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stereksecretsanta · 1 year

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Merry Christmas, @always-mimits!

I hope you enjoy and that it fits the prompts you wanted! :)

*****

Open Up Your Eyes

“Stiles, you can do this. All you have to do is –”

“Believe, I know,” Stiles snaps, then sighs at the eternally patient look on Deaton’s face. “Sorry,” he mutters under his breath, and he has to clench his jaw at the encouraging smile Deaton sends his way.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Deaton replies, voice soothing in a way that grates on Stiles’s last frayed nerve. “You’re trying to do difficult magic; it will take time to master more complex connections.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, a self-soothing action, before pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes hard enough that stars burst behind his eyelids. “I should be further along than this,” he grinds out through clenched teeth, unable to stop the feelings of self-loathing that accompanied these daily magic lessons with Deaton now that he was back from Berkeley for the summer.

Deaton, somehow, still retains his patience. “It is entirely understandable that your experiences –”

“Possession. Just call it what it was.”

Deaton continues as though Stiles hasn’t interrupted. “ – have impacted the way that you have been able to interact with your magic. You’ve made remarkable progress over the last four years and are much further ahead than I would have expected, knowing you then.”

“The longer Derek goes without an emissary, the weaker the pack is.”

“The ritual can be dangerous if you’re not ready for it. Do you feel as though you believe in yourself enough that you can complete it safely?”

A frustrated noise rips its way out of Stiles’s throat. “No, I don’t feel like I can do it, Deaton!”

Deaton nods, like he’d expected that answer. “Let’s be done for today, Stiles. You know there’s no rush.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, briefly clenching his hands into fists, before releasing all the pent-up tension in a long, slow exhale. “Yeah, you and Derek are both more patient than you should be.”

“Probably,” Deaton replies, not unkindly, before standing up from the table to clean up the few supplies around the room in a clear dismissal.

Stiles is both grateful and disappointed for the clear opening, but he manages to swallow both his pride and his guilt, and leaves the vet clinic.

–

Stiles is emotionally drained, cranky, and ready to sprawl on Derek’s huge sectional by the time he pulls up to the Hale house a little after noon. He’s looking forward to the comforting ritual of walking into the house to lunch already made, Derek prepared to listen to Stiles whine and complain about emissary training, and offer quiet encouragement with a soft look on his face that usually makes Stiles forget how to breathe.

As he pulls up to the house, though, he notices that there were several other cars parked out front, which is odd; the pack usually trickles in one-by-one throughout the week, and they all congregate on Friday nights, but noon on a Saturday? It instantly sets Stiles on edge. He parks next to the Camaro, and by the time he jumps out, Derek’s waiting for him on the porch, arms crossed and face twisted up in an expression that made Stiles’s stomach drop.

“How bad?” Stiles asks, practically jogging up to where Derek stood.

“Bad.” Derek’s tone is relatively neutral, but Stiles can see tension in the lines of his shoulders, in his crossed arms, that he hasn’t seen since he was in high school. Derek steps aside, and Stiles’s brows furrow in confusion until he catches sight of the door.

The red paint is marred in the center, clearly scratched into with claws, into some kind of stylized triangular symbol. One that, unfortunately enough, Stiles is familiar with.

“Motherfucker,” he breathes, stepping up to run his fingers over the destroyed grain of the door and feeling the malice of the symbol spark underneath his fingertips. “What do they want?”

Instantly, Stiles’s mind is racing, trying to think of ways they could handle this. Stiles knows that an alpha pack’s only purpose, really, is to act as the self-appointed vigilantes of the werewolf world, to make sure that “weak” and “unstable” packs are appropriately “dealt with.” Which really means that it’s an excuse for power-hungry werewolves to either recruit other power-hungry werewolves, or gain their power through other means. He didn’t think, though, that the Hale pack would be a target of them, now or ever.

“I’m not sure what angle they’re going to take,” Derek replies after a long pause, and Stiles turns back to face him.

“You mean you’re not sure if they’re going to try to kill all of us or if they’re going to ask you to kill all of us first?” Stiles is already too stressed to even bother with trying to find a nicer way to phrase it.

Derek releases a deep sigh that Stiles is sure he was trying to play off as frustrated, but instead comes out as a tentative, shaky exhale. “Yeah, Stiles. That’s what I mean.”

“Do you know how many there are? How much time do we have?” Stiles tries desperately to keep the nerves from coming through in his voice, despite the fact that he can feel his heart thudding hard against his ribs and knows that the wolves can hear it, clear as day.

“I think there’s five, but it’s hard to tell. They’ll be here at dusk.” Derek’s voice is so carefully controlled, keeping up that same facade of neutrality and strength.

Stiles feels his heart stop in his chest. Five alphas. His brain does the math quickly – Jackson and Lydia are on vacation in Europe, Allison is spending the weekend with her dad in their cabin in Washington, and Cora’s in Belize visiting the pack that had adopted her for so long, and dusk is in probably eight hours. That leaves himself, Derek, Isaac, Scott, Peter, Erica, and Boyd. Five betas, an alpha, and an almost useless emissary-in-training.

Stiles can see his conclusions reflected in Derek’s face; they are completely and totally fucked. Even outnumbering the alphas, there’s no way seven to five is going to even the odds.

For a moment, despair settles into Stiles’s stomach, a heavy stone that threatens to drop him right there. His offensive magic might help some, but only if his pack stays the hell out of the way, and his defensive magic is fucking dismal; he couldn’t even feel the alpha pack crossing through the warding on the territory lines. If they were stronger – if he was stronger – he could -

Wait.

He stills, even his racing heart slowing back down to something almost relaxed; it’s almost like the calm before the storm, brought on by stumbling upon the perfect solution, the obvious solution. It’s eerily similar to the beginning of a panic attack, that brief moment where everything seems so perfectly clear and obvious, right before his lungs stop working and his ribs tighten around his chest.

Derek instantly notices the change, closing the distance between them with an easy step. There’s blatant concern written all over his face as he places a large, warm hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Stiles,” he says, voice quiet but firm as he lightly squeezes his shoulder, “it’s going to be alright, we’ll figure something out.”

“I’ve got it figured out.” Stiles’s voice is dangerously calm.

Derek’s brows draw together and his hand clamps down a little bit tighter on Stiles’s shoulder. “What?” he says, more like a statement than a question, a short, bite of a word. Stiles doesn’t respond in favor of just looking into Derek’s eyes, and watching as the realization of what Stiles means hits him.

“Stiles.” Derek’s eyes are almost comically round – Stiles might have laughed if he could catch his breath. “You don’t have to –”

Stiles doesn’t let him finish that thought. “Do you have any other ideas? Ones that don’t end up with us dead?”

“We can figure something out.” Derek sounds firm, and Stiles doesn’t doubt for a second that Derek would do literally everything in his power to make sure that Stiles doesn’t have to take the emissary bond if he isn’t ready. If anything, it just adds to Stiles’s conviction.

“You know that having an emissary at least doubles the strength of the pack,” Stiles says, and it dawns on him that he’s resigning himself to this. This is happening.

“I just –” Derek lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair before continuing. “I just wanted to wait until you were ready.” His shoulders sag, and Stiles’s heart can’t help but trip in his chest.

“I think I’ve run out of time to wait.” And there’s the panic attack that Stiles has been fighting off since he’d first spotted the bastardized triskelion on Derek’s front door.

“Stiles!” Derek steps even further into his space, the hand that was resting on his shoulder sliding up to cup the side of his face. “Hey, Stiles, breathe, c’mon, breathe with me.” He reaches out and grabs Stiles’s wrist with his other hand, pulling it to his chest, taking deep breaths – not quite exaggerated, but enough that Stiles can feel it rising and falling beneath his fingers, giving himself something concrete to focus on.

It takes a few long minutes of Stiles trembling under Derek’s hands and trying to mimic his breathing before he is finally able to speak.

“Derek, I’m not — what if it goes wrong? What if I hurt you? What if the bond is wrong? What if I’m a bad emissary?” All of the words rush out of him at once, every single worry and concern he has boils down into four simple questions.

Derek softens a little bit, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, and his thumb brushes lightly over Stiles’s cheekbone where he is still cupping his face. Stiles can’t help but lean into the touch, and his cheeks are heating up, but he’s entirely unwilling to pull away; he tries to convince himself that he would’ve taken the same comfort from anyone.

“Stiles, I know you don’t believe in yourself, but I have more than enough trust in you for the both of us,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles can’t tear his eyes away from Derek’s, awash in the sincerity in his eyes, his voice. Even Derek’s heart thumps steadily under his hand, and Stiles isn’t going to pretend that he could parse a lie from the truth by feeling someone’s heartbeat, but the fact that it doesn’t even jump eases a little bit of the vice grip around his chest.

He lets out a shaky laugh, and Derek smiles hesitantly back at him, sliding the hand on his face back down to his shoulder and releasing his grip on Stiles’s other wrist.

“I don’t know if that’s how this works, Der,” Stiles weakly quips, making an attempt at a smile.

Derek simply raises one brow at him, an unimpressed look on his face. “It’s probably going to have to, isn’t it?”

This time, Stiles’s startled laugh is genuine, and Derek all but beams at him. “Asshole,” Stiles says, shoving at Derek’s arm, but there’s no bite in it. Stiles stares at Derek for a minute, smile slowly falling into something a little more contemplative.

“Do you really think we’ll be okay?” he asks. Do you really think I can do this?

Fortunately, Derek can read him like a book, and he nods, no hesitation whatsoever. “Yes. I do.”

Stiles stares a moment longer, waiting for Derek to take it back, to say something else, but when Derek just holds his gaze, Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck. Okay. Let’s call Deaton.”

When he drops his hand, Derek is holding the front door open for him, a look on his face that could only be described as gentle, and Stiles has the almost overwhelming urge to reach out and cup his face, the same way that Derek had to him, and pull him into a kiss. He ignores that, as usual, but can’t fight the small chuckle that escapes him at the realization that he won’t really be able to keep those feelings secret for much longer.

At Derek’s questioning glance, Stiles brushes past him into the house, shaking his head. Derek follows him into the house, where the pack is waiting for them and decidedly ignoring the conversation they’d heard on the porch, and where Stiles can call Deaton about an ill-advised, life-changing decision.

–

“You ready for this?”

Derek’s voice makes Stiles flinch, fumbling with the stupid ceremonial dagger Deaton had handed him on his way out of the vet’s office. He manages to grab it by the handle in a shocking feat of coordination, securing it in his grip before it can hit the forest floor, and looks up at Derek.

They’re both shirtless – they needed to be to complete the bonding – and Stiles can’t keep his eyes from wandering over Derek’s broad shoulders, the shape of his arms, the dark hair lightly dusting his chest. Something in his gut clenches and unclenches, all in the space between breaths.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Stiles asks, finally meeting Derek’s green eyes.

“Quit deflecting.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, practically out of habit, before he forces himself to take a deep breath and answer honestly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

His answer must have been satisfactory, because Derek quits scrutinizing him like Stiles is going to tap out if someone breathes at him wrong.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Stiles wants to give Derek one last chance to back out, one last chance to realize that maybe bonding with a twenty-year-old unstable spark isn’t such a good idea after all, one last chance to come to his senses and realize that Stiles isn’t going to be as good an emissary as he thinks he will.

“I’ve been sure since you were sixteen and laid mountain ash around that club, Stiles.”

Well. There wasn’t much to say to that, was there? Stiles is entirely speechless, but he feels, deep in his chest, a tiny, tiny fraction of Derek’s certainty. If Derek can hold onto that belief, that trust in him, for four years and through a possession and all of Stiles’s baggage, Stiles can believe in himself, even if it was just a little bit of what Derek thinks. He can live up to that – he has to live up to that.

Stiles swallows, hard. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Derek steps towards him, which Stiles is grateful for – he’s not sure his legs are steady enough that they can carry him, nerves turning them to jello. Stiles steadies himself by placing his left hand on Derek’s chest and bringing the dagger up with his right. He hesitates, blade hovering right over Derek’s heart, and for a second, he falters. His eyelids flutter shut and he sucks in a deep, steadying breath, before opening them again, staring at the unblemished skin underneath the dagger.

“Go ahead.” Stiles feels Derek speak, voice humming through his chest and into Stiles’s hand, and before he can think too much harder on it, Stiles brings the tip of the blade to Derek’s skin and cuts.

He shapes the rune without a second thought, the shape flowing on muscle memory alone; Deaton had made Stiles practice them into oblivion, and he probably could’ve done it with his eyes closed. Derek’s skin heals mere seconds after the cuts are made, but there’s enough blood that trickles out before he can heal that he’ll be able to make the second rune.

Stiles’s mind is almost blank as he finishes, tossing the blade to the ground beside them. He isn’t sure if it was Derek’s presence that brought about the calm, or if he just felt resigned to his fate, but either way, he doesn’t flinch as Derek dips the fingers on his right hand into the blood on his chest, reaches out, and makes the second rune on Stiles’s forehead. It’s a simple shape, just a few lines, and when Derek is done, he swipes his hands absently on his jeans, blood smearing into the fabric.

“You good?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. He’s calmer than he thought he’d be when Derek puts his hand on his chest, mirroring the action Stiles had taken before he’d cut the rune into Derek.

Instead of focusing on the fact that Derek is going to be cutting a rune into Stiles’s chest using his claws, he focuses on Derek’s face, his long lashes sweeping just over his eyes, brows furrowed into careful concentration, lips parted just so. He barely feels it when Derek scratches his skin, automatically dipping his fingers into the blood on his chest when Derek pulls away and lightly tracing the runes on Derek’s forehead.

“You know what to say?” Stiles asks, voice hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in days.

“Ek binda í min er,” Derek replies, pronunciation perfect, and Stiles can feel his magic respond, pushing against his chest and tingling in his fingers, ready to complete the unfinished bond. It’s the most his magic has responded to anything, and it’s the most eager Stiles has ever felt to complete something using his magic. Every single bone in his body is screaming at him that this is a good thing, and something in Derek’s face is telling him the same thing.

Stiles waits a beat longer, reveling in the fact he feels at peace with his magic for the first time since the Nogitsune, and trying to take advantage of the fact that this might be the last time Derek will be willing to look him in the eye, before he speaks. “Ek binda í min er.”

Whatever Stiles had thought the bond might have felt like, it was absolutely nothing like this. Their runes glow with bright white light before they disappear, smoothing out into unblemished skin, the bond snapping into place instantaneously, and to say that it’s overwhelming is a dramatic understatement.

Suddenly, Stiles becomes aware of the Hale territory, the magic tying each and every pack member to the land itself, and he can feel the bonds tying him to every pack member, likely as Derek feels them; he can tell who was close, and can feel the bonds stretched thin by the members who are further away.

More than that, though, is Derek.

The bond tying him to Derek settles in his chest, right behind his heart, and he can feel everything Derek feels like they’re echoes of his own emotions. Underneath his own joy, his own relief, his own unavoidable feelings about Derek, are Derek’s own feelings; relief, happiness, and something warm and unfathomably deep, and Stiles swears it feels like – well, it feels deep. Serious. Something like trust and happiness and safety all wrapped up into a package that Stiles is afraid to put a name to.

“Holy shit,” Stiles gasps out, and Derek just nods, looking entirely too wrecked to be able to formulate words, breathing heavily and staring and Stiles like he’s hung the sun and the moon and maybe all of the stars in the sky. No, he isn’t just looking at Stiles like he’s single handedly created the sky – he’s feeling that, too. That look in his eyes, the open, soft, trusting one that softens all of Derek’s hard edges, that’s adoration, and Stiles can feel it.

Stiles can feel himself gaping, and can’t really bring himself to care, because it’s occurring to him right then and there that his feelings might not be as unreciprocated as he previously thought. He finds himself following a similar path to the one Derek had tracked on him hours before, the hand still planted firmly on Derek’s chest sliding up to cup his cheek, and with the way Derek leans into his hand, it’s almost like deja vu in reverse. His other hand finds its way up Derek’s arm, settling comfortably on his bicep, and he squeezes.

“Derek?” Stiles says his name like a question, and he can feel a burst of warmth, of hope and happiness and confidence, blossoming in his chest. He can’t really feel the difference between what he’s feeling and what Derek’s feeling, and he’s a little worried, but only until he realizes that it really means there’s nothing for him to be worried about.

“Stiles.” Derek says his name like it’s an answer, and his hands are suddenly on Stiles’s face and he’s pulling him into a searing kiss.

For a split-second, Stiles is frozen, but the moment his brain catches up with that feeling in his chest, he melts into the kiss, hand on Derek’s bicep sliding up and tangling into the short hairs at the base of his neck and pulling him in as close as he can. Derek’s lips are soft against his, tongue gently sweeping in his mouth, and the only reason Stiles pulls away after a few long, long moments is because, despite having access to a wealth of magic, he still needs to breathe.

“I didn’t think you felt the same way,” Stiles breathes in the scant inches of space between them, and Derek gently leans his forehead against Stiles’s.

“That’s really not a concern,” Derek murmurs back, and Stiles laughs a little despite himself.

“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious,” he mutters, but he sounds so obviously fond, even to his own ears, and Derek just grins back at him.

They stand there like that, just soaking up each other’s presence, until a nice strong gust of wind blows through the trees, sending a shiver down Stiles’s spine, and they’re both brought back to reality.

“How much time do we have until dusk?” Stiles asks, letting go of Derek so he can find his discarded shirt.

Derek sighs, picking his shirt up off the ground and tossing Stiles’s to him. “Probably three hours?”

Stiles nods, chewing absently at his lip. “That’s enough time to lay some good wards. Scare them a little.”

He’s standing there, lost in thought, when Derek presses a chaste kiss to his lips, bringing him back to the present. “C’mon,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’s hand and pulling him towards where the Jeep is parked along a trail in the Preserve. “We have to get moving if you’re gonna ward the perimeter and the house, and we need to come up with a plan.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him but allows himself to be pulled. “You sure the bond didn’t let you read minds?”

Derek snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s a grin curling at the edge of his lips.

“Get in the car.”

–

Somehow, Stiles manages to both lay wards along the entire perimeter of their territory and fill the pack in on the plan. He and Derek both pretend not to notice the long glances, snorts of laughter, and exchanging of money that occurs; how they can tell that he and Derek are – well, whatever he and Derek are, besides scent, is beyond Stiles.

The pack members that are currently present in Beacon Hills are curled up in Derek’s living room, in various types of attire ranging from bare feet and pajamas (Erica) to dressed vaguely like a model (Peter), when Stiles feels the alphas cross into their territory. His new wards, made strong with pack magic and the emissary bond, tell him exactly where they are and how fast they’re moving. Stiles can feel the way that the land is warning them with every step they take, and he can’t help the smirk that spreads on his face despite his growing unease.

“They’ll be here soon,” he warns, and everyone perks up, Isaac and Scott moving to watch out for them out one of the windows like they won’t be able to hear them long before they’ll see them. Peter and Erica share some elaborate eyeroll at their expense, and Boyd is impassively settled in the corner of the couch, one arm wrapped around Erica, looking as nonchalant as could be.

“Here,” Isaac announces, and the entire pack exits the house as planned. Stiles leaves first, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt borrowed from Derek, barefoot. Erica and Peter trickle out next, with Isaac, Scott, and Boyd following, all of them looking as relaxed as possible. Derek takes up the back, leaning casually against a support beam on the porch. Stiles can feel the tiniest hints of their nervousness, but mainly, he’s getting overwhelming confidence; Derek is only projecting confidence, not in the least bit nervous, like he has no doubts that Stiles’s plan is going to work.

The alphas arrive moments after the pack has arranged themselves in the front of the Hale house, looking a little on edge, and Stiles feels a hint of pride; his wards were doing that.

Stiles gives them a moment to take in the sight before them, taking advantage of the pause to get a good look at all of them; he knew that Deucalion was their leader, and he was easily identified by his dark sunglasses and cane, but he had no idea what to expect from the others. His eyes skim over a young set of twins and a huge hulking brute of a werewolf, but he doesn’t like the way the olive-skinned woman is looking at them.

Once he’s decided that they’ve waited long enough, Stiles announces to the alpha pack, “This is your only warning: get out of Hale territory and don’t return.” It’s formal, but it feels right, especially with the way his magic surges at his words; it’s a threat he can substantiate.

The alpha pack’s eyes all snap to him, and they stare incredulously for a moment, before the woman breaks their silence with a cackle. “It’s cute,” she says, “how the human thinks he makes the rules around here. We’re testing your alpha, sweetheart, not seeing how many seconds you’d last before we tore your throat out.”

Stiles can feel the indignant flash of anger from Derek, hot in his chest, and the way that Derek wrestles to get it under control. If he was watching, he was sure he’d see a flash of bright red eyes.

“The test of an alpha is their pack,” Derek replies, “and you’re welcome to give it a go, but you’re not going to make it past my mate.” There are a few supportive growls from the wolves around him, Erica and Peter sounding exceptionally vicious about the whole thing.

The “mate” bit almost knocks Stiles off his feet – Derek had most certainly not told Stiles that’s what he was going to say – but it fits nicely, he thinks, so he recovers quickly, leaning into that warmth in his chest, waggling his fingers and smiling at the alphas in front of him.

Instantly, the alpha pack breaks out into laughter, the woman and the giant seeming to find it particularly amusing. Stiles is a little indignant, if he’s being honest – you’d think that a pack of alpha werewolves would be a little bit more well-versed in magic users, and how not everyone was built to bench press semis.

“You want us to be worried about this kid?” It’s the woman again, and Stiles has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I’ll be using his bones as toothpicks in minutes.”

Stiles can almost feel Derek’s shrug. “Your mistake,” he says, nonchalant.

There’s a charged moment where Derek and Deucalion are staring each other down – or at least, it looks like they’re staring each other down; as far as Stiles is aware, the other alpha is blind – that Deucalion breaks with a single, sharp nod.

All four of his wolves immediately rush at Stiles, which is a little bit of a surprise – he thought they’d be more for a one-on-one, but it seems that they just want to take him out as quickly as possible. He can feel both his magic and his pack holding back, both wanting to lunge out in front of him and eliminate the threat. They hold back, though, and Stiles waits until the alphas are a split-second away from colliding with them before gathering up his magic, which is white-hot lightning in his limbs, and he just waves a hand in front of him to direct it outwards.

All it takes is that little wave of his hand for the werewolves in front of him to go flying into the trees behind them, and Stiles can’t help but be a little smug at the sounds of their bones breaking against their trunks. He’s pretty sure he can see branches sticking out of one or two of them, and damn, that must hurt. Too bad.

Deucalion is doing a poor job of hiding his rage in front of him; Stiles is watching his limbs tremble with the effort of not retaliating, but he’s probably making the smart move, since the rest of his pack is curled up on the ground, broken and bleeding.

“Peter,” Deucalion grinds out, trying to force a pleasant smile on his face and missing the mark by a mile, “you didn’t tell me your little human was a spark, let alone the emissary and the alpha mate.”

Y’know, Stiles thinks this shouldn’t really surprise anyone at this point. There are a few warning growls, and Stiles can feel Derek’s irritation bordering on anger in his chest; he glances back so he can see the look on his face, and surprise surprise, Peter’s just shrugging at Deucalion, huge grin on his face.

“You didn’t ask,” he says simply.

Stiles looks back to Deucalion, who’s eyeing him with newfound interest, his eyes also flicking to Derek. “If you two ever decide that you want to join something bigger, you know who to call.”

Stiles snorts humorlessly, and Derek growls low in his throat. “If you ever come back, there won’t be anything left of you to find,” Derek snarls, and Deucalion just dips his head, slowly turning his back on the Hale pack and walking back into the forest. The rest of his pack manage to gather themselves enough to limp off after him, limbs dragging and breath labored.

The pack waits, straining their ears to make sure that the alphas are gone, Stiles feeling them get closer and closer to the border. The moment they’re out of earshot, Derek’s throwing himself down the stairs and to Stiles’s side, catching him just before Stiles’s legs go out from underneath him. Stiles’s bond with Derek is humming with concern, but also pride and love and a million different other things. Stiles lets Derek manhandle an arm around his waist, leaning heavily against him while Derek drags his nose along Stiles’s temple.

“Was that absolutely badass?” Stiles asks, and Derek snorts.

“That was so fucking badass,” Erica agrees from behind him, and Stiles raises a shaky fist above his head, which Erica taps effortlessly.

“Impressive, Stiles,” Peter coolly agrees, and Derek snarls at him as he turns Stiles around and starts to help him back into the house.

Stiles lightly pats Derek’s arm in what’s hopefully a comforting motion before pointing an accusatory finger at Peter’s smug face. “You are so lucky I can barely walk right now, buddy,” he says, “because if I could walk I would send your sorry ass to fucking space.”

“We are talking about this later,” Derek growls, and Peter raises his hand in surrender.

“I hear you loud and clear,” he replies, stepping out of the way and moving obviously towards his car. “Let me know when you want to have that talk!” he calls out as he crawls into the driver's seat, and everyone lets out a collective noise of irritation as Peter pulls out of the drive.

Derek drags Stiles into the living room, dropping down on the couch and arranging Stiles until he’s comfortably settled in the V of Derek’s legs, pillowed on his chest.

“Y’know,” he says at the tail end of a yawn, “I am really thinking it’s time for pack movie night.”

Before he can blink, everyone’s arranged on Derek’s plush living room furniture, and Erica managed to snag the remote before Isaac did and is gloating about it.

Stiles relaxes into the familiarity of it all, perfectly comfortable with Derek’s warmth wrapped around him physically, and the warm hum of Derek’s emotions nestled deep in his chest. He tries valiantly to keep his eyes open, trying to soak in the success of the day, the feeling of pack.

The last things Stiles remembers before falling into unconsciousness is Erica loudly selecting 10 Things I Hate About You, and Derek brushing a soft, loving kiss to his temple.

He falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

#always-mimits #stereksanta22 #*fic22 #*gifts22

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