Count your fingers

1. Here

The sensation of being cold and wet startles Stiles into a sharp gasp, water flooding his mouth until he breaks the surface. Water sloshes over the edge when he gets up to sit, his fingers clutching the narrow edges of his confinement. Hands fall to his shoulders; gentle, steadying hands. "Easy there, buddy," a voice says. The young man leaning over him looks like Scott and sounds like Scott. Standing a little behind him is Kira, looking worried.

Stiles isn't gonna fall for it again. He needs to be sure.

He wipes a hand over his face to get the water from his eyes. At first glance the room looks like Deaton's back room and he also recognises the metal tub with ice water he is in. Fully dressed too. What is it with him getting drenched in his clothes? Couldn't somebody let him get undressed first before they tossed him into a body of water?

"Stiles." He whips his head around to see Derek on his other side, standing up in a metal tub just like the one Stiles is in. At least this part is easy this time.

He ignores the hands that help him when he clambers out of the tub, slipping on the wet floor. He ignores the questioning voices of the people around him, the familiar voices and faces of his pack. It doesn't matter who is there if it all turns out to be fake again. The only constant in this hellish nightmare is Derek, he is the only one that matters.
Cold, wet hands catch him by his elbows when he stumbles the last step. Derek is out of the tub too, a lot more steady on his feet than Stiles. He spares a second to lament the fact that this seems to be one of those realities in which Stiles is just a weak, helpless human.

"You okay?" Derek murmurs, one hand transferring to the small of his back to keep him close. The werewolf searches his face for signs of discomfort.

"I'm okay, big guy. Just cold and wet. Again." Stiles frowns and clutches at Derek's sides, gripping the wet fabric of the henley he is wearing. "It's actually kinda nice you're sharing that fate with me this time."

Derek huffs a quiet laugh, gathering Stiles a little closer. "At least you're not drowning."

"Or getting shot at," Stiles acknowledges, letting their faces drift closer as they talk. It's a nice way of checking in with each other, when they have time and one of them isn't in mortal peril from the moment they wake up in their new reality.

"Uh... guys? What are you doing?" Scott sounds really confused.

"What does it look like they're doing?" That's Jackson, sounding bored and disinterested as always. "Seems pretty obvious to me. The ice bath must have fucked up Derek's brain."

Neither Stiles nor Derek pays attention to the people around them. Stiles spotted Scott, Kira and Jackson so far; maybe Isaac and Lydia will be around too, or even Danny. If this is Deaton's place, the man himself should be hovering somewhere close. Derek would know, probably. He would catch their scents, or hear their heartbeats. All of it is inconsequential if this isn't their own reality.
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck and closes the distance between them, slotting their bodies together in a way that is now nearly as familiar as breathing. He could've done without the wet clothes between them, but kissing Derek will never lose its appeal.

"And now they're kissing! Why are they kissing?"

"What did that witch do to them? Is this an unexpected side effect of the spell?"

"Told you. Derek lost his mind."

Stiles pulls back just enough to whisper against Derek's lips. "Think we will wake up in a reality without Jackson? I'd like that."

The werewolf smiles, tightening his arms around Stiles' waist. Then he presses in again, kissing the cold away from Stiles' lips.
Stiles waits for the expected drop of his stomach, for the light feeling in his head like you get when you get up too fast. It doesn't come. The arms around his waist tense when Derek notices it too. They wait with baited breath, foreheads leaning against each other. Waiting for the shoe to drop.

"Guys? Are you okay?"

He shudders in Derek's arms, feeling the press of tears in his eyes. "I don't know, Scott, I really don't know."

"Count your fingers," Deaton suggests in that calm voice of his. Of course the druid / veterinarian is there too, waiting on the sidelines for a chance to offer his sage advice.

Stiles stifles a sob and is grateful for the way Derek gathers him as close as possible, gently pushing his face in his neck to hide.
"We did that before," Derek explains to the group, one of his hands resting protectively on Stiles' nape. "The number was always right. We were always the same,it was the rest of the world that wasn't."

"I think you'll discover everything to be back to rights," Deaton states blandly. "Let's start with some dry clothes."