After dinner, Stiles throws himself down on the living room couch and switches on the TV. "Babe," he yells, "I'm turning on Buffy in the next thirty seconds, whether you're here or not."

Derek reappears. As he settles at the opposite end of the couch, he drags Stiles' feet into his lap. Thumbs smooth knots from Stiles' soles. "Mmmm…" His eyes shut; the remote clatters onto the floor, spilling batteries. "Yesssss. Right there." Something light hits Stiles in the face. He yelps and sits up.

The something Derek pelted him with turns out to be fingerless gloves. Maroon and gray. Soft. They don't look mass produced. The stitches, or whatever they're called—Stiles knows jack shit about knitting—are crooked. Charmingly uneven. Stiles blinks rapidly. "Did you make these for me?" he asks in a hoarse whisper.

Derek watches him, lips curled in a quarter-smile. He shrugs. "You're always complaining about your hands being cold."

He doesn't mean to, but Stiles can't stem the feelings welling inside his chest. They break, suddenly, sending Stiles into a cascade of ugly, tearing sobs.

"Shh…You don't"—there's warm cotton under Stiles' cheek; strong arms anchored around his back—"have to wear them. They're ugly. I'll throw them away."

"No," Stiles says, voice fierce. He sniffs and pulls back. "No," he repeats. "Just...Wait here, Der."

Back in their bedroom, Stiles rampages through their closet, throwing things over his shoulder and making an enormous mess, until he finds it.

In the living room, Derek waits, hands steepled, eyebrows scrunched. Stiles sits, lets their shoulders bump, passes over a knit hat in a similar but not identical shade of maroon. Derek's head tilts a question. "From my mom," Stiles answers, watching understanding erase Derek's frown, and clears his throat. "Years ago." Sniffing loudly, Stiles pulls the gloves over his hands and splays his fingers, seeing how the yarn stretches. "They're gorgeous. Thanks."

Derek's hands, big and long-fingered, gently place the hat in Stiles' lap. Eyes tender and soft as the yarn covering Stiles' palms, he thumbs the tears from Stiles' cheeks and dabs kisses to his nose and his forehead. "So are you," he says, finally, pressing the words against Stiles' trembling mouth.

A/N:

Ficlet written for sterekdrabbles over at Tumblr; based on the words knit, tender, and kiss. It got too long for the 100-word limit, though.

Thank you for reading. Feedback's always welcome. You can also find me on tumblr. My username is onlymorelove. Come say hi if you like. :)