Chapter Text
All day, Stiles felt sick—achy and lightheaded and just weird. Everyone went out after dinner to swim and drink at the lake, but Stiles stayed back, too lethargic to get off the couch. He fell asleep to Gordon Ramsey calling someone a numpty, and he woke to the noise of the pack—drunk and rowdy, now—coming home. Stiles groaned when someone flicked on the ceiling light; he pulled a throw pillow over his face and rolled onto his side, facing the back of the couch.
“Still feel like shit?” Scott asked.
“Like shit ran over.”
As he walked by, Scott gave Stiles a pat on the shoulder; then he paused, and he put his hand on Stiles’ forehead. The touch was uncomfortable on his hot, sweating skin, it almost stung.
“Stop,” Stiles said, swatting him away.
“Jesus, dude, you’re burning up.”
“Mhmm,” Stiles grumbled, miserably. “Can you get me some water? And like … four bottles of Tylenol.”
Scott snorted.
“Yeah, I’ll be right back. Don’t die.”
The Tylenol didn’t help, probably because Scott only gave him two measly pills instead of the four bottles Stiles requested, despite his insistence that his liver could handle it. The water was nice though. Cold. Stiles had the urge to dump it over his head for some relief from the fever that only seemed to be getting worse.
In the morning, Stiles woke up in his bed, but he couldn’t remember getting off of the couch. His shirt smelled like Derek.
He still felt like he was going to melt. His clothes were wet with sweat, like he’d jumped in a pool with them on, and they stuck to his skin. He dragged his feet, which felt heavier than normal, to the bathroom. Then Stiles peeled his dirty clothes off and stepped into the shower, leaving the water to run cold.
It felt so good.
Stiles stood under the icy spray until he started to get dizzy; he braced himself with a splayed hand on the tile wall, stumbling a bit and knocking about fifty bottles of Erica’s shampoo into the tub with a loud clatter.
“Shit,” Stiles mumbled.
Bending over to pick them up made his vision tunnel, and Stiles thought he might pass out.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door.
“Stiles?” It was Boyd. “You alright?”
“Yeah! I just knocked over all of Erica’s shit, I’m fine. Why does she need all of this, anyway? Is she collecting this stuff, or?”
Boyd chuckled, and Stiles heard him walk away. He shut off the shower and was shivering; he didn’t know if it was from the cold water or his fever.
Towel around his waist, Stiles went back to his room. So he didn’t fall over on his shaking legs, he sat on the edge of the mattress to put his boxers on, pulling them up over his hips as he crawled into bed. He curled around himself, holding his knees to his chest and groaned from discomfort. His entire body hurt, like the soreness after a hard workout, but worse.
In his lower abdomen, in the cradle of his pelvis, there was a knotted-up, clenching tightness. Between his legs, behind his balls, the skin felt raw—burning where it rubbed against his cotton boxers. Stiles touched the spot over the fabric and it sent a jolt of pain shooting up his spine.
“What the fuck,” he whimpered to himself.
Trying to make himself more comfortable, but too uncomfortable to move around much at all, Stiles squirmed on top of his sheets. He must’ve fallen asleep again; knocking at his door pulled him out of it and at first he’d thought he was dreaming. He tried to say “come in,” but couldn’t make the words and just sort of grunted.
“Water,” Scott said, tossing a chilled bottle on the bed by Stiles.
Stiles reached out for it and pressed the plastic to his neck; a sigh of relief escaped his throat when the cold condensation touched his skin.
“You’re supposed to drink it, not make love to it.”
“But she’s so pretty,” Stiles said; his words slurred a bit.
“You’re an idiot,” Scott laughed. “Do you need to, like, go to a doctor or something? Because you look … really bad dude.”
“No.” Stiles cracked open the bottle of water and chugged half of it at once. “It’s probably the flu. They’ll just tell me to sleep and stay hydrated, anyway. Waste of time.”
“Whatever you say.” Scott frowned. “You should eat something. Chicken soup—”
Stiles made a faux gagging sound.
“Too hot. Need cold. Need ice cream.”
Scott snorted.
“Ice cream it is. I’ll text Isaac to pick some up on his way home from work.”
“Thanks,” Stiles said. Scott started to leave and Stiles added, “Oh. And make sure it’s chocolate.”
As soon as the bedroom door was shut, Stiles wrapped himself back up into a sweaty ball, falling back into his feverish dreams. Isaac came around at some point with chocolate ice cream, and Stiles devoured the whole pint. Later, when the rest of the house was sleeping, Stiles dragged himself to the bathroom again.
Walking was painful. Not that sore-muscle feeling from before—actually painful, between his legs, behind his balls, where earlier it had felt like he had a rubbed-raw heat rash. It sort of felt like a hot poker was being shoved through his taint now. After he used the bathroom, and made sure three times that the door was locked, Stiles stuck a hand mirror between his legs. It was red and inflamed where the pain was; it almost looked deeply bruised. He touched it with the pad of his finger and nearly doubled over.
After that, even though his fever hadn’t subsided at all, Stiles couldn’t sleep, it hurt too much. He didn’t want to wake everyone up, so he tried not to make too much noise, and he dug his teeth into the pillow whenever an involuntary whimper or moan would try to escape him. By morning, the pain was so bad, Stiles thought he was going to be sick. He stumbled to the bathroom, using the walls in the hallway for support, and heaved bile into the sink.
Trying to catch his breath as the wave of nausea passed was impossible. He gripped the edge of the vanity and gritted his together through the agonizing sensation in his groin. Then he felt something wet and cool, rolling down the inside of his thigh—a little rivulet of blood.
“What—” Stiles croaked. He slammed the door shut and grabbed the mirror he’d used the night before.
With one leg propped on the closed lid of the toilet, Stiles looked again between his legs.
It looked fucking gross. The skin was splitting down the middle in a shallow, bleeding gash and the flesh around the wound was swollen and purpling red. A lump welled up in Stiles’ throat and he felt his eyes prick.
“What the fuck is happening to me?” he whispered, dropping the mirror to the floor from his trembling hand.
Someone knocked on the door. Everyone in this house was so fucking nosy. Couldn’t a man just look at his taint in peace?
“Stiles, can I come in?”
It was Derek. And Stiles couldn’t explain it, because Derek usually made him nervous, but he was flooded with relief when he heard his voice. In a hurry, he pulled up his boxers and wiped the blood off of his thighs with toilet paper.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice catching as he tried to sound casual.
The door creaked open, and Derek stepped inside. Stiles leaned on the edge of the sink, hoping it wasn’t obvious how he was grinding his teeth together to keep from making any sounds of pain.
“Fuck, Stiles, are you okay?” Derek said when they met eyes.
Stiles nodded. He bit his lip when his chin quivered.
“Scott and Isaac said you were really sick, but—Jesus, fuck. I had to go out of town yesterday, I just got back. You weren’t this bad when I saw you the other night. Why didn’t those dumbasses make you see a doctor?”
“M’fine,” Stiles said.
“You look like you’re about to drop dead any second.”
Derek cursed under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No,” Stiles said through panting breaths. There was a nagging feeling in his gut that this wasn’t something a normal hospital could handle … that this was werewolf bullshit. “Deaton. Take me to Dr. Deaton.”
Derek nodded stiffly. “Go get dressed.”
“Don’t be so bossy, I’m sick,” Stiles grumbled.
Letting go of the sink, Stiles took a forward step; his vision went white, there was a high-pitched whirring in his ears and he fell on his knees, just catching himself with his hands before his face smacked the floor.
With an arm hooked around his middle, Derek helped him easily to his feet, like Stiles didn’t weigh a thing.
“I can walk,” Stiles complained, as Derek supported the bulk of his weight, half-dragging him back to his bedroom.
“Uh-huh” Derek said, more of a dismissive grunt than anything else.
After depositing Stiles to sit on the end of his bed, where his sheets were tangled up in a sweaty heap, Derek went to Stiles’ dresser and started opening the drawers.
“Get out of my shit!” Stiles said; he almost stood, but it made his ears ring and his head spin again, and he put his ass back to the mattress.
Derek tossed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt across the room.
“Please tell me you can dress yourself,” he said.
Stiles rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Okay.” Derek looked uncharacteristically awkward, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulder turned away from Stiles. “I’ll just be—”
He pointed to the door, then stepped outside; he didn’t close it all the way, and Stiles could see the shadow of his back in the inch-wide crack. He could feel Derek listening. Just to prove he could, even though he absolutely couldn’t, Stiles dressed himself. Or he tried to. He got his jeans on, at least, but in doing so he exhausted what little energy he had, and he got stuck in his shirt, unable to lift his arms over his head.
“Der–”
And before Stiles could even finish saying his name, Derek was at his side, helping him into the tangled shirt. Then he actually tried to carry Stiles downstairs, but Stiles complained enough—loudly enough and annoyingly enough—that Derek put him down, and just supported him while they walked.
Stiles fell asleep in the car. The sound of Derek opening the passenger-side door roused him and he realized he’d kind of forgotten what they were doing.
“You coming?” Derek said, offering him a hand. “Deaton’s waiting, I called him on the way over.”
Oh yeah, that’s right, Stiles was dying.
Again, Derek tried to pick Stiles up, and again he refused. But Derek still helped him out of the car and held him upright while they walked into Deaton’s vet clinic; he had to or Stiles wouldn’t have made it halfway to the door. Stiles thought he probably should’ve been embarrassed but he was too sick to care much at all at this point.
“Can you wait in the car?” he asked Derek, once he was settled, sitting on top of a steel exam table.
Derek shrugged, he looked unbothered, and left Stiles alone with Dr. Deaton.
“One-oh-four point six,” Deaton said with a whistle after he took Stiles’ temperature. “You should let Derek take you to the emergency room, I’m just a vet, kid.”
Stiles shook his head, panting through a wave of pain from his middle.
“No, it’s something …” Stiles grimaced, he didn’t know how to say it. He looked at his lap and pointed down, then tried to play cool, like this wasn’t mortally embarrassing. “It’s, y’know, by m’boys.”
“Ugh, Stiles.” Deaton rolled his eyes. “Don’t college campuses have free condoms in every building? Get some antibiotics and wrap it up next time.”
“I don’t have the fucking clap!” Stiles said. “Something is happening to me. Down there. Something … not normal.”
“Fine,” Deaton said, gruffly. He looked entirely displeased with the situation that was unfolding and he sighed. “Show me.”
If Stiles’ skin wasn’t already flushed scarlet, he would have blushed when he dropped his pants with his boxers and laid back on the steel table, naked from the waist down. He closed his eyes and turned his head away from Deaton, then pulled his knees up and widened his legs. The cold breeze from the air conditioning felt almost soothing on the spot that felt like it had a smouldering coal pressed to it.
Deaton made a sympathetic hissing sound when he saw it. Stiles heard the snap of a rubber glove, then Deaton prodded the tender spot with his fingers. He hardly touched Stiles, and it hurt so badly, Stiles forgot how to breathe.
“Stop, stop,” he said without meaning to, pulling his legs together and scooting backward on the table.
Deaton handed Stiles a towel and he draped it over his lap. Through tears he wouldn’t let fall, Stiles finally looked at Deaton. His mouth was pursed in a stiff, straight line and his brows were drawn together.
“You can put your pants back on,” he said; then he turned and walked out of the examination room.
Stiles had his jeans on, and was sitting on top of the table with his ankles crossed under his knees, thrumming his fingers on his thighs, when Deaton returned with a thick book under his arm.
“Oh, great!” Stiles said. “An old, scary looking book, that’s always been a good sign.”
“This is serious,” Deaton said.
“It always is.” Stiles winced, and wrapped his arms around himself. “Just … what’s happening to me?”
“How long have you lived with Derek and his pack now?”
“I dunno, a year.”
Deaton nodded, drawing a sharp breath through his nose.
“Stiles, do you know what an omega is?”
“No and I’m sure I’m going to love it when you tell me, right?”
“Sometimes,” Deaton said, ignoring the sarcasm, “when a human lives in close proximity with a werewolf pack, and is treated as a part of it—like you—their body will … adapt, for lack of a better word, to be more suited for a proper role in the pack. They’re still technically human, but they also become an omega. Derek is the pack’s alpha, the others are his betas, and now … you’re the omega.”
“Okay, but what is that? Like, am I going to get stronger and faster so I can keep up with them now, or what?”
“No it’s not like that.” Deaton was struggling for the right words. “It’s hard to explain—it’s a remnant of old pack dynamics that don’t really exist anymore. It’s rare these days to begin with, and it's incredibly uncommon for a male human to turn into an omega. I’ve seen records of maybe three male omegas who lived in the last century.
“What’s important is that your body is changing. Your biology has been fundamentally altered now that the process is started, and it can’t be stopped. That … spot, between your legs is—well, it will be in about a week—it’s your—”
Deaton cleared his throat, he looked supremely uncomfortable.
“What?” Stiles demanded.
“It’s your vagina.”
Time came to a screeching halt. Stiles’ vision started to tunnel into black pin pricks and he felt outside of his body. Deaton was still talking.
“... inflammatory response … ten days, usually … more changes to come … hormonal shifts; changes to your temperament and behavior; alterations in the social dynamics of the pack; and physically you can expect …”
Stiles couldn’t hear him. Or he could and he couldn’t understand. The difference wasn’t important, all that mattered was Stiles didn’t receive a word of anything Deaton said to him after vagina. This had to be a fever dream. There was no fucking way Stiles was growing a fucking pussy. No way. Stiles could accept werewolves, but he drew the line at magical vaginas.
“Stiles?”
Dr. Deaton’s voice finally made contact with his brain and Stiles blinked.
“Huh?”
“I said, do you have any questions?”
Yes, all of them.
“Uh, no, I think I get it …” Stiles mumbled.
Deaton handed him the heavy book. Dynamics of Dominance: The Sexual Hierarchy of Werewolves, a Bio-Social Examination.
“Everything you need to know is in there,” Deaton said.
Stiles couldn’t look at him; he was humiliated. He looked instead at the book in his lap and the print blurred when his eyes began to water again.
“Do you need help getting down?” Deaton asked, offering a helping hand.
Stiles sniffed and shook his head, eyes still pointed downward.
“I just need a minute,” he said, quietly.
“Alright.” Deaton patted Stiles reassuringly on the shoulder. “I’ll let Derek know we’re through.”
“Don’t tell him!” Stiles cried out in a panic.
Derek could not know about this. None of them could. Stiles would rather be dead.
“I won’t. Doctor–patient confidentiality, remember.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Stiles muttered at Deaton’s back when he left.
When the door swung shut, Stiles didn’t move. He didn’t think he could if he tried. It’s your vagina. No, the absolute fuck it was not. He’d gotten drunk with Scott and split a fence rail between his legs or something. Anything else. Ten minutes went by and Stiles didn’t notice. The door swinging open again startled him back to life. He smelled Derek before he saw him—earthy and musky and a little minty, maybe?
“Well, Deaton says you won’t die—some weird flu strain going around, I guess.” Derek said.
Quickly, and trying to be discreet, Stiles wiped his eyes on his shirt. He scooted toward the edge of the table and his legs dangled off the side, feet six inches from the floor. As he started to ease himself down, the crease in his jeans rubbed against his … he couldn’t even think it … in a way that was particularly excruciating. Stiles collapsed on the floor.
This time, when Derek wrapped his arms around him and picked him up, Stiles didn’t argue. He was so fucking tired all of a sudden, just completely drained. Outside, the sun was too bright, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into Derek’s chest and he was unconscious before they reached the car.
When he opened his eyes again, it was some time later, and Stiles was home, in his bed. And Derek wasn’t there. He was still wearing his jeans, and they were still rubbing him painfully; Stiles pulled them off and kicked them away. His fever wasn’t better or worse, but it had been so long now that Stiles was starting to feel delirious from it. He remembered what Deaton said … what Stiles dreamed he’d said. It’s your … Stiles tore the sheets off and flicked his bedside lamp on.
“No, no,” he said to himself.
It took a minute before Stiles could make himself look between his legs, and he hadn’t even taken his boxers off yet. But he didn’t need to take them off to see the blood that was smeared between his thighs, soaked into his boxers and the sheets underneath him. This was so gross. So, so gross. He still wasn’t convinced any of it was real.
Then he remembered the book Deaton gave him, but he couldn’t remember what happened to it. Derek must’ve brought Stiles inside the house and put him to bed … Did he take the book? Did he see it? Stiles started to panic; he scrambled out of bed and scoured the room with his eyes. Relief was short when he saw it face-down on his dresser—Derek didn’t have it, but it being there meant that it was probably real.
All that stuff with Dr. Deaton had really happened. It’s your—
Nope.
Stiles opened to the index at the back of the book and thumbed to the section about omegas. All of it—the anatomy and physiology, and social role and pack dynamics—was less than thirty pages. He could finish that in less than an hour. But he started, and he shortly came upon the phrase: “increased elasticity of the anus and rectal passage,” and he slammed the book shut.
Leaving the book in time-out to think about what it had done, Stiles went to take another ice-cold shower. The water ran pink around his feet, as the tacky blood between his legs was washed away. Curiosity got the best of Stiles for a moment, and he put his hand there, behind his balls, and he regretted it as soon as he did. Nothing had ever hurt so much; it doubled him over and he vomited the contents of his empty stomach down the drain.
The bathroom door creaked open.
“Okay in here?”
“What the fuck, Derek? Get out!”
“Sorry,” Derek said, but he didn’t leave. “I thought I heard you throwing up.”
“Fucking wolves,” Stiles muttered to himself. “Yeah, I’m sick, remember? Go away. Please.”
Derek didn’t say anything, and the door closed, and Stiles wanted him to come back.
When Stiles returned to his room, the book in the corner haunted him. He kept trying to fall back to sleep or scroll mindlessly on his phone and would catch himself staring at it across the room. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he brought the book to bed with him, opening it in his lap.
He skimmed to find any mention of male omegas, because he remembered Deaton saying it was rare. There were two paragraphs that filled less than a single page.
“Editor’s note: at the time of this publication, only one living male omega could be identified, the following passage comes from anecdotal testimony which cannot be verified.
The male subject reported initial symptoms began after nine-months cohabitating with a werewolf-pack. First the subject experienced a high-grade fever, lasting five days …”
Stiles read it a few times, and it made him feel sick. He closed his eyes and still saw the printed words on the back of his eyelids.
Vaginal passage. Infertile pseudo-uterus. Sterile ejaculate. Testicular and penile atrophy. Self-lubricating. Highly submissive. Heat. Rutting. Knotting.
Then he was crying, actually crying, and he couldn’t stop. He knew everyone could hear him with their stupid fucking wolf ears and he didn’t care. One by one, they stopped outside his door, trying to get him to let them in, saying he was freaking them out and they were worried. But Stiles hated them. It was their fault this was happening to him. If they hadn’t made him part of their pack of dumbasses, he wouldn’t have a pussy growing between his legs so that he could be some kind of fucked up werewolf sex toy.
He’d still be normal.
He wouldn’t even let Scott in when he knocked. It was his idea for Stiles to live here while they went to school at the local college in the first place. It will be fun! Live with the wolves! We won’t fundamentally alter your biology or anything, swear!
By morning, it was Derek’s turn to come pound on Stiles’ door, threatening to knock it down.
“Stiles, this is my fucking house! Now, open the goddamn door!”
Only, by this point, Stiles wasn’t ignoring him; he was just too weak to get out of bed. And he was in too much pain. It was day four of this, and according to that book, this was the worst the pain would get while his … body did whatever it was doing. And it was bad. So, so bad. Tears were silently streaming from the corners of his eyes and Stiles held himself in a tight knot. He dug his fingernails so deeply into his arms that he broke the skin, just to feel anything but the unbearable torture happening between his legs, in his gut, and his pelvis.
Behind him, there was a loud crash, and then another, and then the door busted out of its frame. Stiles looked over his shoulder and glared at Derek. He was standing with his broad shoulders pulled back, chest puffed a little bit; his nostrils flared.
“Why does it reek of blood in here?”
Stiles groaned, and tried to cover himself with the blankets, but his limbs were filled with sand and he fumbled around trying to untangle himself before he could stop Derek from seeing the mess on the sheets.
“Stiles what the hell happened? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt,” Stiles said, only to betray himself with the involuntary whimper that came out of him after a twisting cramp. “Why do you even care? Last week I asked you to help me jumpstart my Jeep and you said, and I quote: ‘Fuck off, Stiles, I’m just your landlord.’”
“This isn’t funny, just show me where the blood is coming from or I’m dragging your scrawny ass to the hospital.”
Stiles scoffed. “Fuck off, Derek.”
Derek approached the side of the bed and bent over toward Stiles; Stiles kicked him in the face.
“I said, fuck off,” Stiles said.
Cursing under his breath, Derek tilted his head back and pinched his bleeding nose.
“I’m not leaving until I know you’re not dying, Stiles.”
“I’m not dying, okay!?” Stiles barked. “I’m turning into an omega! Your omega, apparently.”
First Derek looked confused; then angry, scared, annoyed, and finally, confused again.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yeah? Tell that to the fucking vagina I’m growing, dude!”
Derek shook his head, looking completely thrown.
“What?”
“Oh. It’s super awesome. You and your pack of mutts got your werewolf stink all over me and now I have a pussy. So that you can fuck me better or some shit.” He pointed to the book Deaton gave him. “It’s all in there, but I’m sure you already knew—”
“I thought only girls could turn—”
“Nope. Wrong.” Stiles laughed bitterly. “That’s why I’m sick. That’s what the blood is from. Now you know I’m not dying, please fuck off.”
“Stiles …”
“GET OUT OF HERE, DEREK!”
Still wide-eyed with shock, Derek cleared his throat awkwardly.
“If you need me—”
“Oh my God, you are making this so much worse.”
No one bothered him again for the rest of the day, but—through feverish dreams—Stiles could hear Derek’s heavy, anxious footsteps stop outside his broken door every twenty or thirty minutes, then walk away after a long moment. He could smell his scent lingering in the air.
The pain had been building and building for hours, and Stiles prayed that this really would be the worst of it. If the fever didn’t make him lose his mind, this surely would. He was fairly certain it was going to kill him. By nightfall, it seemed to reach a peak and Stiles was in complete, utter agony, screaming into his pillow.
He couldn’t take it anymore. And neither, apparently, could Derek. Without knocking, or even saying a word, he came into Stiles’ room and scooped him out of the bed, into his arms. Somehow, just Derek’s touch, his closeness, took the edge away from Stiles’ pain; with needy hands he grabbed fistfuls of Derek’s shirt and pulled closer.
God, Stiles was so tired, and so sick, and it hurt so much. And Derek felt so good. Stiles’ mind started to drift. The sensation of tepid water on his body shocked him halfway back to consciousness, and he realized Derek was lowering him into the bathtub. But he didn’t want Derek to let him go.
“No,” Stiles whined, holding on around Derek’s neck so he couldn’t put him down.
“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek said with a softness in his voice Stiles had never heard. “I’m not leaving, you’re alright.”
Reluctantly, Stiles loosened his grip enough for Derek to put him down; there were salts or something in the water that burned on his … injury and Stiles whimpered, grabbing Derek by the wrist.
“I know it hurts. Just relax, it’ll feel better in a minute.”
Stiles took short, nasal breaths, trying to relax through the sharp sting like Derek said, but it wasn’t working and he dug his nails into Derek’s forearm, gritting his teeth. If it hurt Derek at all, he didn’t show it. Instead he reached around Stiles’ shoulders with his other arm and rubbed circles on his back. It was only then that Stiles’ body started to relax, and Derek was right, it was starting to feel better. He let go of Derek’s arm and sank down into the water, closing his eyes.
“That’s good, Stiles,” Derek murmured. And the words were like a soothing balm.
He could still feel the pain between his legs, and it was still horrible and sharp and hot, but he wasn’t really aware of it. What little remained of his consciousness was anchored to the weight of Derek’s hand between his shoulder blades. They sat quietly like that for a long while and Derek stayed, like he said he would.
When Stiles was starting to nod off, Derek picked him up from the tub, wrapping him in a towel that was scratchy on his already too-hot skin. They went by Stiles' broken door, and Derek carried him upstairs, to the third floor where Derek’s bedroom was. Gently, Derek put him into bed, and while Stiles whined about it, he let Derek let go of him and walk to the other side of the room.
Briefly, Derek disappeared into the ensuite bathroom; he came back with a pill bottle and a glass of water, then sat on the edge of the bed by Stiles.
“Here,” Derek said, shaking two pills into his palm and offering them to Stiles. “Take this—painkillers, the good kind, from when Isaac had his wisdom teeth pulled last year. He didn’t need them.”
Stiles put out a trembling hand, and Derek gave him the pills. He swallowed them with a small sip of water, then realized how thirsty he was and chugged the rest before laying his head back down on Derek’s pillow. It was surprisingly fluffy. Stiles always sort of imagined Derek slept on the hard floor like a psycho.
“Your bed is like … pretty gross,” Derek said. “So I was gonna wash the sheets and everything. You can stay in here tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs.”
He was feeling all floaty and also still miserable and it was so hard to make words happen, so Stiles just made a sort of pathetic protesting grumble.
“You can go back to your room once the sheets are clean—or, there’s probably a spare set in a linen closet somewhere. I can—”
“No,” Stiles managed to say. “Stay.”
Derek frowned, then sighed.
“Okay, Stiles,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
But then he got up again, and Stiles tried to grab him by the hand.
“I’m just getting you some clothes, I’ll be right back.”
From his own dresser, Derek grabbed a few things for Stiles, then helped him get the baggy lounge pants and sweatshirt on. Stiles tried not to think about the fact that Derek had seen him naked at least two or three times tonight. It was too humiliating and for the first time in days Stiles didn’t feel like he was on the edge of death, he didn’t want to ruin it.
Instead, he pulled the collar of the hoodie up to his face and breathed in deeply. It smelled like Derek and it made Stiles’ whole body feel funny. At his back, the mattress dipped as Derek climbed into bed. Stiles rolled over, so they were facing one another, and he scooted close enough to bury his face in Derek’s chest and tangle their legs together.
Under him, Derek stiffened uncomfortably, but he let Stiles wiggle around until he was as close as he could get. When Derek put an arm around his back, holding him almost, Stiles fell immediately to sleep.