Stiles’ dad is quiet but firm when he tells Stiles he’ll walk him home from now on. Stiles protests, naturally.
Naturally, it doesn’t help. “It was very nice of Derek to help you,” Stiles’ dad says. “But you know you shouldn’t go with strangers.”
“He’s not a stranger!” Stiles comes perilously close to stomping his foot. “And he’s not dangerous either, he’s been walking me home for ages and nothing bad’s happened yet!”
Stiles doesn’t know why, but it makes his dad’s face crumple. His dad goes to his knees, hugs Stiles close and strong. “Stiles,” his dad says, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Anything.”
Stiles swallows and nods. “I’ll stay safe,” he says in a small voice.
He means to be good, and mostly, he is. Stiles lets dad walk him home, doesn’t do more than glance at Derek as he heads in the opposite direction. He always thought Derek lived near them; it made no sense for him to walk Stiles home otherwise.
Then there is a snow day, and school lets out early. Stiles slips out amongst the throngs of happy kids, unnoticed. Determined.
It’s not like he goes back on his promise when he goes into the woods. Following Derek. Because Derek isn’t actually dangerous. Stiles will show his father, somehow.
He doesn’t account, however, for the forest itself.
Stiles shouts when the ground collapses under his feet, tumbling into a pit in a mess of snow and dead vegetation. The wet gets under his coat and in his boots, and he squaks. Broken branches pin him in place; he tries to get away, but can’t find a purchase in the slick leaves.
It’s not so bad, though. Stiles is starting to feel warm again when something grabs him by the back of the neck.
“Kid,” someone says, frantic and hoarse. “Kid, you’re cold. Where’s your cellphone?”
Stiles fishes it out of his pocket. It takes a minute; his fingers are numb. He hears a tone being dialled, thinks he catches his father’s gruff voice on the other end.
“He’s in the woods. His hands are turning blue,” he hears that someone say.
Stiles frowns at his hands. They are. He must have lost his mittens. It’s kind of cool, but that voice sounds so scared. Stiles turns his face upwards, grinning to see Derek. He puts his hands on Derek’s face, trying to reassure, and Derek flinches before putting his hand over Stiles, chafing. That doesn’t feel nice, makes Stiles’ palm feel like pins and needles.
Derek says, “I can bring him over,” and then his face turns blank at what Stiles’ dad replies. He blinks, rapidly. “If you’re sure,” he says, and waits for answer before hanging up.
“C’mon,” Derek says, hauling Stiles up like a sack of potatoes. “You’re coming home with me. Your dad said getting you warm as fast as possible was the main thing.”
Derek’s house isn’t very warm - it’s drafty, because the walls have holes in them - but there’s a bed which is really more like a nest. Derek’s sister is in it, sleeping.
Derek takes off Stiles’ wet coat, gives him an old pair of pants that smells like mildew but is dry and nearly Stiles’ size. He helps hold Stiles up while he changes, looking away.
Then he puts Stiles into bed with his sister - “Laura,” Derek says softly, “company,” - and she just snuffles and puts and arm over Stiles. Derek slides in at Stiles’ other side, chafing his hands over Stiles’ back.
“Hurts,” Stiles complains. His entire body feels like it’s being stabbed repeatedly, now.
“Sorry,” Derek says, but when he takes his hands away it doesn’t help at all, so Stiles asks for them back.
He knows he must have slept, then, because he wakes up to his father’s frowning face. It’s not a bad frown, though. A considering frown.
It lets Stiles know he has a bargaining point. He clutches Derek’s shirt when he tries to stumble out of the bed.
“I never got hurt when Derek was around,” Stiles says, looking Derek clear in the eye. “I only got hurt when you made him stay away, and then he helped me better.”
Stiles’ dad still doesn’t look convinced.
That means Stiles has to sweeten the deal somehow. “What if both of you walk me home together?” Stiles bargains. “And maybe he could stay for lunch. I’ll eat my greens every day if he can stay for lunch.”
It’s like ice thawing when the sheriff cracks a smile. “Oh, kid.” He shakes his head. “What do you think, Derek?”
Close as he is, Stiles can feel Derek’s nod. Stiles shouldn’t grin at his victory - that might mean Stiles’ dad changing his mind - so he plants a smooch on Derek’s cheek.
Okay, and then he grins anyway. But his dad just sighs, and doesn’t take any of it back, so that’s good.
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