Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this story.

A/N: AU, not set within the current season (or past seasons). This is a gift for SpaghettiTacos. I hope it's okay. This is mostly fluff, and a hint of smut (nothing onscreen at all). Please forgive any errors. Merry (belated) Christmas, and Happy New Year.

It's not until several days after Christmas has passed that they're all able to get together as a pack, as family, and exchange gifts. It's no one's fault. Or rather the individuals who are at fault for the postponement of the holidays are gone. Gone as in they've hightailed it out of Beacon Hills, rather than gone as in dead. It was a near thing. Stiles isn't sure how he feels about it. He's just happy that it's over, and that they can finally celebrate Christmas, even if it is five days later, and New Year's Eve is on the horizon.

"Uh-uh," Stiles says, snagging Derek by the wrist as his fiance attempts to leave the bedroom.

Derek frowns at him. It's still early yet. Pre-coffee. Pre-Derek is able to face the day like a human being rather than a surly wolf. Pre-morning kissage, and cuddles.

"Everyone's going to be here in less than an hour," Derek says, words coming out in a low growl as he attempts to shake Stiles' hand off of his wrist. It's a vain movement, and Derek aborts it mid-shake.

"I know," Stiles says, smiling. It's pre-coffee for him, too; he's far less put together than he'd like to be, and far more bouncy than Derek can typically handle on a day when he's at his best let alone dealing with the aftermath of a pack of deadbeats attempting to take over his territory.

He slings an arm around Derek's neck, dragging him downward, and kisses the corner of Derek's mouth, earning a slight smile in response. It's more than he usually gets, and Stiles counts that as a win. He's got twenty-three wins to date. Twenty-three wins, and not enough losses (Derek would say, too many) to count.

"We don't have time to cuddle," Derek says in a whisper, eyes darting toward the dark corners of the room as though he's expecting everyone to pop out and shout, Surprise!

Stiles chuckles, and kisses the mark that he'd left on Derek's neck the night before, making his lover shiver, and lean in closer to him in response. Derek nuzzles against Stiles' cheek, scenting him, peppering him with soft, delicate kisses that no one would believe he was capable of producing.

Sighing, Stiles pulls away from the embrace, not because he wants to, but because they really do have less than an hour to prepare for a veritable onslaught of pack, and his breakfast casserole is still sitting in the fridge, Derek hasn't started making the coffee let alone the bacon, and sausage, and Stiles still has to put the coffee cake together, and slice the fruit for their fruit platter. He has to make the fruit dip as well, but that's a simple matter of combining vanilla yogurt, honey, and freshly ground cinnamon in one of the serving dishes that he'd stolen (repurposed really) when he'd moved in with Derek. He hopes that his dad doesn't recognize it when he comes over.

"While I'd love nothing more than to spend the morning cuddling, we have a lot of work to do, and very little time in which to do said work, and you, my dear are wearing the wrong clothes," Stiles says. He kisses Derek on the nose, and dances away before Derek can so much as blink at him. He pulls a poorly wrapped lump from underneath the bed, and hands it to his flummoxed lover.

He holds his breath while Derek turns the package over in his hands. Derek frowns at it, holds it up to his nose and gives it a few curious sniffs, before turning his frown on Stiles. "What is this?"

Stifling nervous giggles, Stiles clears his throat. "It's what we ordinary people like to call a Christmas present. In order to see what it is, you've got to take the pretty, or at least it was pretty before I got my hands on it the other day, paper off of it."

Derek shoots him a glare and eyes the package as though he expects it to explode. He tilts his head to the side, and then he places a finger beneath one seam that isn't completely sealed with tape, and lifts it. The corners of his mouth are twitching, and Stiles knows that Derek is more than aware of how tightly wound he is, and that he's a few seconds away from launching himself at Derek and the Christmas present and tearing the paper off for him.

"C'mon, Der," Stiles whines. "The suspense is killing me." He juts out his lower lip, and gives Derek his best 'puppy dog' look, which usually works. This time, Derek laughs at him, shoulders jiggling.

On Santa, jiggling is charming, Stiles thinks. On Derek, it's taking unfair advantage.

"What suspense?" he teases. "You already know what's trapped in this mess of paper and tape."

Frowning, Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, and curls his toes within his fuzzy slippers. He's already dressed in his Christmas wear. A pair of flannel bottoms, one of Derek's old, worn tee-shirts, complete with miniscule holes that no one will really notice unless they look really closely, and the fuzzy slippers that he'd gotten several years ago from an aunt he doesn't really know. They're practical slippers. Nice and toasty on his feet. He's got a pair for Derek, hiding under the bed. Just as practical, and warm, and fuzzy.

Derek finally pries an edge of the paper up, and Stiles' fingers itch in sympathy to children, and sane adults everywhere who don't stand on ceremony and know that they're supposed to just rip through the pretty paper. Derek slowly, methodically, painstakingly takes his time removing the tape (and Stiles used a lot of tape) from the wrapping, somehow managing not to tear the paper.

It's bargain paper, all the Stiles could afford on his meagre salary from the part time job he's working while going to college. It's green with stocky little penguins dressed in red, yellow, or blue stocking caps and striped scarves. The penguins are either holding a present or a candy cane in their flippers (they're called flippers, right?) and the words, Merry Christmas, written in white, are scattered throughout the paper.

"Derek," Stiles whines again, leaning forward, holding his breath. He can hear the proverbial pin drop, and wonders how much time they'll have left to prepare Christmas breakfast before the pack arrives. If Derek doesn't move this along a little faster, they'll have no time left at all.

Grinning wolfishly, Derek finally removes the final piece of tape from paper, and gently (for someone who liked to shove him into walls for the better part of a year, Derek's being way too gentle with something far less fragile than Stiles, he can't help but think a little petulantly) pulls the paper apart, finally revealing the hastily wrapped present within.

Stiles wishes he could capture the wide eyed look of quickly schooled horror that flashes across his lover's face on film. He vows to treasure that look forever, especially as it's followed by one of denial, and then confusion, and finally stubborn refusal to accept what it is that he's seeing.

"It's your Christmas wear," Stiles says.

He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, and wonders when Derek will get past the first layer of clothing, the part that has him blushing to the tips of his ears, and down to the layer that he probably, hopefully, maybe, won't mind wearing in front of the pack who will be arriving before breakfast is ready.

Derek pulls the piece of clothing, a pair of black, form fitting boxers that will leave nothing to the imagination once Derek is wearing them. They're panties for men, comprised of lace and silk, and Stiles almost blushes himself when he gets a vivid picture of Derek wearing nothing but the boxers, and maybe a Santa's cap.

"There's more," Stiles says, voice soft.

He lays a hand on Derek's arm, feels the muscles bunch beneath his touch. His mouth is dry, and his heart is beating far too quickly for comfort. Maybe there's still time to call the pack and postpone Christmas breakfast a few hours. Make it into a brunch instead.

"More?" Derek sounds panicked, and he arches an eyebrow. His normally warm skin is a little warmer. Stiles thinks that he can maybe hear the wolf's heart beating faster than his own.

"More," Stiles says in a whisper. "Look." His eyelashes brush against Derek's neck in an unintentional butterfly kiss, making the man tremble.

"It's decent, I promise," Stiles says when Derek makes no move to unveil the rest of the gift. "I didn't break you, did I?" He runs a hand down Derek's back, and relishes at the way that Derek arches back into the touch, and almost seems to 'purr' in response.

Derek grunts in response, and, not letting go of the boxer panties, reveals a set of red, green and black plaid pajama pants, and one of Stiles' favorite tee-shirts that has seen better days. It has always been a little big for him, and it's been worn so often that it's nearly threadbare. It will fit Derek nicely, if a big snugly.

There's a press of lips on the top of his head, a hand low on his back as he's pulled in for a hug. Derek's warmth is a blanket, and his breath is a tickle across the back of his neck.

"The uh...underwear..." (calling them boxer panties out loud will render him a giggling idiot, and ensure that Derek will not wear them) Stiles can feel his cheeks burning red, and his voice is muffled by Derek's neck. "They're kind of a present for me, too," he admits quietly.

Derek's hand curls across the back of Stiles' neck, and he rubs a thumb along Stiles' collarbone. It's comforting, and Stiles closes his eyes. He wraps his arms around Derek, and lets himself melt against his partner, the man that he's going to marry on New Year's Day.

"Christmas wear," Derek says after cuddling for several heartbeats that are neither quick, nor slow, but steady and sure.

"Christmas wear," Stiles repeats, feeling a little more confident.

"Okay," Derek says. "Why don't you go into the kitchen and get started on breakfast. I'll get dressed."

Heat crawling its way up from his toes to the roots of his hair, Stiles looks up at Derek through his eyelashes, and bites his bottom lip. "I'd kind of like to watch you get dressed," he says, voice little more than a breath.

"Tell you what," Derek says, lips pressed against Stiles' ear, a breathy whisper that sends electric tingles down his spine, all the way to his toes. "You go get breakfast started, and, once everyone's gone, we'll have a Christmas party of our own, and I'll let you undress me."

Shivering and lightheaded with anticipation, Stiles can only nod. He presses a kiss to Derek's sternum, and before he can get too caught up in his overactive imagination, he releases his hold on Derek and quickly, without looking at the man/wolf he loves, rushes into the kitchen to start on breakfast preparations.

The casserole in the oven (he'd put it together the night before; a recipe of his mother's that had been passed down to her from her mother), Stiles busies himself with chopping the fruit - pineapple, strawberries, apples, melon - and making the fruit dip, humming, "Oh Christmas Tree," to himself. He doesn't hear Derek enter the room, and squeaks, nearly impaling his fiance with a paring knife when Derek picks him up off his feet and spins him around the kitchen, kissing him soundly. It's that scene that the pack walks in on, piling in through the side door, the door for family.

"Merry Christmas!" everyone choruses, though Scott's voice is the loudest, and it's his, and then Isaac's arms that wrap around Derek and Stiles from behind; Lydia's hand that secures the knife before any damage can be done.

A short while later, the kitchen is filled with laughter, and off-key singing, the hickory scents of bacon and sausage, warring with the sweeter scents of fruit and coffee cake.

Stiles' dad brings gifts for everyone, and a Christmas cake (specially ordered from the local bakery). When breakfast is ready, they gather, not in the dining room, but in the living room where there's a Christmas tree. Each member of the pack places an ornament on the tree, and their gifts beneath it.

There's talk, and laughter, exchanging of gifts, and kisses, some chaste and familial, others beneath the mistletoe.

As far as Christmases go, though it takes place five days after Christmas, on the eve of New Year's, just two days before Stiles and Derek are going to get married, it's the best Christmas Stiles has ever had, and that's not just because, after everyone leaves in the wee hours of New Year's Eve, he gets to unwrap his lover (those manly boxer panties are skin tight, and really leave nothing to the imagination), but because it was the first Christmas that everyone was present. They were pack, family. Love.