The Flu

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/1419973.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, sterek - Relationship
Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski
Additional Tags: A Boy and His Wolf, sterek, Wolf Derek, Sickfic, Comfort, Identity Reveal,
Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Drabble,
Time Skips, Alive Hale Family, Fever Dreams, but not really, Sick Character,
Cuddly Derek, Cuddling & Snuggling, Confessions
Language: English
Series: Part 6 of A Boy and His Wolf
Stats: Published: 2014-04-05 Words: 1,836 Chapters: 1/1
 The Flu
by orphan_account, twobirdsonesong

Summary

Stiles comes down with the flu and Derek comes to take care of him, but Stiles thinks it's only just
a dream.

Notes

A Boy and His Wolf is a collaborative project between heavenorspace and myself.

It will be a series of vignettes, out of chronological order, set in a world where Derek, in the form
of a wolf, first encountered Stiles when he was a toddler playing in the woods. Derek is under strict
pack orders not to reveal himself as werewolf to the human boy and must only interact with him as
a wolf. When Stiles is a child, their relationship is strictly platonic and protective in nature. As
Stiles grows older that begins to change.

Each drabble will be accompanied by a piece of art drawn by heavenorspace.

(art by heavenorspace)

Stiles is not sick. He’s not. So maybe his nose is a little stuffy and maybe his chest is feeling tight.
Tight, not congested. Because congested would mean he’s getting sick, which he’s not. He’s just
gonna lie down for a little bit before he gets started on his homework, just rest his eyes for a few
minutes. That’s all.

But when his dad gets home from the station that night and takes one look at him – curled up on the
sofa under two blankets with a pile of used tissues and staring blankly at the TV – it doesn’t matter.

“All right, up you go.” The Sheriff gets him to his feet and then helps him up the stairs to his
bedroom because his legs are suddenly feeling soft and wobbly. Like Jello. Or pudding. Maybe a
flan. Stiles blanches.

The Sheriff pauses in the hallway, concern etched all over his face. “Are you going to be sick?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope.” And then the Sheriff leads him into the bathroom where he
promptly vomits into the toilet.

There’s a big hand on his back, rubbing slow calming circles, and Stiles coughs weakly. He can
feel how sweaty he is already. “It’s ok, son.”

Stiles groans. He doesn’t even bother protesting when his dad wipes his face with a cool washcloth
and then gives him a glass of water to wash his mouth out with. He really does love his dad.

“Love you too, son,” the Sheriff says, smiling, and oh, Stiles said that out loud.

The Sheriff gets him into bed and under the covers and Stiles is so grateful that he got into
sweatpants as soon as he got home from school because he doesn’t have the energy to change his
clothes right now. He’s getting flushed, dizzy, and his whole body feels like an overcooked noodle.
Or a waterbed. Something wobbly and not all together.
“M’not that sick,” Stiles mumbles as he accepts the handful of pills his dad gives him to swallow
down. But even he can feel how he’s radiating too much body heat, never mind the pounding that
taken up residence in his head or the cough that’s building in his chest. He lifts his head to set the
glass aside and the world swims around him.

“Yeah, sure.” The Sheriff pulls the covers up around him, tucking him in. “You get some sleep,
okay? I’m gonna make some soup for when you wake up. And you better sleep. I don’t want to
come up here and catch you researching the plague or something.”

“Did you know that what’s commonly referred so as ‘the Plague’ was actually the second plague of
the Middle Ages? There was also-”

“Stiles.”

He closes his eyes dutifully and gratefully. “Going to sleep now.” The Sheriff nods. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you open the window a little? It’s a little warm.” He pouts, just in case.

“That’s the fever,” the Sheriff answers, but he crosses the room anyway and shoves Stiles’ window
open enough to let a nice, cool breeze in.

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles. His body is growing heavier and heavier, sinking into the mattress.

“Good night, Stiles.” His dad turns the lights out and closes the door.

Stiles sleeps.

***

When he opens his eyes again there is a wolf in his bed.

Stiles grins. “Heeeeeeey buddy,” he drawls, tongue thick and dry in his mouth. His nose is so
stuffed he can hardly breathe and a headache pounds behind his eyes. When he moves, it feels like
something is sloshing around inside his head, so he stays still. But the window is closed and his
wolf is pressed up all along his side, warm and comforting and real, and Stiles doesn’t even care
how he got inside his room.

The wolf comes closer, crawling up the bed to sniff curiously at Stiles’ mouth and his nose. Stiles
breathes out hotly and the wolf snorts, pulling back and shaking his head. Stiles laughs and the
wolf shoves his muzzle into Stiles’ damp armpit, sniffing loudly and causing Stiles to jerk away at
the tickling sensation.

“What?” Stiles asks, when the wolf lifts his head up at him with a serious look that says, “You
smell funny.”

“Yeah, well, I feel funny, so. Sorry about my stench.”

The wolf wrinkles his brow and gets to his paws, stepping carefully over Stiles and leaning over to
the nightstand. Stiles runs his fingers along the wolf’s flank, scratching through the soft, thick fur.

The wolf taps a huge paw on Stiles’ chest and then makes a soft whining noise as he bumps his
nose against the glass of water that’s sitting on the nightstand, left there with another packet of
medicine by the Sheriff.

“Fine, fine,” Stiles grumbles. His whole body aches as he pushes himself up enough to drink the
water and take the pills that his dad left for him. The water is soothing against his sore and swollen
throat. But that’s apparently all the energy he has because as soon as he sets the glass down he
collapses back against the pillow.

The wolf ducks down and licks at his cheek as if to say, “good boy.”

“Being sick is so stupid,” he whines. The wolf just snorts and jumps lightly off the bed, landing
without a sound, which is good because Stiles is pretty sure his dad would not be happy to find the
big animal in his bedroom right now.

Stiles watches as the wolf carefully walks the perimeter of the room, sniffing at the corners and
checking the windows and the door. The way he has for years.
“No monsters here,” Stiles says and the wolf looks over his shoulder at him. “Thanks for taking
care of me, buddy.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as seriously as it does, but it’s the truth.
The wolf has been with him for almost as long as he can remember.

The wolf blinks and then hops gracefully back up onto Stiles bed. Inside of curling up at the foot
of the bed like he usually does, he flops down next to Stiles and rests his great big head on Stiles’
chest.

“Oh,” Stiles mutters. “Oh I see how it’s gonna be. I’m sick and you just take over. Like you own
the place.” But Stiles loops his arm around the wolf and buries his fingers in his fur.

“I’m gonna sleep some more, okay?” The wolf whuffs softly in agreement and Stiles sinks back
down into restless sleep.

***

When Stiles wakes again Derek Hale is leaning over him.

Stiles blinks fuzzily in the dark room. The other boy is holding a washcloth in his hands and the
damp fabric is blessedly cool against Stiles’ heated forehead.

So clearly the medicine he’s been taking is way stronger than he thought it was.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

Derek freezes, goes absolutely still next to him and his eyes flash an impossible gold in the dim
room.

“Stiles, I-” Derek looks, well Stiles can’t quite describe how he looks, but afraid is maybe the
closest descriptor.
“It’s fine,” Stiles smiles dopily. “I dream about you, so I might as well have a fever-induced
hallucination about you too.” He tries to reach out and pat Derek’s leg, but his limbs are so heavy
and he’s so tired.

Derek swallows audibly and Stiles can see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. His cheeks are dark
with scruff and his thick eyebrows are furrowed in concern. “You, you dream about me?” He asks,
his voice small and choked.

“All the time. But usually we’re in the forest. It’s nice. I feel safe.” Stiles smiles, thinking of his
favorite long dreams where he’s running barefoot through the trees with a tall and golden-eyed
boy. He’s always a little sad when he wakes up from those in the morning and he’s alone.

“Stiles,” Derek rumbles. “You are safe with me.” The shadows of the room throw Derek into
sharp chiaroscuro, highlighting his cheekbones and the stubbled line of his jaw. He is wide-eyed
and so serious.

Stiles blinks slowly, taking a long, deep breath and exhaling. “I know.” His dreams aren’t usually
this lucid, but it’s nice. It’s nice to talk to the boy he’s been thinking about for so long.

“Even though you don’t really talk to me, I still. I still feel,” Stiles swallows and winces at the
ache. “I still feel safe around you. I don’t know why. But you, you and the wolf. I have a wolf
you know.” Stiles finally reaches out and rests his hand on Derek’s leg, fingers flexing. He doesn’t
miss the way Derek’s muscle jump under his touch, or the way his peculiar eyes flash that almost
unsettling gold color. “He’s…my wolf.”

He really shouldn’t be telling anyone about his wolf, because it’s really sort of weird and is
probably something meant to be a secret, but Derek is just an hallucination anyway or a dream or a
figment of his fevered imagination so it’s not like it matters. Not really.

Derek looks frozen in place and Stiles isn’t sure why. “Stiles, I’m…” he begins to say, but can’t
seem to find the rest of his words.

“I like you, you know,” Stiles says, because why the fuck not? It’s all in his head.
A thousand different emotions flit across Derek’s features, too fast for Stiles to categorize. Derek
presses his lips together and then draws the washcloth across Stiles’ forehead, down his cheek, and
over his throat. There’s a tenderness in the touch that makes Stiles’ ache for reasons completely
unrelated to his illness. The damp cool cloth feels so good against his flushed and sweaty skin that
Stiles moans a little.

“I like you too,” Derek whispers lowly, like he’s afraid of the words.

Stiles smiles. “You have to – you’re my imagination. It’d be pretty fucked up and sad if my own
dream boy didn’t like me.”

Derek smiles at him and somehow it’s bittersweet. Stiles scratches his fingers against Derek’s thigh
and this time Derek’s other hand comes down to rest over his. His palm is warm and Stiles tangles
their fingers together, his eyes closing. This is such a good dream.

“You should sleep,” Derek tells him, squeezing his hand gently and Stiles sighs happily.

“I am asleep,” Stiles mutters. He feels a hand carding through his hair, long fingers pushing the
sweat-damp strands back from his forehead, and he opens his eyes to find Derek staring down at
him, eyes so very intense. Derek’s mouth is soft and so very close and for a hysterical moment
Stiles wonders if Derek is going to kiss him.

But Derek brushes his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone and leans back. “Sleep. Don’t argue.”

Stiles nods and lets his eyes close again. And Derek doesn’t let go of his hand.

In the morning, Stiles’ fever has broken, but both Derek and the wolf are gone.
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