Chapter Text
The loft was supposed to be quiet.
That had been Derek’s one condition when Stiles had finally admitted—through a congested groan and a dramatic flop onto the couch—that he was sick. Not “I can still function, just mildly inconvenienced” sick. No. This was full-body, sinus-throbbing, brain-fog, everything-hurts sick.
So Derek had relocated him to the couch, built a nest out of blankets that somehow smelled like cedar and detergent, and pressed a mug of tea into his hands like it was a sacred offering.
“Drink,” Derek had said, firm but quiet.
Stiles had squinted at him, nose red, eyes watery. “You know I love you, right?”
Derek had just raised an eyebrow. “Drink.”
Now, hours later, Stiles was curled on his side, buried under at least three layers of blankets, wearing one of Derek’s old shirts that hung off him in a way that would’ve been distracting if he wasn’t currently dying.
Or, okay, not dying. But definitely suffering.
His head felt like it was packed with cotton and tiny construction workers. His throat burned. His nose was either completely blocked or running—it couldn’t seem to decide which. And every sound felt too loud, like someone had turned the world’s volume up without his consent.
Which is why—
The loft door slammed open.
Stiles flinched so hard he nearly fell off the couch.
“Derek, you will not believe—”
“That alpha meeting was—”
“Did you bring food? Because I’m starving—”
Voices overlapped. Boots stomped. Someone dropped something metal that clanged loudly against the floor.
Stiles groaned and dragged a pillow over his head. “I’m going to die,” he rasped into the fabric. “This is how I go. Murdered by my own pack.”
A beat.
Then Derek’s voice cut through the chaos, low and dangerous.
“Stop.”
Everything went still.
Stiles could practically feel the shift in the room, like the air itself held its breath.
“You’re being loud,” Derek continued, quieter but somehow more intense. “Stiles is sick.”
There was a collective pause.
“…Oh,” Scott said, softer now.
“Oh shit,” Lydia added, her heels clicking more carefully now instead of stabbing into the floor like weapons.
“Dude, why didn’t you text us?” Stiles heard Stiles—no, that was Liam, actually. Close enough. Concerned, a little guilty.
Stiles slowly peeled the pillow off his face, blinking blearily at the cluster of people now gathered near the entrance like they’d just realized they’d walked into a hospital instead of a loft.
“I like attention,” Stiles croaked. “And also I forgot my phone existed.”
Derek was suddenly there, crouched beside the couch. His hand was warm where it pressed against Stiles’ forehead, grounding.
“You shouldn’t be talking,” Derek muttered.
“I always should be talking,” Stiles shot back weakly. Then he winced. “Ow. That hurt. Talking hurts. Existing hurts.”
Derek’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. He adjusted the blanket around Stiles’ shoulders with careful hands.
Behind him, the pack had shifted into something quieter, more controlled. Scott and Lydia were speaking in hushed tones. Liam had somehow ended up carrying a bag of food into the kitchen, moving like he was afraid the floor might scream if he stepped too hard.
Even Malia—who had once thrown a chair through a window because it annoyed her—was sitting on the arm of a chair, watching with unusual stillness.
“Do you need anything?” Derek asked.
Stiles sniffled. “A new immune system.”
Derek gave him a look.
“…And maybe more tea,” Stiles added.
“Already made some,” Derek said, standing. “Don’t move.”
“As if I could,” Stiles muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.
Derek disappeared into the kitchen, and Stiles let his eyes drift half-closed, listening to the softened murmur of his pack. It wasn’t silent, but it wasn’t sharp anymore either. Just background noise. Manageable.
A minute later, Scott appeared at the edge of the couch.
“Hey,” Scott said gently.
Stiles cracked one eye open. “Hey, Alpha Boy.”
Scott smiled, small and warm. “You look terrible.”
“Wow,” Stiles said. “So supportive. Truly the friend everyone deserves.”
Scott huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ll be fine. Just a cold.”
“Famous last words,” Stiles murmured.
Lydia stepped closer, setting something on the side table. “I brought tissues,” she said. “And don’t use Derek’s shirts this time.”
“No promises,” Stiles said, already reaching for the box.
Liam hovered awkwardly behind them. “Uh. I got soup?”
Stiles blinked at him. “You’re my favorite now.”
“I got it from that place you like,” Liam added, brightening slightly.
“Marry me instead,” Stiles said.
“Absolutely not,” Derek’s voice cut in as he returned, handing Stiles a fresh mug of tea.
Stiles accepted it with both hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. “You’re just jealous.”
“Drink,” Derek said again.
Stiles rolled his eyes but took a careful sip, sighing as the warmth slid down his throat. “Okay, that’s actually really good.”
“I know,” Derek said simply.
The pack settled in slowly, naturally, like they always did. Conversations stayed low. Movements stayed controlled. Someone—probably Lydia—turned the lights down just a little.
At some point, Malia shifted closer and nudged Stiles’ foot under the blankets.
“You smell sick,” she said.
“Thank you,” Stiles replied dryly.
“It’s gross,” she added, but she didn’t move away.
Derek sat on the edge of the couch, one hand resting lightly against Stiles’ leg, a quiet anchor.
Stiles let his head tip sideways, resting against Derek’s thigh. “You’re warm,” he mumbled.
“Werewolves,” Derek said.
“Useful,” Stiles murmured.
His eyes slipped closed again, the noise of the loft now distant and soft, like waves instead of crashing thunder. His headache hadn’t vanished, but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.
Not with this.
Not with them.
Derek’s fingers brushed lightly through his hair, slow and steady, careful not to tug. The motion was grounding, soothing in a way Stiles didn’t have the energy to make fun of.
“…You love me,” Stiles mumbled, half-asleep.
“I married you,” Derek replied.
“Same thing,” Stiles said.
There was a quiet beat.
Then, softer, almost lost under the low hum of the room—
“Yeah,” Derek said. “I do.”
Stiles smiled faintly, already drifting, cocooned in warmth, tea, blankets, and the quiet presence of his pack.
The loft, for once, stayed gentle.