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"Stiles? Where have you been? Why haven't you been answering your phone?" Derek says as he lifts up Stiles’ window to climb inside.
The twelve hour radio silence became concerning when Derek finally broke down and resorted to sending a grumpy cat gif, only for Stiles not to react to it at all. Even Peter agreed that something had to be seriously wrong for that not to work.
Derek knows Stiles is home, his jeep is parked outside. “Stiles?” Derek scents the room when he doesn't get any answer, smelling the stale air and sweat, as well as a faint tinge of old vomit. He wrinkles his nose. “What–”
"Arggghh…this is it, I'm deceased. Bye-bye cruel world," Stiles groans deliriously from beneath a mountain of blankets.
“You're sick."
"I'm dead, Derek. Dead," Stiles rasps out, completely serious going by his heartbeat. Stiles whimpers sadly, "Oh god, my dad's gonna be so fucking bummed."
Derek quirks an eyebrow at him as he sits down heavily on his bed, pulling the covers off his face. "You're not dead, Stiles. You're talking, I can hear you."
Stiles scrunches his eyes at the sudden flood of light. "I'm speaking to you from beyond the grave."
Derek shakes his head, looking around the room, there’s an unopened box of cold and flu pills on his dresser, and a full bottle of water on the floor by his bed. "Where's your dad?"
"Out of town, family emergency," Stiles sniffles and clears his throat noisily. "I wasn't dying when he left, that would've been a bigger emergency. But that was two days ago. Yesterday I was dying, then I died, now I'm dead." He chokes out a dramatic sob. "And no one even knows!"
"I'm right here."
"Who's gonna tell Scott?" Stiles' teeth are chattering as he pulls the covers up to his chin. "Or Derek? I'm like, his only friend!"
"I have other friends," Derek says with just a little defensiveness.
"Oooh." Stiles shivers bodily, squeezing his eyes shut. "Poor Dad," he says softly, "Poor Derek."
Derek rolls his eyes, trying to deny to himself how oddly touched he is by that. He reaches over to feel Stiles' forehead, though he knows before he touches him that it's a high fever.
"Fuck, you're really burning up," he hisses, moving closer to remove more of the blankets. "I've heard there's a bad flu going around. We should probably get you to a hospital."
Stiles' eyes shoot open in fear, and he gasps, "No! No hospitals." He tries to sit up, grabbing desperately at Derek's forearms. "Please, please, Derek. Don't make me."
Derek eases him back down with a sigh, covering him up again. "Okay fine, it's okay, no hospitals. Don't worry."
Stiles relaxes at that, his grip softening until he's just clinging to Derek's hands. He stares up at Derek with big glistening eyes, blinking tiredly. "Promise?"
Derek's mouth quirks up a little, then draws an X over his chest. "Cross my heart," he says earnestly, then reaches for the box of cold and flu. “Why didn’t you take these?”
Stiles smiles weakly at him. “Bought ‘em yesterday when I felt something comin’ on," he sniffles, his nose sounding completely blocked, "But then I died.”
“Well, you should take them now, dead or not.” Derek hands him the pills and picks up the water bottle, uncapping it and holding it to Stiles’ lips as he swallows. “We don’t want some weird zombie virus to mutate from your flu-ridden corpse.”
Stiles laughs, surprised and loud - but it turns into a painful sounding cough, so Derek rubs his shoulder. Stiles keeps giggling, though, until another, full-body shiver takes him, and he holds his throbbing head. "Ugh, why is being dead so painful?"
"What hurts?"
"What doesn't?" Stiles croaks, sniffing loudly. "My chest, my back, my stomach - my freaking legs for some reason. My throat from me exorcist-style projectile vomiting all over the kitchen - do not go in there, Derek, your wolfy nose won't survive - oghh. And my fucking head kills, dude. It feels like someone's stabbing me behind the eyeballs every time I look at the window. I'm clearly in hell for my sinful ways, being torn up by demons. The catholics were right."
“I don't think –”
“The catholics were right.”
"Okay," Derek chuckles softly, taking Stiles' hands back in his own and soothing his thumbs over the knuckles. Thin black lines run up his arms, taking away all the little aches he's feeling. "But I wouldn't count out that plain old nasty flu just yet."
Stiles' body relaxes and he sighs happily, "Ahh, oh - oh dude, your wolfy powers are way better than any pain killer. Where's this been all my life?"
Derek fights back a smile. "Why didn't you let me know you were sick? Or your dad, or Scott?"
"Was worse yesterday," Stiles slurs and shrugs weakly. "Didn't wanna worry him, gramma had knee surgery on Friday."
"And Scott?" Derek keeps gently petting Stiles' hands.
Stiles snorts. "I always forget you didn't know us before," he says, sounding a little more lucid now that the pain is gone. "Scott has a visceral reaction to sick people."
Derek tilts his head curiously at him "He seems fine whenever someone's injured."
"Yeah, injuries he's good with. But he was a dweeby little asthmatic kid with a shitty immune system for years before he was a werewolf. He can't get sick anymore, but he's still an anxious nightmare when other people do. Not the ideal nurse."
"Oh, that makes sense, I guess." Derek bites his lip, he pushes Stiles' hair off his sweaty forehead, sickly heat still radiating off his skin. "But you should've called me. Or Lydia. Or… someone."
Stiles suddenly clasps Derek hand in his, rubbing it against his cheek like a cat. His pain might be gone, but Stiles is still definitely feverish. "Dude, I honestly thought I had just died," he says, his voice is still nasal and scratchy, but the inflection is clearer. "'I didn't want you to have to see that."
"Stop calling me 'dude'," Derek says fondly. "We should get you washed up. Your pathetically sick smell is starting to offend my wolfy nose."
Stiles giggles, wiping at his blocked nose with the neck of his shirt. Derek should not be charmed. He should at least be a little disgusted. "Don't be funny when I'm sick! I can't properly appreciate it."
Derek goes to prepare the bath. Once that’s all done Stiles lets himself be bridal carried to the bathroom, nuzzling into Derek's neck as they go.
"Dude, are you gonna see me naked?" He sounds a little loopy whenever Derek leeches any new little aches, feverish without the ill effects. "I don't think 'm ready for that at this stage of our relationship, Der'."
"No one's seeing you naked," Derek says. "I wouldn't inflict that onto the world."
Stiles laughs, squeezing his arms around Derek's neck. "Stop being funny! I'm gonna be so jealous of me. Oh my god, you put bubbles! I didn't even know we had bubbles in the house!"
Derek sets him down, turning when Stiles begins to undress right in front of him. He stays on high alert just in case, listening as the last of Stiles' clothes fall into a heap on the floor.
"I'm too cold to be this naked," Stiles says in a trembling voice.
"Want me to help you in?" Derek offers, already half-turned while staring at the ceiling.
After a moment's hesitation, Stiles says quietly, "Yes please. But no peeking, I'll kick your ass if you peek, alright?"
Derek helps him, dutifully keeping his eyes skyward as Stiles clings to his shoulders and helps him to sink slowly into the tub.
"Ahh, so warm," Stiles sighs in contentment. "Ha, this is sorta giving me deja vu, being lowered into a bath like this."
"At least it's not an ice bath, right?"
Stiles hums, already building bubble towers on top of his knees when Derek glances down at him.
"Will you be alright here on your own?"
"Uh-huh. Oh—wait." Stiles grabs at the hem of Derek's shirt, his knuckles covered in bubbles that soak through the material. "You're not leaving, are you?"
Derek does smile at that.
"No, I'm just going to get clothes and things ready for you when you get out of the tub."
"But what if I drown?" Stiles murmurs, sounding like a little kid instead of the 24-year-old he is. Derek would never admit it, but he kind of adores him like this. Not the sick part, but just Stiles openly needing him. It feels nice.
"What if the pain comes back?"
Derek gently takes his hand, the suds have soaked through his shirt, but that will dry in no time. He really doesn't mind. "I'll just be here, in the house. So I'll hear you wherever I am. If you need me, just say the word."
Mollified, Stiles eases back into the tub with one last squeeze of Derek's hand. "Word."
Derek smiles to himself as he walks back out of the room.
He grabs an antibacterial can and sprays Stiles's room, and then gets to sorting some pajamas for him. Just a simple black shirt and clean green plaid pants that he lays out on the bed. He stays clear of Stiles' underwear drawer, figuring he can pick those himself.
Then he wills himself to go downstairs, tucking his nose into his shirt as he surveys the kitchen; the place Stiles said he'd thrown up all over. The acrid smell stings Derek's sensitive nose, but the mess isn't too bad. He finds the cleaning supplies and gets to work.
He listens for Stiles' heartbeat as he cleans, the too-fast way his heart races often. Its rhythm is an odd comfort to Derek these days. When Stiles hadn't answered his phone all day, at first Derek had thought he'd done something wrong. Like he'd overstepped somehow in this new, tentative friendship they've been building the past few months.
It didn't help that the second last message he'd sent to Stiles was, 'we should go somewhere, sometime. just us'. Derek had felt like such an idiot when Stiles left him on read.
Thump-thump.
Now, he knows better. Derek shouldn't have doubted him. But it's in his nature. With Scott it's easier to know where he stands. They'll always be wolf-brothers, so it's almost impossible to read him wrong.
With Stiles, things are… complicated.
Thump-thump.
Derek puts away the cleaning supplies, still breathing through his shirt because the bleach is strong and hurts his nose more than the vomit did – at least that came from Stiles, gross as it was, it was familiar.
He starts on a soup for dinner, peeling potatoes and chopping carrots. He defrosts chicken in the microwave and grins when he finds cornstarch in the cabinet, and fresh pumpkin, celery, and capsicum in the fridge. There's even some fresh coriander in a pot on the windowsill. Derek will be able to make it exactly like his mom used to for him. Thank god Stiles likes to stock up on veggies for his father.
He runs up when the splashing stops and he hears a faint, "Word."
Stiles has his eyes shut when Derek walks in, his head lolling to the side like he's half asleep. The bubbles have flattened somewhat, exposing his chest. "Can you help me get out?"
Derek pulls the drain and wraps a towel around him, lifting him out. He averts his eyes as Stiles reaches down to cover himself properly before letting Derek carry him to the room again.
"What were you doing?" Stiles yawns against his shoulder, his nasal passage sounds clearer as he sniffs at Derek. "You smell like clorox. You getting rid of a body?"
"Don't give me any ideas."
“Ha ha. New fucking rule, sourface,” Stiles cautions as he pokes a finger into Derek’s chin. “No making jokes when Stiles is too tired and sick to remember they happened.”
“Funny, I’ve always had the complete opposite rule,” Derek says.
“Hey, you’re breaking! The one! Rule!” Stiles emphasizes by half-heartedly smacking at Derek's chest with the back of his hand.
Derek gently sets him down onto the bed and touches his forehead. “I think your fever broke, you seem to have some of your energy back.” He turns around when Stiles reaches for his clothes.
“If you’re trying to imply that I just let you carry me around because I like being carried? You’re absolutely right, and I'd do it again. No shame.”
Derek shrugs. “Fine by me. You weigh about as much as a grape anyway.”
Stiles thwacks his towel at him. “Just so you know, I’m tallying the amount of times you break the One Rule in my head, smartass.”
Derek lets out a low laugh. “Yeah, you do that while I go check on the soup I’m making for you. Your highness.”
Stiles gapes at him, then yells at his back, "I don't deserve you! No one does! You're a god amongst men!" His heart doesn’t skip a beat.
Stiles eats the soup with gusto, already onto his second helping. They're sitting side-by-side on the bed because Stiles insisted that Derek get comfortable while they ate. Stiles' bowl is balanced on a pillow on his lap as he feeds himself with his right hand, whilst Derek holds onto his left.
“You sure that’s still necessary?” He gestures with his spoon down to where Derek is leeching even the slightest twinge of new pain. “Not that I mind. Like, at all. But I don't wanna get addicted to it or anything. The pain-healing, I mean. Not…wait - is werewolf pain draining addictive? Is it like superhuman morphine? Are there werejunkies? You’re not saying anything which I’m going to take as a passive yes.”
"I…" Derek says after a moment, blinking. "I honestly don't know, but I don’t think so. There hasn't been much scientific research into lycanthropic pain-absorption, Stiles. Sorry."
Stiles slumps back into his pillows. “Lame,” he says, setting his now empty bowl aside with Derek's on the bedside table. “There should be a werewolf-specific scientific task force – a humane task force, I mean. Wolfy pain-sucking abilities could be a really vital non-addictive alternative for modern medicine. Oh my god. It could revolutionize the pharmaceutical industry and change society for the better, Derek! Imagine.”
“I’m not really interested in becoming a labrat, Stiles.”
“Not you,” Stiles snorts and falls into Derek’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. “We’d get a werewolf I’m not already emotionally invested in to do it. Duh. I need you for myself. You make really good soup.”
“How comforting,” Derek remarks, resting his head on Stiles's just a little.
“Thanks for the seconds," Stiles says after a comfortably quiet moment, "and for taking care of me today. It was nice.”
“Any time.” And surprisingly enough to Derek, he really means it.
“Really? You getting soft on me, big guy?"
"Well I can't just let my only friend die, right?"
Stiles laughs and it only turns into a mild cough this time, for which Derek is glad. "But seriously, you didn't have to do all that for me. Why did you do all that for me?"
Derek can only shrug, feeling flustered all of a sudden. It felt only natural to take care of Stiles, natural and right. But they're friends, and it's been good. And he doesn't know how to put reasons into words without it feeling like too much.
"You're lucky I don't have the energy to drag an answer outta you right now," Stiles says yawning, curling his body around Derek's and resting his head on his chest. In a small voice, he asks, "Will you stay?"
Derek nods because he still can't trust himself to speak, and he feels Stiles smile against him, hands hugging him tighter.
"Yeah," Stiles whispers, "Yeah, I could definitely get addicted to this."
When Derek wakes up his chest feels warm and weighted, and there’s Stiles fever hot, shaky breath hitting his lips and chin, and exhaling rapidly. Derek can't tell if it's because of nerves, or congestion.
He figures it's a bit of both when he finally opens his eyes to see Stiles' face hovering over his, barely an inch away with his eyes trained on Derek's mouth.
"Morning," Derek smiles, almost closing the gap himself.
Stiles gasps suddenly and jolts so hard he'd be on the floor if it weren't for Derek grabbing him by the hips, moving him easily so that he's straddling Derek's legs.
"I…Oh my god," Stiles starts sputtering, his hands clenched in fists on Derek's chest. "Derek–I swear I wasn't going kiss you–! I mean, I-I just wouldn't! But you just - you were sleeping and okay, cards on the table, I wanted to… Obviously. Because you were so nice to me yesterday. Not that you're not nice usually! But yesterday… It made me think you'd maybe…" Stiles trails off helplessly, sniffling his blocked nose futilely as he shakes his head. Letting out a defeated sigh. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how dead am I?
Derek pretends to mull it over, feeling Stiles’ heart race faster with each passing second. "I thought you'd already died?"
"Funny," Stiles huffs, his body tense and nervous against him. "Seriously, I wasn't going to. Alright, I was maybe going to. A little. I can't help it! You walk in here all dream-man protector, carrying me around and making delicious soup…" he swallows before going on, "You've been too good to me, Derek. And not just taking care of me yesterday, but always. You've been really good for me. Even my dad can see it. I'm better with you in my life and I love having you as a friend. It's the best. Seriously. But I don't even deserve it, because that's not all I want from you– I-I've always wanted…"
"Stiles–"
"Argh, and nothing gives me the right to just kiss you! Jeez, I can't even use being deliriously sick as an excuse anymore because you made me better. God, I suck." Stiles' breaths are getting shallower and his heart rate spikes worryingly.
"Okay, Stiles, hey–"
"And I know it's not what you want. I know that. You have every right to yell at me. Or just let go of me so I can crawl under the house and actually die for real. Christ, I ruin fucking everything. So just, just," Stiles says, forlorn, squirming helplessly in Derek’s arms before giving up with a sigh and squeezing his eyes shut, covering his face with his hands. "This is so goddamn mortifying. Please let me go, please. I swear, I never–I’ll never bug you again. Ever."
Derek frowns and cups his cheek. And before Stiles can go on talking, Derek lifts his head and presses a kiss to his gorgeous, flu-chapped lips. Finally. He feels Stiles's body go tense before flailing against his for a second, until he finally settles against him and kisses Derek back for all he's worth, moaning nasally.
Even so, it's fireworks, and goosebumps, and fairytale curse-breaking levels of good. And it's over way too fast because Stiles can't breathe through his nose at all.
"Eurgh! No! I finally get to make out with you and I fucking can't!" Stiles huffs, dropping his face into Derek’s neck in defeat. “I wish I had a decongestant so I could kiss you and breathe at the same time.” He sighs and coughs a little. “Hey, wanna run down to the drug store and pick me up some nasonex and vapo-rub? Get a little freaky?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Derek snorts and rolls Stiles so that he's lying flat on the bed, and gets up. “Sexy as that sounds, I think we can wait another day to do anything that kinky.”
Stiles groans in disappointment and defeat, but smiles fondly up at him. His eyes are tired and soft, and Derek bends down to peck him on the lips.
“Take a nap. I'm gonna go downstairs and make us a big breakfast,” Derek says, walking away. "Pancakes and omelettes, the whole thing.
“You're a divine ethereal angel sent from Heaven!” Stiles yells as he leaves the room. “I'm not worthy! You're the best werewolf boyfriend ever, hands down!”
Derek is still grinning when he comes back upstairs with their loaded plates.