Work Text:
“Ohhhhh, fuck this shit,” Stiles groans, slapping at the alarm on his phone and pulling his pillow over his head to block out the early morning light.
He can’t smell or taste anything. He’d gone to bed last night with a nagging, yet not-so-sore, sore throat, and had woken up with a full blown cold. His head feels like a hot air balloon, all hot and stuffed and floaty. When he swallows, it feels like daggers. And that, “Ohhhh, fuck this shit” he’d said earlier? Came out more like a croak.
Miserable, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed, pushing up to a sitting position and nearly moaning when his vision gets all wibbly. Oh, how he longs for his school days, when he could fake a cough and get the day off. He gives himself a second to get the dizziness under control, then slowly, carefully stands.
“Victory is mine,” he rasps, shuffling off to the shower. He has to make himself presentable today. He has to go in today. Yay late-stage capitalism.
In the shower, he leans against the wall and goes through the motions, mostly trying to use the steam to unplug everything a little bit.
He feels halfway to slightly less miserable when he’s out, patting his towel at his body weakly, then shuffling back to the bedroom and pulling on his most comfortable work clothes. If he can’t stay home all day binging Nailed It and sleeping in his pjs on the couch, then at least he’s wearing the comfy pants. With any luck, Suzi will get one earful of his croaky voice and put him on dungeon duty all day.
Working as a research assistant at the university library does have some perks, and being able to indulge his ADHD-fueled hours-long research spirals - not only indulge, but have people find them useful! - is just one of them.
In his small kitchen, there’s a brand new container of honey - ten dollar bet it’s from some local apiary - and a handwritten note. Warming, Stiles shuffles over.
I picked this up before I left for the day. Some in tea, or just hot water if you can’t stand the taste, will help the scratchy throat. Stay home if you’re feeling worse. I love you.
-D
If only warm fuzzies were the cure for the common cold. Stiles sighs, and, because his throat still is scratchy and sore, he pours a huge dollop into his to-go hot mug and starts warming water for tea.
The other advice, Stiles can’t take. He can’t take a vacation day; he saves them for supernatural emergencies, times when the pack needs him to research or to fight, or when his fragile human body has been injured and he needs a day to recover. He can’t squander the precious few hours he gets with paid leave on something so mundane as a cold.
Besides, he’s on track to have leftover days this quarter - the supernatural business has been unusually kind recently - and he kind of desperately needs that extra payout on his check. For reasons. Reasons that are currently burning a hole in a small clam shell box in his sock drawer.
His heart pounds at the thought of the ring, or maybe his heart is just pounding because of the cold. God, he really feels awful. He sits down at one of the kitchen chairs, his head drooping down onto the hand he has propped on the counter, just resting his eyes for a moment.
The kettle shocks him awake with its whistle, and he nearly falls out of the chair. Groaning, he scrubs his eyes and pours the water, sliding in a peppermint tea bag. After taking two seconds to contemplate the horrible scratch cereal would make going down his sore throat, Stiles shakes his head. “Starve a cold, right?”
Oh right, he still doesn’t have a voice.
In the entranceway, he grabs one of his hoodies, then hesitates, puts it back, and grabs Derek’s leather jacket instead. It’s huge on him, and warm like the wolf, and makes him feel a little like Derek is hugging him.
He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and walks out to catch the bus.
He’d been right. Suzi takes one look at him and shakes her head. “Off to the dungeon for you, and don’t get me sick. Or, you know, go home.”
“C’mon Suzi, don’t kick me out,” Stiles rasps. The honey-peppermint tea had been working miracles on his throat in the bus ride over. “I’m so close. You know why.”
Not for the first time, Stiles realizes Suzi would be his mother’s age, if his mother had lived. He has this realization because she’s giving him one of those extremely motherly, severely disappointed looks.
God, he misses his mom.
Still, Suzi lets him go to the “dungeon,” though he’s glad it’s not actually cold and crypt like. It’s just the basement floor, back corner of the library that everyone insists is haunted, but believe Stiles, he’s seen some shit, and this room has nothing on that.
He settles himself in, pulling out his laptop and pulling up the job list to see what the professors need right now. “Statistics on the reproductive habits of banana slugs, huh? Okay, Professor Hawkins, you’ve piqued my interest.”
The research task - and the next one, and the next one - keeps Stiles busy enough that he can ignore that his head is pounding, his throat still feels like he’s swallowing glass, and the pressure in his sinuses is so intense he wants to cry, although he knows that would make it worse.
He’s just finished an inquiry when it seems to all hit him at once, and he moans, which makes him cough, and oh, that’s fun, it’s moving to his lungs. He lays his head down for just a moment, just to ease the pressure, just a little.
He hates the way cold meds make him feel all fuzzy and high, like that one ADHD med his doctor had tried, back before they’d found one that worked, that made him feel like a zombie. But he might have to bite the bullet for this one.
The chair next to him scrapes against the floor.
“If you’re a ghost here to haunt me, get in line,” Stiles mutters, his voice squeaking out the syllables.
“God, baby.” There’s a warm hand on his back. Stiles pops his eyes open to take in the beautiful visage of his boyfriend Derek, paramedic uniform and everything.
“Am I hallucinating or are you actually here?”
“One of your coworkers called the station, said there was a dying research assistant in the dungeon that needed resuscitation.” Derek smiles just a little as he continues rubbing over Stiles’ back.
“You can stop that never. Was it Suzi? I bet it was Suzi. She went all disappointed mother on me.”
“Stiles, c’mon. She gave you the rest of the day off. I can’t believe you even came in today.”
“See, and now you sound like my dad, and you’re way hotter than him.”
“Oooooh-kay, up we go.” Derek pulls Stiles to his feet, then leans him on his body while he cleans Stiles’ laptop and research stuff up.
“You’re so warrrrm.” Stiles snuggles in, feeling marginally better even though everything still hurts.
“Do you want to walk out of here on your own two feet or no?” Derek slings Stiles’ messenger bag over his body and presses the back of his hand against Stiles’ forehead. “Nope, I’m making an executive decision here, come on.”
Being picked up into a bridal carry should be thrilling, but instead it makes Stiles’ head go all fuzzy again, and he moans.
“I know baby, I’m sorry. Just rest now.”
Stiles rests his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed.
When he wakes up again he’s hot, drenched in sweat, feeling gross. He groans, kicking the covers off and trying to cool down a little.
A hand rests against his forehead again. “Fever’s broken, I think. That’s good, I was getting worried.” Derek’s voice is soft, concerned.
“I hate that,” Stiles mutters, his own voice still cracked and throat sore.
“Hate what, having a fever? I should think anyone would.”
Stiles slits open his eyes, sighing happily when he realizes the room is dark and Derek’s sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. Stiles must have taken quite a nap. “Nah. Hate when I make you worry.” He pokes himself in the chest. “Squishy human.”
Derek leans over, brushing a kiss over Stiles’ forehead. “Wouldn’t want you any other way.” He strokes his fingers over Stiles’ cheek. “Do you think you can eat? I’ve got some chicken soup.”
“Homemade?”
Derek laughs. “Sure, I made it at home. From a packet.”
“Mmm, packetmade. Sure, I could eat, probably. I didn’t have anything this morning.”
Derek tsks as he helps Stiles sit, fluffing up some pillows to prop him up. “Let me go warm it up.”
“Wait,” he asks, and Derek pauses, his hand still on Stiles’ thigh, looking expectant. “I really hate that you’re a werewolf and therefore cannot get sick. Well, I don’t hate that you’re a werewolf, don’t get me wrong, because we might not have ever met and it’s absurdly sexy when you wolf out, enough that I’m starting to think it’s a kink of mine, and it’s really helpful to have a big strapping lad like you around the house to open all my spaghetti sauce jars-”
“Stiles.” Derek’s mirth is barely contained in the way his lips tip up at the sides.
“But I really hate that you can’t get sick. I feel like you’re missing out on a quintessential human experience here. But on the other hand, it means I can do this, and it won’t pass anything on.” Stiles tugs on Derek’s shirt - he changed into his civilian clothes at some point - and pulls him in easily for a crushing kiss. Derek’s hand lands by Stiles’ hip to steady himself, and he leans into the kiss, taking it deeper, until Stiles’ blocked nose means he quickly runs out of oxygen and has to pull back, gasping for air.
“Okay, Casanova, as beautiful as you look right now, I think we’re going to have to call a hold to that,” Derek says wryly. Still, he brushes his lips over Stiles’ one last time, quickly, before pulling away.
Once Derek’s out of the room, Stiles, groaning, works his way out the bed and to his dresser.
“Okay, I have the soup, and some orange juice that I want you to try and drink all of.” Derek rounds the corner, then quirks his brow.
Makes sense. The move from bed to dresser and back tired Stiles out, so he’s just sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to contemplate his next plan of action. So far, he’s gotten to, “Step 1: keep breathing.”
“Going somewhere?”
“Uh. That would probably be a really bad idea, right?”
“Right.” Derek crosses the room, setting the tray on the side table so he can help Stiles back into bed.
“Wait, I- uh.” Holding Derek’s hand, Stiles slips to the floor. He goes for one knee, but it doesn’t happen. Also he’s kind of leaning entirely against the bed, so he’s sort of tilted.
“What are you- oh my god, Stiles, baby-” Derek sounds frustrated, and he starts to lift him up from under the armpits.
“No, no, wait. I was doing something. Saying something. Just wait a sec.” Stiles leans his head on the bed. Man, it’s so nice not to have to hold up his own body weight. He jolts as he remembers what he was doing, and brings out the box, which shuts Derek up pretty quickly. “I’m full of bad ideas today, I guess.”
“Stiles-”
“I can’t wait anymore, Der. I was trying to wait. I was trying to be good, and wait for our anniversary, and also wait until I had the ring paid off, like a proper fiance would, and maybe this is the fever talking - which hey, might be back? Oops - but I really fucking love you, and I couldn’t wait any longer to put a ring on it.” He manages to open the clam shell box without dropping it, or the ring, and counts it as a win.
He’s not sure he’s ever seen Derek so surprised, and honestly, they’ve seen a lot of shit.
“Sourwolf, will you marry me?” Stiles finally remembers to ask.
Now Derek does pull him up, all the way to his feet, and then they keep going until they’re in the bed and Stiles is curled up on Derek's lap. Derek takes the ring box from him, stroking over the simple masculine white gold band inside.
“S’not silver, in case you were worried.”
Derek snorts. “Ah yes, this whole relationship has been an elaborate ruse to slay the werewolf with a silver bullet, hmm?”
Stiles shoulder checks him, but it ends up being more of a really tame bump that barely moves the solid wall of muscle that is Derek Hale. “So, what’re you thinking?”
Derek meets Stiles eyes, then sweeps his fingers through Stiles’ hair and bring him forward so their foreheads are touching. “I’m thinking...yes. I’m also thinking now I know why the lady at the jewelry store was so insistent you’d like the white gold band.”
Elation bubbles up inside of him. Of course, they’d already talked about this. There’s never been a shadow of a doubt that Derek would say yes. Well, except for that one doubt. But that doubt can go fuck itself. Stiles slides his arms around Derek’s neck and brings him in for a hug. “When were you going to?”
“Your birthday.”
“That’s like, ages away!”
“When were you going to?”
“I don’t even know, man. Some time appropriate. Not my birthday.”
“Well gee, I’m so sorry I thought it would be romantic,” Derek says in mock offense.
“It’s my birthday. My birthday. It’s special. Because it’s for me. Not us.”
“Okay, okay. Well, I definitely get how this moment was special, and not just about you, but about us, for sure. Makes total sense,” Derek replies, sarcasm dripping from his words.
“It’s because- because I have a fever! Why’d you leave me alone? I shouldn’t be trusted with these things! I always fuck them up!”
Snorting, Derek takes the ring out of the box and hands it to him. “You didn’t fuck this up.”
Stiles softens as he pushes the ring over Derek’s knuckles. It fits perfectly at the base, and warmth wells up inside him. “Because- because you see me at my worst and still want all of this,” he murmurs, motioning to his face - his gross, bloated, sweaty, feverish face.
Derek’s hand sneaks down to goose his ass. “I do want all of this. No matter what the worst is.”
“Gayyyy,” Stiles teases in a whisper.
Derek’s laughing when Stiles’ kisses him to seal the deal. Well, Stiles is laughing, too.