"I'm dying."
"I swear to god, Peter, you're not dying. You've died before! You've known death! This isn't it!"
Stiles wouldn't consider the way he, and the rest of humanity, deals with common colds particularly heroic, but it turns out he's a goddamn superstar. The fact he manages to stay clean, fed, and clothed while sick—with a minimum of bitching—puts him head and shoulders above a born wolf dealing with a mild case of the sniffles.
He mutters to himself while tossing more throw blankets into the dryer, because Peter has apparently never been cold in his life, and earlier he got the goddamn lip going over a "chilly quilt." Never mind the glistening eyes when he ran out of noodles in his chicken soup.
"Ugh, you're such a sucker, Stilinski."
Balancing warm and fluffy throws in one hand and a cup of chamomile SleepyTime™ tea in the other, Stiles makes his way back into Peter's bedroom, where the wolf has made a nest of sadness in the middle of the king-sized bed. He sets the tea on the nightstand, with Peter sniffling pathetically (he's seen these wolves shrug off broken bones, but a magically-inflicted head cold is a bridge too far???) propped up by a ridiculous number of pillows.
"Here, creeper. Drink your tea."
Peter eyes him while he sips at the tea, nose rosy and typically perfect hair mussed in all directions. He looks shiftily down at his cup for a while before speaking.
"I need body heat, I'm freezing in addition to dying."
Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes with his entire body, but still lifts the edge of the warm throw mound and crawls in.
"Don't think this means you always get to be the little spoon, you big ol' zombified baby."
