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Stiles feels like crap. No, that’s not totally accurate because Stiles feels like crap that has be left out on the hot pavement—in the sun—picked up, frozen, thawed and then set back out into the sun to cook.
Yeah.
But he has stuff to do and he’s not going to let this cold get him down so he hoists himself out of Derek’s bed—no, their bed because he’s allowed to call it that now and despite the ache in his head and his almost complete inability to breathe, he’s grinning like an idiot. He shuffles to the doorway with one longing look back to the mattress and it’s beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous mountain of blanket and pillows and contemplates, just for a brief moment slipping back under them until Derek gets back but he hears a crash from the kitchen and muffled cursing—most likely Scott—and remembers that this pack can’t survive without his nurturing hand, even in the newly renovated house.
When he finally gets to the kitchen—stairs are hard okay? Especially when you’ve got no balance because your head is all stuffy and your sneezes almost knock you off your feet—he groans because apparently Derek’s pack of adorable misfits decided waiting an extra 20 minutes for Stiles to make himself seen in the kitchen was far too long and tried to make Saturday pancake breakfast on their own. From what Stiles can see, it has only resulted in mayhem and chaos and not even the good kind. The wolves—Scott, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd (Jackson must be off with Lydia and Peter generally just skulks around in the woods being a creep)—all turn to face him and at least have the decency to look chagrinned. And Stiles really hates that he still finds them mostly adorable when they’re covered in flour. He sniffs once, even though it doesn’t do anything to clear his nose, and looks pointedly at them—he swears that if they had tails they’d be tucked between their legs as they shuffle over to the table.
He makes quick work of the mess, mostly just sweeping it off to the side so he can pick it up later. It takes a little longer than it normally would and if when he finishes, he’s out of breath and dizzy, it’s no big deal. He’s been in worse shape and done more strenuous things than make pancakes. Stiles can hear the wolves sniff at him from the table and he sighs.
“You might as well go get cleaned up. They’ll be ready when you come back down,” he grunts and four chairs squeak back from the table as they all stand to leave. “Hey, Isaac, bring one of those chairs over here, would you?” Because he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t sit for a little while when he’s cooking these pancakes, he might actually fall over. God, when did he get so tired?
Isaac slinks over, chair in hand and sets it next to Stiles who smiles and ruffles the other teen’s curly hair. He huffs out a laugh when a cloud of flour rises from Isaac’s head. The teen grins sheepishly for a moment but his smile droops, he leans to close and sniffs at Stiles’ neck.
“You’re sick,” he whines.
Stiles just rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. Now go upstairs and clean up.” He hates how nasally his voice sounds because it makes it sound like he’s worse than he actually is. Isaac stares at him for a second, hesitating. “Go on, get going! And don’t track flour everywhere. It’s already going to be a pain to clean up in here.”
“I’ll clean it when I come back down,” the other boy says softly. “You shouldn’t have to, you didn’t make the mess.”
“Yes, but then everyone else will eat your pancakes,” Stiles laughs. “Just clean up and come back down for pancakes. I’ll clean while you’re all eating.” He doesn’t say that he has no interest in eating himself or that even cooking these pancakes is going to be a challenge. He’s not nauseous or anything, just it might take more coordination than he has right now because he was never blessed with an over abundance and right now he feels like a light breeze might knock him down for the count.
Isaac looks at him a little longer but finally nods and scampers—seriously freaking werewolves, they actually scamper—out of the kitchen. Stiles sighs and starts the batter over again, almost nothing from the betas’ attempt is salvageable. He measures everything out and has to sit for a few second after he grabs the milk from the fridge—since when are gallons of milk so damn heavy? He stays in the chair while he mixes and the batter feels like its cement, it’s so heavy and his arm feels like it’s basically a wet noodle, incapable of lifting a feather, let alone a giant bowl of pancake batter.
He eventually gets himself upright again and starts the stove as he leans heavily against the counter, scooping generous amounts of batter into the pan. The pancakes might be a little bigger today but Stiles keeps losing focus, the fogginess in his head is distracting and he burns his fingers more than once. He’s a pro at this by now though, and by the time the betas slink—apparently wolves do a lot of slinking as well—he’s got a decent sized stack going. Scott reaches for one on the top but Stiles smacks his hand away with his trusty spatula and gestures to the plates and silverware on the counter—and how has he never realized how heavy six plates are? He almost dropped them when he was moving them. Scott hesitates; sniffing the air and Stiles knows he’s scenting him and can tell something is off with his best friend but he ignores it and clears his throat as he points to the plates again.
He’s finishing up the last of the batter when the betas all perk up—they are so dogs whether they think so or not—when the Camaro pulls into the driveway. Isaac shoots a worried look at Stiles who pretends not to notice because it’s not like Derek is going to—
“Stiles.” It’s more of a growl than a greeting.
“Yes, my dear Sourwolf?” He flips a pancake, focusing on that and not the way Derek is crowding up against his back.
“You’re sick.”
The teen rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.” And no, he doesn’t shudder when the Alpha noses along his neck, puffing warm air against his skin.
“You’re fine.” There couldn’t be more disbelief in his question-turned-statement.
“I am. Look, I made pancakes and I only almost fell asleep at the stove once,” Stiles snarks.
Derek is not amused.
He turns Stiles around and practically throws him over his shoulder.
“HEY! PUT ME DOWN I AM NOT—“
“Shut up, Stiles. You should be in bed.” Scott snickers and Erica hides her smile behind her hand. Derek promptly turns to face them and growls. Stiles can’t see them but he hears Isaac’s whine and he smacks Derek on the butt.
“Listen Sourwolf, they—“ he starts.
“No. They should have smelt it and made you go back to bed. You’re not their mother,” is the gruff reply. He turns again and Stiles shoots and apologetic look to the betas as he’s carried off upstairs.
Derek lays him gently on the bed and starts piling up blankets and pillows around in, cocooning him in a comfy, warm heaven. Stiles can’t help but sigh and snuggle deeper into the nest his wolf is building him. He looks up at Derek whose face is caught between looking at Stiles fondly and the echoes of anger from the kitchen. The teen reaches out a hand after freeing it from the blanket pile and Derek takes it as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“I’m not dying you know,” Stiles whispers.
Derek runs a hand over the boy’s forehead gently and leans down to give him a quick kiss. “I know. But you don’t always have to take care of everyone. They can manage.”
“Did you see the piles of flour in the kitchen?” Stiles laughs. The Alpha just growls and shoots a look in the general direction of his betas. Stiles reaches up and brushes at Derek’s stubble. “Hey.”
“Go to sleep, Stiles,” is the reply.
“No seriously, Derek. I’m okay. Go easy on them. They tried to get me to stop, but you know me.” God, this bed is the most comfortable thing he’s ever felt. His eyelids are drooping and he just wants to sleep forever.
He feels a hand on his forehead again. “Just go to sleep, Stiles.”
The last thing he remembers before conking out is Derek’s lips on his cheek.
When he wakes up, it’s later afternoon and Stiles is surprised to see the house is still standing. Maybe the pack is fine without him after all. Or maybe Derek just sent everyone out so he didn’t have to take care of them.
The second thing is more plausible.
He sits up at the same time Derek comes sweeping through the door, a silver tray in his hands. It looks like there’s bread and some kind of soup and Stiles’ mouth waters.
“You are literally perfect,” he moans as Derek sets the tray in front of him. The alpha just shuffles nervously.
“I don’t know how to make soup. So I, uh, looked it up. I don’t know how it came out,” he mutters.
Stiles grins and scoops a spoonful out. “I’m sure it’s fine!” He still smiling, looking at Derek encouragingly, because the werewolf never cooks. He always claims that he messes everything up and than Stiles is much better at it. He pops the spoon into his mouth and, god, it is literally the worst thing he’s ever tasted. He wants to spit it out, but at the same time, this is probably never, ever going to happen again and he’s trying to encourage this new behavior, so he swallows it down and plasters on a fake smile.
For a wolf that can tell when people are lying, Derek looks oddly pleased and Stiles assumes it’s because he hasn’t tasted the soup himself.
“Mmmm,” he hums and hopes is convincing. He eats a couple more spoonfuls—the things he does for love, honestly—and the bread before claiming he’s full. Derek sets the tray aside and climbs into bed, curling himself around the snuffling teen. Stiles rests his head on Derek’s chest and sighs contentedly.
“Thanks, Derek,” he whispers.
“Shut up and go to sleep, Stiles,” the wolf answers, and for once, Stiles does.