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“I found a thermometer,” said Derek, coming forward with it held in his hand like he was delivering the torch to the Olympic stadium.
“Dude, you were gone for like twenty minutes!” Stiles croaked, which immediately started him coughing again. He broke off to spit something truly disgusting into a handful of Kleenex. “I thought – you were at least going to come back with – soup, or something!”
“Stop talking and lie back down,” Derek snapped, stalking to the bedside. Stiles flopped back meekly. “Now lay still.” Derek waited to make sure he was being obeyed, then defended his absence: “We only have stuff for wounds in the medkit. I had to go through a box from the attic.”
Okay, Stiles conceded from his spot against the pillows, that was probably pretty reasonable, based on what he knew of werewolf biology. They probably didn’t get sick much, unless someone deliberately poisoned them; Derek didn’t exactly need to keep a box of Theraflu around. Come to think of it, their super-fast metabolism probably just flushed even the good drugs right out of their system, before they could have any effect.
“Stiles!” Derek snarled.
Stiles blinked up at him. “What?”
“You were zoning out,” said Derek, tensely. “I think your fever is up.”
“Um, no, I’m pretty sure that that’s just me, thinking. You know, how I do.”
“Well don’t. Don’t think, don’t talk. Just lay still and concentrate on breathing until I know your brain isn’t melting.”
Clearly Derek’s experience with human illness was limited; Stiles was pretty sure he wasn’t at brain-melting levels of fever yet. “Uh, dude …. ”
“I said no talking!” Derek snapped. He sounded about ready to blow a gasket. His face was turned away, but Stiles was guessing his eyes were red. “Just take your fucking temperature.”
“This thermometer features Dora the Explorer,” Stiles pointed out, sliding it under his tongue anyway.
“I had a human cousin,” said Derek. “She was three.”
Had. Stiles decided he didn’t feel well enough to think about that.
“Why is your father away for training this weekend,” Derek demanded, pacing back and forth in front of the mattress. “And where the hell is Scott? I must’ve left him a dozen messages!”
“I think him an Isaac are doing some perimeter thing,” Stiles mumbled around the tip of the thermometer. They had increased their guard, under the threat of the Alpha pack, which was still sniffing about.
“Don’t talk!” said Derek.
Stiles huffed, trying to convey impatience while keeping his lips carefully closed.
More pacing. “Why were you even walking around, anyway, if you were this sick?”
Was he supposed to answer, or not? “I felt okay this morning,” Stiles said, timidly. “This just – came on really fast.”
Derek had found him in the parking lot of the pack's current apartment, glassy-eyed and hacking into his fist, trying to choke out his latest findings on the theory of protection spells. For reasons only known to himself, Derek had bullied him up the stairs to the apartment, and into what Stiles suspected was Derek’s own bed.
He’d never been cussed out and tucked in at the same time before.
His suspicion about the ownership of the room was supported by the absolute lack of personality in the decor: no trinkets, no posters, no childhood trophies. If Derek had ever had any, they were gone. There was nothing on the shelves but a battered, clearly second-hand television, and Stiles wasn’t convinced that was actually plugged in.
“Keep that all the way under your tongue,” Derek ordered, “or I’ll do it for you.”
“No need to make threats!” said Stiles. Yep, those were definitely claws. “Whoa, it’s fine, look, I’m lying in the bed, I’m accepting the thermometer, okay?”
Fortunately, just then the device in question beeped.
“101.5,” Stiles read, squinting at the read-out.
“Is that good?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not going to cause any brain melting. In fact, I’m guessing this means I have the flu.”
“The flu?” Derek looked blank. His fingers twitched at his side. “How would you have caught that?”
“I dunno, Greenburg was looking kind of gross the other day ...”
Derek rumbled, and Stiles feared briefly for the life of poor Greenburg. “It’s not a big deal!” he said, “humans do this all the time!”
“Humans die of the flu!” said Derek, and was that a hint of panic Stiles was hearing in his voice?
“Okay buddy, you’re seriously over-reacting, here,” he said. “Look at my phone, you’ll see.” Wiping his nose, he dug up his new smart-phone with the other hand and opened WebMD. Then he tossed it to an unimpressed-looking Derek, who scrolled down.
“‘Influenza can develop into more serious health problems like sinusitis, bronchitis, or pneumonia,’” he read flatly.
“… Give me my phone back,” said Stiles.
“‘More than two hundred thousand people a year are hospitalized for flu complications, and as many as fifty thousand die of flu-related problems,’” Derek continued, his voice increasingly tight. “‘Symptoms include headache, fever, aches and fatigue…’” Then he snorted. “‘… Vomiting and diarrhea, especially in children.’” He looked up at Stiles. “Do not develop those symptoms.”
“Dude! Get you head out of the toilet,” said Stiles, wiping his nose again. “Anyway, total agreement here.” If he lost his shit in front of Derek (literally – ha!) he would probably need to smother himself with his own pillow. “Look, why don’t you just – drop me off at home, and I’ll hole up in bed there,” said Stiles. “I’ll sleep it off and be out of your hair, okay?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Drink some water,” said Derek, sliding a sweaty glass across the side table. “Or I shove it down your throat.”
“And again with the threats.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Derek ground out. “Just do what I say. The wolf is – this whole thing is making the wolf very unstable, okay? So just let me do my thing, and no backtalk.”
Stiles coughed wetly into his fist. “And what is your … ‘thing,’ exactly?”
“I have to take care of you,” Derek growled.
Do not laugh, Stiles told himself. He will rip your throat out if you laugh.
When he looked up, Derek was glowering at him, and Stiles wondered fleetingly if he could read minds.
“I can’t help it,” Derek hissed, obviously feeling pretty pissed. “It must be – some kind of alpha thing. The wolf is confusing you for pack."
Ouch. Stiles had to look down to hide his reaction to that, blunt as the ache in his chest.
"You’re weak, and I can't leave you undefended, not with the Alphas still sniffing around. I have to stay with you until you recover."
“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” said Stiles, “because the flu can take weeks ...”
“I know that,” said Derek, grinding his teeth. “Don’t tell me, tell my wolf. He wants me to stay right here and kill anyone who gets too close.” He had a murderous glint in his eye, as though ripping somebody apart would really hit the spot about now.
“How about we try to keep a lid on that!” said Stiles hastily. “No need to kill anybody just for visiting my sickbed, okay?” For one thing, he was eventually going to need someone to bring over his school assignments.
“Whatever,” said Derek. “The point is, you’re just going to have to suck it up and deal. I can’t do anything while you’re like this. I have to fix you.”
“Uh ..." Stiles tried to be diplomatic, but that wasn’t really his Best Thing. "No offense, but I’m getting the sense that you have absolutely no idea how to do that.”
“Shut up! Humans need peace and quiet, and to be kept warm, and to eat soup! Now shut the fuck up while I go get some soup!”
Clearly Derek was losing his shit, here. Stiles decided it was better to take the fall on this one. “Can I have some more water, too?” he asked humbly.
“Yes. Water is good for sick humans.” Derek took the glass and left the door open, presumably to hear if Stiles started choking on his own phlegm.
I am not enjoying this, Stiles reminded himself as he settled back among the blankets. Not smiling or finding this at all cute in any way. Sure, he felt like an idiot, tucked into bed like a fussy toddler, and Derek’s attitude wasn’t exactly helping. But he couldn’t actually remember being coddled when he was sick since his – in a long time. His dad generally had more of the whole ‘tough love’ approach going on, possibly because catering to his whims tended to make Stiles increasingly tyrannical.
Or so he claimed.
Stiles blew his nose vigorously until he could breathe, then buried his face in the pillow and snuffled luxuriously.
He thought he could smell Derek on the sheets, woodsy and dark; and underneath, the faintest hint of ash.
-
After about fifteen minutes, Derek returned with the water and a bowl of what was clearly canned, reheated soup. “Do you need more blankets?” he asked from the door, obviously ready to go get whatever the internet told him it was that Stiles required.
“Not really.” Stiles was feeling worse; his head pounding dully, limbs stiff.
“Do you want a wet cloth?”
“What?”
“For your head. I could get one. If you want.” Clearly, Derek had continued reading WebMD. Stiles could just imagine the search history, when he got his phone back: ‘How to take care of a human.’
“Not really.”
“Fine.” Derek sounded sulky. He put a now-full glass of water on the bedside table. “Don’t even think about puking that up.”
“I’m feeling the love,” said Stiles, taking a sip. It was warm and tasted tinny. He also had to accept the bowl of soup or suffering having it poured on his lap. “Uh, thanks,” he said, dipping the spoon carefully in the oily yellow broth.
He couldn’t really taste it, but that was probably for the best.
Derek sat back down at the bedside and fixed Stiles with a gimlet stare. “Are you better yet?”
“Dude, I don’t know how to tell you this any more times. The flu lasts for like a week.” Stiles forced himself to swallow another spoonful. It felt like there was a ball of wire stuck in his throat.
“Do you want blankets now?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re not supposed to have them, because you have a fever.”
Yes Derek, I can google, too.
“Finish that,” said Derek. “And drink the water. And next time get the fucking flu shot. This is wasting the pack’s time. You will not get sick like this again.”
“Dude.”
“I will not allow your weakness to affect the pack!” Derek insisted. “Now drink.”
Stiles tried, but after just a few sips, he felt too weak even to lift the glass. Numbly, he felt Derek take it out of his hand. He blinked a few times, slow, and then realized it was hard to open his eyes after that last blink.
“Sorry, m’ … really sleepy, all of a sudden,” he yawned.
“That’s because I ground up sleeping pills in your soup,” said Derek calmly.
“… uh, what?”
“Deaton gave them to me,” said Derek, as though that explained everything. “Isaac used to have nightmares. These were leftover. They didn’t help.”
Stiles wondered briefly if Derek had looked up the appropriate amount of drugs to give a human, but he felt so crappy that an overdose sounded okay right about now. He tried to say something, but it came out an incomprehensible mumble.
“Sh,” said Derek awkwardly, patting Stiles’ head with one heavy hand, like he was dribbling a basketball. Considering his pounding headache, it didn’t feel particularly good.
“Duude.”
“…Sorry.”
It was weird, because he was pretty sure that was Derek’s cool hand, first cupping his cheek, then molded over his forehead, as though checking for fever. But that made no sense, because Derek wouldn’t even know what temperature humans were supposed to be.
Maybe this was just a freaky fever dream.
“Stop fighting it,” Derek rumbled, close to his ear. “Just – try to rest.”
“Mm,” agreed Stiles. He let himself drift, optimistically hoping he might feel better when he woke up.
Someone was taking his pulse. “Good,” said Derek, “that’s good. Keep breathing.”
Clearly Stiles was really going to have to sit down with Derek and explain, once and for all, that human flu was VERY RARELY FATAL in healthy young teenagers. He had gotten it last year and would probably get it next year, too.
But before he could figure out how to go about it, he fell asleep.
-
When he woke up Stiles felt … fine. Like, perfectly, never-been-sick, 110% fine. His head had stopped clanging, eyes didn’t burn, and he swore his temperature must have dropped three degrees. “What did you do?” he asked, sitting up.
“Stiles.” Derek was sitting at the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he grated out.
“Um, pretty much like I’ve had an oil-change and a tune-up, and I’m ready to hit the road?”
“Must have been good soup.”
“Derek, it was off-brand chicken and stars from a can. I’m like, completely better. That doesn’t happen. What did you do?”
Derek shrugged. “I took it from you,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Sometimes we can do little things, nothing major.”
Yeah, just little things like curing illness.
For a second Stiles thought he could remember being flipped onto his side, flopping on the bed like a landed fish. His shirt bunched under his armpits, baring his spine from waistband to shoulders. The weight of a hand, heavy and firm, between his shoulder blades.
But he blinked, and just as quickly it was gone.
He looked into Derek’s face, which was drawn and pale. “Are you sick now?” he asked, suddenly.
Derek shook his head no. “I’ll recover much faster than you,” he said. “I’ll be fine in an hour or so.”
“Well … thanks?”
Derek closed his eyes for a minute. Nodded. “Your fever’s gone,” he said. “You probably need more blankets.” He stood, but Stiles caught sight of his vacant expression and reached out to stop him.
“Not now,” he said, “I’m good.”
“Do you want something else?” asked Derek, bleary-eyed.
“No,” said Stiles. “Just – come sit down.” He dared to take a hold of Derek’s wrist – a loose, non-threatening hold, since he wanted to keep his fingers – and tugged lightly. “Convalescents need company.”
“Company?” Derek sounded a little dazed. Healing must really take it out of him.
“Yeah. It’s in all the medical journals. Anyway, you can’t leave, I’m frail and vulnerable, remember?” For emphasis, he coughed, feebly. “The Alpha pack could still get me.” In reality, it was Derek he wasn’t sure he wanted wandering around out there, not grey-faced and hollow like he looked now.
Derek hesitated by the bedside, then sank down reluctantly on the comforter.
“Good,” said Stiles. Not that he was enjoying the chance to boss Derek around, or anything, that would be – petty. “Get under the blankets, huh? Gotta keep a sick werewolf warm.”
Maybe that was pushing it too far. Derek managed to a glare that was approximately half-power, but still effective.
“Yeah, okay, uh, how about we just watch tv for a while?” Stiles reached for the remote on the bedside table and pointed it at Derek’s crappy set. Miracle of miracles, it actually turned on. “Here, you can pick a channel.”
He tossed the remote to Derek, who made no move to catch it, or pick it up from the bed. Or blink.
“… Here, I’ll pick a channel,” said Stiles.
He flipped through a couple stations of static before he found an old How It’s Made episode that appeared to feature ball bearings. “Alright?” he asked, glancing over at Derek, who was starring stupidly at the bright spill of metal on the screen.
Derek grunted approval.
“Great.” Stiles didn’t much care how ball bearings were made, but he was satisfied if Derek was. He wondered if Derek would let him get away with the ole’ hand-to-the-forehead. Would he at least like the attention, like Stiles did?
Probably not.
Anyway, Stiles didn’t know what temperature werewolves were supposed to be, either.
They watched in silence.
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Stiles finally, watching out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be entranced by the wonders of machine stamping. Huh, they started with wire. Who would’ve guessed. “You get that, right?”
“Whatever any of us believe, the wolf thinks you’re pack,” said Derek dully. “If I can save you, I have to do it.”
Stiles thought about that, remembering all over again that Derek wasn’t human, had never been human.
“Do you want some soup?” he offered cautiously. “I could reheat some.”
Derek jerked his head no, his eyes on the screen. “You can go,” he said. “Find Isaac and Scott. Tell them I might be – delayed, tonight, for the perimeter check.”
“We’ll call,” said Stiles, turning back to the set.
They were just about to get to the good part.