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“Stiles. I need you,” Derek called from upstairs. Stiles hand clenched around the spoon as he stirred. He wanted to punch something, preferably Derek.
“Just finishing up the soup,” he called back. “Tomato and basil with a hint wolf’s bane to flavour perhaps,” he added under his breath.
Carefully carrying the bowl up the stairs with both hands Stiles’ had to use his ass to open the door to his room. Inside it was stifling. The heat was turned up to maximum and he’d brought the electric heater down out of the attic. In June. He turned around to look at Derek lying there in his bed. Grumpier than ever, which for Derek was really saying something, and wrapped in every single cover and duvet he could find in the house, he looked pathetic.
Derek was sick. Not wolf’s bane sick or about to die horribly sick, just plain old, ordinary sick. It happened sometimes apparently. A werewolf cold Deaton had said, but Derek assured him that it the flu. Wolf flu. Man flu. Bird flu. Swine flu. SARS. Every single big scare coughing, sneezing disease of the last decade rolled into one particularly unhappy Derek.
“I brought you soup.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Derek. His stuffed nose made him sound like a petulant child.
“Well you need to eat if you want to get better,” said Stiles.
Please get better, Stiles thought. When Derek had started sneezing, Deaton had put him on quarantine so the others didn’t get it to. They were weak enough without their alpha, having an entire wolf pack down because of a sniffle was a dangerous thing at the best of times. Stiles’ was human, therefore immune, and his Dad was away at some training thing for the week so guess who got stuck on nursing duty 24/7 for the next three to five days?
Stiles offered out the bowl for Derek to take. Derek wriggled for a bit, but he was so tightly packed in that he couldn’t get free. He looked miserable and was pouting, actually honest to God pouting.
“My arms are stuck,” said Derek. “You’ll have to feed me.”
“Are you kidding me! You are actually four you know. Fine.”
Stiles looked down at Derek’s frown as he sat down on the edge of the bed and scooped up a spoonful. He bounced it up and down as he brought it to Derek’s surly face.
“Here comes the choo choo train!”
Derek tried to growl but only ended up having a coughing fit instead. Stiles had to quickly retreat as the great hacking chokes made Derek jerk around in bed. He collapsed back down and whimpered. On the plus side he’d managed to free his arm and so rubbed his throat to try and sooth it. Stiles passed him the glass of water and he drank it down in one go before taking the soup and starting to eat his dinner.
“It tastes funny,” Derek protested after one mouthful.
“That would be the curry powder. It’s supposed to help.”
Stiles had turned into the world expert on cold remedies in the last day. Derek had been forced to gargle salt water, drink honey and lemon by the bucket full, had half a ton of zinc rammed down his throat, had his chest slathered in vapo-rub after the steamiest shower his history and he was still as sick as ever. Okay, so maybe that last one hadn’t been so bad.
“None of these are working,” said Derek as he choked down the soup.
“They can’t be doing any harm,” said Stiles, patience rapidly wearing thin.
“This is disgusting. It’s harming my taste buds.”
“Don’t worry. It’s the last thing on the list except having sex, so you’re free now. Just ridiculously heat to burn the pestilence right out of you.”
Derek stopped, spoon half way to his mouth.
“What was that last thing?”
Stiles sighed heavily.
“There was some study that showed sex was supposed to help raise your immune system.”
Derek looked thoughtful for a moment. Stiles baulked.
“I am not getting you some chick for you to bang in my room in my bed, Derek,” Stiles said firmly. He’d considered, briefly, the logistics of that one. How to get a hooker into and out of his house without anyone finding out. He must be getting desperate, going that far to be rid of the needy, demanding werewolf.
“Sure. Some chick,” said Derek looking chastened. He carefully took a mouthful of soup. “You know I could always-”
“No. You are still not allowed to jerk off in my bed.”
“I didn’t mean… no. Right. No jacking. Never mind. Stupid idea.”
Derek finished the rest of his soup in sullen silence. He was focusing on the space ahead of him, pointedly not looking at Stiles. He always got like this when he couldn’t get his way. The sick wolf snuggled back down into the bed, relishing in its warmth. Stiles took the bowl away and helped tuck him back in again.
“Right there grumpy cat. You need to sleep,” said Stiles.
“I can’t. Everything hurts. My joints hurt. My head hurts. My throat hurts-“
“I understand the concept of everything Derek,” snapped Stiles once more feeling his temper begin to fray.
“It’s too hot,” he said.
“It’s supposed to be hot,” Stiles reminded him. “Deaton said we need to keep your temperature freakishly high.”
Derek was currently cruising at somewhere around 105F which Stiles was pretty sure was supposed to be fatal. Stupid werewolves and their stupid metabolisms and stupid immune systems.
“I’m not tired,” said Derek. Another obvious lie.
“What do you want me to do? Get you a glass of warm milk? Rub your belly? Stroke your hair and freaking sing to you?”
“Yes,” said Derek.
“Yes what?”
“Sing. My mom used to whenever I couldn’t sleep.”
Stiles stared at him. He looked childlike despite his 3 day man stubble. He wanted to make another sarcastic comment about it but you didn’t joke about Derek’s family. You didn’t joke about anyone’s dead Mom.
“Fine,” he said.
Stiles sat down on the bed and began to mechanically stroke Derek’s hair and the werewolf’s eyes began to flutter closed. He sang the first song that came into his head.
“Happy Kitty, Sleepy kitty…”
“I don’t like that song!” Derek barked, snapping awake again. “That song is stupid. Cats are stupid. They don’t know a damn thing about loyalty and walk all over another person’s territory, crapping everywhere like it’s theirs. It’s not, it’s mine.”
“Fine then,” said Stiles gritting his teeth. “Big wolfie, bad wolife, massive ball of hate. Grouchy wolfie, sleepy wolfie, E-visce-rate. Happy now?”
Derek glared at Stiles and pulled the covers up closer under his chin. He sniffed loudly, a great wet sniff where you could practically see all the mucus being sucked back in. Gross.
“That was better.”
He yawned. A great wide yawn, unable to keep his eyes open anymore as Stiles scratched his fingers into the top of his head.
“Night Stiles-” he slurred, falling asleep even as he spoke.
“Good night you sad, pathetically adorable wolfy,” said Stiles.