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Title: Cold
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters: Derek/Stiles
Words: ~1,300
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: Stiles catches a cold.
Beta: none
Notes: Written for [livejournal.com profile] beacon_hills's fic challenge, on [livejournal.com profile] neera_pendragon's prompt, which isn't the prompt that I wanted to write but I happened to have a cold too, so.



Like almost everything that happens in Stiles' life lately, the fault lies squarely with Derek. Or at least that's how Stiles is going to put it. Because Derek might whine and pout and say it's Stiles who fell into the creek because he wasn't looking where he was going, but the fact is that if it wasn't for Derek's complete lack of any proper alpha leadership training they wouldn't be dealing with the alpha pack, which means whey wouldn't be up to their neck in werewolf voodoo magic or whatever it is, and they wouldn't have gone hiking at midnight in November up a creek (a cold, icy, freezing creek, thank you very much) and Stiles wouldn't have fallen into the water in the first place.

So, you see, it's all Derek's fault, and it's not fair to blame Stiles for his lack of night vision since he's just a regular high school kid and not a freaking werewolf. Even though werewolves are soon going to outnumber schoolkids in Beacon Hills, and guess who's to blame for that too.

Stiles' brain is following this train of thoughts when Derek enters his room via the window as usual, never mind that he's got a prefectly functioning door and his dad's working the night shift like all Wednesdays. Derek drops a flash drive on the binders next to Stiles' elbow and sits down on the chair next to him. "Peter says this might help," he offers.

Stiles picks up the flash drive and grunts. He'd complain about having to do all the research, or almost, all the research that isn't obscure or interesting enough for Lydia's tastes, but what's the point? Derek would just growl and push him against a wall and threaten him until he agrees to it, it's a waste of breath. And Stiles is having enough trouble breathing today as it is. He sniffles and turns his head just in time to sneeze on his computer's screen instead of on Derek.

"Ew," he mutters, wiping the screen with the sleeve of his hoodie. Maybe he should have sneezed on Derek instead.

Derek glres at him. "Are you all right?" he asks, totally unaware of how Stiles' awesome reflexes just saved him from being covered in teenage snot.

"'m fine," Stiles mutters, then follows it with a little cough because he feels as if there's something sticking to the back of his throat. He picks up the flash drive, manages to insert it in the right slot in just a couple of tries and fumbles with the mouse to scroll down the list of files. The words and pictures swim in front of his eyes.

"You don't look fine," Derek says, and then puts one hand on the back of Stiles' neck. That's a textbook case of mixed signals if ever Stiles saw one. Okay, Derek probably wrote the book on mixed signals, what with his whole threatens-you-and-then-saves-your-life routine that he's got going on, but usually he's not very touchy-feely. Unless you count slamming against walls, but Stiles isn't terribly sure about werewolves and personal space, so he doesn't usually take that into consideration.

Hand on neck, though, that's different. Stiles swivels around in his chair to face Derek, spins a little too much, and Derek catches him just in time to stop him from faceplanting into the carpet. "You've got a fever," Derek says, one hand on Stiles' upper arm, the other still on his neck.

It's nice, really, Derek's hands are nice and also warm, and Stiles has been feeling cold since the damn creek, so he doesn't try to shy away from the touch. However. "Nope, no fever," he says, because he still needs to finish this voodoo research and he's got biology homework due tomorrow. See, can't be sick, too many things to do. "Can you smell it with your werewolf nose or what?" he asks. "Because in that case your werewolf nose is wrong."

He punctuates the sentence with a couple of small coughs, but that's nothing. He puts one hand on his forehead and doesn't find it much warmer than usual. He feels just fine. Apart from the cough. And the sneezing. And the fact that he feels like his room suddenly turned into Alaska, but that's a completely different story. Stiles doesn't get sick.

Derek is a stubborn, annoying wolf, though. "I can feel you burning up," he says. He gets up, without letting go of Stiles' arm and neck, and Stiles has to get up or have some of his limbs torn from him.

"Hey!" he says, indignantly. The room is spinning around him, and then his mattress slaps him on the face. Which is a scientific impossibility, so Stiles decides that he's probably collapsed on the bed. Derek rolls him on his back and Stiles attempts to kick him in retribution. The kick misses its intended target by four or five feet. "I'm not sick," Stiles mumbles. "You didn't even check my temperature."

"I checked," Derek says. "On the back of your neck." He pushes Stiles out of the way and for a moment Stiles thinks Derek is going to climb into bed with him, and then his dad will come home and find them in bed together and then he'll have a heart attack and then shoot Derek and then he'll ground Stiles forever for sleeping with a former wanted felon. Possibly not in that order. However Derek just gets the comforter from where it's all bunched up under Stiles' legs and throws it over Stiles.

Stiles is a little disappointed by the continued lack of wanted felons in his bed, but the comforter is warm and he burrows into it gratefully. "Is this a weird werewolf thing?" he asks. "Nobody checks the temperature on the back of people's heads." He sneezes again.

"My mum used to," Derek says, so quiet that Stiles almost can't hear him under the sound of his own laboured breathing. Then Derek looks around, finds Stiles' almost empty box of tissues (possibly with his keen werewolf senses) and gives it to Stiles, who blows his nose noisily. The used tissue joins its brethren in the bin. So, yeah, maybe this cold is worse than Stiles wanted to admit. Maybe he should take an aspirin. He'll just take an aspirin and then he'll be right as rain and he'll be able to do whatever Derek came here to ask of him. Stiles forgot why Derek came here, he's feeling so tired.

"Stay in bed," Derek says, pointing his finger at him. "I'm going to get you more tissues and something hot to drink." He frowns, but it's not one of his usual I'm-the-big-bad-alpha scowls, it's a scowl that says he's not really sure of what to do. "Do you have... Milk? Tea? Should I make soup?"

"I thought werewolves only drank the warm blood of their victims," Stiles says. His eyes go wide. "You're not going to kill a rabbit to feed me its blood, aren't you? I like rabbits. But not in that way. Definitely not in that way, please don't kill any rabbits for me." He would keep rambling, but he has a fit of coughing that leaves him curled up into a ball.

The comforter has slipped, so Derek throws it back over Stiles again. "Just shut up," he says. "And stay in bed." He checks Stiles' temperature again, muttering something about stupid kids not being able to take care of themselves.

When he's gone, Stiles ponders about getting up and finish his research. It will take Derek forever to heat the milk, or kill the rabbit, or do whatever he's planning to do to heal Stiles werewolf style. He might as well get things done in the meantime. But his bed is nice and fluffy and Stiles can still feel the warmth where Derek's hand was. One minute and then he'll get up, he thinks, and by the time Derek comes back with chicken soup and tissues and an aspirin Stiles is already fast asleep.
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