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Winter in California isn't nearly as brutal as it is in places like the Northeast, like Boston or New York or Maine or whatever, but Stiles is still stupid enough to get a cold, in the midst of everything.
It's really just what he needs, what with his classes and lacrosse and the Argents constantly trying to kill his friends and the werewolves constantly trying to kill his friends and everybody constantly trying to kill everyone else. And also Derek, who, despite knowing that Stiles is ill, still likes to drop in at odd times in the night.
It's something that Stiles' dad has actually started to take note of. Not so much the fact that there's a former murder suspect breaking into his house, but that there are way too many DVDs coming in through his front door that aren't pornographic, and Stiles isn't that crazy over movies.
"Why do you keep bringing so many movies into the house?" he asks one night, holding up three DVDs that are piled on the counter to be returned to the library -- Sucker Punch, The Number 23, and, embarrassingly enough, The Devil Wears Prada.
Stiles pauses in shoving pasta into his face to look at the movies his father's holding up. "Um," he mumbles, then swallows thickly, "Scott keeps telling me to watch them."
Yeah, that's good. Blame Scott.
His father still looks skeptical, but doesn't pry into it. The funny thing is, the next time Scott comes over, he gets asked if he knows any good movies with Meryl Streep, and Scott's expression is so confused, he probably would have to think the question over for days.
But it's not just the movies that are piling up, but odd things that normally don't appear in the house through Stiles or Stiles' father, or things in states that they shouldn't be. Like Stiles' favorite baseball, somehow crushed by some unknown force, or how a jacket too wide for Stiles' shoulders somehow ended up in his room. It's enough for Mr. Stilinski to get suspicious, but not enough to warrant anything more than mild concern over another of Stiles' "phases."
However, the jig isn't up yet, and now Stiles has this stupid cold following him around like a needy puppy that won't take the hint to get lost. Every time his dad goes out, he gives Stiles this look that clearly says I better not find you watching Sex and the City when I get home, and Stiles quite clearly knows that he has bigger things than Sarah Jessica Parker to worry about.
Stiles is sniveling miserably on the couch, wrapped up in an old blanket and watching reruns of Seinfeld, when he hears Derek pad down the stairs, nonchalant as always.
"You didn't have to go through the bedroom window." he croaks out into the dark. "The one over there is unlocked."
Derek watches him warily from the base of the staircase. Stiles is almost certain he can only see the top of his head, and it makes him feel a bit foolish. "You mean you didn't want to get up and lock it."
Stiles coughs, and it's a pathetic, wretched hacking sound. "Yeah, whatever."
Derek's sigh is heavy, and Stiles isn't sure if he should feel bad or feel angry -- sure, he's must be bothersome with a cold, but isn't everyone? Well, of course Derek wouldn't know, he doesn't get sick. Ever.
"Stay there." Derek tells him -- and it's quiet, but firm. Stiles doesn't bother to try and sit up to see what he's doing, because it really can't be more pressing than Stiles' need to stay as motionless as possible. But he can still hear him, and he's shuffling around in the kitchen behind him, and he wants to ask but his throat is too sore.
He can hear the sounds of his fridge opening, and some shuffling around of utensils, but the mental effort it takes to keep up with Derek using just the sounds he's making is really getting too exhausting for Stiles to care, so he lets his head droop back to land on the armrest underneath him and he dozes off for a minute or two.
But in due time, he's being jostled awake by a knee, and Derek's gruff when he says, "Sit up. If you spill this on your face, you'll probably end up kicking me out of surprise or something equally as stupid."
He sits down in his normal place (or as much as he can with Stiles' knees bunched up there) and Stiles tries his best to sit up, feeling a massive crick in his neck suddenly awake. He blinks blearily. "What the hell is that?"
Derek holds the mug out to him, and it looks horribly domestic for someone who leads a pack of werewolves. "It's cinnamon tea," Derek tells him simply, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
"You made me tea?" he asks, and he really can't believe that Derek, alpha of the local werewolf pack (and, wow, did that sound like it was straight out of West Side Story) would know something that obviously would only be known by natural caretakers. And where the hell did he get cinnamon tea, anyway? "You don't strike me as the tea-drinking kind of guy."
"What do I strike you as?"
"Black, hot coffee." Stiles deadpans, and he gingerly takes the mug from Derek's hands. "As hot as possible, so you can throw it in somebody's face if you need to."
Derek blinks as if he's not surprised by this answer. "I would argue, but I definitely would do that."
Stiles shrugs, and he looks down into the mug at the warm, brown liquid sloshing around innocently. He frowns a bit and dips his finger into the tea, tastes it, and then asks the question he's been wondering for a few minutes. "Do you just carry cinnamon tea around with you?"
"It's not going to kill you," Derek tells him, almost like it's a mild admonishment, "but Scott mentioned that you're sick and I grabbed some from the diner down the street."
"How thoughtful. Diner tea." Stiles quips, but as he sips the tea, he's actually shocked at how thoughtful it really is. Who would think that Derek Hale, of all people, would go out of his way to try to make Stiles Stilinski feel better? They have this weird relationship going on, sure, but Stiles never figured it's a caring one.
Or, at least, if he ever did figure that, he squashed the notion down immediately to avoid internal embarrassment.
The tea's pretty good, considering it's from a two-star diner, and Derek's surprisingly quiet, choosing to sit next to Stiles and watch the reruns of Seinfeld that Stiles has basically given up on.
It's an oddly perfect moment, one that Stiles reminds himself to file away into his memories.
"Thank you." he says quietly, after a few minutes, and he can see Derek rolling his eyes in the light of the television. He feels an arm wrap around his blanketed shoulders.
He gets a kiss on the temple, and he's stuck on that for a while, to the point that he almost doesn't hear Derek mumble, "It's from a diner, it's not all that special."
But both of them know that that's a little bit of a lie.