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On Tuesday, Stiles turns up at Derek’s wearing a ridiculous knitted beanie and a fleece scarf, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.


“Do not even stand there barefoot, in an undershirt, like it’s not negative a million degrees outside,” he says, not even waiting for an invitation before pushing past Derek and giving a full-body shudder to displace the miasma of crisp autumn air clinging to his clothes. There’s a tempting flush to his cheeks.


“It’s not actually that cold. I think it only gets that cold in your imagination,” says Derek. “And anyway, I’m not outside.”


Stiles points to the ceiling, where the blue sky peaks through several holes of small to middling size. “The holes in your dwelling say otherwise.” He looks down and kicks a small pile of leaves that have blown in and gathered sadly by the bottom of the stairs. Derek’s been meaning to get that swept up. Something that feels a lot like a creeping sense of embarrassment quietly infiltrates his brain and then promptly slinks down to take residence in the pit of his belly.


Derek wants the feeling to go away. “Come here,” he says impatiently, annoyed by the discomfort.


Stiles gives him a funny look but obediently steps into range and Derek grabs his wrists and extracts his hands from the depths of his hoodie, ignoring Stiles’s yelp. Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’s and shoves their entwined fingers under the hem of his shirt, right against his belly.


“You feel like a corpse,” says Derek, gritting his teeth at the shock of temperature disparity. Stiles is either just naturally inclined towards bad blood circulation or he’s been driving without gloves on in his poorly heated Jeep.


“And you feel like I just stuck my hands into a campfire,” squeaks Stiles, flinching reflexively. Derek folds Stiles’s hands underneath his own and pins them there against the heat of his skin. “Holy crap. Are all werewolves this good at retaining heat? You’re like a personal furnace.”


Derek grunts, shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess so. We’re well-insulated.”


Stiles scoots closer and Derek absorbs the mild tremors of his body, pressing their foreheads together as they breathe in the cold and the quiet. Stiles shuts his eyes, and eventually Derek lets go of Stiles to wrap him in a hug, Stiles’s hands still pinned between them under Derek’s shirt.


“Better?” he mumbles after a while, kissing Stiles’s forehead.


“Mmm,” murmurs Stiles opening his eyes and reluctantly pulling back. “I think I should definitely invest in a werewolf hot pack.”


Derek snorts. “Or a pair of gloves.”


“That option is way less fun,” says Stiles. “I say you finish getting dressed so that I can actually look at you without shivering and then we go get coffee. My dad just went to work. We could go back to my house after and order food and watch a movie under several layers of blankets.”




So Derek buys Stiles a venti pumpkin spice latte which Stiles drinks but mostly uses to warm his hands, and then they go back to the house and Derek stands in the Stilinski kitchen ordering Chinese food from the menu stuck to the fridge while he listens to Stiles thumping around in the upstairs linen closet.


By the time Derek walks back out into the living room, Stiles is coming down the stairs clutching a mountain of blankets.


“Are you planning on building a fort?” asks Derek mildly.


“Ha ha,” says Stiles, tripping over the edge of the carpet and dropping all the blankets over the back of the couch. “No, but seriously, that’s a good idea.”


“No, it’s really not,” says Derek.


Derek ends up buried under not only three blankets but Stiles as well, his legs angled over Derek’s lap, head on his shoulder. Stiles spends a while just tucking in corners, so they’re wrapped up like a giant two-headed burrito, Derek staring over Stiles’s shoulder at the TV, one arm curled around Stiles’s waist. If Derek is being completely honest, this is too hot for him, but Stiles has gone so lax and pliant in his arms that Derek decides he can cope with overheating for a few hours.


“You do realise,” he murmurs after ten minutes of Stiles dozing lazily against his chest not watching Mythbusters, “that we’re going to have to get up to answer the door when the food gets here.”


Stiles lets out a little groan of despair. “You’re a life ruiner,” he accuses. “You ruin people’s lives.”


“You’re the one that enforced blanket prison,” points out Derek. He slides a thumb under the waistband of Stiles’s pyjama pants, rubbing into the bare skin of his waist. He likes how intimate it feels to do this, his gesture hidden by the covers. Stiles hums in vague pleasure, squirming closer to Derek like he isn’t already on top of him.


“As the resident alpha werewolf, you have the privilege of hunting and gathering our dinner,” says Stiles.


“And by ‘hunting and gathering’ you mean ‘trading currency for a pre-cooked meal brought to our door’,” says Derek slowly, not a question.


Stiles doesn’t answer him, because he’s too busy pretending to be asleep. He continues to be deeply and furiously asleep when the doorbell rings, remaining a dead weight as Derek fights to get out from under him, only staging a theatrical wake up when Derek has paid for the food and closed the door.


They eat on the couch, right out of the cartons, watching Stiles’s new Avengers DVD, and then they make out lazily as the credits roll, exchanging heated, messy, salt-slick kisses until Stiles turns his face into Derek’s throat and falls asleep.


The remote control is on the coffee table, which means Derek can’t reach it without jostling Stiles, so he sighs and closes his eyes too.




Derek startles awake to the slam of a car door and suddenly Stiles explodes into movement, planting his feet on Derek’s thigh and hissing, “My dad is home, get out from under the blanket!” Then he shoves with his feet and Derek is too sleep-warm and disoriented to do anything other than fall right off the couch.


Stiles hauls all the blankets around himself as Derek gets to his feet, feeling hunted, fixing wide eyes on Stiles and growling, “What do I do?!”


“Just sit, SIT!” Stiles whispers back frantically, “There’s no time to escape!”


Sure enough, just as Derek sits back down on the couch as far from Stiles as he can manage, the door opens and the sheriff comes inside.


He halts right in the entryway, taking in the scene before him, and it occurs to Derek that they’re sitting up together on the couch at god-knows-what-time of night, staring suspiciously at a black screen.


“Stiles,” says the sheriff. “....Derek.”


“Dad,” says Stiles in a high voice.


“Sir,” acknowledges Derek, glancing at the sheriff through his lashes and nodding stiffly.


Dead silence.


Derek listens to Stiles’s heart pounding, almost in rhythm with the panicked thudthudthud of his own, even though he’s the only one that can hear it. Then the sheriff walks over to the coffee table and pick up a mostly-full cartoon of beef and broccoli. “I’m confiscating this,” he says, glaring at them both meaningfully.


“Of course,” says Stiles hurriedly. “It’s even got green things in it. Totally healthy. A+ choice, dad.”


“You,” says the sheriff, pointing at Stiles. “You and I are talking, tomorrow morning, when I’ll be sure this wasn’t a hallucination. It’s late. And you—” The sheriff turns his attention to Derek, jabbing a finger in his direction that absolutely does not make Derek flinch at all. The sheriff softens his voice, just a little. “I think you better get on home, son. Stiles is going to bed, now.”


“Okay,” says Derek, launching himself to his feet. “Thank you, sir. Have a good night.”


He doesn’t even risk looking at Stiles as he exits out the front door and he only remembers that Stiles drove him here when he’s halfway down the driveway.


The front door of Stiles’s house opens just then and Stiles runs out, barefoot, wrapped in a fuzzy throw, calling, “Derek, you idiot, wait!”


Derek stops and waits for Stiles to catch up to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders to reel him in for a quick, chaste kiss. “Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve heard him coming.”


“Pffft.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s fine. Jesus, it’s cold.” He stamps his bare feet on the asphalt and burrows briefly into Derek’s chest for a hug before pulling back and holding up the keys to his Jeep. “Take it. I’ll get Scott to drive me over and pick it up tomorrow.”


“Okay,” says Derek, giving him another warm kiss, grasping his hands and rubbing them between his own. “Go inside. Get some sleep.”


“You got it,” says Stiles, grinning.


But Stiles doesn’t go inside right away, instead watching him from the doorway as he backs the Jeep out of driveway, and Derek can still see him in the rear view mirror, growing smaller and smaller, until Derek finally turns the corner and he disappears entirely.




The next day, Stiles turns up with Scott to pick up the Jeep, and Stiles is wearing gloves.


Derek will never, ever admit he’s kind of disappointed.


But Stiles just smiles as he shuffles through the fallen leaves, stripping off the gloves and then grasping Derek by the jaw to pull him in for a kiss.


His hands are like ice.


“What?” murmurs Stiles into his mouth. “You thought I’d given up on my own private werewolf heater?”


“Shut up,” mumbles Derek, nipping at his lower lip.


“'Private werewolf heater'? Gross, you guys,” moans Scott. “I really didn’t need to hear that, like, ever.”


“You can take your super-hearing elsewhere!” calls Stiles. “Thanks for the ride!”


Scott rolls his eyes and gets back into the car, and Derek waits until the engine fades from his hearing before he noses at Stiles’s jaw and murmurs, “Want to go inside? I bought blankets.”


Stiles shudders and presses into the heat of Derek’s body, curling his hands into the collar of his coat. “Yeah. How about that fort?”