Work Text:
“Remember when I told Scott this was a stupid idea?” Stiles asks, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. “Because I remember telling him that this was a stupid idea.”
“I remember,” Derek tells him, dragging the human through the dying light. “You’ve only been complaining about it for the last hour.”
“I told him this weather was unnatural.” He trips on a root hidden beneath the fallen snow and stumbles, almost crashing to his knees before Derek’s grip on his arm jerks him back up. “I mean, since when does it even snow in Beacon Hills?”
“It’s not that bad.”
Stiles drags his feet, bringing them both to a halt. “Derek, it’s snowing. In May. And unlike werewolves, us fragile humans don’t do well in sub-zero temperatures.” He shivers again, rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms.
“Here.” Derek shrugs out of his jacket, draping it across Stiles’ shoulders. “Just stop complaining.”
The leather is warm and smells faintly of Derek. Stiles slips his arms into the sleeves and pulls it tight, breathing in the scent that envelopes him.
“We’re going about this wrong.” Stiles turns to look back the way they’d come. “We’re not going to find the mage like this.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Derek asks, folding his arms across his chest.
“I think we need to regroup,” Stiles says. “We need to find the others and come up with an actual plan that doesn’t involve running around at night in a magical snowstorm.”
He waits for the werewolf to challenge him, but instead Derek sighs.
“You’re right.”
“Uh, excuse me?” Stiles grins, getting up in Derek’s space. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I heard you right.”
“Shut up Stiles, I’m not saying it again.” Derek pushes him away but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Scott’s an idiot and we’re getting nowhere.”
“Why’d you agree to this then?” Stiles asks, falling into step beside him. The lightly falling snow is quickly obscuring their footprints, but Stiles trusts Derek’s sense of direction to get them back to town.
Derek doesn’t answer, he just gives Stiles a pointed look.
“You just wanted to spend more time with me, didn’t you,” Stiles teases, bumping into Derek with his hip. “It’s okay, you can say it.”
“That’s not it.”
“Uh huh, sure.”
“Not entirely.” Derek bumps Stiles back and they continue walking through the deepening snow.
As what little light is left fades away, Derek takes the lead, guiding Stiles through the darkness. The clouds hang low in the sky, and the world around them is silent but for the soft patter of falling snow.
“Fuck.” Stumbling on a rock, Stiles goes down, sprawling across the icy ground.
“Are you okay?” Derek stops and helps him to his feet.
“Y-yeah,” Stiles brushes the snow off his clothes. His shorts are soaked, as are his shoes, and his legs and feet are beginning to go numb. “It’s just so f-fucking cold.”
“I think we’re almost back,” Derek says, reassuringly. He turns, nostrils flaring as he scents the cold air. “Just a few more minutes.”
“G-good.” Stiles flexes his fingers. They’re red and chapped tucked up in the sleeves of Derek’s jacket. “Because I’m about to turn into a human popsicle.”
“Come on.” Derek pushes Stiles in front of him. He keeps a hand on the human’s shoulder, guiding him forward and keeping him upright when he stumbles again.
The closer the get to town, the heavier the snow gets. Derek keeps nudging Stiles forward as his pace get’s slower and slower.
“H-how f-far?” Stiles’ shivers violently. His body feels too heavy, his head hanging forward. It’s all he can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
“We’re almost back.”
“C-c—”
Derek catches him when he trips again. Stiles’ skin is like ice against Derek’s bare arms as the werewolf hoists him up. He picks up his pace, wanting to get back to the loft as fast as possible.
The familiar outline of the loft draws a sigh of relief from Derek. He doesn’t bother waiting for the ancient elevator, taking the stairs two at a time.
No one else is back yet, but Derek doesn’t have the capacity to worry about the rest of the pack right now. He carries Stiles up to his room, sitting him on the edge of the bed and peels the wet jacket off him.
“No,” Stiles whines, clinging weakly to the leather.
“Stiles, you’re soaking wet,” Derek tells him gently. “It needs to come off.”
“C-cold.”
“I know.” Derek tugs off Stiles’ sneakers then his wet socks. “But you’ll warm up once you’re dry. Arms up.”
The shirt clings to Stiles’ skin and he get’s tangled up. Derek manages to pull the wet fabric up over his head and toss it onto the floor.
Stiles tries to help with his shorts, but his fingers fumble with the zipper. Derek gently pushes his hands away and then tugs down his shorts, tossing them into the growing pile on the floor.
He snags a towel left hanging over a chair and uses it to dry Stiles off.
“Okay, climb in.” Derek pulls back the covers on his bed, then pulls off his jeans and shirt to climb in beside Stiles. He wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him close.
“Mm toasty,” Stiles mumbles, tucking his head against Derek’s shoulder. “Y’know,” he says, blinking up at Derek. “If you wanted me in your bed, all you had to do is ask.”