Derek didn't know that Stiles was sick until he didn't show up to the pack meeting. Pack meetings had been his idea, brought about to finally pull all of them together, and much to Derek's annoyance, they had been a raging success.

Not that he didn't want the pack to get along. That was all he wanted. Stiles was just insufferable when he was right, and the meetings also meant that Derek had a bunch of over-dramatic, hormone-filled teenagers lounging around his loft every Friday night.

The thing inside of him, that warm feeling that had twinged at the sight of Stiles warm in his jacket, only grew worse. Stiles' scent was all over the loft: Stiles asleep on the couch. Stiles cooking in the kitchen, teasing Derek about his lack of skills. Stiles, looking like he felt at home there.

All of it seemed perfectly designed to drive Derek insane.

So when the pack arrived, bundled up in scarves and jackets against the cold, and Derek didn't immediately get that wave of scent that was uniquely Stiles, all paper and sharp metal and greenery, that sharp tang of medicine that was his Adderall, he knew something was wrong.

"Where's Stilinski?" he asked, straightening up. He swore, if Stiles had snuck off again on some hare-brained mission Derek was going to handcuff him to his bedpost, he'd sworn last time was the last one -

He became aware that he was growling, lowly, and that Scott was standing in front of him with his hands out, placating him. Derek sucked in a breath and retracted his fangs.

"He's fine," Scott was saying. "He's fine, Derek, he's just sick."

"Sick?" Derek asked, as that thing inside him twisted again, that bit of him that seemed impossibly, painfully attuned to Stiles. "Too sick to come to the meeting?"

Even Scott realized how odd that sounded. The last time Stiles had a cold, he'd laid around the loft for days, complaining and making the others fetch things for him - only going home when his father wondered where he was. He'd left snotty tissues everywhere, and just generally done his best to be a great inconvenience upon all of them.

Derek thought about it and then swore under his breath. He looked up at the rest of his pack. Scott and Isaac looked worried, Boyd was impassive as usual, and Erica just looked entertained.

"It's probably just a cold," Isaac ventured tentatively. Derek didn't bother responding.

"He wasn't at school today," Scott volunteered sheepishly. "He texted me. See?" He held his phone out. The text read:

can't come tonite, i'm sick

say hi to sourwolf for me

"I mean, it sounded normal," Scott said. "Do you think...?"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. They all knew how it ended.

Do you think he was injured? Do you think he's in danger? Do you think he's gone off and done something stupid (again)?

Derek was aware how the situation would look to an outsider: like a complete and total overreaction. But there was that cold feeling twisting in his gut, that sense that let him know when one of the pack was in danger.

It didn't matter that Stiles was human, and technically not really pack. Derek was attuned to him all the same, could pick out his scent and heartbeat in a crowded place as easily as he could any of the others.

Swearing again, he pulled out his phone and dialled Stiles' number.

If Stiles didn't pick up, Derek vowed, he was going to go over there and murder him himself just for the stress he was putting them through.

The phone rang, and then rang again. Derek gripped the cheap plastic so hard it groaned.

"Derek?" Stiles' voice was low and slurred with sleep.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked, too quickly, too loudly - he could almost hear Stiles snap awake.

"Yeah, I'm fine, why -" he broke off, and Derek could hear him coughing. "Is something happening? Shit, my dad's home. Do I need to warn him? I'm pretty low on wolfsbane, but -"

"You're really sick?" Derek cut him off. There was silence for a moment.

"What?" His voice was slow.

"I thought - you didn't show up to school today. You sent Scott one text, you - " Derek clenched his fists again, nails digging into his palms.

"Shit," Stiles breathed. "You thought I had gone off and gotten myself killed. Yeah, I guess I don't really have the best track record when it comes to that stuff, huh?"

Derek could have strangled him."You could have called," he gritted out.

He was silent again. "Come over," he said. It wasn't a question. Derek could hear the nerves in his voice, under the sickness and exhaustion.

"What?" He managed. He turned away from the pack, well aware that their werewolf senses made it so they could hear every word of his conversation.

"Come over," he repeated, and it's more confident this time. "Your wolfy instincts are probably freaking out right now, right? You can come and personally verify that I am not bleeding to death in my bathroom or something equally melodramatic."

Derek felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the way Stiles has always - even if he didn't understand it - accepted everything that came with being a werewolf. Surprisingly well, really, for a human.

No, he reminded himself. This was a bad idea. It's a bad idea to be too close to Stiles, when his blood is running hot like this, when all of his instincts are screaming to protect him.

"Isn't your dad home?" He managed, and Stiles scoffed.

"Like that's ever stopped you before. The window's unlocked." He coughed again, harsh and deep. Derek flinches, against his will, and hangs up.

Yeah. Okay. Derek thinks that this is fine. It has to be fine, because Stiles was right - there's that part of him, that wolf part, that's still insisting that a part of his pack is in danger. The adrenaline surge leaving him has made him shaky, and it's only because the rest of the pack is here that he doesn't drop into a chair and breathe for a bit.

One of these days, Stiles was going to drive him completely insane.

"He's fine," Scott breathed out, and does sit down, sprawling across the couch like everything was instantly fine. Derek does not give into the urge to growl at him.

"Are you going to go check in on loverboy?" Erica purred, red lipstick gleaming. Derek just sent her a look and shrugged on his jacket.

"Don't break anything while I'm gone," he said, to which Erica just smirked.

"Wait," Scott asked, sitting upright, "you're actually going over there?"

Derek was already out the door, but he could hear Erica's laugh. If he was lucky, she'd refrain from eating Scott. Or setting anything on fire.

It took Derek hardly any time at all to reach the Stilinski's house. With his instincts stirred up the way they were, the shift was easy. Stiles' window was unlocked and open, and Derek vaulted through easily, having had plenty of practice at it by then.

As always, Derek needed a moment to adjust aftering entering Stiles' room. The scent of him was everywhere, almost overwhelming, layered in years' worths of experiences. Though this time, it was also covered in a thick blanket of illness, all of which centered around the mound of blankets on the bed.

Derek took a step closer. Somehow, in the five or so minutes since he had called Stiles, the teen had managed to fall back asleep, wrapped up in layers of blankets.

It was strange, seeing him asleep, unmoving, his cheeks flushed with fever. The thing that was twisted up tight inside of him loosened. Stiles was alright.

Safe, his instincts whispered. Safe.

Shit. Derek leaned heavily against the window. He didn't think he could ignore it anymore, these feelings he had for Stiles. Because that's what they were - feelings.

He was the worst person on the planet. He had feelings for a teenager, for a boy he had dragged into danger time and time again.

The dark, angry part of himself whispered, You're no better than her. No better than Kate.

Derek recoiled from the thought. No. It wasn't true.

He wasn't the same as her. He wouldn't be.

Because even though he may have feelings for Stiles - even though his instincts whispered mine and pack whenever the boy was around - he wouldn't act on them.

Everyone who was close to him got hurt. He wouldn't let Stiles be the next name on the list.