This is what death must feel like.
“Stop being dramatic.”
“Huh?” Stiles blinks bleary eyes at Jackson.
“Death? Really, Stiles?” Jackson snorts. “It’s the flu. You aren’t dying.”
“You don’t know that, asshole.” It’s not like Stiles actually meant to say the death thing out loud. In fact, he isn’t entirely sure he did. It’s just like Jackson to go out and somehow gain mind-reading abilities to go with his enviable werewolf immunity to human ailments thing. “People can die from the flu, you know?”
Jackson rolls his eyes, not at all sympathetic to Stiles’ current plight. “I’ll be sure to tell you if I smell the stench of death starting to creep into your natural scent. I’m more likely to smell that than I am to suddenly start reading your mind. I think the meds you took are already going into effect since you’re babbling even more nonsense than usual.”
Before he can come up with an appropriate retort, he has a coughing fit that makes his chest hurt and his eyes water. There’s a glass of water thrust at him, and he takes it, gulping down half the glass before he falls back against the sofa. “I feel terrible,” he admits, rubbing his throat and blinking up at Jackson, who is putting the glass back on the table.
“Sucks to be you,” Jackson says, smiling smugly as he sits on the edge of their coffee table. “This whole immune to illnesses thing is definitely a perk of being a werewolf.”
“You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m dying,” Stiles whines, putting his arm across his forehead and grimacing when he feels how hot his skin feels. “Most husbands would put on a cute uniform and try nursing me back to help.”
“I’m not putting on my scrubs and playing doctor with you because you’ve got the flu,” Jackson tells him bluntly. “I told you no during all of undergrad, all of med school and my residency, and I’ve managed to stay firm the five years I’ve been working since then. That’s eighteen years of no, Stiles. I won’t play doctor with you.”
“Your scrubs aren’t a cute uniform, even if they do make your ass looking amazing.” Stiles gets distracted thinking about Jackson’s ass when he’s scrubbed in for surgery. Stiles might have accidentally (totally on purpose) made it a habit to drop by the hospital when he knows Jackson’s booked an OR for the day. Erica is a great partner in crime, so she’s always texting him when she notices Jackson’s scrubbing in for surgery. Of course, Erica has to make sure Jackson never finds out or he’d probably stop letting her work as his primary nurse. He blinks up at Jackson as he realizes what he just said. “Eighteen years? Really?”
“Yes, really. We’re old, Stiles.” Jackson huffs. “Oh well. At least I still look young and handsome.” He reaches over to stroke a cold cloth down Stiles’ feverish face. “You aren’t too bad, either. I could hate the fact that you don’t look a day over twenty-five, you know?”
“Nah. You like parading me around like a pretty young thing on your arm during those stuck up surgeon dinners,” Stiles murmurs, leaning into the wet rag on his face. It feels so good. “I’m your arm candy. Anyway, I don’t much a ton of money at the station, and you’re rich, so you’re kind of like my sugar daddy, too.”
“I’m going to ignore that comment at the moment due to your current dazed and confused condition,” Jackson informs him. “However, I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly over me being your sugar daddy at a future time.”
Another coughing fit makes Stiles hit his face against Jackson’s hand as he moves up to cough. Jackson drops the wet cloth, carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair and rubbing his scalp as he hacks up his lungs. Stiles groans, sucking in a few deep breaths before he falls back against the pillows. “I hate being sick, Jax. I feel like shit.”
“You look like hell,” Jackson tells him matter-of-factly. He puts a spoonful of ice chips on Stiles’ tongue before rubbing something on his chest that tingles but feels pretty good. “I know you hate it, Stiles. That’s obvious from the regression to a whiny six year old and overly dramatic claims of death being imminent.”
“Not a whiny six year old.” Stiles sulks, trying to glare up at Jackson but not really succeeding because he feels bad.
“Stiles, it’s like you went back in time thirty years as soon as the doctor confirmed it was flu instead of just a cold.” Jackson chuckles. “You can trust me on that since I clearly remember whiny little Stiles. That’s the year we met, after all, and you gave me a bloody nose because I tried to be your friend.”
“Lies.” Stiles grins up at him, feeling a little less pain so either the medication is finally working or Jackson’s been taking some of his pain. Maybe both? He blinks at Jackson. “You knocked Scott down on the playground and tried to steal my action figures. Weren’t try’na be my friend.”
“Scott was stealing all of your attention, and those action figures were pretty awesome, if I remember correctly.” Jackson huffs. “You were supposed to play with me instead of him, but you punched me instead. Then you had the audacity to befriend Scott and become so close to him that I hated you both.”
“More lies.” Stiles moves his hand over Jackson’s face, brushing his fingers up and down his lips several times before Jackson grips his wrist and tugs his hand back down. “You love me.”
“Hmph.” Jackson puts a pill in Stiles’ mouth before getting him the glass of water. “Time for your aspirin. Swallow.”
“Heard that before,” Stiles says, laughing until it becomes coughing. He swallows the pill dry, blinking up at Jackson, who is snickering at him. “Shush. Bad husband.”
“I think maybe it’s time for you to stop pretending that you don’t need to be upstairs in bed instead of sprawled out on the sofa.” Jackson puts his palm against Stiles’ forehead, making a thoughtful noise. “Good. Not as warm as you were earlier. Are you ready to go to bed now?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs the word, trying to sit up. Jackson had told him to go to bed as soon as they got home from the doctor, but Stiles had refused to take the order, so he’d thought taking over the sofa was a good show of rebellion. As it is, Jackson had been right, not that he planned to tell him that.
“Hey, stop that, dumbass.” Jackson stands and picks Stiles up like he doesn’t weigh anything. It’s unfair, but Stiles doesn’t feel well enough to bitch about it right now. “Sometimes I worry about the safety of this town when our beloved sheriff doesn’t have enough self-preservation to take care of himself.”
“I take care of myself. I just hate being so weak,” he grumbles, burying his face against Jackson’s neck.
“I know you do, babe.” Jackson kisses his forehead as he carries him upstairs. “It’ll only be a few days then you’ll be better.”
“Promise?” Stiles rests his head against Jackson’s chest and holds on to him, not that he’s worried about Jackson ever dropping him.
“I’m a doctor, Stiles. I think I might know a thing or two about the flu.” Jackson sets Stiles down on their bed. He plumps up the pillows and tucks Stiles under the blankets before grabbing the box of Kleenex off the bedside table on his side, moving them to Stiles’ bedside table.
“You’re a surgeon. You know about bones and stuff,” Stiles reminds him, reaching up to pat one of those sharp cheekbones. “Not normal stuff.”
“I had a rotation through family medicine. I know more about the flu than I ever cared to.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “Are you feeling hungry yet?”
“Maybe later?” Stiles wiggles down in the bed so he’s lying on his back. The change in position makes him start coughing, but the fit passes eventually “I’m cold now. Warm me up, Jax.”
“Let me know you feel like eating. You can have soup today, but I wouldn’t suggest trying anything more solid until you’re feeling better.” Jackson takes his shoes off before he crawls into the bed beside Stiles. “Come here. I’ll make you nice and warm.”
“Snuggles always make me feel better,” he whispers, curling up against Jackson’s warm body. “Can you do your magic pain thingy on my back? It hurts from all the coughing.”
Jackson strokes his back lightly. “That better?” he asks before gently kissing him. “You should get some sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“I am tired,” Stiles agrees, yawning as he snuggles closer. “Don’t wanna sleep, though.”
Jackson snorts. “Of course you don’t. I suggested it,” he teases, stroking Stiles’ jaw with his knuckles. “But, this time, you should listen. Sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
“Mm’kay,” Stiles says, his eyes heavy and closing as he feels Jackson’s lips press against his temple. “Night night, Jax. Love you lots.”
“Love you more,” Jackson whispers, kissing his forehead and tightening his grip around him. “Sweet dreams.”