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Stiles is sick enough that getting out of bed seems like a momentous effort way beyond his skills, ok? He’s sick. There should be chicken soup and tea and hot chocolate and ice cream and snuggles.
Instead he’s bundled up in his duvet, hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of theraflu, sniffling. His dad isn’t due back for nine hours, at least, but he promised to call and check in after assuring Stiles the situation wasn’t nearly as dire as he was making it out to be. Stiles had pointed out his father’s lack of medical degree.
Stiles finishes off his theraflu with a wince and sets his mug on his nightstand before flopping backwards, splaying out on the bed and then rolling facefirst into his pillow, haphazardly muffling a truly piteous and not at all overdramatic moan.
“Are you dying.”
From anyone else Stiles would have taken it as a polite, or even concerned inquiry as to his current state of wellbeing.
From Derek, though, it’s most definitely an accusation. Only Derek could make Stiles feel bad for feeling bad.
“No, dickwad,” Stiles says, silently bemoaning his current inability to have, you know, wit. “I’m sick. Duh.”
He rolls over to face Derek, who’s currently standing near Stiles’ window, looking broody. And hot. Mostly broody. Stiles is too congested for this shit.
“Just give me whatever banal research assignment you need done into thirteenth century pegasus myths and leave me to snot on my pillow in peace.”
Derek snorts, and Stiles rolls back into his pillow, ready to curl up and retreat into a theraflu coma until he gets it together enough to at least google whatever it is Derek’s here to ask him-
“Holy shit,” Stiles says, and he tries to roll out of the bed, tangled in the duvet and only half aware, but a paw whumps over his waist and hauls him back. “You’re a wolf.”
Derek’s wolfed out, not a beta form, and not the truly pants-wetting terrifying alpha form, but a full wolf, bigger than usual maybe, but Stiles doesn’t exactly have anything to compare to. He does know Derek’s taking up most of his bed, which Stiles is oddly fine with.
Theraflu covers all manner of sins.
He curls himself up around Derek, choosing to address all questions after a good long nap with the giant wolf beast in his bed.
Stiles’ life hasn’t been ordinary for awhile, why start now.
Derek snuffles against his head, nose damp and cold, and Stiles buries his nose in the thick fur of Derek’s neck, smelling woods and wolf. He breathes it in and lets his eyes droop closed as he yawns.
“-gonna shed all over my bed,” he mumbles, but he clutches a fistful of Derek’s fur and snuggles in closer. He might not have chicken soup and hot chocolate, but Derek’s a pretty good body pillow, at least.