Derek sat next to Stiles on the couch, rubbing his damp palms nervously on his sweatpants. Stiles seemed equally tense, his knee jiggling restlessly, teeth chewing at his lower lip.

"We can — we can do this later," Derek started. "Or not at all, if you've changed your mind —"

"I haven't," Stiles interrupted, wincing at how loudly his voice came out. "Unless you have?"

"No." Derek gave in to his urge and pulled Stiles into his arms, holding him tight, breathing in his warmth and scent. He tried to push all the doubt and hesitation from his mind; all the fears that he might do this wrong, that he might hurt Stiles, that it might not work after all…

"Let's just do it quick," Stiles said, interrupting Derek's circling thoughts. "I'm ready."

"Yeah." Derek pulled in a deep breath and let it out. He made sure his cell phone was nearby, even though Scott was standing by next door with his med kit in case something went wrong.

"Hey." Stiles' palm was warm on Derek's cheek. He tipped Derek's head toward him and their lips met — a slow, clinging, languorous kiss that seemed to leech the tension right out of Derek's body.

"Better?" Stiles asked, his eyes smiling.

"Yeah." Derek pulled in another deep breath. "I'm ready."

Stiles tilted his head forward, exposing the tender nape of his neck. Derek opened up the antiseptic wipe Scott had given him, swabbing down Stiles' neck thoroughly as Stiles squirmed and complained about the coldness. He carefully extended the claws of his right hand and then wiped them down as well.

"You remember —" Stiles' voice came out a little high and squeaky and he cleared his throat, starting again. "You remember where? Index finger right at C4?"

"Yeah." Derek had studied the anatomy until his head spun, but he wouldn't be doing this if he weren't sure. "I'm ready. Just —" He looped his left arm across Stiles' chest, bracing him in case he flinched. "Just stay still."

He felt Stiles take in a deep breath and then Derek pushed, gritting his teeth against the feeling of the skin parting around his claws, the warm wet resistance as he pushed deeper. Then it was like he had felt with Isaac but somehow reversed — the eerie zing of a connection as he hit the right spot.

Derek closed his eyes, concentrating hard to block out the present and pull the memory to mind.

"Oh my god," he heard Stiles breathe, distantly. "That's you? You're —"

[Earlier that day]

Derek had bought the mirror at the 67th Street Flea Market yesterday. It was a giant, gilt-edged monstrosity, and even with werewolf strength carting the thing home on the subway had been a nightmare. But Derek had managed it, propping it up against the wall of his apartment and carefully cleaning it, top to bottom, until every speck and smudge had vanished.

Now he stands in front of it, shifting uncertainly from one bare foot to the other. Just the thought of what he is going to do makes him blush, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, determined.

He steps closer, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. He finds himself running a self-conscious hand through his hair and drops it, forcing himself to stay still, letting his gaze wander slowly over his own face. He tries to imagine Stiles seeing it for the first time, and wonders what he'll think.

He tries to take careful note of all the details Stiles would want to see — ruffling his eyebrow with an index finger and then smoothing it again, brushing his hair behind his ears to show Stiles how they stick out so embarrassingly.

He steps closer and examines the color of his eyes in the mirror, the starburst of grey and brown and green that everyone seems to find so extraordinary but to Derek are just...his eyes. He lets the alpha red bleed into them — it obscures his vision for a moment, hazing it, but then the compensation kicks in and he can see the true color. He realizes he hasn't really seen himself like this before, had always just assumed his eyes shone the bright, laser red that his mother's had, but his color is actually different — the deep garnet-red of a burning ember.

When he thinks it has been long enough, he pulls in a deep breath and then lets the shift wash over him fully. He turns his head to show Stiles his sideburns and pointed ears, bares his teeth to show off the fangs. With anyone else he would have been self-conscious, but he knows that Stiles likes his wolf as much as he likes his human side.

After a few long moments he shifts back and then takes a step or two backwards, pulling his henley over his head in one swift, decisive movement. He can see the tips of his ears turning pink, a flush spreading across his cheekbones in his reflection, but he perseveres, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down his thighs, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side.

Finally he stands in front of his reflection in just his black boxer-briefs. He takes another deep breath and then shucks those too. He squashes down the instinctive urge to cover himself and forces his arms to relax at his sides, taking in his own reflection fully.

Before Stiles, Derek had thought of his appearance as being an unfortunate side-effect of his physical training. It was strength he wanted — survival — not the salacious attention his body drew from strangers. That unwanted attention was a burden, making Derek feel uncomfortable in his own skin, avoiding his reflection whenever possible. He realizes now that he hasn't really looked at his own body in years, particularly not since he has become an alpha.

Now he lets himself look, imagining how it will be for Stiles, seeing him for the first time. He examines the new breadth of his shoulders, the rounded bulge of his biceps, the corded muscles of his forearms. He runs his fingertips down the ridges of his abdominal muscles, thinking about how Stiles is always so careful not to touch there, placing only reverent kisses. Stiles always treats Derek's body like a gift, like something to be treasured, and for the first time Derek lets himself look at his own reflection and feels a kind of satisfaction, a pleased acceptance at the joy he can bring to Stiles with this body that he wears so uncomfortably otherwise.

His blush intensifies as he turns around. He has to crane his neck uncomfortably, but he is able to see the broad muscles of his back with the triskele curving dark between his shoulder blades, the sharp slope down into the divots at the base of his spine. He looks at the ass that Stiles calls 'bitable' ("That's not even a word, Stiles,") and the thickly muscled thighs and calves down to his bare feet.

After he feels that he has looked long enough he turns around again. It feels easier now, with Stiles in his thoughts. Derek knows that if this works Stiles will know not only what he is seeing right now, but what he is thinking — what he is feeling. And so he runs his hand over his lightly-furred chest, his flat dark nipples, down the trail of coarser hair below his navel, thinking about Stiles' hands on his skin. He blushes again but gives his cock a few firm strokes, letting it stand proud and erect between his thick thighs, and thinks of how it feels to have Stiles' mouth on him. He lets his hands wander up to his collarbone, reverently touching the spot that Stiles likes to suck on — likes to whimper into — as he comes.

And then he thinks of everything else — how brave Stiles is, how caring and determined. How Derek didn't even realize how lonely and sad he was until Stiles came into his life, with brightness and laughter. How it feels to hold Stiles at night, feeling his warm body, the puff of his breath, the steady beating of his heart. How he has a family now, a pack, and how Stiles is responsible for it all.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror. In comparison to his usual shuttered, angry glare, the look on his face is one he's never seen before. Softness and adoration, everything that he feels for Stiles showing clear as day on his face. Derek lets himself see it, imagines Stiles seeing it, and he smiles, bright and wide and happy.

He reaches out, touching his own reflection with his fingertips, hoping with every fiber of his being that this works, that Stiles is able to see and hear and feel exactly how much Derek means this.

"I love you, Stiles," he says, his voice sounding gruffer than he intended but the words coming more easily than he ever imagined, no longer tainted by his past. "I love you so much."

[Now]

Stiles made a soft sound, his fingers laced tight in Derek's left hand. "Me too," he breathed, his voice high and shaky. "Derek — I love you so much. I wish I could show you how much."

Derek felt himself smiling. You show me every day, he thought, and just as easy as that the memories flooded in. The way Stiles smiled at him, soft and tender. The way Stiles looked when he researched — his face focused and intent, his scent sharp with caffeine and concentration — chewing on his bottom lip as he pored over lines of Braille. Stiles' amber eyes bright with laughter, his long elegant fingers, the lush curve of his bottom lip.

And Derek couldn't help it as his thoughts slid sideways — Stiles underneath him, back arched, the tender expanse of his neck marked with beard burn and love-bites. Stiles above him, riding him slowly, a pink flush creeping down his chest as his mouth dropped open in ecstasy. Stiles curled on Derek's chest at night, eyelashes dark against his mole-spotted cheeks, his tip-tilted nose nestled into the curve of Derek's shoulder.

"Whoa." Stiles' voice was rough, and he swallowed thickly before speaking again. "You — you think I'm beautiful."

"You are," Derek said, his voice low and fervent.

They were both shaking now, a deep trembling of both emotion and exhaustion, and Derek knew he didn't have much more time. He focused his thoughts again, this time on the memory of Thanksgiving dinner.

Stiles made a soft, gutted noise at his side. "Dad?" he breathed as Derek showed him the Sheriff's face, creased with happiness as he watched Stiles telling some story. "He's — he's old," Stiles complained, but his voice was fond and proud.

Derek tried to touch on everyone — Lydia, radiant in the candlelight she had insisted upon. Scott and his mom, hugging, their faces shining with joy. Boyd and Erica, snuggled on the couch. Isaac and Kira and Allison, deep in conversation. Without really meaning to, he remembered in a quick flash how the sheriff and Melissa had looked at each other, shy and blushing, and Stiles twitched against his chest. "Whoa," he said, his voice trembling with excitement. "My dad totally has the hots for Scott's mom!"

Derek was nearly panting with effort now, but with one last push he showed Stiles what Lydia had brought him. It was harder to keep the memory coherent but he managed bits and pieces — the territory map, the black and white photograph of the gracious but neglected house in the Beacon Hills Preserve.

He wasn't sure if it would work, but with the last of his strength he showed Stiles the house as it had appeared in his own thoughts increasingly often over the past few days. Not just a house but a home, restored and full of life, a place for pack and family — their pack and their pack's children. A place for Derek to feel comfortable in his own skin, and for Stiles to write in peace, surrounded by nature. And maybe someday even children of their own, a hazy, nebulous thought that slipped in without deliberation — the vision of Stiles with his arms around a child, their heads bent together in laughter.

Derek felt his claws sliding free as his arm went limp with exhaustion, the connection breaking. He slumped back against the couch, too drained to move, distantly feeling Stiles falling in a warm heap against his side. He should get up — let Scott know it went okay, take care of the puncture wounds on Stiles' neck — but for now he let himself rest, breathing in the comfort of Stiles' presence beside him.

"Yeah." Stiles pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. "All of that, Derek. I want all of that with you."

Derek felt something unknot in his chest, warmth and happiness filling in all his empty spaces until he thought he might burst. He pulled Stiles close to his chest, breathing in the soft warm scent of home, and smiled.