"'Night, Ang," says Stiles, taking a step down the porch. But Angela turns, this goofy grin on her face. She's wobbly in her wedge heels, and tops Stiles by a solid three inches from the next step up. Normally she's six inches shorter than him. Her hands land on his shoulders and he steps forward, steadying her.

"You're not going to come in?" she asks, looking puzzled now. Stiles smiles, shaking his head.

"Nah. I've got work in the morning," he explains. Angela pouts.

"But I finally got Twilight from Netflix, I've been waiting for like, months now." Stiles raises an eyebrow and she giggles in embarrassment. "What? Robert Pattinson is like, super bangin'," she informs him. "Don't you want to watch it with me?" Stiles looks into Angela's honey gold eyes, bright with hope but at the same time dulled with alcohol. He tries to think of a reason why he shouldn't (aside from never wanting to have to suffer through Twilight.) It's clear what Angie was doing, her inhibitions lowered from the party they'd attended together. Greg had asked him if they'd come as a couple. No, Stiles had said, just as friends. But maybe after spending the whole night flirting with other guys, she'd decided to make a move on him. And why not? Angie was pretty 'banging' herself, with long black hair, caramel skin, high cheekbones and perfectly arched eyebrows. The gap in her front teeth was endearing as opposed to unattractive, and her skin was flushed red with the evening. They hadn't known each other for too long, despite both being juniors at the University of Southern California. But they'd gotten to be pretty good friends while both working at one of the libraries over the summer.

"No thanks. I'm not really a vampire guy," Stiles says with a shrug and a smile. Startling Stiles, Angela's eyes sharpen and it's clear she sees Stiles' refusal in a completely sober light.

"So you're a werewolf fan then?" she asks, still playing things easily. Stiles blinks, startled in spite of himself.

"I guess you could say that," he answers. "'Night Angie," he repeats, and without waiting, turns and heads down the steps. There's a beat and then the door slams. He knows Angela will be angry with him for a couple of days. That's what he gets for associating with neurotic women.

Yeah, you can say he's a werewolf fan. Or was. Stiles rubs the back of his neck and glances up at the sky, striding down the narrow street, cars parked obstinately on either side. His hands are in his pockets, and clouds blanket the sky. Pockets of stars peek through, but there's no sign of the moon.

Stiles hasn't been back to Beacon Hills in two years, and he's okay with that. Sure the money is good, but why else is he going to volunteer to work the deserted USC libraries during summer session? Because he's avoiding home. There's not really anything for him there, anyway. Every Christmas since Stiles got his own place he's invited his dad to have Christmas with him, ostensibly to make sure his dad actually uses his two weeks of allotted vacation time. Sometimes Stiles wonders why his dad has never asked him why he hasn't come back to Beacon Hills. He's glad though, because he doesn't have a valid answer.

Stiles turns right at the bottom of the street, dodging a pair of chatty high school girls as they come towards him.

"He's just like... Ohmygod, he has this like, bad boy aura around him!" exclaims one.

"What, like leather jacket and devil-may-care attitude?" asks the other.

"Exactly!" replies the first. "No really, he actually drives this sexy little black two-door coup and he really does wear a leather jacket," she insists. The other one snorts as they turn the corner.

"What a cliché," he hears, before they fade off behind a house. Stiles shakes his head. Yeah, really. What a cliché.

Not that Derek ever really wore 'devil-may-care'. He didn't pretend to care, or pretend not to care. He didn't let anything show openly. Maybe that was why Stiles never went back. It was so hard being with a brick wall sometimes. Stiles wasn't even that emotive usually, but being with Derek just... Just sucked it all out of him. It was like he was using up all his reserves to paint a pretty picture on Derek.

Stiles' hands fist in his pockets as he thinks about it, which he tries not to too often. The distance has been good to him, usually. But on a night like this, and Stiles finally sees the full moon lighting up the sky as it makes its way to another patch of clouds, how can he not? He is a werewolf kind of guy. There's no denying it.

There wasn't any denying it, when Stiles was eighteen and stupid and lost and confused. What else are you when you're about to leave home for the first time in your life? And when the girl you've always loved and the girl who's never loved you ends all hope you could have ever had? Sometimes Stiles laughed when he thought about high school, all those years pining over Lydia Martin. He'd always thought that someday, someday she'd see him. Jackson had broken up with her in sophomore year, and all of a sudden someday was a whole lot closer. He'd thought maybe she'd end up bitten like Scott, drawn closer to him because they ran in the same circle. Like he'd been drawn closer to Derek Hale. But no luck there. The brilliant redhead had remained aloof until the very last. Until the look she'd given Stiles when he suggested a goodbye kiss at the tail end of her going away party when she left for a summer program at Harvard. Stiles' cheeks flamed uncomfortably at the thought. Usually she had never paid him enough attention to make him feel completely rejected, but it had seemed she'd wanted to make things explicitly clear before she left for the east coast. And Stiles had felt clearly, explicitly rejected.

Stiles' foot taps impatiently as he arrives at a red light. After a moment, he sees no cars are coming and hurries across the street. He can't be standing still. He's gotta keep moving. It's hard to say what happened after that late June day. Stiles tried to be optimistic, that girls at college would be more receptive. Scott encouraged this. Said things like, 'Everyone knows SoCal girls aren't as frigid' and 'It's definitely better this way, dude'. Which was well enough for him, when he was with Allison. Maybe it isn't so hard to say what happened after: Stiles spent the summer before he left for college third wheeling with Scott and Allison. Looking back, Stiles has to admire Allison's patience with him.

Stiles crosses another street and sees his home, a five-story split house. He is lucky enough to have the fifth floor (sarcasm), though he doesn't mind sharing it with Roger, who also goes to USC. Roger's a good guy. It was actually sort of funny, Stiles and Allison managed some bonding. During certain nights. Nights like these, when Scott was... Busy. Busy with Derek, Isaac, Erica and Boyd.

"So you're totally over Lydia?" Allison asked.

"Duh," snorts Stiles into the bottle of whiskey they took from the Sheriff's cabinet. "She never liked me anyway. Not gonna piss away my summer mourning her when there are all these other-" Stiles hiccoughed "-babes for me to be hittin' it up with." It came out slurred, and Allison didn't say anything, bless her.

"Do you ever want to be like them?" Allison asked suddenly.

"What is this, an interview?" Stiles retorted, immediately troubled by the question. It would be better phrased as 'Do you ever not regret refusing the bite?'

"Come on Stiles," Allison said, no amusement in her voice.

"Do you?" he asked. He didn't look at her face, knowing there would be a bitter expression though. It was almost a mean question to ask, after what happened to Mrs. Argent, but Allison asked for it- literally.

"I just want... I want it to be easier to be with Scott," she answered finally. It was always down to Scott with her. And always down to Allison with Scott. Stiles wondered what it would be like to be in love like that.

"Well fortunately, I don't have to be a creepy shapeshifter to be with the one I love," Stiles said optimistically, and made sure that was the end of that.

It's funny, Stiles thinks as he takes out his key and unlocks the door. Another couple months and he never would have said that. Christmas does that to people, you know?

Stiles glanced out the window, seeing the slightly-less-than-full moon. He knew enough to be happy for certain others that Christmas Eve didn't fall on the real full moon. Scott and Ms. McCall were spending it with the Argents and Scott had to be on his best behavior. Stiles was spending it, as usual, with his father. Stilinski Christmases were a quiet affair, but they were never unpleasant. Stiles like Christmas as much as any kid. They usually got a catered dinner, and it usually turned into an eating competition, Sheriff Stilinski apparently under the impression that Christmas was really a calendar date for allowing grown men to act like their teenage sons.

When they had demolished all but a few lumps of breast meat from the whole roasted turkey they'd ordered (they were both dark meat guys anyway), Stiles and his dad moved to the living room to watch old Sherlock Holmes movies (the Jeremy Brett ones, though Stiles did manage to get his dad to watch Sherlock on New Years Day.) It was a Stilinski tradition. The Sheriff had even given Stiles a glass of scotch on the rocks to celebrate, and they'd opened the presents they'd gotten each other and Sheriff Stilinski had fallen asleep during 'The Sign of Four'. Not even the loud howling noise towards the end of the film had woken him, but it made Stiles get out from under his fuzzy flannel blanket and brave the crisp Beacon Hills air to step out onto the porch. When he heard nothing, he shoved his feet properly into his sneakers and trotted out across crackling leaves into the trees.

"Derek!" he shouted.

The alpha could have been anywhere, but Stiles knew Derek would hear him. He was the only nutjob yelling in the middle of the woods on Christmas Eve, wasn't he?

"Derek!"

Stiles waited a long time, and eventually he convinced himself that he'd been mistaken. Though he was pretty sure there were still no wild wolves in California. Shrugging, he returned to the house, glancing from this snoring dad to the scrolling credits. He turned the TV off, made sure his dad was tucked in, and went upstairs to his room.

"Ah!" he yelped when he turned on the light, stumbling back and throwing his arms up. But Derek was sitting motionlessly in his desk chair. He was wearing a light t-shirt and jeans, and had left the window open. Stiles scowled. "You could at least close the window after you come in," he muttered. "And wipe your feet," he added, seeing the muddy tracks on his floor.

"You called me, didn't you?" Derek retorted. Stiles passed him and shut the window, then glanced at the grumpy looking werewolf.

"You called first," Stiles pointed out. Derek didn't say anything. "Come on, you hungry? There's some turkey and potatoes left, and some cherry pie if you like cherry pie," he offered. Derek didn't say anything, but he stood and followed Stiles from the room.

Stiles picks his way past the three bikes locked in the entryway. The occupants of the house don't trust each other, clearly, and Stiles has to admit that he's one of them. His old mountain bike is locked towards the back, to the rungs of the stairs, rarely used. He trudges up the stairs, his hand along the creaky banister. The potheads on floor two clearly have friends over, he can hear laughing and smell marijuana. Claire in apartment three clearly has the apartment to herself (her roommate Monica goes home to Los Angeles a lot of weekends) because Stiles can hear her and her girlfriend Danielle having sex, something Stiles has gotten used to. It doesn't weird him out anymore, or make him jealous. Usually.

He uses his other key to get into apartment five, opens his eyes wider in an effort to see past all the junk on his and Roger's living room floor. He escapes Roger's Xbox and a couple of jackets, but kicks one of Roger's two hundred dollar sneakers across the room and almost trips on a plate. Roger is fast asleep with his light on and his door open, and Stiles shuts off the light to save on electricity and slips into his room, closing the door.

The pair of them padded silently down the stairs, and when Derek was in the kitchen, Stiles shut the door behind them. He handed Derek a plate.

"How lonely is a Derek Hale Christmas, anyway?" Stiles asked as Derek approached the turkey. He frowned.

"White meat?" he said in lieu of an answer, and Stiles couldn't help but smile.

"You snooze, you lose," he answered. When Derek glared at him, he shrugged. "Why didn't you say you needed a place to spend Christmas?" he asked, matter-of-fact. Derek scowled.

"I didn't need anything. Christmas is just a day like any other," he retorted sullenly, using the two-pronged fork to spear all of the remaining turkey and dump it on his plate. Stiles didn't know what to say. For once, his sense of self-preservation was kicking in, not letting him say anything stupid. Or maybe he was preserving Derek- here, in his house, slightly less surly than usual.

"Do you want mashed potatoes?" Stiles asked. Derek thrust out his plate in response. Stiles took it, piling on creamy lumps of white mush, pre-slathered with butter and cooked with onions. "Wanna put it in the microwave?"

Derek answered by taking a huge bite of turkey, using his hands. Stiles wordlessly handed him a fork.

"What did you do last Christmas?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Can you not ask so many questions?" Derek said, suddenly angry. Stiles flinched.

"That was a question," he pointed out, unable to help himself. Derek took a deep breath, eyes closed, and all of a sudden Stiles realized that he he was alone in his kitchen with an alpha werewolf, no Scott in sight, and clearly making him angry. Did he really have that much of a death wish? He didn't realize his heart was pounding until Derek said softly,

"You're afraid." Stiles didn't know what to say. He felt embarrassed, both because fear did not make him a good host and because, well, he didn't want Derek to know that he really was scared of him. "Don't be afraid, Stiles," said Derek, and he sounded weary.

"Would it mean that much to you?" Stiles asked. Derek met his eyes, suddenly, and Stiles flinched under their gaze.

"It would mean a lot," he answered quietly, and went back to his turkey. Stiles watched him eat, then sat on the stool beside him and watched the floor. He watched the plate from the periphery of his vision gradually empty.

"Here's some cherry pie, since you don't want me to ask you whether you want some," Stiles declared when Derek had finished, and he took Derek's plate, served him a slice and handed it back to him. "And it's pretty obvious you want ice cream, so I won't ask." He took the ice cream from the freezer, face burning for some reason, and wrestled some vanilla out of the tub and onto Derek's plate. When he could bare it no longer, he looked at Derek's chin, not meeting his eyes. He could see the stubbled cheeks pulling and, eyes widening, looked up at the werewolf, who was smiling down at his pie, not meeting Stiles' eyes either.

Stiles put away the ice cream and sat down again beside Derek, who finished his pie and ice cream in record time (and the records were pretty good in the Stilinski house.

"Merry Christmas," said Stiles, watching over his shoulder as Derek put his dish in the sink, washed it and his fork thoroughly, and put them both in the drying rack.

"Thanks for dinner, Stiles," said Derek, sounding genuine. Stiles looked up at the Alpha, who was looking at him expectantly.

"What?" he asked. Derek lifted his eyes and chin in the direction of the second floor, and Stiles, baffled and off-guard, immediately assumed the wrong thing. "Wha?" he repeated. Derek's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not going out the front door with your dad asleep on the couch," the werewolf said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Stiles blinked, then let out a quiet 'oh'. He made sure the turkey and potatoes were sealed up, turned off the light, and led Derek up the stairs and into his room. Derek made for the window and opened it, then turned to Stiles, who shivered in the breeze that immediately entered.

"You're going to catch a cold," Stiles pointed out. Derek grinned. Then the older man held out a hand. Stiles blinked at the outstretched palm, then at Derek's face. "What, you want me to pay you for the pleasure of your company?" he asked dubiously. Derek rolled his eyes, more than a hint of annoyance crossing his face.

"No, you idiot," he said, and reached forward. He skipped past Stiles' hand and gripped his forearm comfortingly. After a beat, Stiles did the same, noting how even though Derek's fingers were almost touching, Stiles could barely get his fingers around the broad, flat plane of wrist. Then he glanced up at Derek, who was looking at him oddly. "When do you go back to school?" he wanted to know.

"The third," Stiles answered. Derek nodded, then let go of Stiles' arm. Again, Stiles was a beat late before he released Derek. Without another word, the werewolf slipped out of Stiles' window.

Stiles enters his room, looking at the clothes, books, pens, shoes and knick-knacks strewn everywhere, like a tornado had blown through his room. He turns on a light, seeing his computer open and charging on his desk, the picture of him and Scott that Ms. McCall gave him when they graduated next to the picture of him and his parents when he was six, the lacrosse stick lying unused in the corner, the coat rack with only one of eight hooks used.

He collapses in bed, staring up at his white ceiling. Then he forces himself to get up, pull off the denim button down he was wearing, his sneakers, socks and shorts, leaving him in a t-shirt and boxers. Glancing around the room in frustration, he turns off the light and falls back again. If he listens closely, he can hear Claire (or Daniele, he's not sure) moaning in pleasure. If he doesn't think about it, he can be jealous. Really jealous. It's only been a couple months since Stiles has kissed anyone, but it's been a long time since he's had a kiss that meant something. His eyes closing, Stiles feels a strong chin against his own jaw, the unmistakable rub of five o' clock shadow, a wide hand on his chest, fingers splayed.

"What- Derek-" Stiles spluttered, shoving back against the cement wall of Derek's chest and staring at the werewolf in shock. He couldn't help it and spat slightly, trying to rid this unfamiliar taste from his lips. It wasn't bad, just unknown. His shock only deepened when he saw the hurt in Derek's face. That wasn't supposed to happen, but it quickly smoothed out, the lines in his face turning angular and angry again. "No I mean I'm flattered, really, I'm just not ga-"

"Forget it," Derek muttered, and turned away from Stiles.

Oh he remembers it. How can he forget how Derek feels? Derek was his first kiss. He can feel Derek anytime he feels like drudging up the pain to do so. He can do it anytime he wants, though the sadness is sort of a turn off. He can feel Derek then, those strong, surprisingly short fingers working their way over his stomach, curling in the hair under his belly button, tracing the bottom of his rib cage, smoothing his sternum with such affectionate determination like he believes he can reduce the bones to dust. Stiles' toes curl and he grips the sheets. It was a routine they had.

"I've been thinking about you," Stiles blurted out. Derek didn't turn around though, and Stiles' heart dropped a little into his stomach. "Don't you think about me?" he wanted to know.

"What's it to you?" Derek retorted waspishly.

"What's it to me? It's you. It's fucking you and me," Stiles answered, stalking towards the werewolf and intending to turn him around forcefully (though how a scrawny little human like Stiles would achieve that, he didn't know), but Derek turned towards him. "Why did you k- Why did you do what you did?" Stiles demanded.

"It's complicated," sighed Derek. Immediately, Stiles opened his mouth to protest- he had always loathed that answer. But something in the way Derek actually looked at him made him lose the will to say it.

God, maybe it was complicated.

"If I give you the time, can you explain it to me?" Stiles asked. Derek's eyes went from narrowed to open in confusion.

"I thought you weren't gay," Derek challenged him.

"Are you?" Stiles asked, because there's something about that 'it's complicated' that Stiles understood. Because maybe it was a little complicated for him too. Derek didn't say anything, but a small smirk slowly curled the corner of his lip.

He still thinks about Derek. He still thinks about whether Derek thinks about him. Maybe it's his fault that all he can do is think about him. But things got...

Complicated.