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Stiles Stilinski was all about the holidays. He really was; he had the ugly sweaters to prove it. However, no amount of Christmas spirit and holiday cheer was going to prevent this argument from happening. “You’re kicking me out on Christmas Eve?!” Scott exclaimed. “But dude, we always have a Call of Duty marathon on Christmas! It’s, like, a tradition! You can’t go back on tradition, man.” He pouted. The patented McCall Puppydog Eyes™ were out in full force.
Stiles groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I know, man, I’m sorry. You could always go stay at your mom’s house, or what about Allison? I’m sure she’d love to have you over,” he said, throwing in a half-hearted eyebrow wiggle. He’d had a long day; it should be illegal to have finals on the day before Christmas. Too bad none of his professors at UC Berkeley had souls, damn them.
“I love Allison, but she’s spending Christmas with her family and I feel like if I went to Christmas dinner with the Argents, I’d end up on the table instead of the turkey! You know they catch their own turkey, right? Plus, we’re going back to see my mom and your dad on Christmas day. Come on, man, you can’t abandon me like this! This is my apartment, too, you know.” Scott whined. He flopped down on the living room couch looking every bit like the Grinch had just stolen Christmas. Poor Scotty Lou Who.
“Scott, trust me, you will not want to be around when Derek’s over tomorrow night,” said Stiles as he walked over to the kitchen. Like they say, a tired Stiles is a hungry Stiles, he thought. I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but hey, when they’re right, they’re right. He quickly found the almost-empty poptarts box and grabbed the last one. Dammit, Scott, I just bought these yesterday.
Scott rolled his eyes. “What could possibly be so bad? It’s Derek! I could, like, cook dinner for all of us and then we could ALL play Call of Duty! It’ll be a bros’ night, like pack bonding or something. Doesn’t that sound fun?” He looked at Stiles hopefully. Damn, it hurt to disappoint that face. Stiles sighed and swallowed the last of the poptart.
“Scotty, my buddy, my dude, my pal, I’m gonna try to put this as simply as I can: Derek and I will most likely be having sex tomorrow night.” Scott stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, so Stiles continued. “Having the sex. Sexual relations. Avoir des relations sexuelles. Doing the—”
“Christmas sex?!” Scott sputtered, sounding a bit like an affronted Victorian woman. He made a face. “You can’t have sex on Christmas Eve! Isn’t that, like, sacrilegious or something?”
Stiles quirked his eyebrow at that. “Scott, you’re not even that religious,” he said amusedly, “and I’m Jewish.”
Scott paused for a second. “Well, yeah, but isn’t it, like, a matter of principle? Holy night and whatnot? I mean,” he leaned in, “It’s Baby Jesus’s birthday, Stiles,” he said in a serious voice. Stiles snorted.
“Dude, first of all, there’s no evidence that Jesus was actually born on December 25th; the date was probably chosen because it coincided with pagan winter holidays so people were already celebrating things. Second of all, it’s not Christmas sex. It’s birthday sex.”
Scott looked at him confusedly. “Wait, I thought you just said it wasn’t Jesus’s birthday?” he said. Stiles shook his head.
“No, it’s Derek’s birthday,” Stiles replied. A look of understanding dawned on Scott’s face.
“Ohhhh, that makes sense. That’s totally different! I mean, you do gotta party like it’s ya birthday.” Scott nodded sagely to himself, like he’d just imparted the meaning of life.
Stiles cracked up and joined his best friend on the couch. “Tell you what, man, let’s have that Call of Duty marathon right now,” he said as he turned on the TV. Scott looked at him happily.
“Sweet, I’ll order the Chinese food!” Scott went for his phone and paused. “Should I text Isaac and ask him to hang tomorrow? I think I heard him say he wasn’t doing anything on Christmas Eve in class, poor dude.” Stiles shrugged.
“Yeah man, if you want. I mean, I was really just sexiling you for your own good, werewolf senses and whatnot, but if you really want to stay…” he trailed off.
Scott shook his head frantically. “Nononono, I’m not sticking around for that, as celebratory as it may be. Now shut up and let me kick your ass.”
When Derek rang the doorbell the next evening, Stiles greeted him dressed in his favourite ugly sweater and a pair of reindeer antlers. “You look ridiculous,” Derek said fondly.
“And you didn’t get the dress code memo, apparently,” Stiles responded snootily, but with a smirk. Derek tried to walk through the door, but Stiles stopped him. “Uh uh uh,” he said, pointing upwards. Hanging strategically on the top of the doorframe was a sprig of mistletoe.
Derek looked at his boyfriend disbelievingly, eyebrows raised higher than Simba in the Lion King. “You know that stuff is poisonous to me and Scott, right? Also, what if you ordered pizza and the delivery guy got here before I did? You’d kiss him too?” he joked. Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled him into the apartment.
“Shut up and kiss me,” he said. Derek happily obliged. When they finally pulled apart, Stiles smiled happily. “Merry Birthday and Happy Christmas to you, Mr. Hale.”
“And a Happy Hanukah to you, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek chuckled. Stiles grabbed him by the hand and led him towards the kitchen. “Is Scott home?”
Stiles snorted, “No, I told him we were going to have birthday sex and he practically tore out of here; he’s out now with Isaac and shouldn’t be back until very, very late if at all.” He winked coyly at the last part. Derek rolled his eyes.
Smells good in here, though. How’d you pull that off?” Derek asked snarkily. Stiles gasped and put his hands on his hips in mock-offense.
“I’ll have you know I slaved for hours in this kitchen to heat up your favourite meal from the Italian place you love downtown!” He sniffed and turned around. “I guess if you don’t want it, though, I can just call Scott and tell him to come back…”
A strong pair of arms wrapped around his waist from behind. “Definitely not,” Derek murmured in his ear. “Now, about that birthday sex…” Stiles turned his head and kissed Derek for a moment, then twisted away.
“Nuh uh, food first. Seriously, it was this whole ordeal, okay? After what happened last time with the near-incineration of the chicken and the congealed blob that the pasta somehow morphed into—” Stiles cut off at the sound of repressed laughter from the other man. “Hey, that was a very traumatic experience for me!” He stuck his tongue out childishly.
Derek smiled. “I know, I know.” He grabbed Stiles’ hand and held it for a moment. “Hey.” Stiles looked back at him. “Thanks for doing this.” Stiles leaned in and kissed him again.
“Hey,” Stiles grinned, “I’d do anything for you. Except cook again. That was a mistake I am never repeating.” He laughed for a moment, and then quieted. “I just wish that we could’ve had the whole pack here, or Cora at least.”
At the mention of his sister, Derek made a face. “On birthday sex night? I don’t.” Both of them burst out in laughter, finally calming when the timer on the oven went off. Derek watched as Stiles took the blessedly unburnt chicken out of the oven and placed it on the counter before continuing, “But seriously, it’s fine. We’ll see most of the pack after tomorrow back in Beacon Hills. This, right now, with you? This is all I could ever want for my birthday.”
Stiles turned and looked at Derek affectionately. “Awww, I love you too, you sap. Now, let’s eat!” He yelled the last part with his hands thrown up in the air.
Derek rolled his eyes at him for the second time that night (and probably not the last), and went to follow him to the table when he paused and sniffed the air. “Do you smell something burning?” he asked.
“Shit, I forgot about the bread!”
Stiles woke up just before dawn when he heard the front door open, followed by a very loud expletive. Apparently, Scott had returned home.
“Come on, you guys, you couldn’t have like, sprayed some Febreze or something? Jesus, oh god, on Christmas too!” Scott yelled.
Derek snickered from his place on the bed beside/on top of Stiles. “Sorry, Scott!” he called. Stiles turned over so his face was toward Derek.
“I’m definitely not sorry, this is totally payback for the time I was cleaning and I found a Thanksgiving-themed g-string that Allison gave him,” he whispered.
“I HEARD THAT, IT’S NOT EVEN REMOTELY THE SAME THING!” came the response from the other room. Damn werewolf hearing.
Stiles yawned, “It definitely is; there’s certain mental imagery that I just can’t erase, Scotty.” He mumbled something more about payback and snuggled deeper into Derek’s arms. Derek thought he had fallen back asleep, but suddenly he heard: “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal. And a Happy Birthday.”
Derek pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head. “Love you too,” he said. “Love you too.”