The first thing Stiles did, past refusing to let himself cry in relief, and past muttering the news to Lydia in a voice that was more dead than hopeful so that nothing would happen to him, was burn all the letters he hadn't sent to Derek.

All the letters that said things like I can't do this. Or Just forget it and come back to me. All the letters that he'd written every time he'd heard about the latest round of casualties; every time Derek's troupe was in the thick of it. Every time Lydia would crawl into his bed with him and hold him all night while he cried through the panic and the Schroedingers loss of it all.

The second thing he did was go to their house. His and Derek's. The house they'd built for themselves and made theirs that he'd fled from within the first week of Derek's deployment. The house he'd closed up in order to live with Lydia to have his best friend there when he was on the floor, trying to breathe, and couldn't. When he'd woken from dreams of bullets and bombs and poison gas and Derek trapped in the middle of it, choking on the words "I love you"; when he woke trying to bite back his screams.

It wasn't all bad, of course. His life hadn't become one four-year span of Hell when Derek deployed. If he refused to think about the absense, it wasn't there.

But Derek was coming home. Derek would be home in a few hours, and Stiles's chest felt like someone had stuck a bag of lit fireworks inside it.

Lydia and he carried updated appliances and things that he'd kept at her apartment, Scott showing up with Isaac about an hour in, and then Erica and Boyd some time after that. Lydia shooed him into the kitchen when the gang was all there, holding court while he started cooking. Stiles wanted to make every single dish of his that Derek liked, as if some part of him thought that making it perfect would mean that Derek wouldn't leave again.

From the living room, Lydia turned on music. Jazz that she'd played when it was really bad and he was running on empty and needed to laugh and cry until he could stand again. Holly Cole and Stiles Stilinski crooned that everyday would be like a holiday when his baby came home. Isaac came in and hopped up on a barstool, accepting a taste-test bowl of spagetti sauce graciously, "You should make a birthday cake." He murmured, humming in appreciation as he ate the sauce. Erica appeared with the fixings and three hundred dollars worth of more groceries and Stiles did just that. He agonized for a few minutes over what to write on the cake, until Lydia hip-checked him away and started creating the most beautiful frosting roses Stiles had ever seen.

Isaac was replaced by Boyd, who started dicing the onions, tomatoes, basil, and garlic it would take to make bruschetta, bringing with him a bottle of red and the latest horror stories of being a bouncer for his and Erica's nightclub. Stiles was laughing at the story of a Twizzler thong as Lydia slipped in three bottles of champagne in the fridge.

And then Stiles was alone. He was alone, the scent of everything cooking and ready and…he felt like he'd be stood up. Like he wouldn't get a break here, and that something horrible he was waiting for for the last four years would happen, and leave him on the ground, sobbing. The front door opened, and Stiles was off like a rocket. Derek was in his army best, and he was the most beautiful thing Stiles had ever seen. He caught Stiles easily, his smile shattering to the very core, and he held on tight, his big hand curved around Stiles's head and his laughter pressed into Stiles's neck. Relief had Stiles shaking, had him crying for joy, and Derek just held him closer, tighter, kissing him like they had all the time in the world.

"You're home." Stiles breathed, arms and legs locked around him. Derek wiped away his tears, letting his duffle fall to the ground heavily as he walked them forwards to swing the door closed, not letting Stiles go even a little. It was different than all the times Derek would get leave; when they would meet in another country and just explore until he had to go back.

"You miss me or something?" Derek chuckled at him, kissing his throat, his jaw, everywhere he could easily reach while not letting him even an inch away. "You're thinner than you were during that leave in Belgium. What's wrong?" Derek dropped his wallet and keys on the side table, slipping out of his boots with Stiles still attached to him. Stiles buried his head in Derek's neck, shaking 'no' while he pulled in great lungfuls of Derek's scent. Derek chuckled, carrying them towards the living room. Stiles didn't want to extricate himself when Derek stopped in the doorway and gaped. "You…no, Lydia and the pack…" He sounded like he was this close to laughing. Stiles turned his head, taking in the Christmas tree and pile of presents. A note with Derek's name on it sat on top of the special plate Stiles's mother used to use for Santa's cookies, and Derek dipped slightly to grab it up, "Since you've been sorely missed, we decided it would be far more productive to get Stiles's stash of Christmas and birthday presents to you out of the way. Similarly, Stiles would flinch every time one of us mentioned his birthday while you were away; so while he couldn't stop Christmas for you, he did stop his birthdays, and there are some presents for him there as well. The cake is in the fridge with champagne; I've called Stiles in sick to work; and we have all agreed to give you until three o'clock tomorrow afternoon before we descend on you like the insane pack of people we are. You have been missed, Derek. All our love, Your Pack." Derek sat heavily on the couch, absently petting over Stiles's hair and neck while he held on almost too tight, "It was hard for you."

"Only in the way that is yes, very." Stiles mumbled, wanting to strip Derek down, but completely unwilling to put any token of space between them.

"I've been honourably discharged." Stiles made a surprised sound, pulling out of his neck to look him in the eye. He hadn't mentioned that, "I missed you, too."

Stiles kissed him, sweet and soft, and they did strip down, Stiles crawling into Derek's shirt before going to get their dinner, Derek following him in his boxers and dogtags, which he dropped over Stiles's head as they curled back up together and watched the Christmas tree Lydia had had the pack set up for them. Later, they opened their presents, kissing long and slow between each one, even though Derek seemed like a kid, sitting cross-legged in a sea of wrapping paper. Derek didn't let Stiles get tipsy, and Stiles didn't want to; he wanted to savour every second. They fed each other cake with their fingers, which totally deteriorated into covering each other in icing, then into sex on the kitchen floor. Stiles prodded until Derek got into pajama pants, slipping into Derek's t-shirt once more himself and sleep pants of his own before curling up with Derek on a makeshift bed on the livingroom carpet, under the soft glow of the Christmas lights.

When Stiles woke at ten the next morning, Derek was curled tight around him, Erica's head in the dip of Derek's waist, and Isaac's thin form thrown over their legs, Scott lying around both Stiles and Isaac while Lydia slept in as small a ball as possible on Stiles's chest, Boyd's hand on her head as if she'd had a nightmare. Stiles smiled to himself, going back to staring at Derek's sleeping features. The curve of his eyelashes and the relaxed shape of his mouth. He wanted to trace his finger over the line of Derek's nose, leave hickies over the straight edge of Derek's jaw. It was new and old and so good Stiles wanted to cry.

Derek was home.