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They’re on a stake out and Derek is pissed off.
Not because it’s not going well. As far as he can tell, their presence hasn’t been detected yet and they’ve gleaned some valuable information from this excursion.
He’s pissed because he’s distracted and it is all Stiles Stilinski’s fault.
It is not his job, okay? It is in no way his job to make sure the pack’s pet human stays comfortable and warm. If the idiot wasn’t smart enough to bring a jacket? It’s his own fault. Derek shouldn’t care.
Except it – damn it-it legitimately bothers him. Stiles just keeps shivering and looking all vulnerable and pathetic. It’s annoying, alright?
Derek takes it for as long as he can but eventually… he just has to do something.
He slides his jacket off his shoulders with an exasperated huff and all but shoves it at Stiles. “Here.”
Of course, that can't be the end of it. Oh no. Stiles can’t just take it and be done with it. Instead, he stares down at the jacket as if it has suddenly sprouted three heads and started speaking Chinese. “What do I do with it?”
“Slather it in mayonnaise and make it into a sandwich. What do you think you’re supposed to do with it?” He smacks the back of Stiles’ head. Making a nice gesture does not mean he has to actually be nice. “You’re cold. Put it on, idiot.”
Stiles, thankfully, is smart enough not to question it, although Derek can tell he wants to. He hesitates for a moment, but obediently jams his arms into the sleeves and pulls it on. “Uh… thanks?”
“Ruin it and you’re dead,” Derek growls. ‘You’re welcome’ isn’t exactly his style.
He definitely does not notice the way the jacket sits too large on Stiles’ smaller frame. He definitely does not notice the way Stiles keeps turning his head to surreptitiously sniff at it, like he’s… smelling Derek on the jacket. And Derek is definitely, definitely not blushing.
Shut up.