robinonadderall | Not Creepy Mansion

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wolves: derek hale 2.0

Not Creepy Mansion | Monday Afternoon

It hadn't been a great night in the ways of sleeping and there was a scratchiness in this throat that indicated that he was either talking a lot last night in his sleep or he was coming down with a cold. He didn't know which one would be worse. He had gone out to get a peppermint mocha that was 70% whipped cream and turned to go to the mansion instead of to the dorms, which should surprise no one. It was a nice, scenic walk, okay? He was enjoying the caroling.

Now he was curled up on the couch with his coffee and a blanket like that was the key to fighting off a potential cold or something.

[For the people in the house and anybody that wants to stop by, of course]

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"Yeah, sometimes colds are actually bronchitis and you can't tell at first," Stiles said, not realizing he was digging himself deeper right now. "That's an infection in the tubes that go to your lungs so there's a lot of coughing and nastiness and you have to go on antibiotics."

Yeah, you're just tormenting him now. "Then go see a doctor," Derek ground out, aggressively chopping vegetables. Oh yeah, that was a thing.

"Dude, I am not going to the doctor for a sore throat," he said. "I don't even have a fever yet."

Oh, but he would.

"You don't deal with sick people often, do you?"

"Yeah, I spend so much time socializing with people," Derek replied dryly. "Especially sick humans."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well if I actually am sick, it's going to get worse before it gets better. But I'll be fine."

At least this he knew would end eventually. Unlike, say, horrific nemeton nightmares and his slowly dwindling sanity.

Derek huffed in annoyance, still chopping. Yeah, this soup was going to be full of rage.

"Fine."

Stiles was amazed at Derek's ability to act put-upon even when it was his idea to be caring. He hitched up the blanket he had over his shoulders, making himself look like some kind of an eskimo.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "My mom used to make me rosól when I was sick. I kind of felt bad I was too young to return the favor when she got sick. Not that it would have helped any for her, but..."

Well maybe teenagers should stop ~believing~ in him and he'd hide somewhere and pretend he didn't care about anyone again. Yeah, those were the days. He missed those days.

"What's rosól?" Yeah, he butchered that.

"It's basically Polish chicken noodle soup," Stiles said, trying to hide his amusement at Derek's attempt at the Polish language. "And one of the few Polish soups that I like. Most of them are either borscht or have tripe in them. Gross."

"I can make that," he said with a shrug. Maybe wave a banner of caring at you. He could do that too.

"No, this is fine. It's pretty much the same thing." And he might die of some kind of adorable overload if Derek made him Polish food. "You don't even have to make the regular soup for me."

"It's soup. Maybe I wanted soup." He did not.

Stiles gave him a look. "You didn't want soup. If you did it'd be a soup with a half a pound of bacon in it."

"And it would taste good."

"And be terrible for you." Did you want to have a heart attack, Derek? Did you?

"Better than pneumonia." Guys, seriously.

"I don't have pneumonia, Derek." Just wait until the cold really kicked in. Then Stiles would be moaning about having every disease known to man while curled under blankets and hogging Derek's bed.

And Derek would let him. It was horrible.

"And I don't have heart problems."

"And you never will, thanks to my efforts." There was really no winning this argument, Derek.

"I'm making myself some bacon to have with this." It was yet another game of chicken.

"And while you're doing that, I'm gonna go give all that cold medicine to someone who really needs it." Your move, Derek.

"Go ahead."

"Okay then," Stiles said, hitching up the blanket so it was like a little toga. "Here I go. Off to the living room."

"Might want to put shoes on if you plan on leaving," Derek called after him. And then glared down at his ingredients before grabbing a pot.

"I'll do that!" Stiles moved into the living room and grabbed the bag of every cold medicine known to man. Then he looked over at the couch. The nice, comfortable couch.

After a moment's contemplation he decided giving the medicine to some barista with a cold could wait and he'd just rest his eyes a little.

And in true Stiles Stilinski fashion, he had to sleep in a terrible position that was only comfortable to him. Notably with his face buried in the pillow and his butt in the air. At least the blanket was covering him.

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justlurkinghere - 2013-12-03 00:44 (UTC) - Expand

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