Teen Wolf And in the cold night, you'll be my warmth

Stiles is freezing cold, his fingers are stiff in Derek's hands, his cheekbones have dots of red, but the rest of his face is pale; his lips look alarmingly blue and they tremble when Stiles attempts to speak. His teeth chatter, his words are slurred.

Derek can make out the _Derek?_ Stiles barely manages to let out because of the rolling sounds between clacking of teeth, because he's more familiar than he wants to admit with the way Stiles says his name.

"You're so fucking stupid, Stiles."

Stiles blinks up at him, eyelashes all clumped together, dripping wet, eyes blown wide; he doesn't even look mad as Derek drags him away from the lake, as he picks him up and carries him after a few steps because it's easier and faster than watching him try to get his frozen legs to work properly.

He just looks slack and shivering and lost; there's claw marks on his arms from where the merrows grabbed him in an attempt to drown him, but they aren't bleeding, they look like tiny nicks, almost like papercuts. There are a lot of them, however, and the stark contrast of them against Stiles' paper white skin makes him queasy.

Stiles doesn't resist when Derek gets him on the passenger seat of his own car, he merely blinks owlishly down at his shivering hands, palms up, as Derek buckles him in.

It's unsettling for him to have Stiles so compliant, so silent even as Derek slams the driver's side door getting in, even as he puts the car in gear, even as they leave Stiles' jeep behind. It's unsettling how whenever Derek gets his hand off the gearshift and lets it hover gingerly over Stiles' for a second, he can feel the freezing cold, the dampness on Stiles' skin and clothes and hair.

"I swear to God, Stiles, if you fucking die on me-" he grits out as he runs a red light on a deserted street, doesn't finish the threat, lets it hang. Not because it's poetic, or because he wants Stiles to fill in the blanks himself, but because he has no idea what he's going to do if that happens.

Stiles doesn't reply, he makes these noises, a mixture of inhalations and teeth chattering and hisses, tries to clench his fingers and fails, looks confused by that.

Derek tries to look less at him and step on the pedal more, get them to the loft faster.

Derek pulls up at the parking lot, has to take special care when handling the gearshift, has to watch his own strength because he's on edge, bristling like a cat.

Once he's killed the engine, he takes a few seconds to rest his forehead on the steering wheel, to breathe deeply, and then he fishes his phone out of his jacket's pocket, considers calling someone.

"Not my dad," Stiles slurs out then, words leaving his lips chopped up and stuttered like hiccups.

He puts his hand on Derek's leg and makes him hold his breath as he looks at Stiles, who's staring at him with eyes half lidded, lips wobbling, frame looking deceptively small in his drenched clothes, giving spasms every few seconds.

He hasn't said anything since that one mangled attempt at Derek's name, and Derek's felt that lack of words from him heavily, even knowing that it's a wise choice from Stiles' part.

He nods at Stiles then, even with vitriol burning the back of his throat, he wants to bite his head off and tell him that maybe he fucking _deserves_ anything the sheriff can throw at him for being stupid enough to try and face a group of merrows on his own.

He doesn't, has enough empathy and has learned enough about Stiles to know it's not himself he's worried about, and _that_ at least, he feels like respecting.

He unlocks the screen and thinks about calling Scott for a few seconds, as a picture of Cora giving him the middle finger lights up the ominous darkness inside the car.

He decides not to, since Scott isn't even in town, and the only thing he'd accomplish would be getting him worked up and ruin his family time with Melissa; neither McCall deserves it.

He sighs, blocks the screen of his phone and puts it back on his jacket. Looks up at Stiles again, and finds him already staring at him, eyes glazed.

"We can handle this," he tells Stiles' mostly limp body, as he goes for the door handle. Stiles blinks up at him, and even through the heavy haze, Derek can read disbelief.

Derek can't blame him for that, even as he huffs in annoyance getting out of the car. Not when he isn't entirely sure himself that he isn't making things harder for the both of them by not calling literally anyone else to take care of this. Not when he's unbuckling Stiles' belt and feeling his coldness seep through layers of skin and flesh and bone to chill him deep inside when he gathers the boy in his arms. Not when that makes him have to tamp down on a panic response.

Derek second guesses his decision when he's putting Stiles on his bed, arriving at the realization that he'll have to undress him, that he'll have to put him in new, warm clothes; his own clothes. And that, since Derek doesn't own anything that even accidentally resembles a hot water bottle, he'll probably have to lend his own augmented heat to the efforts.

Stiles keeps blinking up at him, has barely stopped watching him since Derek stopped the car and decided, against his better judgment, to take this one piece of trouble in an deal with it himself.

Derek doesn't think he's completely alert, doesn't look it; he can't tell whether all of it is from being hypothermic, or from shock, or from anything the merrows could've done to him.

"I'm gonna undress you," he tells Stiles, catches himself when he's about to touch his face, grip at his jaw, maybe rub his fingers against the cold looking cheeks; he settles, instead, for squeezing Stiles' tense fingers.

He gets Stiles' sneakers off, first, scrunches his nose in disgust at the mud covering them, but his own boots aren't looking any better, to be honest. Stiles' socks stick to his feet like a second skin, mismatched and plain ugly, a faded gray; one of them has a hole in it, one of Stiles' toes sticking out a little. Derek represses a snort, but Stiles must feel his dry amusement, because he attempts to move away from Derek's grasp, to sit up, and Derek has to put a hand on his stomach, hold him down, pin him with a glare that Stiles valiantly tries to mirror, even through shivers and blue lips.

"Don't exert yourself," he says, and attempts to make himself soft and appealing, but a lot of his natural reaction to Stiles involves resistance, pushing back, so it comes out a little annoyed.

A lot of Stiles' reaction to him involves knowing the way around him, so he gives him a searching look before letting himself fall back on Derek's pillows, sticking his foot right into Derek's stomach, half kick and half offer.

Derek pokes one of his fingers through the hole in Stiles' sock as retaliation and it gets him a squirm and a tiny huff.

Derek bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling.

Stiles tries to string some words together when Derek unbuckles his belt, but Derek doesn't let himself be roped into staring up at Stiles while his hand's so close to Stiles' dick. He unzips Stiles and grabs handfuls of denim and drags down, over Stiles' thighs and his long legs, over his feet.

Avoids looking at Stiles' underwear, makes quick work of getting Stiles out of his shirts, ruffles Stiles' feathers by being a little meaner about it than necessary, because Stiles' silence, his wandering eyes, his chattering teeth, his cold exhaustion, are freaking him out.

When there's nothing left to take off other than Stiles' soggy boxers, Derek looks up at him again, fingertips touching his thighs, barely getting under the fabric and grazing the clammy, freezing skin under.

Stiles' head is tilted on Derek's pillow, hair plastering on his forehead, eyes contemplative; as though the cold's made him calm down.

The silence feels strained on Derek's side, it sinks like a stone inside him, making him uncomfortable where he stands, because this is not a thing they do; because Stiles reeks of cold and a dull thrum of pain, and he seems far away and too still, and Derek isn't good with things he can't fix by punching them.

"Try to get yourself out of those and under the blankets. I'm going to get you a towel and some clothes, and turn up the heat," he tells Stiles as he takes his fingers away from Stiles' thighs, keeps his hands to himself.

Stiles gives him a jerky nod, brings his own hands to the front of his underwear with some difficulty and even through feeling like an asshole, there's a spike of something warm and wanting in him, and fuck, he needs to. Not be here. Now.

Stiles is curled in on himself, blankets up to his nose, when he comes back carrying a towel slung over his shoulder, and some sweatpants and a shirt for Stiles to wear. Now that he's huddled there, it's more strikingly obvious that he isn't okay. He's a mess of shivers, and his eyes are half hooded and dazed. He keeps slowing his blinks, eyes shutting closed soft and sweet like he's on the verge of sleep, but then his entire body will do a tiny jump and he'll frown, like he's keeping himself awake out of sheer force of will.

He looks… vulnerable. A lump that barely takes up any space at all.

It makes Derek uncomfortable, itchy under his skin, to see Stiles like this.

"Here," he says, throwing the garments next to Stiles, and Stiles' eyes look up at him, face turning towards him sluggishly, blanket sliding down until it's under his chin and Derek can see that Stiles' lips are still tinged blue and quivering.

Stiles reaches towards the clothes and squints as he grabs the sweatpants, almost like a wince.

Derek doesn't realize he's moving until he's standing next to Stiles, placing his hand over Stiles', grabbing at his cold fingers and drawing a stuttering breath in as the cold hits him, sudden and pervasive, and still there.

"Let me help you," he says, taking the fabric from Stiles' hand.

Stiles valiantly tries to cling to the sweatpants, levels a glare at him that doesn't manage to hold even half of Stiles' usual fierceness, but eventually Derek tugs a bit too hard and Stiles is forced to let go, letting out a pained gasp that has Derek's gut contorting with guilt.

"Sorry," he tries to amend, contrition thick on the word, as he takes grab of the shirt too.

Stiles grunts at him, pissed off, even as he clings to Derek's arm to sit up, the blankets pooling on his lap as they get him into a black, tight shirt that Stiles frowns pensively at, fingers grasping lightly at the hem.

Derek is helping him get the sweatpants on, trying to avoid looking at his crotch (eyes fixed on a mole on the inside of Stiles' knee, on a tiny scar on his thigh, on the dark patch of hair leading to- on one of Stiles' ankles) when it hits him that the shirt is Stiles', that one shirt Stiles lent him when he was trying to get that Danny kid to help them.

"I didn't know you'd kept it," Stiles stutters out, the quiet quality of his words contrasting with the sound of his teeth clacking.

Derek starts towelling Stiles' hair and the back of his neck.

"What was I meant to do with it? Throw it out? Burn it?"

"Return it, maybe?" Stiles replies, leaning into Derek's touch.

Derek… actually hadn't thought about that possibility, which is so telling that it makes his ears feel hot and tingly.

Stiles snorts, the vibrations reaching Derek's hands where they're still drying out Stiles' hair.

"I'm glad you're okay enough to go back to being an ass," he deadpans as he lets the towel fall on Stiles' face and takes a few steps away.

Stiles attempts to throw it at him, but his movements are jerky and slowed down with cold and fatigue.

Derek smirks at him, and Stiles shows him his teeth, even though he still looks a little like roadkill, pale and tinted blue, and shivering so much that it looks like he'll come apart from it.

Derek picks up the towel and takes it to the hamper on the bathroom; has to do something to keep himself from sinking into the relief that's spreading through him at Stiles recovering from the shock of the entire situation, at exhibiting his traits again.

Derek looks at himself on the mirror and feels young and stupid. Reckless with all these feelings he can't quite determine the origin of.

"You're gonna have to cuddle me," Stiles tells him when he gets back to the open plan living room. He's huddled at the middle of the bed, all the blankets cocooned around him. "You know that, right? You're gonna have to come up here and hug me real good."

"Oh, really," he replies, even as he takes his shoes off.

"Seriously, man, body heat. It's completely legitimate."

"I know, Stiles, I went to high school, you know? I even made it to college. Shocking, I know."

Stiles rolls his eyes at him, and it looks frankly hilarious taking into account he looks like a caterpillar at the moment. Derek smiles down at his hands as he gets to unbuckling his belt.

Stiles' heart rate goes haywire. Derek can't quell the smugness inside him, so he keeps looking down, thumbing at the button of his jeans, unzipping himself.

"You're gonna," Stiles clears his throat before going on, sounding flustered, "get, huh, naked? Because that isn't necessary, buddy."

Derek hums back at him, not denying anything, just to hear Stiles' heart race a little more as he shoves his jeans down.

"Oh my God," he hears Stiles say, strangled and weak, amidst a rustling of sheets that when Derek looks up, jeans pooled on the floor, turns up to be Stiles hiding himself underneath the covers.

It's strangely amusing for Stiles to display a behavior like this, something that could even be described as coy.

He rolls his eyes to cover his own fondness, even though there's no one there who would see him if he were to just… smile.

(He tries telling himself that at least a ninety percent of everything he feels at the moment, all the emotions curled up together inside of him, have a root in relief, but he's never been a talented liar.)

He toes his jeans to the side and makes quick work of his shirt.

Stiles peeks up at him, and Derek smirks at the alarm on his face as he thumbs at the band of his boxers, teasing.

Stiles inhales noisily, clutching at the sheets, and Derek-

-shifts.

Stiles lets his mouth drop open as he takes the transformation in, wide eyes trailing Derek up till he's on for legs, shaking the torn scraps of fabric from his boxers off him and trots up to the bed.

Eventually, once Derek is climbing onto the bed, pushing Stiles around with his weight and his paws, Stiles narrows his eyes at him, and tugs at a patch of his fur.

"You fucking _asshole._"

Derek pushes his snout to Stiles arm, and mimes biting him. When Stiles doesn't make a move to get away from him, Derek has to pull at every ounce of his self control to keep his tail from wagging.

Stiles smirks at him, this little sideway smile that tells Derek he isn't being as subtle as he wishes he could be on this form, so he snarls, teeth showing, and throws his entire weight over Stiles in retaliation.

Stiles exhales out an _oomph_ upon his collision, but it doesn't take him long to recover.

He places a hand tentatively on Derek's flank, Derek buries his snout against the duvet right over where he can hear the steady thump thump thump of Stiles' heart.

"Thanks, big guy," Stiles mutters, softly.

Derek can't exactly say_ you're welcome_, and isn't sure that he would if he could, so he just huffs and headbutts Stiles' chest.

Stiles grins down at him and he closes his eyes and lets himself feel Stiles warming up under him, with the kid stroking his fur up till he's probably too spent to keep doing it, just letting his arm hang over Derek.

Stiles falls asleep from a moment to the next, easily slipping out of consciousness. Derek thinks about shifting back, maybe sleeping on the couch, but ultimately the weight of Stiles' arm over him, the reassurance that is his presence underneath his own body, makes him stay where he is, falling asleep shortly after him, ear pressed to his chest.


End file.
