form and return it to the courthouse at the end of your sessions.”  And the third. “Here is your work order at the food pantry. Give this to the director. I’ll let him know you’ll be coming. Everyone settled?” Stilinski clutches the gavel, eyeing the mumbling Argent lawyer like his fantasy is clobbering him over the head.

“My client will be extremely dissatisfied with this verdict, your Honor.  My office—“

“Your client is a liar,” Judge Stilinski proclaims.  “You’re all liars. Get out of my courthouse.”

The courtroom is a blur of bewildered faces and astonished rumbles, none more confounded than Derek Hale himself.  But that’s not who John’s looking at. Even the ugly scowl slashing across David Whittemore’s face is ignored.

John focuses instead on the tears of relief in Laura Hale’s eyes.

__________

Later, after he’s eaten a salad he wishes was a steak, and the dishes have been washed and left to drip in the drying rack, John sits in his ancient recliner, and thinks about the mischievous son he’d mentioned to Derek in court.

When the prenatal blood tests had come back showing the rare omega designation, there’d been no one more shocked than John Stilinski.  Not a single omega graced the branches of his family tree. Hell, he’d never spoken to one until he’d sat next to Claudia his first day of college.  “It’s a blessing,” his wife whispers, skin and smile radiant despite the nurse lecturing them on the fragile health of some omegas, their predisposition to diseases.

“A blessing is not what I’d call him,” John jokes, when his wild boy comes home day after day covered in dirt, when he bounces off the walls, radiating energy.  “I thought omegas were naturally demure?”

Claudia smacks him on the arm.  “That’s a bunch of sexist hogwash.  It’s not about being reserved or shy or meek.  Omegas are fierce, curious, intelligent and loyal.  They’re strong.”  Then she smiles, the same smile that enraptured him in sociology 101 on his first day of college.  “Besides, I’m an omega. Have I ever been demure a day in my life?”

“It’s a blessing,” John chokes out, day after day as his son grows angry and distant, unable to process his grief over the loss of his mother.

“It’s a curse,” Stiles spits back.  “It makes me weak.  My body isn’t my own.  It’ll betray me, like it did mom.”

“No, son” John moans.  “I was married to an omega for twelve years, and she was the strongest person I’ve ever known.  One day… one day you’ll see.”

Tonight, John picks up the phone, dials Stiles’ number.

“What’s up, daddy-o?” he answers.  John closes his eyes, sees Laura Hale’s tears of relief painted on the inside of his eyelids, hears the desperate self-sacrifice in Derek Hale’s voice.  His son’s not a typical omega, but he is a ley line, attracting lost souls, and Derek Hale has ghosts. John sees the same haunted look in his son’s face whenever he visits.  He prays he’s making the right choice.

“Stiles,” he greets, all business.  “I’m sending someone your way.”

Erica

Erica’s walking to the break room when she sees the new guy—Dustin? Darren? David?  It’s on the tip of her tongue…Oh yeah, Derek!—holding a mop and bucket, standing stock still in the doorway of the community gymnasium.  She swivels, her gut telling her to change direction, march over and confront the rumored-to-be-violent alpha and ask why he’s just standing there staring at a bunch of kids.  Is he a predator, too?

The halogen bulb above Derek is flickering on and off as she stomps over in righteous fury.  She’s been nagging Stiles to fix it for weeks. Erica is ten feet away from him when the bulb flashes back on, light glinting off the wetness at the corners of Derek’s eyes.  Erica stops short.

His face as he looks at the kids running around the basketball court begrudgingly reminds her of her fiancé, Vernon Boyd.  It had taken her six months to work up the courage to talk to Boyd, the quiet, standoffish chef Stiles had hired for the pantry cafeteria.  Boyd is huge and gruff, and it took three dates before he cracked a genuine smile for her. At first she’d had some doubts whether they were compatible, but on the fourth date he brought Erica home to meet his grandmother, the woman who’d raised him and his little sister.  The moment Boyd leaned over to scoop his grandmother out of her wheelchair to place her tenderly into bed, Erica looked at his face and knew.  He was the man she wanted to marry.  The brusqueness had been hiding someone gentle, thoughtful, and intelligent.  Derek is looking at the children the same way Boyd looked at his grandmother; with a little bit of longing for better days, and a lot of love.

She shows up in Stiles’ office doorway.  “You need to come see this,” she hisses, motioning him to hurry out from behind his precarious stack of paperwork.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?” Stiles asks, as she bodily pulls him into the hallway.  The light is flickering again. “Damn it Erica, I’ll fix the stupid lamp, I promise.”

“Not the light bulb, dumb-ass,” she murmurs.  “Him.”        

“Oh,” Stiles says, when he sees Derek watching the children.  “Oh.”

“I guess you can never know someone, or what they’ve gone through to get here,” she muses.  “I would have pegged him as allergic to children as you.” Stiles is suspiciously silent. She glances over, and he’s watching Derek with the same open yearning.  

Oh, she thinks.  Oh.

Derek

“Anger is a perfectly normal, healthy human emotion.  We’ve all felt it. But when it becomes too powerful, and we allow it to get out of control, it can be destructive.  We can’t always remove the things that anger us, but we can learn to control our reactions to it,” Dr. Morrell informs Derek.

“I don’t have anger issues,” Derek tells her again, rubbing his eyes.  He’s been saying it since their therapy session started almost an hour ago.  “I saw a situation that needed to be handled, and I handled it. It was a one time thing.  I’ll never do it again.”

“You handled it with violence,” Morrell stresses, as if he needs reminding of his Uncle’s face contorted in rage, more animal than human.  “A level of extreme violence, to say the least. Aggressive external reactions are a result of internal events. I strongly believe your anger with Kate Argent was fueled by something.”

Yeah, it was fueled by her setting fire to my family, Derek thinks, and Peter being too drunk to bottle up his hatred.  He can feel the ire creeping up his neck, but is desperately trying to maintain control in front of Dr. Morrell.  She sees right through him.

“During your mandated therapy sessions with me, we’ll get to the root cause of your anger, Derek. Sometimes patients have no idea what is causing their heightened emotional responses but, more often, patients already have some idea of what lies at the heart of the matter.  It could be emotional trauma or grief.” Dr. Morrell levels a searching look at him. “What about you, Derek? Do you already know what it could be?”

A wisp of slick black hair and thin, translucent skin flitter across his vision. Red flames lick the night sky.  Derek blinks and the images disappear.

“No,” he lies.  “I have no idea.”  

_________  

Derek is certain he was never meant to be an alpha.  He really sucks at it. “You’re so lucky,” his big sister Laura, a beta, used to grumble.  “Alpha’s have it so easy.”  And at first, Derek thought that was true.  His mother was an alpha, and instilled in him pride at being part of only fifteen percent of the population with that designation.  Being an alpha meant strength, stamina, good health and good looks. Alpha’s were charismatic, got high paying jobs—they were sought after.  It meant he was capable of soul-bonding, while the majority of the population was not. Only omegas could soul-bond as well, but they were even more rare than alpha’s, making up only four percent of the population.

But being an alpha had its downside, which Derek learned at the age of fifteen when a jealous alpha set fire to his family home, killing his parents.  Being an alpha meant he was constantly challenged, assumed to be a violent meathead, only capable of thinking with his cock.

When Laura calls him to say Uncle Peter headed to the local bar, Derek knows there will be trouble.  For a beta, Peter has somehow made replicating every awful alpha stereotype an art: he’s brash, violent, and angry.  Derek has had to pull him out of bar brawls too many times to count in the last year, and tonight Derek’s had enough.  Peter needs help, more help than Laura and Derek can provide.

When he walks into the bar, Peter is trying to steal a young omega from Kate Argent, whose red eyes flash as she grabs the omega’s arm.  Derek doubts Peter has any interest in the curly-haired young man at all, but Peter would like nothing more than to start shit with the Argents, who they know—but can’t prove—set their house fire.  

“Let go,” Derek commands, stepping up to the threesome.  The omega’s eyes go round as dinner plates. Kate Argent snarls.  Peter looks at Derek like he’s a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  

“You’re a pathetic excuse for an alpha,” Peter sneers, then launches himself at Kate, the omega trapped in the middle be damned.

__________

He shows up at the community center at four in the afternoon on Monday, flashes his work order and is directed down the hall to the food pantry and kitchen.  A guy named Scott, also an alpha, greets him. He’s weary, but friendly enough, and directs him to the rooftop garden, where their director is pulling vegetables for the upcoming dinner rush.

He steps onto the sun-baked roof through a steel door, and is immediately assaulted with the scent of an unbonded omega.  There’s a young man bent over a raised garden bed, plucking lettuce leaves and herbs with his ass in the air like he’s presenting.  Derek’s salivating, going hard inside his briefs in seconds.  What the hell is happening? It’s the kind of ludicrous, knee-jerk reaction seen in sappy romantic comedies (or more aptly, pornography), and he’s never had this strong of a response to an omega before, not even to Paige.

This man is the director of the food pantry?  Why on earth would Judge Stilinski send him here, to work under an omega, when he’d been accused of a violent crime?  He tries to back away, crashes into the rooftop door, and the omega glances over his shoulder with big brown doe eyes.

The omega stands, wiping his dirty hands on the back of his jeans.  The action does not go unnoticed by Derek.  As he moves closer, the man’s scent gets stronger; sweat, gingerbread, pine and sugar.  He smells like Christmas morning, like everything good Derek can remember about his childhood, before it was all burned to ash.

Derek nods in greeting, but doesn’t stick out his hand because an unbonded alpha touching an unbonded omega is taboo.  “I’m Derek. Derek Hale.” He pulls the work order from the pocket of his leather jacket, the corners crinkled and worn from being shoved angrily inside the confined space, and thrusts the pages toward the omega. When the man reaches for the note, their fingers brush, and they both pull back fast, almost ripping the dog-eared document.          

After a cursory glance, the omega’s pretty lips pull into a sarcastic smile.  “My name’s Stiles Stilinski. I’ve got one question for you, alpha.  Will you have trouble working for an omega?”

Derek bristles.  “My name’s Derek not al— wait.  Did you say Stilinski?  Like the judge?”

Stiles’ spine is now an iron rod, shoulders squaring for a fight, and Derek’s never met an omega with such a chip on his shoulder, or one so quick to physically challenge an alpha.  “He’s my father,” Stiles snaps. “And for some reason, he hand picked you to come work here.  But I’m the one who built this program; I may be the only omega here but I’m the person in charge.  So tell me, Derek, is taking orders from me going to offend your red-blooded alpha sensibilities?”

It’s Derek’s turn to straighten.  “I’ve no interest in causing problems. I’ll serve my time, do what you need me to do, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Stiles smiles and, though it’s sardonic, it still stalls the breath in Derek’s lungs.  This is the first day of the longest six months of Derek’s life. “That’s what I like to hear, dude.  Now come on.” He thrusts a bag of lettuce into Derek’s hands. “We have work to do.”

__________

A month and a half in, Stiles’ sarcastic smiles and comments turn genuine.  It’s like an icecap melting; Derek barely notices the trickle until he’s drowning in the flood.  Despite his gruff exterior, everyone at the community center decides he’s an ‘okay dude’, and pull him into the fold.  Scott is still a bit standoffish, but it’s natural since they are both alphas, and Derek knows Scott has Stiles’ best interest at heart.  

He’s helping Stiles in the garden again—his favorite project, if he’s honest— hands submerged in the cool, fragrant dirt, furtively sucking in deep lungfuls of Stiles’ baked gingerbread scent.  “Your uncle sounds awful,” Stiles comments on their conversation, placing a carrot in their basket.

Derek shrugs.  “He’s in pain, but doesn’t know how to handle it.  I’m glad he went to a facility that will help him with his anger.  He’s getting therapy, finally working through losing our family.”

Stiles clears his throat and wipes sweat off his brow, smearing it with dirt.  “And you’re in therapy too, right? As part of your sentence? Uh… how’s that going?”

“It’s going okay,” Derek says sheepishly.  “I’m not very good at therapy.”

Stiles laughs, all crinkled eyes and wide, generous mouth.  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize therapy was something you could be bad at.”  

“It’s difficult to talk, to share, especially when the memories are depressing.”  He places a potato in the basket, and Stiles places two fingers on his wrist, right over his scent gland.  Right over his pulse.

“You do just fine when you’re talking to me.”

__________

He’d tried therapy once before, about a year after the fire, but found he couldn’t talk.  Looking at the psychologist, every word flew out of his head. Not long after his failed attempt, Paige had come into his life, and her love temporarily patched over the gaping hole in his soul.  

“Do you think that’s why you felt like you couldn’t deny her?” Dr. Morrell asks, pen poised over her notepad.  “When you wanted to stop trying to have a child? You couldn’t say no because you didn’t want to lose her love?”

The fourth time it happened, it was so early the doctors informed them it was called a ‘missed miscarriage,’ and it was ended surgically before Paige’s body even detected the loss.  The time prior, she had required a blood transfusion, and the relief, guilt and shame Derek felt knowing it was all over practically before it began, was palpable. The same emotions wrap themselves agonizingly tight around his ribs as he sits in the therapist’s office years later, until he feels like his heart might collapse under the pressure.

“Why don’t we reconsider having a child?” Derek had broached before Paige’s next heat.  She gaped at him with wounded eyes.

“Don’t you want a baby, anymore?” She’d sobbed.

“Yes, yes, of course.”  The words stuck in his gullet.  “But how many times do we try before we stop?  It’s like a roulette wheel; we keep spinning but our number never comes up.”

Her eyes flashed like lightning, a wild summer storm full of heat.  “How dare you, Derek? This isn’t a game!”

“Isn’t it, though?  We are gambling with your health, and we’re losing everything.  You heard the doctor say this might be a genetic issue.  When do we say enough is enough?”

She’d grabbed his hands in hers and pleaded.  “Once more? Just one more time. I promise, if it doesn’t happen, then we will stop.”

A better man, a better alpha, would have implored Paige to be grateful for the blessings life had bestowed on them.  A better alpha would’ve refused. But in the face of her anguish, Derek learned he was not a better man.  

It’s been four months of therapy, and Derek knows he needs to start being honest if he wants to heal, if he wants a real chance at finding happiness again.  “I couldn’t tell her no because I wanted a baby.  I was desperate for a family, because of all I’d lost.”  He looks at Dr. Morrell, grimaces. “But instead, I turned my marriage bed into a graveyard, and I filled it with bodies.”

__________

Everyone is avoiding eye contact when Derek walks in Friday afternoon.  Erica is practically bouncing on her heels. “What the hell is going on?  Did we accidently get an extra shipment of cookie dough ice cream?” Chocolate chip cookie dough is Stiles and Erica’s favorite flavor.  Derek prefers cookies and cream.

Scott sticks his head around the corner.  “Stiles wants to see you in his office right away.”  Derek’s heart picks up speed.

He pauses outside the office door, hearing hushed voices and smelling something odd.  Stiles’ scent is still there, warm and inviting, but there is another smell, vaguely familiar; fresh grass and lavender, hints of apple.  Another omega is in the office.

“Come in,” Stiles calls when Derek knocks, and he pushes open the door.  He’s correct; two omegas turn to look at him. One is Stiles, and the other is Isaac Lahey, the omega who’d been caught between his uncle Peter and Kate Argent that fateful night in the bar.  

There’s new emotions darting across Stiles’ features, and Derek wants to chase them, but he can’t right now because Isaac smiles at him, shy and grateful, and says, “Hello, Derek.  I came by to thank you.”

__________

The calendar is calling out to Derek each morning, warning him he only has a few weeks left of community service.  Only a few more weeks with with Erica and Boyd, with Scott and everyone he’s come to care about at the community center.  Even worse, his days with Stiles have an expiration date.

He wants desperately to be brave, to punch out on his last day and turn to Stiles and say Let’s get coffee or Have dinner with me? But it’s been so long since Derek has connected with anyone; he’s terrified.  Six months ago this whole endeavor felt worse than a jail sentence, but now he thinks maybe Judge John Stilinski knew exactly what he was doing when he sent Derek here.  

He crosses off another day, heads out the door, and prays for a miracle.  

Scott

Kira, the world’s cutest barista, waves at him from the counter before the bell above the glass door finishes chiming.  “The usual?” she shouts, and the six people on line in front of him turn to scowl menacingly at Scott. The coffee shop is bustling during the lunch rush today and Scott, stepping over to the pick-up counter, is shamefaced.  But his guilt disappears when Kira skips over, huge, sunny smile on her lips, and hands over the recycled cardboard tray with four warm drinks nestled in the cup holders. There’s a wet cappuccino for Stiles, a mocha with extra whip cream that has Erica’s name doodled on the side, a large black coffee for Scott and Boyd’s caramel macchiato.

“You tell Stiles he shouldn’t be drinking this much caffeine.  Too much can trigger an early heat,” Kira scolds for the hundredth time.  She’s a gender studies major in her senior year, writing her thesis on environmental health risks to omegas, and Stiles had gotten so exasperated listing to her well-meaning lectures he started sending Scott on the daily coffee runs.    

“I want to enjoy my illicit addictions in peace,” Stiles told him, handing over a slip of notebook paper scribbled with everyone’s order.   “Besides,” he’d said with a grin, “she’s your type.”

Scott smiles at her, and it’s so sappy two people in line roll their eyes, and another mimes barfing all over the tile floor.  “Early heat, right, I’ll tell him.”

There’s way too many people trying to order, the baristas scurrying around behind the counter like chickens with their heads cut off, but Kira still leans over the counter, silky black hair falling out of her messy work bun.  “And how’s the new guy making out? Derek, the alpha?”

He’s been there three months, so he isn’t new anymore.  When Derek first started, Scott had bemoaned his presence loudly and repeatedly to Kira, who listened with a sympathetic ear but never failed to remind him everyone deserves a second chance.  Now he thinks of Boyd, slapping Derek on the back, and of Erica’s giggle when Derek grumbles about the broken dishwasher. He thinks of Lydia’s knowing smirk as they all notice Stiles stand taller when Derek walks into a room, smooth down his hair and tug at the wrinkles of his plaid shirts.  “Ah… he’s fitting in, I guess.”

Kira smiles, megawatt, and smacks Scott in the bicep.  “See? I told you it would all be okay.”

“Hey!  Buddy? Want to get your shit and go sometime this century?  Some of us don’t have all day to watch your piss-poor attempt at flirting,” a disgruntled customer growls.  Kira blushes, but the smile never slips from her lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” Scott mumbles, backing out of the café door.

He stops in front of the community center, stares at the cardboard cup bearing Stiles’ name.  He doesn’t see the black ink; instead, he sees the pink blush of Stiles’ cheeks when Derek is due to come in.  Omega’s only go into heat twice a year, and Stiles had barely been back to work a week when Derek started. He jerks the cup from the holder, and tosses in the trash can.  Too much caffeine can trigger an early heat.  He hears the words in Kira’s sweet, melodic voice.

“You can never be too careful,” Scott grumbles.    

Stiles

Thirty seconds after Claudia takes her last shuddering breath, the heart monitor flattens, and the nurse walks into the hospital room.  

“She’s gone,” the nurse says, and Stiles will never admit it, but mixed in with the grief is a weary sense of relief.  

The doctor patiently explains to Stiles and his father that frontotemporal dementia is genetic, and omega’s can be especially susceptible.  There’s no need to panic, but Stiles will need to be monitored closely his whole life. Without his mother there to run her fingers through his hair and remind him omega’s are exceptional, his designation becomes a death sentence.  “Any resulting children would also require monitoring.” The doctor’s words take root in Stiles’ eight-year-old heart, and grow thorns.

__________

The new guy is due this afternoon, the alpha his father asked him to take in.  “This isn’t a halfway house for all the criminals you want to rehabilitate,” Stiles had bemoaned, but of course he couldn’t deny his dad.  

He loses track of time up on the roof, the mindless, repetitive task of weeding and harvesting in the garden soothing him into complacency.  At first he doesn’t notice when the alpha steps out onto the roof, since he’s so focused and also upwind. But when he does notice…

Derek is nothing like any alpha Stiles has ever seen.  For one, there’s desire in his green eyes, but instead of the typical flaunting and posturing, it’s followed by a flash of fear.  He’s strong but gentle, thoughtful but quiet, and he pulls every long buried instinct in Stiles up from the roots.

And he’s attractive, gorgeous, the most beautiful man Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles is going to fucking kill his dad.

__________

Stiles falls into the staff room, dying of hunger, and throws open the refrigerator with a bang before promptly remembering he forgot to bring lunch today.  Shit.

“Ugghhhh why?” He laments, stomach rumbling.

“What’s your problem?” Lydia asks.  Stiles turns and sees she’s sitting next to Derek at the lunch table.  She’s picking at a leafy green salad topped with chicken, cranberries and walnuts.  Derek has a ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. Stiles salivates.

“I forgot my damn lunch.”

Without a word, Derek hands him half his sandwich.  Stiles should politely decline. He doesn’t need an alpha to take care of him, like he’s some damsel in distress.  Besides, he doesn’t even like ham. But before he can help himself, he snatches it from Derek’s grip, takes a huge bite and moans around the mouthful.  “Er ma ga, tha’s so goo!”

Derek’s ears turn a charming shade of red, and Stiles wants to bite theminstead.  Shit shit shit.

__________

Derek is scouring a piece of food caked on the stove top in the pantry kitchen, and Stiles is not admiring the play of back muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt as he scrubs.   He’s certainly not ogling the cut of Derek’s bicep. Nope. This is not what he’s doing.  He’s helping out Erica and Boyd, staying late to give them the night off together.

It’s so hot in the kitchen.

“So,” Derek say, and the word startles Stiles from his muscle watching stupor.  The conversation flows easily between them, but Derek is hardly ever the instigator.  “What led to you becoming the director of the food pantry? Was this something you always wanted to do?”

Stiles turns back to the dishes soaking in the sink.  “I wanted to do anything a typical omega wouldn’t, and running this center, being people’s boss, is anything but typical.”

“You’re certainly bossy.”  Stiles can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe it’s the fact they’re facing away from each other, but it’s easy to throw the words over his shoulder, the pseudo-anonymity making him brave.  “After my mother died, I was angry. I spent years perfecting all the ways I could spit in the face of my designation. I can’t believe I didn’t give my father a heart attack.  Landing this gig killed two birds with one stone; my credentials beat two alpha candidates for the position, and to my father’s relief I’m doing something steady instead of rebelling.”  

“Do you still hate being an omega?” Derek asks.  His voice is louder, and Stiles swivels, see’s Derek is facing him now, soiled cloth flung over his shoulder.  

Stiles pivots back to the soapy silverware.  “Some days, yes. Others, no.” He plops a sparkling fork onto the drying rack.  “Fighting your instincts all the time is exhausting. I guess I’ve started to… reconsider some things.”  

“Like what?”

He dries his hand on a dish towel, and faces Derek.  “I’ve kept people at arms length, especially alphas. I’ve never even… but maybe I’d like a relationship.  A family.  I never wanted to have kids because I didn’t want to risk them being omegas too.”  He looks away, focusing on the digital display of the microwave, arms crossed and shoulders hunched around his ears.  “You must hate people like me, renouncing a family when you and your wife wanted a child so badly.”

Derek moves into his line of sight, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye.  It’s an alpha power play. Stiles should loathe it.  “I could never never hate you,” Derek whispers.  He reaches a tentative hand toward Stiles’ neck, broadcasting every move, allowing Stiles room to rebuff him.  When Stiles doesn’t flinch away, Derek slides his fingers over the gland behind Stiles’ ear, co-mingling their scents.  As soon as the alpha pheromones permeate Stiles’ senses, his whole body relaxes, a feeling of calm washing over him. It feels so good, so right, Stiles could cry.

He closes his eyes.  “Yeah, I could never hate you either.”

__________

Wednesday morning of Derek’s final week, Stiles wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus.  His joints ache, he’s running a low grade fever and his head is pounding. But he doesn’t want to miss the last few precious hours with Derek, so he drags his ass out of bed and into work.  

“You look terrible,” Scott helpfully supplies when he stumbles in.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Stiles snarks.  “It’s the golden rule.”

“Last week you said the golden rule was anyone eating chicken nuggets had to give you half.  You haven’t been drinking extra coffee have you?”

Stiles slams the office door in Scott’s face.  Screw him.

But by lunchtime Stiles knows this isn’t the flu.  His stomach is cramping, he’s sweating profusely, and his hole is feeling suspiciously wet.  He’s going into heat almost a month early. He bangs his head down onto his desk. He needs to go home, now.  He’s going to miss Derek.  He isn’t going to get to say good-bye.  

When he stands up, slick trickles down his leg.  Fuck.  He gathers his belongings, knowing he’ll be out of work until Monday, and throws open the office door, only to find Scott and Derek standing on the other side.  One look at Derek, one lungful of his scent has Stiles weak-kneed, and only years of stubborn pride and practice keep Stiles from falling forward into Derek’s arms.

“I called him, Stiles,” Scott says, sheepish but determined.  “I could tell you were going into heat when you walked in.”

“I wanted…” Stiles’ mouth is so dry the words croak.  “I didn’t want to miss seeing you. I wanted you to know—“

“Derek, can you drive Stiles home?” Scott asks. “I don’t think he can drive himself, and I need to stay here, keep the pantry open and get ready for the dinner rush.”  It’s a bold-faced lie. Erica and Boyd could easily run the show. Scott winks at him. “Go home, Stiles. You stink.”

“Will you be okay in such a confined space?” Stiles asks Derek on their way to the parking lot.  

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says, sliding into the driver’s seat, “knowing you’re home safe.  Trust me. I’ll take care of you.” Six months ago, Stiles would have shanked an alpha who said those words to him, but he knows Derek means them.  He knows Derek will drop him at home, respect Stiles’ body and his wishes, and accept taking care might mean leaving him alone.

The ride is quiet except for Stiles’ directions and Derek’s shallow breathing.  When they pull into Stiles’ driveway, Derek shuts off the car, placing both hands tightly around the steering wheel.  “I’ll help you inside, get you set up, and I’ll go. Unless you don’t want me to come in? I can stay outside, if it makes you more comfortable.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.  Here it is, the moment of truth.  He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s a pathetic omega begging for a knot, but it’s a price Stiles is willing to pay. “I’d be comfortable with you coming in.  I’d be comfortable with you staying, too.”

Derek looks at him, and Stiles doesn’t see pity in his eyes. He doesn’t see conquest.  He doesn’t feel weak or out of control. He feels powerful and special.  He feels strong.  Derek makes him feel that way.  What he sees is mirrored sadness, hurt and fear, and more importantly, the dawning realization neither of them are in this alone.

Derek gets out of the car without a word, jumps across the hood and pulls open Stiles’ door.  “I’m warning you, I may never leave.”

“I may never let you go.”

“Bossy.”  Derek scoops Stiles up into his arms, and Stiles doesn’t even mind.

_________

Derek’s plastered to his back, a long line of heat, knot buried snuggly inside Stiles’ body.  His inhalations are wet and stuttering, and Stiles reaches back, awkwardly trying to pet him.

“What’s wrong?” He slurs, still cum-drunk and more sated than he’s ever been.    

“Nothing.  I just… I haven’t… it’s the first time since…”. Derek doesn’t finish.  He doesn’t need to.

“I’ve never,” Stiles admits into the cool, empty air of his bedroom.  

“Stiles, I’m so grateful it was you.”  Derek pulls him closer, nuzzles the juncture of his neck and shoulder blade, the spot where a bond bite belongs.

“Right back at you, big guy.”  He snuggles in and closes his eyes, protected and content, all the things an omega should be, all the things he’s fought for so long, trying to keep his heart safe.  

He can’t help but feel blessed.

Laura

She’s running late, and blows past the Welcome to Beacon Hills sign at a crisp sixty-eight miles an hour.  There’s a niggle of guilt at the back of her neck; she should know better and she’s taking advantage of the skeleton crew of cops out on patrol because it’s a holiday, but it’s Christmas Eve and Laura wants to get home to the family she hasn’t seen in five months.  

This time two years ago, with the stress of her Uncle’s growing violence and Derek’s approaching trial date, she couldn’t imagine such a rich, hopeful future.  After the fire, it seemed to be one calamity after another, the ground beneath her feet always unsteady. But now, her last paper is handed in, her first grueling semester of law school is officially complete, and Laura’s heart is flying as fast as her Camaro.  She’s found her calling, she’s meant for this, and owes her revelation to John Stilinski. She’ll never forget the feeling swelling in her chest that day in court as she sat behind Derek, watching deep lines of determination furrow John’s brow. I want that, she’d thought.  I want to help people, too.  With a bang of his gavel, Judge Stilinski had changed all their lives.  It brings her joy to know someday Laura will do the same for someone else.  

She parks the car on the street in front of the small cape, and pops the trunk to grab overflowing bags of presents.  As she cuts through the front yard, she sees a slim figure sitting on the wrought-iron bench Derek restored from their family garden.  When the fire had been extinguished, they’d found it covered in a layer of ash, paint blistered and peeling from the heat. Derek had come back the day he bought his new home, washed and sanded away the grime and painted it a vibrant white.  In the warm, soft glimmer of Christmas lights and the moon, it practically glows, illuminating Stiles, sitting peacefully in the flower bed.

“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” she says, plopping herself and the gift bags next to her brother’s mate.  Despite his over-sized winter jacket, she can see the blossom of pink on his cheeks from the cold, smell the spicy, gingerbread scent of his skin.

“Merry Christmas, Laura,” he says, grinning.  Stiles reaches over, grabs her hand. “Welcome home.  Derek’s missed you.”

“I’ve missed you both.”  He squeezes her fingers. Inside, she can hear the music change over to another jovial Christmas jingle.  “What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway? Usually it’s my brother brooding in the dark.”

Stiles laughs.  “I’m counting my blessings.”  There’s something funny about the way he says the word; there’s history there, but Laura doesn’t know it yet.  It’s okay. There’s plenty of time to learn. “Plus, it was hot and crowded inside. I came out to take a breather, but my ass is starting to go numb.  Can I help you carry in your packages?”

They stand, and Stiles picks one of the shiny wrapped boxes from the bag and shakes it a little.  Something tinkles merrily inside. “These better all be for me.”

Laura laughs, poking him the the shin with the toe of her black boot and gathering up one of the bags.  “Don’t make fun, Stiles. It’s been too long since I’ve had a family to shower with gifts. I couldn’t help but go overboard.  I got your dad a low-fat cookbook.”

“Oh man, he’ll totally hate it.”  They grin at each other, conspiratorially.  “I, uh…I hope you’re still feeling so generous next year.”  Stiles picks up a bag with one hand, and parts his jacket with the other, smile shy but joyous in the blinking green and red lights.  Where five months prior Stiles’ stomach was flat as a washboard, his abdomen is now a small, distended bump.

Laura drops all the presents to the ground, something shattering inside one of the boxes.  “Oh my god, Stiles!” she shrieks, eyes welling with tears. She throws herself into his arms, as Derek throws open the front door.

“Stiles!” her brother bemoans.  “We were going to tell her together.  You are the worst secret keeper ever.”

“Says the man who told the entire community center the day we hit the third trimester.” Stiles’ voice is pure joy, love radiating toward his mate, who steps forward to wrap warm arms around him, one hand softly massaging the small of Stiles’ back.

“Let’s go inside and celebrate,” Derek says, reaching out to Laura.

Looking at the domestic scene—one Stiles fought against his whole life, one Derek never thought he’d get to experience—Laura feels happiness welling up inside her, the way it does so frequently these days.  For the first time in years, an aching sense of loss isn’t her primary emotion. The future which, not long ago, had seemed so rocky and unsure, is a happy place now, steady as a heartbeat, full of promise.

Inside, she sees Erica and Boyd, Scott and Kira, John Stilinski, Isaac, Lydia and so many others, the faces of all the people she and Derek have come to call family.  It’s a blessing, she thinks, next year there will be a new person to love.

What a gift.