Join in Any Werewolf Games
Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
A/n: The line "They never let poor Stiles join in any werewolf games" has been running through my mind for like the entire month of December. This was born out of that constant train of thought. Please enjoy the proceeding festivities.
The Sheriff directs his gaze up towards the ceiling. He hears two muffled thumps and an obnoxiously loud huff. He sets down his coffee and heads up the stairs to investigate. As he climbs, he realizes that this is likely the sort of thing that will only end in an intense need for more coffee this morning. A shoe suddenly flies past his head to confirm this. At the top of the stairs, he slows down to go ahead. The noises are coming from the closet at the end of the hall, the closet that is hardly ever opened, the forgotten junk closet. More things go flying, and it is years on the Beacon Hills police force that save him from physical trauma. Sheriff Stilinski leans against the wall to stare into the depths of the closet.
"Stiles," he groans, "what are you doing?" Only the teens scuffed, white sneakers can be seen from the depths of an unknown darkness. The Sheriff thinks he can hear a muffled response though. "Stiles," he says, a little bit louder, and taps his boots against his son's shoes for added effect.
Things go tumbling to the ground in an avalanche of clutter, but Stiles makes it out alive to peer up at his dad from his hands and knees. "Dad?"
"May I ask why I suddenly have to fear for my life in my own home, due to things besides the normal Beacon Hills criminals and lowlifes?"
Stiles takes a moment to answer. The Sheriff lowers his brows as he ponders if the hesitation is due to a reluctance to answer the questions truthfully, or if there is confusion at the question being asked.
"The question you should be asking is 'What are we going to do about not dying from hypothermia?'"
Stiles and Sheriff Stilinski both turn their heads and look out the window.
There is one and a half feet of snow in Beacon Hills.
They both rotate back and glance at one another.
"Shouldn't I be asking, 'Why I have to worry about freezing to death all of a sudden, when yesterday it was 70 degrees in Beacon Hills, CA?'"
In response, Stiles rolls his eyes with his whole head and scoffs out, "Come on, dad. We all know that's from Global Warming."
"That," the Sheriff points to the window and the white stuff falling just beyond it, "is not Global Warming."
"Climate change, whatever."
There is a pause.
"What are you doing in the closet, Stiles?"
"Well, I tried to come out to you that one time at Jungle, but-"
"Stiles…"
"I'm getting out all of our winter gear that we usually take when we go up to the mountains to visit Aunt Jess in Washington. Which, by the way, the last time was like two years ago; we should probably go visit before she takes us off of her Christmas Card list. That is also probably why I had to dig through this entire closet, all the way into the back, to find the stuff. But I have emerged unbeaten. Look! Mittens!"
The teen holds up his prize for his dad to gaze upon, before he abruptly springs up to race down the hall and scramble into his room. The door swings shut, and the Sheriff waits a couple of beats. Just as spasmodic, Stiles materializes out of his room, but in new garb.
The hat Stiles wears is large, mismatched in color, and the right sort of quirk the boy cultivates as his own. His scarf covers all of the lower portion of his face, its twin tails draped unevenly down his back. His coat is stuffed. There are big, rubber boats on his feet. And, of course, he is wearing, mittens. You would think that all the extra added weight would slow the teen down...you would be thinking wrong (Don't worry, that happens often when Stiles Stilinski is concerned.) Stiles starts rushing down the stairs.
"Bye dad! I left out a hat and some gloves for you! See you in a couple of hours!"
Sheriff Stilinski opens his mouth to respond; he wants to remind Stiles before he leaves, "Don't forget that we have to put up the-" but he never gets to finish his sentence because the door slams articulately to mark Stiles' exit.
Roscoe the Jeep comes to a rumbling stop outside the Beacon Hills Preserve sign that sways in the cold breeze. Stiles carefully shuts his door as he jumps out into the snow, carefully because this Jeep is his baby and he will not abuse the most loyal love of his life.
"You're late," Derek says, standing a little ways away from the rattling sign.
Stiles tries not to narrow his eyes at the man with his arms folded in a black, leather jacket. "Not all of us can get away with traipsing around this eerie Winter Wonderland with just a leather jacket, Derek." Stiles does narrow his eyes at the whole leather-clad pack lurking behind their alpha as he says the last word. "But at least I'm not the last one here. We still have to wait for Scott and the others. I bet Lydia and Allison will understand what it takes to successfully prevent hypothermia."
"It doesn't take as long as you do, Stilinski," a voice comes from the other side of the sign.
Jackson, being led by Scott, is smirking as he emerges from the forest. Behind the two single-layered outfitted werewolves are two bundled up, yet superbly stylish, female goddesses-otherwise known as Lydia Martin and Allison Argent.
"You were last, Stilinski. And always will be."
Stiles completely ignores what he deems a waste of fresh Beacon Hills space, and locks his gaze with Scott's. "Remind me again why we didn't kill him when we had the chance when he was the kanima?"
"You tried to," Jackson breaks in instead. "It didn't work. Multiple times."
"And the one time it did, he turned into a werewolf," adds Scott.
"You're supposed to be on my side," Stiles complains.
"I'm always on your side, Stiles." Scott grins his was-supernatural-before-he-was-actually-supernatural smile. "That's why Jackson's in Derek's pack and not mine."
Not one to be the most obnoxious, especially in this group, but suddenly wanting to be, Isaac groans out in a sickened tone, "Can we just get going, now?"
Stiles glares at him. "Yes, lets. Let us venture into the, there is no way anything can bad can happen in there, suddenly covered in two feet of snow, Beacon Hills Preserve to look for a likely, deadly, dangerous, large, and pissed off, supernatural creature that is the cause of all this annoying white stuff."
No one delegates his rant worthy of a response because they are too busy climbing over the sign and heading deep into the trees.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Lydia asks as she takes another step in her latest fashion brown boots.
The others make noisy footsteps right beside her, tromping through the shifting powder too.
However, before anyone (most likely it would have been Derek Hale, their so-called expert) can answer her, a flurry of fresh snow get blown into their faces. Stiles stumbles into a dry bush and cracks a bunch of its brittle branches with his weight. The sounds he makes righting himself are loud, but not as ear-deafening as the roar that comes following the flurry.
"I would say whatever made that noise," comments Boyd.
The group freezes, then slowly crouches to the ground, making themselves harder to see and a quieter target. The creature ahead of them has already spotted them though. Derek and Scott are able to share a quick look before they turn to their respective packs.
"Run!" Derek barks.
Everyone of them spring into action at the command, rapidly dashing back the way they had come. The Abominable Snowman that they have stumbled upon gives another loud roar and begins his chase.
Stiles concentrates on not tripping over his feet as he runs. He also tries to keep at least one other member of the group in his peripherals so that he does not get too lost weaving in and out of trees. He catches Erica's gaze when she looks back at their pursuer.
"Wonder, if we pulled out his teeth, if it would calm him down enough to keep him to put stars atop our big ol' Christmas trees?" She smirks when she realized Stiles can hear her, not just the other werewolves. Derek is suddenly right beside her.
"Just run." orders the alpha.
It causes Stiles to look down and huff. But when he looks back up to catch Derek's disapproving gaze, Stiles realizes that he could no longer see anyone else. He has been split up from the group. He could start panicking at that little tidbit, yet he can only focus on not trying to get eaten by an Abominable Snowman. So he is not the best at complete focus, thus his thoughts take a turn from running and go down the tracks with: He should have never made that joke. He should have never made that joke. He should have never made that joke. He should never have made that joke when Matt was threatening everyone he loves' lives. Karmic punishment is what this is.
His breath is getting just a little too ragged when he filters in the stillness around him. Stiles slows down. He is no longer being chased by an Abominable Snowman, but he is still alone in a territory that being alone in can mean never being seen again. Which is a statistic roughly doubled by the unnatural drop in temperature Beacon Hills is currently experiencing. The stillness seems to be growing, prompting the teen to stop right where he is. He takes a look around and swiftly realizes his mistake.
He is in a pristine-white clearing. The circle of trees around him is in a perfect circle. The snow that was falling is now suspended in the air surrounding him. It is too perfect of a storybook clearing. Way too fucking perfect. Shit.
In an attempt to calm his breath, though it does nothing for the beating of his heart, Stiles bends down and places his hands on his knees. It works after a while, and he takes one really deep breath before chancing a glance upward. He straightens up immediately when he spots the woman who was not there before. Stiles cautiously assesses her long, shiny-black hair and coal colored eyes that stare unblinking at him. She is dressed in a white, furry outfit that the teen thinks is probably made from the softest creature to ever exist; he bets it is a supernatural creature. Then he dreadfully wonders if she killed the creature, skinned it, and made her coat out of it with her bare hands. He thinks he is about to die.
Without warning she disappears and reappears right in front of him, her body is inches away from his and they are definitely in each other's personal bubbles.
"We just wanted a vacation," her voice is beautiful, powerful, soft, and annoyed all at the same time. "My husband and I came to Beacon Hills because we had heard it was a good place to go for a vacation. It's not his fault that my husband needs a little snow to survive. I was going to take the blizzard with me when we left, but you and your werewolf kids had to disturb the peace. I'll just have to give you guys a vacation so that we can enjoy ours."
Stiles, trying not to lose his balance when she begins crowding more and more into his space, is only able to create one connecting thought from her rant. "You're married to an Abominable Snowman?" he questions in typical Stiles incredulous fashion.
"What? You think just because I'm a beautiful Yuki-Onna and he's what you humans think is a mindless snowbeast, that we can't have a normal relationship? I'll have you know that Hermey is extremely intelligent for his species. And he's not an Abominable Snowman all of the time; it's usually a seasonal thing."
"That's what I've said!" Stiles sometimes has normal responses to dangerous beings, but usually he does not.
"You're cute," responds the Yuki-Onna. "Have a fun vacation. I promise, that if you do not come looking for us, then this will all be over soon." The Yuki-Onna places a pale and delicate finger on Stiles' nose just as the others burst into the clearing, Derek and Scott transformed and roaring in the lead.
The flurry of snow drives upward in a swift wind. Then the bitter, bone-chilling wind, suddenly passes and the group is left with black night sky on white snow. No Abominable Snowman or Yuki-Onna to be seen. Stiles feels a shiver that wants to come, not from cold, but from anxiety and fear. He slowly realizes that he cannot shiver from the cold because he is now warmer than he was before. ...And shorter?
All eyes are on him as he whips his head downward to look at his body, a heavy weight on his head shifts the movement more awkwardly than normal.
Holy Hell, Stiles Stilinski has hooves.
And if the weight on his head is anything to go by, "I'm a freakin' reindeer, aren't I?"
Rather than panic, Stiles has no idea what a panic attack would look like on a reindeer and he has no desire to find out, the once pale human-now furry mammal-just gets a little morose instead.
"I have hooves," he laments. "And antlers. And a tail…"
"It's a cute tail, though," Allison shyly remarks, and, okay, that is not helping, she realizes.
"I'm a reindeer!" This causes Jackson to start laughing louder. He had been laughing since they had discovered Stiles' four-legged predicament. No amount of hits and forceful shoves from Lydia had gotten the blonde haired teen to stop.
"A cute reindeer!" protests Allison.
"Yeah, he's so cute I could eat, him, up…" Erica is smirking in a decidedly devilish way.
"There will be no eating Stiles," Scott states, crossing his arms.
"Thanks, buddy."
"Scott is right," puts in Derek. "But we still have to figure out what to do with you. It's not like we can take you back to your house."
Stiles gets a little panicky at the thought of him and his house. "My dad would probably shoot me on sight, seeing a wild animal in his house!"
"We won't let that happen, Stiles." Derek is trying to be sort of reassuring, but he just sounds resigned.
"So where am I going to stay? I am not staying in these woods," he adds when he sees the look on Jackson's face.
"Shouldn't we be trying to figure out how to change him back?" wonders Isaac.
Shaking his shaggy head, Stiles decides to let them all in on the secret of his current lifestyle change. "I think I know how to change back."
"What?" Lydia finally stops punching Jackson to join the conversation.
"The Yuki-Onna, which, frankly, knowing the lore on her, wow do I think I got off relatively easy, said that she just wanted to give her and her husband a vacation, and that meant making us take a vacation. From finding them."
Allison gets a quizzical look on her pretty face. "Finding them?"
"Her and the Abominable Snowman. He's her husband."
Scott interrupts now. "The Abominable Snowman is her husband?"
"They want a vacation?" Lydia incredulously states.
"Yes. The Yuki-Onna and the Abominable Snowman are married and they came to Beacon Hills for a vacation. Can I finish my story?" The group remains silent. "Good. She told me that she was giving us a vacation so that they could stay on vacation. Which I think means that we'll be too busy dealing with...this...to go after and disturb them. She also promised that, if we leave them alone, she will change me back and get rid of all this snow after their vacation."
"But," and Derek's face says he is not reassured by Stiles' explanation and this promise, "what if she was lying? Or what if their vacation lasts longer than what normal humans would call a vacation? What if they decided to stay in Beacon Hills forever."
Stiles glares at him. It actually is pretty powerful in reindeer form. "Don't be such a sourwolf. I want to get out of these woods, now. And I would prefer not to go traipsing around this area again anytime soon. Like I could avoid this area for years and be happy. Bad things happen in Beacon Hills Preserve. No offense, Scott." The reindeer's best friend just smiles.
"Stiles…" Oh, Derek is getting all growly now.
But it is Stiles' turn to ignore the others. He starts walking away, heading less deep among the trees. He leaves fresh hoofprints in the snow as he goes.
Stiles the reindeer has had a long, couple of days this week. It totally started with the freak snowstorm that hit Beacon Hills, CA. Then there was an Abominable Snowman, a Yuki-Onna, oh, and Stiles got turned into a freakin' reindeer. That was the first day.
His second day consisted of lying to his dad about his current whereabouts; Scott had been the best friend ever to hold the phone near Stiles' snout since he no longer had hands for such things. There was also a really intense moment when he coerced the leather-clad teens of Derek's pack to take him to his house so that he could have a few supplies to keep with him while he was, in fact, a reindeer, and had to stay away from home. The really intense moment came when the Sheriff arrived home early, much to the surprise of the werewolves with super-hearing, and they were forced to sneak a rather large reindeer past an extremely suspicious sheriff and out the backdoor. Boyd has such a calming effect on people and is really good at delivering simple lies with a straight face. That day ended with a clumsy, uncoordinated, and atrocious trip through downtown, into the loft, and up the elevator. He had to stay inside that night; the night before he had been forced to sleep outside, in Scott's backyard. After much fighting, it was concluded that Derek was the only one with enough wide open spaces to fit a reindeer, and not enough breakable objects.
Days three and four were not any better.
He hates any and all trips in the elevator. The motion does weird things to his internal reindeer-ness. Erica put a bell on him. He hates it, of course. But he cannot get it off because, well, he has no hands. All anyone will feed him is carrots. Derek almost bit his head off when Stiles complained about really craving a juicy steak. The werewolf alpha was not going to let the teen risk permanent internal damage by inhaling a diet foreign to normal reindeer. Derek also tries to get Stiles and the others to go back into the preserve to go search for the Yuki-Onna so that she could change Stiles back. No one was budging, especially Stiles. Did he mention that he hates the elevator? On day four, Isaac, in a sweet but extremely misguided move, had let loose a dream of riding reindeer and before he knew it, was astride Stiles' brown and furry back. Stiles had had a momentous freakout at the feel of the extra weight upon him, and bucked Isaac off in a truly spectacular fashion. The two teens apologized to one another, but mostly avoided each other after that.
There is something good about being a reindeer, though, Stiles decides. The pets. He loves the petting. At first, he tried not to be a petting whore. At first, he only let Allison or Lydia idly stroke their hands through his fur as the two packs watched films in Derek's loft each day they tried to keep Stiles company. But then, one night while Derek's pack, and Stiles, were observing the alpha cook, Boyd had placed a large and steady hand on Stiles' head and had started scratching. The effect was so calming on the normally amped up former-teen, that after that, Stiles let anyone and everyone pat his head, scratch behind his ears, and rub his flanks so he could feel content and soothed. (He even let Erica, and Jackson has absentmindedly pet Stiles.)
However, today is the fifth day. Stiles has been cooped up inside for far too long. He is sick of it and is beginning to consider taking Derek up on his offer to go hunt down the Yuki-Onna and her Abominable Snowman Beau. He and the alpha are the only ones in the loft tonight.
Derek is sitting atop his bed sheets when Stiles enters the space, heavy hooves clacking on wooden floors. Derek does not glance up from his book when he hears Stiles come in what is designated as the "bedroom" area.
"What is it, Stiles?" he questions, still reading.
"Derek," starts the antlered mammal, "do you really think she's not going to keep her promise and that I'm not going to be able to turn back?"
Sensing the fear in Stiles' voice and his heartbeat, Derek closes his book, sets it aside, and stares directly at Stiles.
"You and I both know that it is not in evil creatures' natures to tell the truth."
"We don't know she's evil."
"I know she's killed people."
"What, can you sense it with your heightened werewolf senses, Mr. Alpha?"
"No." Stiles had not been expecting the gruffly abrupt reply; he kind of gives an "oh" sigh. "I don't have to sense it to just know, Stiles."
"So you don't think she was telling the truth?"
Derek sighs but does not stop staring at the one in front of him. "I don't really know, Stiles. I don't really know."
The room goes silent at that admission. Stiles has looked down, yet he can sense Derek's gaze on him. The both are waiting for the other to make the next move. Even with the tenseness in the atmosphere, the silence is not awkward.
Finally, Stiles is the one to speak. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, Derek," he practically whispers. "I've never spent Christmas Eve or Christmas Day away from my dad since my mom died. What if he and I don't get to celebrate together this year because I'm stuck as a reindeer and he can't see me like this? He'll worry something has happened to me, and I will not put him through that on Christmas."
Derek's only response, because he cannot fathom an acceptably reassuring one at this point, is to sigh out Stiles' name, "Stiles…"
"If I don't get changed back by tomorrow night, can we go back to the preserve to hunt for the Yuki-Onna?"
"I'll never stop hunting her until she changes you back."
"Thanks, Derek." If reindeers smile, Stiles is doing it right now. He then ruins the moment by commenting, "Now go back to reading your harlequin romance novel." Derek gets one of his deep frowns, all glarey and alpha-like.
On the fifth night, Stiles the reindeer falls asleep with his long, furry limbs tucked under his weighty body and his head perched on the edge of Derek's bed. He breathes steady and warm breaths on the hand that is just centimeters from his snout. Derek is sleeping peacefully right next to Stiles, and he can almost touch his abnormally soft new roommate that slumbers so near.
And it appears that, instead of the glowing red eyes that werewolves get when they get edgy, Stiles gets a nose that glows red. How is that fair?
"Oh, come on Rudolph, pissed we won't let you join in any werewolf games?" Stiles is going to rip that smirk right off Erica's face with his mighty antlers. (Which he should not have, by the way. He is a boy reindeer in winter. ...He hopes.)
"You guys are not leaving me here, by myself, while you go run around the woods for the full moon."
"But Stiles…" Scott tries.
"No. I am sick of being left behind. Every full moon, I sit in my room, bored to near catastrophic levels because I can only concentrate on whatever insane theories I have for what you are all doing in the woods. It's not like I'm not one hundred percent invested in the shit-storm that is now my life. Allison and Lydia go out with you whenever they want; they don't need your permission. And I don't either. And for DC's sake, I'm not even the slow human this time. I am, a fucking reindeer."
Slightly blinded by Stiles' fluorescent nose, steadily growing grumpier because of the impending full moon, and just generally Derek Hale, Derek snaps out his two cents on the conversation. "Exactly. You're a fucking reindeer. Wolves eat deer. You go out on the preserve with us tonight, and one of us is likely to tear you limb from limb."
"He's right, Stiles." Scott gently stares into the eyes of his best friend. "I know you want to come, and maybe next time you can, but it's really not safe for you tonight."
"No offense, Scott. But I'm going. You can all just stay away from me. Besides, none of you would really eat me. I taste like Adderall and sarcasm."
Sensing Derek is about to growl out his name in a pissed off warning, Stiles snorts. "End of story, Sourwolf." And he heads out the door towards the elevator, the sound of Lydia and Allison's snickers cheering him on the whole way.
"DEREK!" Stiles' frantic yelling, and the sound of his hooves, get lost in the miles of chilly air and trees. "DEREK!" he tries again.
The full moon is high in the sky; it gives Stiles some light to sort of maintain his course, but he is kind of missing his bright red nose at this point. At the moment, he is alone in his small patch of the preserve. However, he is not running for nothing. The night had started out just fine as he ran with the wolves. The werewolves mostly stuck to one another and no one got too big a whiff of Stiles to start drooling. But as the night wore on, claws and teeth got longer, and Stiles began to look pretty tasty to the younger werewolves. It was all over when Jackson snapped his teeth just centimeters from the spot where Stiles' tail used to be. Stiles had been running far far away from the group since then.
The only reason the teen mammal is now calling out the alpha's name is in the hopes that Derek has a little bit more control over his wolf side than his betas. Stiles hopes that Derek can either get him out of here or hold the others off long enough for Stiles to get out by himself.
"Derek, you better come find me quick before one of those super hungry things you created brings me down by my ankles. I might even let you say 'I told you so' if you successfully rescue me."
"I'll hold you to that," states the gravely voice suddenly next to him.
"Holy shit! Derek?! Don't do that to a guy! Or, a reindeer."
"Relax," Derek says, keeping pace with two legs, while Stiles works with four. "If you want to get out of here without getting eaten, you have to make yourself less of a target."
"How?"
"Less fear and more running."
Reindeer can totally roll their eyes, proves Stiles. "Like I was going to stop anytime soon, Mr. Helpful."
"Stiles. Shut up and head toward the cars."
After they had been running for a few minutes with no sign of the others, Derek allowed them to slow down a bit. He sniffs the air every few seconds just in case, though. He furrows his already impressively furrowed forehead when he realizes something that also brings him to a complete stop. They should have reached the cars by now.
"Stiles," the boy-now-reindeer stops next to the werewolf. "Where is the Camaro?"
"What?"
"Where. Is. The Camaro? We should have found it already."
"What do you mean? The Camaro is missing? How do you lose a completely black car in a town literally filled to the brim with white, sparkly snow?!" Stiles really does not need to lose his temper at this moment.
"In case you haven't noticed, Stiles, it's fucking foggy out and neither of us can see more than five inches in front of our noses!" But then Derek's angry rant sputters out before Stiles can gear up for a truly spectacular response. The werewolf just stares at him. And stares.
Stiles just gets pissed. And more pissed.
Then things become clear, because of the nose on his face.
"Fuck this," he mutters. "This is so not how I imagined spending my Christmas Eve. Not in the woods. Not in the snow. Not being chased by hungry werewolves who also happen to be my friends. Not in a house, not in a car; I do not like Green Eggs and Ham. And not as a fraking reindeer with a bright red nose looking for fucking Derek Hale's Camaro!
"Why are we even looking for you car, anyway? We're not really going to drive out of here, are we?"
"Taking a car is the only way for us to mute your scent enough for the others to regain control and stop chasing us."
"I'll never fit in that car! We'll take my Jeep; it's what I came in."
Derek begins to stare skeptically at Stiles. "And who has the keys to your Jeep? Not me. I believe you gave them to Scott. But you know what I do have the keys to? My car. You'll fit. You have to. Or we eat you."
Reindeer can also glare spectacularly too. "Fine." They can growl it seems as well.
"So can you just…"
"If you say one thing about guiding you to your sleigh tonight, I will rip your throat out. With my antlers."
A couple of silent minutes pass before the two of them locate the entrance to the preserve and the parked cars. Stiles stares forlornly at his blue Jeep, pouting something fierce. Derek ignores him to head over to the Camaro and unlock all the doors. Then he pops the trunk. The click of the release alerts Stiles, who finally turns away from what he thought was always going to be his safe route.
"I am not going in the trunk," says Stiles.
But the look Derek returns his with is anything but angry. In fact, he looks seriously nervous. His eyes scan the forest briefly before returning to Stiles'.
"What is it, Derek? Can you hear the others coming? If so, we should get out of here, like right now. Before I end up Christmas dinner." Stiles suddenly notices that the werewolf has something in his hands. "What's that?" It is clearly a wrapped box, but Stiles may or may not be in his right mind at the moment; he is certainly not in his right body.
"It's a Christmas present, Stiles."
The reindeer's eyes go wide. Then his looking back at the forest. "Do we really have time for this? Maybe we wait til I actually live until Christmas Day."
"Can you just shut up and let me open this for you? I have to give it to you before our lives go anymore to Hell than they already have."
"Shutting up."
Stiles watches intently as Derek uses his claws to quickly slice the red ribbon and effortlessly cut through the green wrapping. The box in his hand is white and small enough to fit snug in his palm. Derek opens the white box to let Stiles see what is inside.
The werewolf reveals a new, expensive looking, matted silver accessory.
"It's a watch," he says. "But it has this extra setting on it. It's a calendar setting with an alarm that lets the wearer know when the next full moon is. Stiles, I got this for you because I've realized that this is just as important to you as it is to us. These nights are for pack. And you are pack. If we make it through this full moon, we-I want you to come to all the ones after. That is,...if you want to..."
Derek's nervous look suddenly intensifies. He is watching Stiles for a reaction; Stiles, with even wider eyes, gazes right back. His reindeer mouth had dropped wide open and is still catching cold, night air. He wants to speak.
"Der-" Without warning, Stiles gets cut-off.
The wind whips up. Snow abruptly heads skyward instead of toward the ground. And Stiles' red nose grows brighter and brighter until it is all that he and Derek can see. Then the two of them have to shut their eyes because the red glow is too intense.
When the moment passes, Stiles takes a good and careful look around.
"Oh my god!" His shout is loud and unexpected. "I've got thumbs! Merry Fuckin' Christmas to me!"
After his sensitive ears stop ringing, Derek begins to maybe pout, just a bit. "That's what you're most excited about? Not, like, the watch?"
"These are the best gift ever!" he replies instead.
"Right."
"They are," Stiles is arguing with a big grin on his face. "Because now I can do this." Hands flew to opposite face, and pulled.
Stiles, with his cheeks all bright, suddenly kissed Derek that night.
The End.
A/n: In this fic, I like to pretend that Derek would have still gotten his loft if the events of Season 3A had not happened. Because I like to laugh hysterically at the idea of a reindeer in an elevator. Happy Holidays to any and all!