Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Hale house smelled like sawdust and fresh pine, a smell Derek still couldn’t quite believe belonged to him. He paused at the top of the stairs, letting his gaze drift across the newly rebuilt living room, taking in the exposed beams, the polished floors, and the chaos of boxes and tools still scattered around. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. But it was theirs. His pack’s home. A real home again.

It had been about half of year of pure hell and, somehow, miracles, all smashed together. The Alpha Pack had nearly destroyed them, tested every nerve, every bond, and yet here they were— alive, intact, stronger in ways Derek never thought possible. Scott had finally agreed to join his pack, Lydia had insisted on being involved as well, and Jackson… well, Jackson had sulked for the first hour before following Lydia anyway.

Derek’s jaw tightened as he thought of Peter. Reconciliation had been… messy. He was coming to terms with the fact that Peter hadn’t been in his right mind, and getting to a place where Derek could forgive and trust him again had taken everything he had—and then some. There had been anger, resentment, hesitation, raw emotions, the constant fear of being let down again. And still, he couldn’t have done any of this— the rebuilding, reorganising, keeping everyone alive— without Stiles.

Stiles. That sarcastic, chaotic, impossible human. A human who somehow carried more brains, heart, and fire than most alphas Derek had ever known. He had challenged Derek at every turn, always pushing, always questioning, never letting him settle for easy choices. Stiles had been kidnapped once along with Erica and Boyd, he was tortured for being with them. And yet, instead of running like a sane person would, Stiles had held them together, convinced them to return, and dragged Scott, Lydia, and even Jackson into the pack.

Every research night, every plan for defense, every strategy to outsmart their enemies, Stiles had been there, awake, meticulous, relentless. And when it came to rebuilding the Hale house over the summer, Stiles had somehow taken charge of more than just the labour. He had put himself in charge of organised the design, he coordinated deliveries, ensured meals were made, and somehow, it felt natural, even comfortable, not like someone else running Derek’s house, but like someone had always been meant to help shape it.

Derek shook his head slightly, the memory of Stiles’ energy washing over him like a chaotic tide. He wasn’t supposed to feel grateful. He was supposed to feel territorial. Protective. Maybe even irritated. But… no. There was something steady, reliable, almost comforting, about Stiles’ presence.

He let out a low exhale, only to have it cut short by the sudden voice downstairs. 

He saw Stiles bound to the center of the living room like a caffeinated squirrel, waving his hands dramatically. 

Derek groaned from the top of the stairs but didn’t move. Knowing what he knew about Stiles, he could probably guess where this was going.

Which was nowhere, cuz Stiles was just that chaotic.

“Okay, everyone,” Stiles announced, standing on top of the couch like a tiny, energetic general, “we need to talk about our glaring problem.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, as he arched an eyebrow in suspicion. “Which problem is that, Stiles? There’s roughly seventeen going on at all times.”

“Our traditions— or, more accurately, our complete lack of them!” Stiles flailed dramatically, arms waving. “Seriously, we’ve been a pack for what… half a year? And the only thing we’ve celebrated together is surviving werewolves, nearly dying, surviving a darach, nearly dying again, and arguing about house paint. That’s not a tradition.” 

Derek growled softly, but it wasn’t annoyance. Not really. “Stiles,” he called down, voice low, controlled. “We’re having a meeting.”

“Meeting?!” Stiles echoed, jumping from his makeshift perch on the couch.

Scott raised a hand. “Uh… what about last year?”, cutting off Stiles' train of thought.

"Dude, half of us were bleeding out from the whole fairy fiasco..." (pretend that happened) "...and the rest of us hadn't even joined yet and as I just said, nearly dying is NOT a tradition.  That’s the problem! We’ve been so busy surviving, no one’s had fun! Which means I, your humble spark-enhanced emissary, am hereby taking charge of instituting proper holiday cheer.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Wait… proper holiday cheer?”

“Yes, Scott!” Stiles snapped, wagging a finger at him. “I have a plan. Step one: Christmas tree. Step two: Decorations. Step three: Baking cookies. Step four: Holiday lights extravaganza. Step five: Secret Santa. Step six: Optional but recommended gingerbread house competition.”

Jackson groaned, arms crossed. “And what makes you think we’re all going to follow your… gingerbread competition?”

“Oh, come on, Jackson,” Stiles said, grinning. “It’s pack bonding! You need that more than the rest of us!”

Jackson muttered something about explosions and how Stiles was a fire hazards. Which Stiles politely decided to ignore, cuz he wasn't about to let Jackson, teh resident douche-bag ruin his fun.

Erica smirked from the loveseat where she was cuddling with Boyd. “So… what exactly are you proposing?”

“Traditions!” Stiles shouted, slapping the couch cushion for emphasis. “Christmas tree decorating, a pack dinner, a gift exchange… possibly a holiday-themed pack photo shoot if you behave!” 

Lydia rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “And what happens if someone refuses?”

“Refuse?” Stiles gasped, clutching his chest. “Then they will regret it for all eternity! Also, cleaning duty. Definitely cleaning duty.” 

Peter, leaning in a corner, raised an eyebrow. “You really think forcing human holidays on wolves is the most pressing matter?”

Stiles froze, then smirked. “Oh, Peter. You’re so cryptic sometimes. This isn’t just about holidays. It’s about pack bonding, morale, and- uh....preventing total chaos in the kitchen.”

Isaac shifted nervously. “C-Can I help with decorations, if that’s okay?”

“Of course!” Stiles beamed at him. “You can help with the lights, maybe handle the tree. Don’t worry, I’ll supervise.” 

Erica elbowed Stiles lightly. “And what about you? You’re the one organizing all this. You ever take a break?”

Stiles waved it off. “Breaks are for sane people, Catwoman. I have ADHD and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Batman duties.”

Boyd, silent as ever, gave a small nod, sitting back and letting Stiles chatter over him. Stiles leaned down with a grin. “See? Boyd’s happy. That’s a success metric right there.” 

Malia tilted her head. “This seems… fun?”

Stiles flailed a little. “Yes! Fun! And pack bonding! And slightly terrifying… but mostly fun.” 

Cora snorted. “So you’re basically forcing the pack to celebrate?”

“Enthusiastically guiding you,” Stiles corrected. “Totally voluntary. Also mandatory. You get it.”

Danny and Ethan exchanged a look, already resigned to chaos. Peter just muttered something about Stiles being delightfully chaotic, while Kira quietly nodded, intrigued.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a low growl. “Well, I'm not sure I like this idea plus I don’t… do traditions.”

“You will,” Stiles said firmly, marching up to him. “You’re Alpha, yes, but also pack family. You’re legally obligated to participate in all pack-based activities. No exceptions.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Derek muttered.

“You did,” Stiles said, smirking. “By choosing to live in this house with all of us. Boom. Contract signed.”

Cora snickered. “Did I ever tell you how much I like you, Stiles?”

"Not nearly enough times, Cora", he responded with an equal amount of snark to his tone.

Derek sighed, but the edge in his shoulders softened. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Stiles had a way of making everything… manageable, even when it was pure, utter chaos.

“Fine,” Derek said finally, voice tight but unwilling to yield entirely. “We’ll do Christmas. But we do it my way.”

“Your way,” Stiles said, arms crossed, brow cocked, “better include cookies. And Christmas lights. And maybe a small flamethrower for flair. Don’t worry though, I’ll handle the explosions.”

Scott groaned. “Flamethrowers… seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously,” Stiles said, grinning from ear to ear. “Now everyone grab hot cocoa. Pack meeting is officially in session.”

Derek let out a resigned growl, watching Stiles flit between members, assigning tasks, taking notes, and somehow— somehow—making the living room feel more like a home than it had in years.

Because if chaos was the price of a family… Derek decided he could live with it.

Chapter Text

Derek could not live with this.

The ride to Target was already… crowded. Eight people in two cars, all bickering about music, seatbelts, and who was allowed aux privileges. By the time they pulled into the packed holiday parking lot, the mood had shifted—the air carried that sharp California chill that wasn’t snow-worthy, but enough to make their breath puff in the dimming light. Rows of SUVs lined with pine-scented air fresheners and half-dead wreaths made the whole place feel aggressively festive.

Inside, the Target was a battlefield of red and green. Tinsel garlands coiled over aisles, half-price ornaments sparkled, and the faint scent of cinnamon-sugar pinecones clung to the shelves. Holiday music blared overhead, already too loud, too cheerful. Stiles tightened his grip on his crumpled list.

“Alright, people,” Stiles barked, slapping the folded shopping list against his palm like a drill sergeant with a clipboard. “We are here for one—one—reason: holiday supplies. Decorations, food, wrapping paper, and that’s it. We are not—let me repeat—not here for impulse buys.”

“Sure, Mom,” Erica sing-songed, and then immediately veered left toward the gaudiest display of blinking, neon Christmas lights Target had to offer.

“Wait—where are you going?!” Stiles shouted after her.

Erica tossed her hair over her shoulder, grinning. “Lights aisle, baby. Don’t wait up.”

“Erica, no!” Stiles shouted, his voice cracking on the word. “We have a list!”

“Lists are boring,” she replied, already looping a strand of retina-searing rainbow lights around her neck like jewelry. 

Boyd, smirking, followed her. “Someone’s gotta keep her from buying out the entire store.”

“That implies you’d stop me,” Erica fired back, already gone.

Derek sighed beside Stiles, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “You’re not going to stop them.”

“I can try,” Stiles muttered, watching as Erica pressed a button and sent the lights blinking in a seizure-inducing pattern. Customers were already squinting and muttering.

Ethan clapped Stiles on the shoulder as he passed. “Relax. We’ll meet back here in twenty.”

Stiles groaned, already scribbling stress lines into his forehead. “You’re all children. Literal children.”

Derek gave him a sidelong look. “You’re not much better.”

“Oh, and here we go,” Stiles muttered, pushing the cart with unnecessary force.

In the Lights aisle, Erica had both arms full of the brightest, gaudiest string lights she could find, multi-coloured LEDs shaped like snowflakes, glitter-coated candy canes, and one horrifying Santa head strand that looked ready to murder someone in the night.

“These,” she declared.

Boyd pinched the bridge of his nose. “Those look like a serial killer’s Christmas.”

“That’s the point,” Erica said sweetly. “Festive and terrifying.”

A woman walking past gave them both a weird look. Erica flashed her fangs in the brightest smile imaginable. The woman flushed red, muttered something about “teens these days,” and scurried away.

Meanwhile, Isaac had wandered into the sweater aisle, sulking dramatically. He held up a red monstrosity featuring a reindeer with googly eyes. “This is offensive,” he said flatly.

“It’s festive,” Lydia corrected, appearing beside him with a sweater so chic it probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. “Some of us know how to make ugly work for us.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Some of us don’t want to look like Santa Claus threw up on us.”

“Stiles would love it.”, Lydia countered.

Isaac scowled but didn’t argue, which was as good as admission.

Checkmate

Malia had gravitated toward the holiday candy aisle, arms full of chocolate Santas and candy canes like she was preparing for hibernation. “This is essential,” she told Danny, who was quietly pushing the cart and looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Ethan, who was standing a ways off, gave her a long look. “You grabbed twelve of the same chocolate bar.”

“Backup,” Malia said simply.

Cora, unimpressed, smacked one of the Santas out of her arms. “You don’t need backup chocolate.”

“Yes, I do.” Malia hissed, then snatched it back up with wolf-speed before anyone else could blink. 

From across the store, Scott’s voice carried: “Ooh, eggnog samples!”

“Scott!” Stiles bellowed. “Stay focused!”

“I am focused!” Scott protested, already juggling two cups of free eggnog. “Focused on morale. You said this was about bonding.”

“Bonding, yes. Early lactose-induced comas, no!” 

“See, this is why I didn’t want them splitting up,” Stiles hissed, scribbling furiously on his list. “One dumb move and we’re banned from Target forever. You know how many Targets are in driving distance? Not enough.”

“You worry too much,” Derek said, monotone but with the faintest twitch of his lips.

“I have to worry! Someone has to wrangle this circus!”

“You volunteered.”

Stiles stopped dead in the aisle, glaring. “Excuse me? I did not volunteer. I was chosen by fate, by destiny, by—”

“By yelling the loudest,” Derek interrupted.

“Semantics,” Stiles muttered.

He grabbed a pack of sensible white lights, tossing them into the cart. Derek stared at the box like it had personally offended him.

“What.”

“Too boring,” Derek said.

Stiles gaped. “I’m sorry, did you just call Christmas lights boring? That’s it.” Stiles huffed, then spotted the rack of novelty headbands at the end of the aisle. Inspiration struck. He reached up, grabbed a pair of felt reindeer antlers from a display, and shoved them onto Derek’s head before he could react.

Derek froze. The antlers bobbed slightly.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispered, eyes shining. “It’s beautiful.”

Derek didn’t take them off. Didn’t even move to. Just stood there, deadpan, glaring at him from beneath floppy felt antlers.

Stiles bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m never letting you live this down.” 

Derek didn’t move. Didn’t even reach up to remove them. Just gave Stiles one long, flat look. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re not gonna question my very festive choices. Deal with it.” 

Before Stiles could bask further in his victory, a loud crash echoed from the other side of the store. Jackson’s voice followed immediately after. “It wasn’t me!”

“It was definitely you!” Erica yelled back, her laugh sharp and delighted.

Stiles’ eye twitched. He could feel his pulse thrum faster, irritation mixing with that restless spark in his chest.

And then—pop.

A ceiling bulb above their aisle fizzled and shattered, sparks raining down before the fixture went dark. The air around them thrummed for a split second— Stiles’ spark causing electricity to buzz off him like static. The faint chill from outside seemed to deepen through the automatic doors, a prickling reminder of weather bending to his mood.

Several customers jumped. A kid started crying.

“Stiles,” Derek muttered, low enough for only him to hear.

“I didn’t mean to!” Stiles hissed, rubbing at his temple. “It’s not my fault someone let Jackson within ten feet of fragile merchandise!” 

Still, the pack was oblivious to the subtle flare of magic. Lydia was already corralling Isaac into picking an acceptable sweater, Cora herding Malia away from her candy hoard, and Scott trying to convince the sample lady to give him a third cup of eggnog.

Stiles groaned. “This is why we can’t have nice things. Or functioning light fixtures.”

“Or peace and quiet,” Derek muttered.

Stiles glanced up at him, lips twitching into a grin. “Though you have to admit, it could have been worse.”, he said, trying to lighten (heh, a pun) the mood.

Derek didn’t answer. But he also didn’t take off the reindeer antlers.

Target had survived the Hale Pack’s invasion of the aisles. Barely. Now came the true test: the checkout lanes.

“Okay, listen up,” Stiles said, voice cracking over the din of a dozen beeping registers. He raised the shopping list like it was holy scripture. “We are going to do this in an orderly fashion. Cart one: decorations. Cart two: food. Cart three: whatever the hell Malia stuffed in there when I wasn’t looking—”

“It’s snacks,” Malia interrupted, already unwrapping a candy cane.

“—and we’re not opening anything until after we pay for it,” Stiles snapped.

Malia crunched loudly in response. 

“Jackson, don’t,” Stiles warned automatically, because Jackson was already peeling off toward the self-checkout machines.

Jackson smirked. “What, you think I can’t handle it?”

“Yes,” half the pack chorused.

Jackson rolled his eyes and started scanning items anyway. The machine blared almost immediately: “Unexpected item in bagging area.”

Jackson snarled under his breath. “The only unexpected item is this machine’s attitude problem.”

“Move,” Lydia said smoothly, pushing him aside with the air of a queen reclaiming her throne. Within thirty seconds, she’d scanned half the cart without a single error.

Jackson sulked. “I loosened it for you.” 

Meanwhile, at the regular checkout, Erica was charming the teenage cashier with exaggerated enthusiasm over her rainbow lights. Boyd just dumped everything else on the belt in silence, looking like he regretted all his life choices.

Isaac, in his hideous reindeer sweater, tugged at the neckline. “This thing itches. I’m taking it off.”

“No, you’re not,” Allison said firmly, grabbing his sleeve before he could strip in the middle of Target. “You’re wearing it all the way home.”

“It’s a hate crime,” Isaac muttered.

“Festive,” Allison corrected, smirking.

Kira fluttered around with gift wrap tubes, nearly knocking one customer in the head before Ethan grabbed them out of her hands. “Maybe just…hold still,” Ethan said gently, stacking them neatly.

Danny followed behind with a resigned sigh. “I cannot believe I let you drag me into this circus.”

“You’re in too deep now,” Stiles called over his shoulder. “No backing out. Pack law.” 

At the candy rack near the register, Malia was already tearing into a chocolate Santa. The cashier blinked as she dropped the half-eaten remains on the conveyor.

“Uh…this is…open?”

“She’s hungry,” Cora said flatly. “Charge us double.”

The cashier glanced at Derek, who was still standing stoically at the end of the lane. Antlers and all. His expression said don’t even ask. The kid gulped and scanned the mangled Santa without comment.

By the time everything was bagged, the conveyor belt looked like a holiday massacre. Wrapping paper, blinking lights, sweaters, candy, candles, fake snow in a can… Stiles massaged his temples, tallying numbers in his head.

“Alright,” he announced, reaching for his wallet. “This disaster comes to—”

Derek moved first, sliding his card across the counter before Stiles could blink.

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “I was gonna handle it!”

“You’re already handling the chaos,” Derek said simply, signing the receipt with his usual scowl. “I’ll handle the bill.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Erica snickered. “Alpha Dad and Pack Mom in action.”

“Shut up!” Stiles yelped, face going red.

Derek didn’t even bother denying it. He just shouldered one of the shopping bags like it weighed nothing and walked toward the doors. Still wearing the reindeer antlers.

And somehow, Stiles couldn’t stop smiling.

Chapter Text

The Hale house kitchen looked like Martha Stewart’s fever dream collided with a food fight waiting to happen. Counters were stacked with bags of flour, sugar, chocolate chips, food dye, and, because Stiles couldn’t resist, sprinkles shaped like tiny wolves (he swore it was an accident; no one believed him). A dozen mixing bowls gleamed under the warm overhead lights, spatulas and wooden spoons laid out like weapons of choice.

“Alright, listen up,” Stiles announced, banging a spoon against a pot like he was calling assembly. He wore a ridiculous apron Lydia had gifted him on his birthday— red, frilly, and embroidered with Kiss the Cook. He looked like chaos embodied, but he was owning it. “Tonight, we are making cookies. A sweet, sugary, warm, Christmas tradition. And if anyone,” he glared at Erica, “throws food at me, I will revoke your sprinkle privileges.”

Erica smirked, already holding a fistful of flour. “No promises.”

Boyd, standing calmly beside her with his sleeves rolled up, sighed. “You’re going to regret that.”

The oven preheated with a soft hum, casting a gentle glow in the corner. The house was alive with  energy; laughter and bickering already echoing from the hall where Isaac had been chased earlier for daring to put on “Last Christmas” too loud.

“Okay,” Stiles clapped his hands together. “Mission: cookies. Objective: edible. Sub-objective: no one dies.”

“Great pep talk,” Lydia muttered, sliding her phone onto the counter. “Truly inspiring.”

“Wow, thanks a lot Lydia-", Stiles started sarcastically."-You’re on frosting duty.”

She arched an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Lydia + knives was a recipe for homicide, so frosting was a safe compromise.

Step One: The Ingredients

“Step one,” Stiles said dramatically. “Flour. Two cups. Easy. Not rocket science.”

He just started thinking that maybe this wouldn't be as hard as he thought when he turned just in time to see Erica tip the bag over Jackson’s head. A white puff exploded, coating his perfect hair in a snowy dusting.

Jackson sputtered, coughing. “Are you kidding me?!”

“Festive,” Erica declared, grinning ear to ear.

“Dead. You’re dead.” Jackson lunged for the bag, and within seconds, flour clouded the air like a blizzard.

Stiles groaned, rubbing his temple. “We haven’t even done anything yet. You animals.”

Boyd, unbothered, was already measuring flour properly into a bowl. “Ignore them. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, clasping his chest like Boyd had just saved his life.

If this were a group project, he was the kid carrying everyone’s grade.

Step Two: Eggs & Sugar

“Allison, you’re on egg duty,” Stiles barked.

She cracked one with hunter precision. Perfect. Then cracked another. Perfect. Third one? Shells everywhere.

“Wow,” Jackson snorted. “Real pro.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Allison snapped, swiping the shells out with a spoon.

Meanwhile, Malia had shoved an entire stick of butter into her mouth like it was a snack.

Stiles froze mid-stir. “…Malia. Did you just eat half the recipe?”

“It tastes good,” she mumbled, unapologetic.

“Unbelievable,” Stiles groaned, pinching his nose.

Lydia smirked from the frosting bowl. “At least she has taste.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested.

"Can I try to crack some?", Isaac asked.

"Sure puppy! Give it a go", Stiles answered enthusiastically, At least someone other then Boyd was helping.

Isaac shuffled up, holding an egg gingerly like it might explode. “So… I just crack it, right?”

“Yes, like a normal person. Tap, split, done. Boom.”

Isaac tapped. And tapped again. And—splat. The egg collapsed in his hand, yolk dripping down his wrist.

Stiles made a strangled noise. “Why? Why would you murder it like that?”

Isaac frowned. “It’s slippery.”

“Do you want me to get you rubber gloves?”, Stiles asked earnestly.

Meanwhile, Lydia had taken charge of the sugar. Measuring cup in hand, she poured with precise movements, muttering, “Honestly, it’s like watching cavemen discover fire.”

“Offensive,” Malia said around a mouthful of chocolate chips. “Fire’s easier.”

“Malia, those are for the cookies!” Stiles yelped.

Malia stuffed another handful in her mouth. “You said food is tradition. I’m building tradition"

But Boyd? Boyd pulled out perfectly golden trays of cookies, unbothered, the MVP.

“Bless you, Boyd,” Stiles whispered reverently, snagging one to taste. “At least someone respects baked goods.”

The pack eventually scattered, half of them trailing to the living room, leaving powdered footprints across the hall; the other half going to shower to get all the flour and dough off of them.

The kitchen, however… was a disaster zone.

Flour clung to the cabinets, butter smeared across the counter, and somehow somehow  frosting was on the ceiling. (Physics said no, Erica said “try me.”)

“Unbelievable,” Stiles muttered, shoving a sponge into the sink. “Actual war crimes have left less damage.”

Behind him, Derek was silently stacking mixing bowls into the dishwasher. 

“Y’know,” Stiles said, scrubbing at a streak of powdered sugar on the stove. “I'm glad you didn't yell at them for their shenanigans Old Derek would've pulled the classic Alpha Authority Voice and gone all ‘I am your leader, fear me’ about it.”

Derek glanced over, deadpan. “That would’ve worked?”

“Probably not,” Stiles admitted, grinning. “But it would’ve saved us this mess.”

A faint snort, almost inaudible, slipped out of Derek before he turned back to stacking a bowl.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, the rhythm almost easy, Stiles wiping down counters, Derek rinsing dishes, clinks and splashes filling the air. Outside, the December chill pressed against the windows, but the kitchen stayed warm, cozy in its post-chaos glow.

Finally, Derek reached for a towel, drying his hands. “The cookies were good.”

“‘Were’?” Stiles whipped around, narrowing his eyes. “That implies you ate all the ones you pocketed.”

Derek’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”

“You cookie thief,” Stiles accused, pointing the sponge at him like a weapon. “You think you’re subtle, but you’re not. You’ve fallen to the dark side. Sugar has claimed you.”

Derek just shrugged, unbothered, and reached for another cookie cooling on the tray.

“Unbelievable,” Stiles muttered again, though this time there was no heat behind it. Just… fondness.

The silence stretched, comfortable. Stiles set the sponge down, leaning against the counter, watching Derek chew like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You know,” Stiles said softly, surprising even himself, “I'm really proud of you, you're really doing good with this. The pack. The house. The—” He waved vaguely at the sugar-coated chaos around them. “All of it.”

Derek’s eyes flicked to him. But instead of answering, he let out a small huff and they went back to enjoying the silence.

Chapter Text

The Hale house smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, thanks to Stiles insisting that Christmas wasn’t Christmas without the “aesthetic.” Someone (probably Stiles) had insisted on dragging the tallest one from the lot. It wasn’t “reasonably sized,” it was a beacon, a statement, a “Hales are back, baby” tree. The tree— a slightly-too-wide pine that had nearly taken Derek, Boyd, and Scott breaking their backs to get it inside— stood in the corner of the living room, its branches bare but ready. And now the pack surrounded it, hands full of boxes of ornaments, hooks, and tangled strands of lights.

“Okay, rule number one,” Stiles announced, clapping his hands together like a coach. “Nobody—” his eyes swept over Erica, then Jackson, “—touches the lights until I’m ready.”

Erica smirked, twirling a gaudy purple bauble between her fingers. “What are you gonna do, Mom me to death?”

“Yes,” Stiles shot back instantly. “I will Mom you so hard you’ll be begging for Dad energy.”

Isaac snorted, already half-curled on the couch with a box of ornaments in his lap. Derek stood off to the side, arms folded, watching the chaos like he’d already accepted his fate.

“Just… don’t break anything,” he muttered.

Cue Stiles’ spark flaring at his fingertips, threads of static dancing as he lifted the tangled strand of lights out of the box. Gasps and mutters rippled through the group as the string floated in the air, untangling itself like it had a mind of its own.

“Oh my god,” Lydia whispered, half-impressed, half-exasperated. “That’s actually useful.”

“Finally,” Jackson muttered, then yelped as Lydia elbowed him in the ribs.

Scott grinned, leaning against Allison as they watched the lights snake gracefully around the tree. “Dude, why didn’t you use that before? Remember how long it took us to—”

“Shh!” Stiles hissed. “Don’t ruin my moment. I’m majestic.” (Majestic, he says. Stiles Stilinski: human Christmas miracle.)

As the lights settled perfectly along the branches, Erica whistled. “Okay, Batman, that’s impressive.”

“Catwoman approves?” Stiles quipped back.

"Yeah", she responded

"Alright!", Stiles announced, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention. "Now that the lights are up, you can all get to decorating!"

Erica immediately lunged for a box of ornaments after hearing that and stiles decided he wasn't gonna get involved in that (at least for now) and the rest of them got to decorating as well.

Later on, boxes of ornaments were scattered across the floor, and the pack was already bickering like professional holiday combatants.

“All I’m saying,” Erica announced, holding up a glittery purple bauble, “is that the tree needs colour. Flash. Drama.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Boyd, who just gave her a fondly long-suffering look and shrugged as if to say, do whatever makes you happy.

“Yeah, no,” Jackson cut in, clutching a box of sleek silver ornaments like they were priceless artifacts. “This isn’t Vegas, Erica. We’re going classic.”

“You’re boring,” Erica shot back immediately.

“You’re tacky,” Jackson retorted, leaning into Lydia for backup. Lydia, in true Lydia fashion, didn’t even look up as she meticulously sorted the ornaments by size and shape, her posture screaming superior. “We’re going with symmetry, obviously.”

Across the room, Allison and Scott were quietly stringing popcorn garlands, laughing when the thread inevitably snapped. Scott’s wolfish reflexes kept popcorn from scattering across the carpet, but Allison swatted him on the arm for nearly eating the supplies. Their shoulders brushed constantly, and it was so painfully obvious that the two were wrapped in their own little bubble that even Stiles let them be.

Meanwhile, Danny and Ethan sat cross-legged on the floor, untangling hooks and wires like some sort of peaceful ornament monks. Every so often Ethan bumped his shoulder against Danny’s, smiling softly, and Danny smirked like he’d just won something.

Cora and Malia, on the other hand, were tossing ornaments back and forth like baseballs. Derek’s low, warning growl from across the room barely slowed them down.

“Seriously?” Stiles groaned, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the chaos. He’d already seen this going wrong five different ways. “Okay, pause. You people are about to break something, and I swear, if this tree goes down, I’m setting you all on coal duty.”

Derek stood beside him, arms crossed, the very image of broody Alpha judgement. “You’re not the one who has to clean up after them.”

“Excuse you,” Stiles scoffed. “I am the one cleaning up after them. You just glare until they behave.”

The tree was halfway decorated, and already it looked like a war zone.

“All the red baubles go together,” Lydia said, perfectly arranging her section. “Balance. We want symmetry and clean lines.”

Jackson mirrored her, carefully hanging his silver ones to match. “Exactly. We can’t just throw things at the tree, it has to look—”

“Fun,” Erica cut in, hanging a giant neon-pink ornament right in the middle. “Like Christmas exploded on it. Nobody wants your snooty, magazine-cover tree, Jackson.”

Scott held up a crooked string of popcorn. “Uh, I think this is fun?” He glanced at Allison, who smiled and fixed the thread before it fell apart again.

Danny raised an eyebrow at Ethan. “I thought this was supposed to be festive. This feels like a design competition.”

“Tell me about it,” Ethan muttered, ducking as Cora lobbed a snowflake ornament at Malia, who bared her teeth in a grin and hung it upside-down on purpose.

“Upside-down ornaments are a thing now,” Malia declared proudly.

“They are not,” Lydia said sharply without looking up.

“They are now,” Cora smirked.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god, I gave you people boxes of ornaments, not permission to stage World War Christmas.”

From his corner, Derek adjusted the lights (that Stiles used his spark to levitate onto the tree earlier) and glared just enough to keep Erica from throwing glitter. “You could help.”

“I am helping,” Stiles shot back, waving his hand at the chaos. “This is me, preventing homicide.”

(He’s not wrong. Pack decorating = guaranteed homicide without supervision.)

Boyd silently hung another ornament, ignoring everyone else’s nonsense. Beside him, Isaac fidgeted with the tree topper still in its box, eyes darting nervously around like he didn’t want to claim it but also didn’t want to be the one to break it.

Finally, after the baubles were somewhat balanced, the garlands half-straight, and Lydia had threatened Jackson with bodily harm if he moved her carefully spaced snowflakes, the inevitable question came up.

“So, who gets the star?” Erica asked, hands on her hips.

“I vote me,” Jackson said immediately.

“No one asked you,” Erica snapped.

“Excuse you, this tree needs me.”

Scott raised a hand. “Traditionally, kids get to put the star up—”

“I’m younger than all of you,” Malia cut in.

“I’m littler,” Cora argued, crossing her arms.

“I’ve literally been here longer,” Erica said.

“I’m the Alpha’s best friend,” Scott tried again.

“Fiancé privileges,” Allison teased, elbowing him.

“Definitely not you two,” Stiles muttered.

Danny raised his hand with mock solemnity. “I’m the only one who hasn’t caused problems tonight.”

“That’s not true,” Ethan said immediately. “You stole my hooks.”

“Hooks are communal!” Danny protested.

Lydia sighed dramatically. “If you animals can’t figure this out, I’ll do it. At least it’ll be done right.”

The argument spiralled, voices overlapping, hands gesturing, ornaments rattling. Stiles’ jaw clenched tighter and tighter, the spark under his skin buzzing with his irritation. The lights flickered once. Twice.

Derek noticed. He stepped forward, voice calm but firm, cutting through the noise. “Isaac should do it.”

The room went silent.

Isaac blinked, startled. “Me?”

“You’ve been holding it the whole time,” Derek said simply. “Seems fair.”

Erica’s mouth fell open. “What? No. He can’t even reach!”

“I can reach,” Isaac said quickly, defensive.

Jackson scoffed. “He’s gonna drop it.”

“Not helping,” Stiles snapped, glaring. “He’s putting it up, end of story. Congratulations, Isaac. You’re our shiny chosen one.”

Isaac looked both proud and terrified as he carefully climbed onto the couch arm, the star balanced in his hands. The whole pack leaned in, holding their breath like it was some sacred ritual.

For a second, it looked like he was going to make it. His hands stretched, the tip of the tree swayed—

—and then his foot slipped.

The star slipped from his grip, hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

Isaac froze, horror washing over his face. His face crumpled, his shoulders curling in like he was trying to disappear into his scarf. “I ruined it,” he whispered, voice thin. “I—oh my god—I ruined it. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

His shoulders curling in on himself like he wanted to disappear. Erica’s smirk faltered, Jackson’s smug look evaporated, and the whole pack went quiet.

The star lay broken, and Isaac looked like he was about to crumble with it.

Isaac stood frozen at the top of the couch, wide eyes locked on the broken star. The crack in the plastic seemed to echo through the room louder than the actual snap had, and for a heartbeat, no one moved. The festive glow from the lights felt dimmer, heavier somehow, as if the whole tree mourned with him.

“I ruined it,” Isaac whispered, voice cracking like he was twelve again. His hands fisted at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He didn’t look at anyone—just stared at the floor, shoulders hunching like he wanted to fold himself into nothing.

Erica opened her mouth, probably to make a joke, but Boyd nudged her sharply and she shut it with a click. Jackson shifted uncomfortably, Lydia’s sharp eyes catching him before he could say anything unhelpful. Scott half-stepped forward, but the hesitation was there, he didn’t know how to fix this.

Stiles, though, didn’t hesitate.

“Hey, hey, buddy.” His voice was warm, steady, the kind of tone he usually saved for late nights in his room when they came to him for advice, like when Scott panicked or when Malia couldn’t figure out how to human properly. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, placing a hand on Isaac’s arm and gently coaxing him down from the couch. “First off, you didn’t ruin anything. Second off, it’s literally a star. We’re not talking about the Holy Grail here.”

Isaac finally risked a glance at him, eyes glassy with guilt. “But I broke it. Everyone wanted—”

“Everyone wanted to fight over it,” Stiles cut in, giving the pack a pointed look. Half of them ducked their heads. “You were the only one actually holding it because you’re the only one responsible enough to not throw it across the room. You didn’t ruin anything, Isaac. You tried. That matters.”

Boyd nodded firmly behind him, his silence more reassuring than words. Erica’s face softened, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Yeah, you didn’t mess it up,” she admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Scott jumped in, eager now. “Totally. I mean, it’s not like Christmas is ruined. Right, Allison?”

Allison smiled gently at Isaac. “Right. It’s just an ornament. You’re more important.”

Danny nudged Ethan, who finally added, “I mean, you didn’t set the tree on fire. That feels like a win.”

That earned a watery laugh from Isaac, it was small, but a laugh. He rubbed his sleeve across his eyes quickly, like he didn’t want anyone to notice.

Stiles gave his arm a squeeze. “See? Pack consensus: you didn’t ruin anything. Besides…” He glanced at the tree, at the bare top, and felt the spark under his skin hum like it had been waiting for this moment. “We don’t need some store-bought star anyway.”

The pack watched curiously as Stiles lifted his hand. The lights on the tree flickered once, then steadied, glowing brighter as warmth pulsed outward from him. At the top of the tree, golden light shimmered and coalesced, weaving itself into the shape of a star. It glowed brighter and brighter until it shone like it had always belonged there, casting a soft radiance across the room.

The pack collectively exhaled, the tension melting away.

“Whoa,” Scott breathed.

“Okay, that’s way cooler than anything from Target,” Erica admitted, her grin returning.

Jackson muttered, “I mean, it is better,” but Lydia elbowed him before he could ruin the moment.

Isaac just stared, awe flickering across his face. “You… you made that? For me?”

Stiles smiled, a little sheepishly. “For us. But yeah, because you deserve it. You got the star up, Isaac.”

That did it. Isaac’s shoulders straightened, a small but steady smile tugging at his lips. The guilt slipped away, replaced by quiet pride. Boyd clapped him on the shoulder, Erica looped an arm around him with a flourish, and the whole pack seemed to gravitate closer—like the star itself had pulled them into orbit.

Derek, standing just behind Stiles, said nothing. But his eyes lingered on Stiles long after the others had turned back to admire the tree. His eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he might’ve smiled if no one was watching.

And Stiles? He didn’t even notice. He was too busy making sure Isaac was okay.

Chapter Text

The thing about hosting a movie night for a pack of werewolves (and the handful of humans that had somehow gotten tangled up with them) was that it was never just a movie night. The Hale kitchen looked like the aftermath of a grocery store raid. Bowls stacked precariously near the sink, bags of chips spilling across the counter, soda bottles lined up like soldiers waiting for deployment. And in the middle of it all, Stiles Stilinski, commander-in-chief of Pack Movie Night. It was chaos, barely contained, wrapped in the smell of butter and chocolate and the faint hum of magic that always seemed to cling to Stiles when he concentrated too hard.

And of course, he was concentrating.

Melted chocolate streaked across a spoon Stiles swore he had just cleaned, and the suspiciously threatening pop of oil from the stovetop where he had decided, in a fit of what he called "brilliance," to make homemade popcorn in several different flavours.

“Sweet, salty, cheesy, spicy,” he muttered under his breath, pacing between stove and counter like some general directing a battlefield. “Gotta cover all bases. Wolves inhale food, humans need variety, and Lydia will literally kill me if there isn’t something artisanal-looking.”

He reached for the caramel sauce, stirred, frowned, added more butter. Then back to the drinks— sodas lined up by brand, lemonade in a huge pitcher, hot chocolate simmering on the back burner with marshmallows at the ready. And because apparently he had sold his soul to domesticity, there was a tray of brownies cooling on the rack, which he kept glancing at like a proud parent.

He darted from counter to stove, spatula in one hand, phone timer in the other, muttering under his breath like a man possessed. “Popcorn— check. Nachos— five more minutes. Cookies— don’t burn, don’t you dare burn. Cocoa— hot. Sodas— God, why do wolves drink so much soda—”

The oven dinged. Stiles spun, yanked out the cookie tray, and hissed as heat licked up his arm. “Ow! Okay. Totally fine. I meant to do that.", he said to no one but himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” he told himself, shoving another bowl of popcorn onto the growing pile. “This is beyond Emissary duty. This is… Pack Emissary Supreme. They should knight me.”

He set the cookie tray down elsewhere and glanced around the chaos, hands on hips. If anyone else had walked in, they’d see a disaster zone. But to Stiles? This was order. This was taking care of his people.

The front door creaked open, followed by the thud of heavy boots. Derek didn’t announce himself, he never did. But Stiles knew it was him. He always knew.

“You’ve been in here for hours,” Derek said, voice dry, leaning against the doorway like he owned the house, which he did. His arms were crossed, shoulders relaxed in that deceptively casual way.

“I’m keeping your animals from devouring each other,” Stiles shot back without looking up. “If I don’t provide proper snack rations, it’s gonna be The Hale pack bloodbath: The Sequel.”

Derek’s eyes scanned the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, but the twitch of his mouth gave him away. Amusement. And something softer, lingering as his gaze tracked Stiles’ quick movements, the way he automatically checked the oven timer, stirred the chocolate, wiped his hands, all while muttering to himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stiles grumbled, tossing a handful of pretzels into a bowl.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re silently judging the fact that I’m basically nesting. I know what I’m doing. This is essential. No one else cares if Isaac spills crumbs everywhere or if Erica only eats the spicy stuff. I keep the balance.”

Derek didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own kind of steady, and Stiles hated how much it made his stomach flip.

For a long moment, Derek just watched him. Quiet. Steady. And Stiles, for all his sarcasm, felt the weight of it, like Derek was cataloguing every frantic movement, every muttered complaint, every small way Stiles was holding the pack together.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Derek said finally.

Stiles froze mid-pour as cocoa streamed into mugs. Then he shrugged, without turning. “Yeah, I do. They’ll be here in ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and if I don’t make sure everything’s ready, we’ll end up with Isaac trying to eat uncooked cookie dough and Erica drinking soda straight from the bottle. Again.”

“Doesn’t sound like a crisis.”

“Because you don’t see the aftermath. I do. I’m the one who cleans up their sugar crash meltdowns and crumbs in the couch cushions.”

Derek’s silence said enough: he knew Stiles wasn’t wrong.

Stiles lined up mugs of cocoa, steam curling upward, and his spark hummed under his skin. The faintest crackle of energy danced in the air, stabilising the temperature so every mug came out perfect. Not too hot. Not lukewarm. Just right. He didn’t even think about it anymore. It just happened when he cared too much.

Derek noticed, of course. He always did.

The first knock at the door startled Stiles into dropping the ladle. “Crap— okay, we’re good! We’re fine! Showtime.” He scrambled to the living room, wiping flour off his shirt.

Melissa McCall came in first, balancing a covered dish in her hands. “I brought lasagna,” she said warmly, giving Stiles a once-over. “You’ve been cooking again, haven’t you?”

“Define cooking,” Stiles said, grabbing the dish before she could trip over the rug. “And thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

Sheriff Stilinski followed, already sighing. “This house better survive tonight, Stiles.”

“Dad, relax,” Stiles said, ushering him inside. “It’s just a movie night, not a rave.”

“You say that like you didn’t once turn my living room into a Nerf warzone.”

“Different vibe!” Stiles called, darting back to the kitchen to rescue the nachos.

More arrivals followed, Scott and Allison, holding hands, already whispering to each other; Lydia and Jackson, bickering over who looked better in their winter coats; Erica dragging Boyd in, the two of them laughing at some private joke.

Then Cora and Malia burst in, both talking over each other, nearly knocking into Danny and Ethan, who carried in neatly wrapped snacks like actual functioning adults. And finally, Peter, trailing behind Chris Argent, who carried a smug expression that screamed “yes, we came here together, deal with it.”

Stiles blinked. “...Okay. Not touching that one.”

“Wise choice,” Peter purred, brushing past.

(Translation: Peter is winning and wants everyone to know it. Ew.)

The living room filled quickly, pillows tossed on the floor, blankets draped across the couch, wolves already elbowing each other for the best seats.

Stiles set the nachos down on the coffee table and clapped his hands. “Alright, people. Before this devolves into chaos, we need to decide— what are we watching?”

Chapter Text

The morning sun hadn’t even hit its stride when Stiles Stilinski was already leaning against his Jeep, tapping his coffee cup like a drummer with too much energy. His second one of the morning. Derek came down the steps of the rebuilt Hale house with his usual scowl, jacket half-zipped, looking like he’d been coerced into something truly heinous.

Which, to be fair, he had been.

“You’re late,” Stiles called, though Derek was right on time. “Most stores are gonna be packed with last minute Christmas shoppers, and I refuse to fight a soccer mom for the last scented candle. C’mon, move those Alpha legs.”

Derek raised a brow. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You did when you whispered about maybe not giving anyone anything because you didn’t know what to get them,” Stiles said, pushing off the Jeep with a smug grin. “And as your personal emissary-slash-professional babysitter, I have taken it upon myself to ensure the wolves of Beacon Hills don’t think their brooding Alpha hates them.”

Derek’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to get it wrong. If I buy something that doesn’t fit… if they think I don’t care—”

“Okay, stop.” Stiles raised a hand dramatically, as though halting traffic. “First of all, the fact that you’re worried about that already proves you care. Second of all, you’ve got me. The human database of pack quirks and preferences. I’ve got everyone’s likes, dislikes, trauma triggers, and favourite snack foods memorised.”

Derek gave him a side-eye. “That’s… not comforting.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with me.” Stiles beamed, and before Derek could change his mind, he clapped his hands. “Let’s move, wolfman. Capitalism awaits.”

The bell over the door chimed as they entered Beacon Hills’ small but cosy bookstore. Stiles inhaled dramatically. “Ahhh, the smell of intellectual superiority. You can practically hear the SAT scores rising.”

Derek followed, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking over shelves stacked with classics and glossy hardcovers. “Who are we shopping for here?”

“Lydia,” Stiles said without hesitation. “She pretends she doesn’t like getting gifts, but secretly? She loves being reminded people recognise her brain. We’re talking something math-heavy, obscure, but still pretty.”

Derek followed as Stiles zig-zagged through aisles like he owned the place. He pulled out a sleek, hardcover edition of a book Derek had never heard of.

“She mentioned this author once in passing, like two months ago. Said she hated the movie adaptation but loved the original text.” He tucked it under his arm and grabbed another. “Backup option.”

Derek frowned. “You remembered that?”

“Uh, yeah? I have ears, don’t I?” Stiles shot back. Then, softer: “I listen.”

It struck Derek, how casually Stiles said it.

They kept browsing. Stiles veered into another aisle and held up a graphic novel. “This is for Erica. She loves a good girboss, and this artist nails the snarky femme-fatale vibe. Plus, she’ll rub it in Boyd’s face until he reads it too.”

Derek had to admit, it fit.

They checked out, and on the way back to the Jeep, Derek muttered, almost against his own will, “You know a lot about everyone.”

Stiles shrugged like it was obvious. “Emissary, dude. It’s my job.”

"Most emissaries don't do this though,” Derek murmured, almost to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Derek took the book gently out of his hands. “This one. She’ll like it.”

“Look at you,” Stiles teased. “Already learning.”

Derek leaned down to Stiles' ear, growling in a low voice, "Well I have a good teacher, don't I?"

Stiles’ throat bobbed. He looked away, ears a little pink. “Don’t get mushy on me, Sourwolf. We’ve got twelve more stops.”

By the time they’d paid for Lydia’s gift, Derek was glowering at the world like it had personally wronged him. Stiles, on the other hand, was bouncing on his heels.

“Okay, next stop requires caffeine. I am not Santa without my peppermint mocha.”

They stopped at a small café, Stiles ordered a drink so sugary it could fuel a jet engine, while Derek settled for black coffee. They snagged a corner table.

Stiles blew across his whipped cream mountain. “So, gift philosophy. We’re not just buying random stuff. We’re making them feel seen. Scott? Easy. A new pair of goalie gloves. His current ones smell like a swamp monster crawled inside and died.”

Derek smirked. “You’ve been in his gear bag?”

“Once, when I was on a cleaning binge. I’m still in recovery.” Stiles shuddered. “Anyway, gloves. Peter? I'm thinking a scarf. He’ll roll her eyes and then wear it every day. I'm pretty sure Danny would like an upgrade to his current computer OS, though I'm not entirely sure how we're gonna do that."

Derek stirred his coffee, glancing up at him. “How do you keep track of all this?”

Stiles shrugged. “Because I care. They’re my people. My— our —pack. Of course I notice the details.”

Something unreadable flickered across Derek’s face. He didn’t answer, but his shoulders relaxed as he sipped his coffee.

The trip had been going smoothly. Surprisingly smoothly, actually. Derek had found a watch for Boyd, Stiles had successfully argued with a cashier without being banned for life, and they’d even scored free gift wrapping.

Naturally, the universe decided to punish them.

“Oh, son of a—” Stiles muttered, tugging at Derek’s sleeve like a kid trying to hide behind his parent. “Abort mission. Abort.”

Derek followed his line of sight and cursed under his breath.

Peter.

Perfectly posed against a lamppost outside the store, scarf looped just so, shopping bag dangling from his fingers like it weighed nothing. He was smirking before they even reached him.

“Well, well,” Peter purred as they approached, that familiar smirk already making Derek’s molars ache. “If it isn’t my favourite shopping duo. Look at you two, bags in hand, whispering in corners. Domestic bliss, really.”

“We’re not—” Stiles started.

“Groceries,” Derek cut in, flat.

Peter tilted his head. “Groceries in… a jewellery store bag?” He tsked softly. “You two really need to work on your cover stories.”

Stiles blinked at the bag in Derek’s hand and immediately blurted, “We like… shiny apples?”

Peter grinned like Christmas had come early. “Adorable. Truly. But tell me, Derek...” His tone shifted, sly but almost innocent, as he stepped closer. “Do you actually know? About him?”

Derek stiffened, fingers tightening around the bag, his eyes glowing red. “Drop it.”

Peter ignored the warning. “Because it’s the kind of thing you don’t want to be slow about. Not when he’s right there.”

Stiles blinked, pointing at himself. “Wait— me? Know what about me? Why do I feel like I’ve just wandered into the middle of a soap opera?”

“Ignore him,” Derek said, steering him away, but Peter sidestepped, cutting them off with a lazy smile.

“Alright, then let me phrase it differently.” His voice dipped, almost conspiratorial. “Does he know? Or are you keeping it all locked up in that brooding skull of yours? Because you know how this works, Derek. Wolves recognise what’s theirs when they see it.”

Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “Wait, what works? What’s theirs? Can someone translate Hale into English, please?”

Peter, still grinning, leaned in just slightly. “Careful, nephew. If you don’t move fast enough, someone else might notice how… interesting he is.” His eyes flicked briefly to Stiles, lingering just long enough to make Derek’s stomach twist. “Humans like him don’t go unnoticed forever.”

Stiles threw his hands up. “Okay—WHAT? Who’s noticing me? Am I being stalked? Derek, am I being stalked?!”

Derek growled, low and sharp. “Peter.”

Peter stepped back, raising his hands in mock innocence. “Relax. I’m only saying—don’t miss your chance. You’ll regret it if you do.” His smirk softened, surprisingly genuine for a fleeting moment. “Don’t screw it up.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode off, scarf flaring dramatically as if he were walking offstage from a play only he’d been performing in.

Stiles stared after him, still frazzled. “Okay. That was… what was that? A threat? A pep talk? A prophecy? What did he mean, ‘wolves recognise what’s theirs’? DEREK.”

“Nothing,” Derek muttered, steering him toward the Jeep again. “He’s just being Peter. Ignore him.”

“Not reassuring!” Stiles shouted as they crossed the lot. “That’s literally the opposite of reassuring!”

Derek didn’t respond, but the tips of his ears burned red all the way back to the car.

By noon, they had a pile of bags in the Jeep: a blanket hoodie for Isaac, perfume for Allison that Stiles claimed “smells like the woods but not murder-y,” and a ridiculous gag gift for Jackson that Derek refused to ask about.

They stopped at a diner with neon reindeer in the window. Inside, it was warm, humming with carols from a crackling speaker.

Stiles ordered a burger, curly fries, mozzarella sticks, and pie. Derek ordered black coffee.

“You’re a monster,” Stiles said, dunking a fry in ranch. “We’re holiday shopping. Calories don’t count.”

Derek stole a fry.

“Hey! Violation!”

“You ordered too much.”

“I ordered the perfect amount,” Stiles shot back, shoving another fry into his mouth.

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence. Derek watched as Stiles rambled about gift ideas, his hands flying, words tumbling over each other like they couldn’t get out fast enough. He wasn’t just listing likes, he was remembering moments. Times when Malia had stared longingly at someone’s Polaroid camera. How Danny had mentioned his headphones breaking during a study session. How Cora once traced her fingers along the edge of a leather journal in a store window.

It was… detailed. Intimate.

Derek realised, not for the first time, that Stiles noticed things no one else did. He catalogued people, not like a strategist or an ulterior motive, but like someone who cared, because he did.

Stiles cared.

Derek leaned back, eyes softening despite himself.

“What?” Stiles asked around a mouthful of pie.

“Nothing,” Derek said, though his chest felt strangely warm.

By evening, their arms were laden with bags. Stiles narrated each purchase like a sports commentator, and Derek actually started responding with dry one-liners. They were… easy together. Comfortable.

But then, outside the last shop, Derek hesitated. “I still don’t know what to get you.”

Stiles froze. “Me?”

“You’ve been helping me all day. I should get you something too.”

Stiles waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a minimalist. My heart grows three sizes just from giving other people stuff.”

Derek looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue.

Back at the Pack house, they dropped their bags inside. Stiles collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “Operation: Santa Wolf—complete. We are legends.”

Derek set his bags down quietly. For a long moment, he just looked at Stiles sprawled across the cushions, grinning despite exhaustion.

“You did good today,” Derek said finally.

“Of course I did,” Stiles said, muffled by a throw pillow. “I’m amazing.” Then, softer: “And so did you, you know. They’re gonna love what you picked.”

Something warm settled in Derek’s chest at the certainty in Stiles’ voice. For once, he let himself believe it.

Chapter Text

There were few things in life that Stiles Stilinski didn’t overdo— worrying, overthinking, and apparently, cooking for an entire supernatural pack topped the list.

The kitchen looked like it had been nuked. Pots clattered, timers beeped, and flour dusted his hoodie like snow. A half-cut onion sat forgotten beside him while he whisked a bowl of something that was probably gravy. The smell of roasting turkey drifted through the air, mingling with cinnamon, melted butter, and stress.

He didn’t know when he’d become this person— the one who needed everyone fed, safe, and happy. Actually, scratch that. He did know. He’d been nine when he saw his mother slip away in the hospital bed, his hands useless against what was happening, his voice failing to stop the inevitable. That helplessness had burned into him a need to protect, to manage, to fix — whatever he could, whenever he could. It started small: making sure Scott had his inhaler, patching Boyd up after a sparring session, keeping track of Malia when she got lost in her own thoughts. It grew, until one day he was the pack’s emissary, the person who noticed the small things, who took the burden of care because it was the only thing he could do to make sense of a world that often felt out of control. And now, here he was, standing in the Hale house kitchen, elbow-deep in mashed potatoes, surrounded by half a dozen pots and pans, three open recipe books, and a mountain of ingredients, stressing over the Christmas Eve dinner like it was the end of the world.

From the doorway, Melissa chuckled. “You’ve been punching those mashed potatoes for five minutes, sweetie.”

He spun around, brandishing a spoon like a weapon. “Mama McCall! Thank the Christmas gods. You’re early!”

She lifted a bag of ingredients. “I thought you might need backup.”

“Understatement of the century,” Stiles muttered, ushering her in. “You can handle the salad; I’ll handle the culinary genius.”

“You mean chaos.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

The Hale House looked like a Pinterest board had exploded inside. Christmas lights draped across the bannister, the massive tree glittered in the corner, and stockings— hand-labelled by Stiles of course— hung neatly by the fireplace. The place was warm, alive, and buzzing with energy.

Cora and Isaac were already in the living room, arguing over who got to put the finishing touches on the garland. Cora elbowed him lightly, “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

Isaac grinned, hair dusted with tinsel. “Hopelessly festive.”

“Festive, my ass.”

“Language!” Stiles yelled from the kitchen.

“You don't even live here, Stiles!” Cora shot back, laughing. “You don’t get to mom us!”

“I don’t have to live here,” he yelled, popping his head out. “I just… exist here extensively!”

“Yeah,” Isaac said under his breath, smirking. “That’s literally living here.”

Stiles rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his mouth. 

By the time the others arrived, the house was glowing. Erica strutted in wearing a sequined Christmas jumper, dragging Boyd behind her with a plate of gingerbread cookies she’d definitely stolen from somewhere.

“Is this the official Hale Christmas event?” Erica asked dramatically. “Because I need to emotionally prepare.”

“Emotionally prepare for food?” Boyd teased.

“For Stiles,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Hey!” Stiles protested, holding up a spoon like a scepter. “I am the glue holding this family together, thank you very much.”

Derek walked in then quietly,  wearing a dark red sweater, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly ruining Stiles’ brain chemistry. “You’re the chaos holding this family together,” he corrected dryly.

Stiles shot him a grin. “Compliment accepted.”

Scott and Allison arrived next, holding hands, glowing like they’d walked straight out of a holiday commercial. Lydia and Jackson, of course, came together and fashionably late, Lydia’s heels clicking against the floor like punctuation marks of superiority.

“Nice to see the commoners doing their best,” Lydia said sarcastically, surveying the setup.

Jackson smirked, arm slipping around her waist. “Yeah, it’s… cute.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “We’re thrilled you could lower your standards long enough to attend.”

“Please,” Lydia replied sweetly. “I was promised wine.”

The wolves had spread out across the kitchen and dining area: Erica and Boyd arguing over the proper way to roast potatoes; Malia and Cora debating whether to decorate the hall with garlands before or after dinner; Scott trying not to trip over boxes of plates, while Lydia had already commandeered the dessert table for her own precise arrangements. Jackson, who normally would have rolled his eyes at the chaos, was instead loudly commenting on Erica’s insistence that her “flamboyant” spices were necessary for flavor.

“Trust me, if you put cinnamon in this, it’s going to taste like Christmas vomit,” Jackson said, scoffing dramatically as Erica brandished a spice jar like a dagger.

“You’re the one who puts ketchup on literally everything,” Erica shot back, eyes narrowing. “I will not tolerate your culinary crimes in my kitchen.”

“Okay, okay, everyone chill,” Stiles said, bouncing on his toes as he tried to keep track of three pans, two roasting trays, and a simmering pot of soup. “First of all, this is my kitchen", he said, looking pointedly at Erica, who just had a smug look on her face. "And secondly, the point is… food gets eaten, everybody stays alive, and no one sets anything on fire. Maybe.”

Derek, arms crossed, leaned against the doorway. “You’ve got everything under control, I see.”

Stiles wiped his forehead and shot him a grin that was supposed to be charming but probably looked exhausted. “I wouldn’t call it ‘under control,’ sourwolf. More like ‘mildly functioning chaos with some gourmet aspirations.’”

Derek’s lips twitched. Not a smile, not exactly, but close enough.

As the evening progressed, Stiles darted around the room like a caffeinated Christmas elf. He topped drinks with whipped cream, tasted sauces, nudged people into their tasks, and made sure the younger members, well mentally— Isaac and Malia— had help without making them feel smothered. He reminded Scott to drink water between tasks, encouraged Lydia to sample the cookies she’d meticulously iced, and even gently admonished Erica for trying to sneak a piece of the roasted turkey before it cooled.

Somehow, amidst the noise, the laughter, and the occasional squabble, the kitchen began to look like a scene from a holiday magazine. Candles flickered on the tables, garlands framed the doorways, and the scent of roasting meat and sweet pies filled every corner. Stiles paused for a breath, taking it all in. Derek noticed, of course. He didn’t comment, but his eyes lingered, noting how completely absorbed Stiles was in everyone else, how every movement was meant to care, to coordinate, to soothe.

Dinner was chaos and comfort rolled into one.

Stiles had somehow managed to cook enough food to feed a small army, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, roasted vegetables, and at least thirteen pies. The pack filled the long table, laughter echoing off the walls.

“Scott, stop hogging the cranberry sauce!”

“Allison, tell your boyfriend that’s my pie!”

“Lydia, I swear if you critique the gravy one more time—”

“It’s delicious, Stiles,” Lydia said with a smile that was both genuine and patronising. “Surprisingly so.”

Stiles blinked. “Did… did you just compliment me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Even Peter showed up, late and smug, exchanging subtle verbal jabs with Chris Argent that sounded like death threats but were delivered with polite smiles.

And through it all, Derek sat at the head of the table, watching the noise, the laughter, the warmth, the chaos, with quiet contentment. Every time Stiles darted past, refilling plates, adjusting candles, fussing over something, Derek’s gaze followed.

When the plates were finally cleared, and Stiles was in the kitchen muttering about dish distribution and “a total lack of respect for the sacred dishwasher order,” Derek appeared beside him, drying a plate.

“You don’t have to do all this,” he said softly.

“I know,” Stiles replied without looking up. “But I want to.”

Derek watched him for a long moment, eyes tracing the exhaustion and the light in his expression. “You always take care of everyone.”

Stiles didn't even stop what he was doing andand asked Derek absentmindedly, “You said that before, sourwolf. What do you mean?”

Derek hesitated. The kitchen light painted his face in gold and shadow. “Just… that it’s one of the things you do best.”

Stiles froze mid-motion, dish halfway to the counter. He turned slowly. For a heartbeat, neither said anything. The air felt changed, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then Stiles cleared his throat. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you emotionally constipated werewolves alive.”

Derek smirked faintly. “We manage.”

“Barely.”

By the end of cleanup, the chaos had settled into comfortable hums and murmurs. Everyone was exhausted, brushing crumbs from their clothes, recounting the highlights of the evening. Stiles checked the oven one last time, making sure nothing had been forgotten, and finally allowed himself a slow exhale. 

The living room gradually turned into a nest of blankets, pillows, and half-eaten desserts. The fire crackled low as the pack sprawled out, sleep creeping in around the edges.

Malia was already half-asleep, head resting on Cora’s shoulder. Erica was snuggled up against Boyd, whispering something that made him chuckle. Lydia and Jackson sat near the fire, looking like a magazine ad for “Hot and Rich at Christmas.”

Melissa and Noah had migrated to the couch, quietly laughing over an old photo album.

Somewhere between checking that everyone had blankets and making sure the fire wouldn’t die overnight, Stiles ended up sitting beside Derek on the couch.

He didn’t remember how it happened, only that Derek had said something like, “You’re going to burn yourself out,” and then— warmth. A steady presence beside him. A quiet that didn’t need filling.

He blinked, eyes drooping. “You’re comfortable, you know that?”

Derek huffed. “You’re heavy.”

“Wow. Rude.”

But Derek didn’t move, and neither did Stiles.

Outside, snow fell soft and slow. Inside, the fire popped quietly, the pack safe and sleeping.

And somewhere between exhaustion and contentment, Stiles drifted off— his head falling against Derek’s shoulder, his fingers unconsciously curling into the soft fabric of Derek’s sleeve.

Derek stayed still for a long time, barely breathing, before quietly pulling the blanket over both of them.