Chapter Text
This year, Stiles was broke. Like, spectacularly broke. Like, “asked his dad if wrapping paper counted as a gift” broke.
Spoiler alert – it didn’t.
And his dad gave him the most disappointed Dad Look TM before shaking his head and walking away, mumbling under his breath about kids these days and something that suspiciously sounded like “If Claudia were here, she’d know how to Christmas the hell out of this situation.”
Rude. Also, hurtful.
But fine. Whatever. He didn’t need store bought gifts. The pack was planning a cozy little holiday gathering at Derek’s loft – which had, against all odds, become a borderline Pinterest-y space. Exposed brick, strategically placed throw blankets, soft lighting. Stiles suspected Lydia had gotten to him.
And for once, everything was actually chill. No full moons turning the betas feral. No one had even been possessed in at least three months. It was practically boring. In a good way. A gift, really. Unfortunately, not the kind of gift that Stiles could use to get himself out of this situation.
Stiles checked his bank account and was personally victimized by the number $8.34. He stared at it like it had wronged him. Betrayed him. Mocking him in digital font. Definitely nothing to do with the amount of times Stiles went to the drive through after a stake out. No sir.
So, he improvised. He’s clever. He’s seen Survivor and Lost for crying out loud.
His little brainchild seemed brilliant at first – personalized Acts of Service, redeemable whenever they wanted. It was heartfelt, creative, and best of all, free. What could go wrong?
Everything. The answer was everything, apparently.
“Alright,” Stiles said once he was at the loft, handing out little handwritten cards like a kid at school. “No traditional gifts this year, but instead, you each get a custom Act of Service, redeemable whenever you want. It’s from the heart. And technically legal.”
Everyone and everything in the room blinked at him. Even the Christmas lights seemed to flicker judgementally.
Scott squinted at his card like it might explode. “Dude. You’re gonna do what?”
“Acts of service Scotty!” Stiles grin faltered, quickly regretting his phrasing. “Not… that kind of service. This isn’t Magic Mike: Werewolf Edition.”
“I don’t think Derek would mind if it were.” Isaac muttered behind his eggnog, smirking into the cup.
Stiles choked on air. Derek raised an eyebrow so high it could file for a flight path.
Scott, ever the saviour, titled his head. “So what kind of acts of service are they?”
“Yours,” Stiles said, regaining what little dignity he had left, “is romantic support. Advice, wingman duties, custom-written poetry. Boom. Next-level bromance.”
Scott frowned. “You give weird advice, though. Remember the Tinder profile you made for me?”
“Likes dogs, dislikes murder?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“That was accurate, Scotty-boy.”
“It attracted a serial killer.”
“Yeah, that’s Derek’s thing. Way to steal his thing, Scott.”
Lydia cut them both off by opening hers with one slice of her manicured nail. She’s an independent woman who don’t need no werewolf. Or, whatever.
“You’re helping me style myself to be less intimidating at my cousins engagement party?” She smirked, raising a brow.
“You said you didn’t want to overshadow the bride. Light of my life, Lydia, you need me to inject chaos and a healthy dose of relatable mediocrity.”
Lydia stared. Then, to Stiles’ eternal relief, smirked. “Worrying, but also fair.”
Malia blinked at hers. “You’re checking my preserve traps?”
Stiles nodded. “I brought gloves. And emotional support snacks.”
“You’ll die.”
“Probably!”
“Fine, but someone else is dealing with our alpha when you inevitably kick the bucket because you thought a badger was a squirrel.”
“Honestly?” Stiles asked. “That would be so worth it.”
Everyone turned, predictably, to the last unopened envelope in Derek’s hand. Derek looked at the card like it was written in hieroglyphics. Or cursed. Or both. Probably both.
He tilted his head, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles with a look that could only be described as deeply suspicious but also maybe a little curious and definitely annoyingly attractive.
Stiles scratched the back of his neck. “Yours is, uh… ‘one thing, no questions asked’.”
The room went dead silent.
“I figured,” Stiles continued, voice cracking just slightly, “you’d appreciate the flexibility. Y’know, since you’re a man of mystery and glowering silence and all that.”
“You’re not worried I’ll abuse that?”
Stiles’ brain betrayed him by immediately going to the place. You know. The place where ‘abuse that’ involved handcuffs and, like, a surprising number of muscles. He tried to reboot his brain with a sharp internal slap.
“I mean,” Stiles started, “if you wanted me to rob a bank, I’d probably complain the whole time.”
Derek gave a rare, small smile. “Probably?”