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‘’m sorry,’ Stiles snuffles, sixteen and sneezing. His throat hurts and his head hurts and his eyes hurt, and he hates his bed because it’s too hot, he flips his pillow over and whines.
Peter flutters, hovering uncertain. It smells sickly and bitter ‘don’t be sorry!’ He rubs his elbow, unsure of what to do ‘Do you want soup? Or coffee? Or water? I could run to the store and get you some medicine- what type of cough do you think you have? Dry? Chesty? Wet? Tickly-‘
‘Something cold,’ Stiles cuts him off, writhing in discomfort ‘just something cold,’
Peter comes back with strawberry ice cream and Stiles takes one bite, before giving up and using the bowl to cool himself down.
Peter gets him a medicine for all type of cough, and then after slipping a sleeping pill into his water, carries the feverish body to the bathroom, where he strips Stiles, and washes him with warm water, washes away the sweat and the sickness and then massages those aching muscles, and dries his boy. He changes the bedsheets sets up a couple of fans and opens the window. Laying Stiles atop the bed, with only a thin sheet covering him, he fiddles with the laptop until Criminal Minds is playing smoothly, and sits on a chair beside him. Not on the bed- Peter gives out far too much heat for that.
Stiles wakes up with a groan, when a cool glass is placed against his lips and he gulps water greedily, opening his eyes to see Peter; worried and attentive.
‘The website said you have to stay hydrated.’ He said, setting the water down, plucking out an ice cube and Stiles sucks on it with a pleased groan. Peter watches his lips ‘you can have another paracetamol after you have some soup,’
Stiles crunched through the ice cube and shook his head ‘I don’t want soup.’
‘You’re having soup. You can choose from tomato, chicken and basil, vegetable or lentil,’
Stiles nuzzles into his soap smelling pillow ‘I don’t want soup,’ he says again, but his mate merely kisses his cheek
‘I’ll do vegetable. The extra nutrients will do you good,’
Much to Stiles’ protest, Peter spoon feeds him the soup, patient, and caring, wiping anything that falls onto Stiles’ chin with a napkin, and giving him water and breaks, and adjusting the volume when Stiles says his ears feel blocked.
And then Peter sucks his pain while Stiles groans in relief, coughing feebly, a little pathetically, but Peter’s wolf likes it. Likes taking care of his mate. And then hates seeing his mate so unhappy.
But then Stiles starts to heal.
He’s a little shaky, and isn’t that contained bundle of energy he normally is. But he no longer needs twelve hours of sleep, he still coughs but his throat isn’t so sore.
One morning, he stumbles out of bed, grabs a cold shower and tugs on some clean sweats, forgoing a shirt, and tiptoeing downstairs. It’s the first time he’s woken so early. His dad’s gone, and Peter isn’t around. Every day for the past eight days he’s been woken with hot coffee and sliced fruit or porridge or eggs. Now he rummages through the kitchen and moans openly at the sight of Nutella.
‘Score!’ He giggles to himself, tugging it out and searching for a spoon
‘Stiles!’ Peter admonishes, and Stiles jumps, dropping his spoon. Peter closes the door behind him, setting down his brown paper bag, where Stiles can see fresh fruit and juice. ‘You shouldn’t be eating that,’ he plucks it out of Stiles’ hand ‘and you should still be in bed. You’re sick.’
Stiles sat at the table, and shot his mate a lop-sided grin ‘I’m feeling a little better,’
Peter cupped his neck, and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ forehead ‘you’re still a little warm.’ He took the fruit out and began chopping it, and Stiles sighed
‘But I haven’t had chocolate in ages,’ Stiles pouts, sighing when Peter sets down a glass of orange juice. He drinks it slowly, and his phone buzzes, he grins and Peter reads his mind
‘You’re not going out with Scott today, Stiles. You’re still healing.’
Stiles whines, ‘But Peter-‘
‘No buts.’
Stiles grumbles to himself, but forgets when he gets into his headspace with Peter’s scent, and drifts off for a nap after.
Two days later, all that’s left is a cough, only once every half an hour or so, but Peter nuzzles his shoulder ‘you shouldn’t go out, Stiles. You might get worse.’
‘I’m fine!’ Stiles insists, squirming away and dragging on his clothes. Peter shakes his head
‘you can’t go without a coat. Or a scarf! Or a hat! Are you trying to catch your death, Stiles?’ he wraps Stiles up warm, and when they open the door, the hot sun beats down at them. Stiles rolls his eyes, tugging the coat and things off
‘Peter, my ridiculous mate,’ Stiles pecks his cheek ‘I’m gonna be just fine. And thank you for taking care of me, honestly, you’re the best mate in the world.’ He scented his mate happily ‘I love you, Wolfie,’ and he rushed out before Peter changed his mind.
Peter watched his mate turn the corner, the sun shining down onto a beautiful day, and smiled.