Chicken Noodle Soup
A/N: Prompt from Travel1701 on FF.N, and weebleroxanne on AO3, both of which gave pretty much the same prompt.
ALSO: Kudos to all others who had vague mentions of this prompt. I assure you, all specific Prompts will most likely be used, no worries!
Summary: The Flu, enemy of the common man... And Stiles.
Stiles was a mess. A disgusting mess. One that dripped snot and other viscous fluids, and coughed like he was trying to force up a lung by sheer force. And who vomited when anything but saltine crackers touched his stomach. And who had hot-flashes and cold-flashes more often then some middle-aged women.
And, due to the fact that his Dad was out of town on some job-related get-together for the next two weeks, Stiles was staying at the Hale House, quarantined to a room with a brand new mattress and constantly getting peeked in on by his Cubs, Derek, and Peter. The latter of which would stand in the doorway and stare at his shirtless-self and make Stiles want to cover himself like some virgin maiden in a trashy romance when the bad guy catches her half-dressed. It never ceased to make him long for a shower and a can of industrial-strength mace.
But, for now, he'd settle with something to eat, even if he knew he'd throw most of it up.
"Derek," he croaked, voice stuffy and strangely muffled-sounding, but that never stopped Derek, with his Super-Wolfy-Hearing-of-Doom... Though, Stiles got the feeling he was creeping around outside the door and using those Wolfy Senses to be a Creeper, because the door always opened, like, immediately after Stiles said his name.
"What do you need, Stiles?" The Wolf rumbled, padding forward and placing his hand on Stiles head. His wonderfully cool hand. That, like, had magical powers to make migraines go away and make Stiles stop feeling like his pulsing eyes were going to fall out of his head. The boy moaned weakly and pressed into that hand with a relieved expression, and Derek rubbed his thumb gently against Stiles' temple.
"'M hungry," Stiles croaked after a couple of minutes, sniffling loudly as his nose continued to run, unchecked. Derek used his free hand to hand Stiles a couple of Kleenex©, and didn't seem at all bothered when Stiles blew enough mucus into them to drown a kitten.
"How about some soup?" was all he said, and Stiles whimpered an affirmative, but didn't let go of Derek's wrist when he pressed the cool appendage against his cheek, trying to relieve the uncomfortable heat his high fever was leaving him.
"'S nice," Stiles slurred; Derek sat next to him finally, pulled off his shirt, and tossed it aside, before moving the sick boy and himself about. When he stopped moving, Derek's legs were stretched out with Stiles cradled between them, his sweaty back pressed against Derek's front as his lolled back against the Alpha's shoulder.
"Scott and Boyd are downstairs," Derek said calmly, hands stroking up and down Stiles arms as he whimpered piteously, unhappy and nauseous. "I sent Peter and Allison to get some medicine, and the rest of the Pack is out hunting. You being sick has them stressed," he said before Stiles could ask why. "The run will be good for them." Stiles muttered to himself, already beginning to doze again. He stirred a bit when there was a loud crash downstairs, but fell asleep again when Derek started growling in the same, soothing way he did on Pack Nights, after everyone has inevitably made their way into a pile on His Mattress. He woke up fully about ten minutes later, when Scott stumbled into the room, trying desperately not to trip while balancing the tray in his arms, on which was a large bowl that was steaming lightly and a glass of water.
"We made chicken noodle soup," the boy declared, smiling at Stiles as Derek helped the sick boy sit up and let him brace against his body. "We tried to make tomato soup but... yeah... So here we go!" he declared as he carefully set the tray over Stiles legs. Stiles sniffled and peered up at Scott with narrowed, slightly puffy eyes.
"...You broke something, didn't you?" Stiles said hoarsely; the guilty look on the Beta's face was enough to have Stiles groaning and thumping his head against Derek's shoulder. Scott ducked his head and Boyd (who stood awkwardly in the doorway) bowed his head guiltily. Stiles opened his eyes and sighed, before sending the two of them a small smile. "Thank you both for making me soup. It smells great." The two Beta's immediately perked up, Scott beaming and Boyd sending him a rather shy looking smile.
"You can leave now," Derek rumbled; Stiles elbowed him lightly, careful not to jostle his soup. Derek scowled slightly down at him, and then looked up. "You both did a good job," he finally said; the two Wolves left smiling. "You spoil them," the Alpha told him; Stiles grunted, leaning forward and carefully eating his soup. Derek sat up slightly so that the sick boy could lean against him better. Stiles managed to eat the entire bowl before making Derek lay back and turning around so that he could nuzzle his face into the Wolf's chest. Derek began that soothing growl of his after a few startled moments of silence. One of his hands rubbed up and down Stiles' spine. The boy mumbled, and soon fell asleep, snoring due to congestion.
It was an hour later that he woke to Derek and Peter having a whispered argument. Stiles couldn't really focus, and he felt muzzy, like he was in one of those weird dreams. When he turned his head, Peter's face was, like, four inches from his own, but he was too groggy to be frightened though.
"Pedowolf, why you in m'dream?" He slurred out, confused. "I dun wanna bad touch." Peter's face became deadpan.
"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" the former Alpha asked, then shook his head. "Is your father in a relationship, Stiles?" Stiles blinked, confused.
"Dad?" He asked muzzily. "He's outta town..." Peter nodded, and put his face even closer, until all Stiles could see were his big, pale gray/blue eyes. "Pretty," he muttered, blinking groggily.
"Thank you," Peter's voice drifted through his head while he stared into those eyes. "Now, Stiles, is. Your. Father. Dating. Anyone." Stiles blinked slowly.
"Nooooo, not after Mom..." he muttered, fascinated when those eyes started glowing a bright, clear blue. "Ooh..."
"Excellent," Peter's voice was a little lower, a little more growly. After a second, he was gone, his voice coming from the other side of the room. Stiles couldn't understand what he was saying, and grumpily turned his face back into his pillow. His nice, comfy pillow with the nice thumping sound. There was a thump on the other side of the room, like the door was shutting, but Stiles was already more-than-halfway to being asleep again.
"You realize you just sent Peter after the Sheriff, right?" His pillow asked; Stiles frowned and smacked the spot right next to his head.
"Shuddup, stupid talkin' pillow..." he muttered, and fell asleep a few seconds later.
Stiles was sick for almost the entire time his Dad was gone, and the day he finally got better, he wandered downstairs to find the entire house a mess. He'd peeked in on Derek (who he'd finally convinced to go sleep in his room), but since the Sourwolf was fast asleep, he'd left him alone. Peter was sitting on the couch, mostly asleep, and the rest of the Pack was at school (or in Isaac's case, out Running). Stiles shushed the former Alpha when the Wolf opened his mouth. Peter shut his mouth and nodded his head in response. Stiles shook his head and quietly started cleaning the living room, taking dirty dishes to the kitchen (where he flinched in horror at the mess, food stains on nearly every surface, and how did the microwaves door get broken?!). He then went back through and picked up all the dirty clothes before taking them to the laundry room (where he found a basket full of pale pink clothes that had once been white, and a single red sock, which he made a deadpan look at). After he started a load, he returned to the living room and began to vacuum, making Peter grimace slightly before he got up and moved upstairs, making Stiles role his eyes and mutter about Zombie-Wolves and messy Cubs and how hopeless everyone was at keeping the house clean without him and then wondering if they even had any food left that wasn't spoiled from lack of use...
"Well, let's see what we can salvage, shall we?" he muttered with a sigh, and moved around the kitchen. First thing he did was start a load of dishes (after pulling a bra out of the machine, one of Erica's, if he wasn't mistaken...), before he grabbed some cleaning supplies and scrubbed every surface over-zealously, determined to kill every germ that had taken up residence while he was sick. Once that was done, he put away the clean dishes and started another load. Then he took out the trash, dumped the tablecloth in the laundry room, swept and mopped the floor, and threw out all the spoiled foods (mostly milk and other dairy products, as well as a loaf of bread and the last of the bagels.). Only after he had done this (and exchanged the last of the dishes in the dish washer) did he start to think about dinner.
"Let's see," He murmured, going through the cabinets and pantry to see what all they had. "I could make steak, with green beans... Tomatoes... With Chimichurri sauce... A plain salad... Corn... And for desert..." He pursed his lips, poking through the pantry again. "Let's see... Huh, that heavy cream is still good... Let's go for a Chocolate Crème Brulee." He gathered all the needed materials, and then paused thoughtfully. The steak-and-veggies meal he had planned was for the grill...
But, hey, he could totally improvise!
Carefully moving around, he decided to make the Crème Brulee first, since it had to sit in the fridge for two hours after being cooked. Swiftly, he Preheated the oven at three hundred fifty degrees, and got to work.
He got a medium-sized saucepan, and set it on the oven to begin heating. While that was happening, Stiles poured in one quart of heavy cream, a cup of sugar, an ounce of chocolate liqueur (he went with the recommended Godiva Liqueur), and a half-tablespoon of vanilla extract. Once it was warm, he started carefully whisking in the single ounce of unsweetened chocolate, and the two ounces of cocoa powder. Once it was all mixed well, he set the burner to its lowest setting to keep the mix warm, and then grabbed all eleven eggs needed for the next part. Quickly and neatly, he separated yolk and white, tossed the white and shells into the trash, and dumped all the yolks into a stainless steel bowl (why it needed to be that, instead of just using a plain old plastic bowl, Stiles didn't know). Sighing softly, he began to swiftly whisk the eggs, while slowly adding the chocolate-cream mix, a little at a time.
Once it was all mixed together, Stiles strained the mix and carefully poured it into eleven separate, small ramekins (Weird names for a small porcelain or glass owl used for all sorts of food. They were also called Bouillon bowls or ramequin. Stiles didn't remember why, but, oh well.). Once that was done, he carefully placed the ramekins into a large baking pan, and then filled the pan with hot water until he'd reached the middle of the ramekins. Then, he carefully slid the pan into the oven, setting the timer for thirty minutes, though he'd check it after twenty-five. The Crème Brulee just needed to be firm in the middle, after all.
Now that that was done, Stiles wiped his forehead and got to work on the steak-and-veggies he planned for the main course. First, he dumped a bunch of green beans into a tin-foil-made tray, that had high rims on it. Next he tossed in a bunch of grape tomatoes, cut in half. He added a tablespoon of olive oil (The expensive kind... Derek spoiled him.) and seasoned the lot of it with salt and ground pepper. He may have added a bit of steak seasoning just for the hell of it, but, hey, as long as it tasted good, no one was complaining (And seeing as how he had had to throw away seven pizza boxes and a bunch of Chinese take-out cups... Yeah, no one was going to complain about, like, anything.). That done, he had to wait to put it in the oven, since the Crème Brulee was in there and all...
Stiles got to work on the steaks next. Unlike the recipe, he decided against halving the strip steaks, and left the fat on. The recipe itself was a healthy-minded one and, had he been making it for his Dad, Stiles would have followed it to mostly a "T", but, well...
With Super!Digestive powers.
And Metabolisms from hell.
Shaking his head and regaining his focus, Stiles seasoned the meat with salt and pepper (as per the recipe), and then added a touch of garlic powder, curry powder, and some steak seasoning. That done, he put a new skillet on the stove, put the heat on a decent temperature, and dumped in some oil. While the oil was heating, he used a can opener and opened three cans of corn, and promptly dumped them into a pot to heat up. It was inelegant, but, hey, it worked didn't it? He also decided against using the Chimichurri sauce. Maybe another time... Humming softly to himself, Stiles carefully began cooking the large pile of steaks he had sitting out, just buying his time until he needed to check the Crème Brulee (which he did right on time. They were finished five minutes early. He'd need to remember that for later... For now, he just put the little ramekins in the fridge, put the veggies in the oven for fifteen minutes at the same temperature, and left it at that.). He cooked the steaks until they were medium-rare, and flipped them onto a plate. He then stepped away and made a quick bowl of salad, using the last of the grape tomatoes, halved, and mixed them with the lettuce and some thin slices of onion. He pulled the veggies from the oven and sat them on the counter-top, and then moved away.
He got a clean tablecloth and spread it over the table, before moving newly clean plates into place, silverware and glasses of water in place for himself, Derek, and Peter, with empty glasses setting out for the rest of the Pack. Once that was done, Stiles put all the food onto proper plates/bowls, and set them on the table. Finished, he looked over it all with a critical eye, and then smiled to himself, pleased. Taking off his mitts (he had had to put them on to move the hotter plates), the teenager padded quietly up the stairs and gently knocked on Derek's door before peeking his head in. Derek lifted his head groggily from his pillow, and Stiles sent him a small smile.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he greeted warmly. "Dinners ready, if you're hungry-" He blinked, head jerking back slightly in surprise, as Derek just appeared in front of him, eyes wide and eager.
"Dinner. Now," he rumbled; Stiles gave him a bemused look.
"Aye, aye, He-Man," he replied; Derek only grunted and brushed past him, zooming downstairs. Peter slipped from his room and swiftly followed the Alpha, making Stiles snicker.
"I feel so appreciated," he murmured, trotting downstairs and joining the two Wolves at the table, quickly dishing out both mens food in a fit of parental-instinct (Peter was looking a bit peeky and Derek still looked tired). He sat and smiled at the two.
"Well?" He asked, and grinned a bit. "God but I've missed saying that, and doing this."
"And you've been missed," Peter told him as Stiles was making his plate. Derek grunted.
"That reminds me," Stiles said as he began cutting up his steak. "Who broke the microwave?" Derek paused and turned his head to stare at the appliance like he had never seen it before. Peter snorted.
"That would be Isaac," the Beta told him; Stiles and Derek both turned incredulous eyes on him. "The latch got caught on his shirt sleeve, and he automatically yanked. Well," Peter gave him his usual Like a Boss face, sardonic eyebrow raised and all. "I believe you can deduce what happened next." Stiles blinked.
"Deduce?" He asked incredulously. "Who the hell uses deduce anymore? Should I start calling you Sherlock? And if I did, who would be Watson? Oh! Who's James Moriarty, and who's Mycroft? And no way in hell am I the landlady!" He declared, scowling. Peter gave him a dry, amused look. And Derek had returned to steadily demolishing his meal. Stiles shook his head and finished his plate as well, before something came to him.
"Wait a minute," he muttered, and turned to stare at Peter narrowly. "Why did you want to know about my Dad when I was sick?" Peter blinked.
"I am attempting to court him as a mate," Peter replied nonchalantly; Stiles made an undignified squawking sound.
"As is Chris Argent."
Meanwhile, Derek just kept eating, and pretended that nothing else existed but his food.
A/N: Done. Kudos to HiddenByFaeries for suggesting Peter's and Papa Argent's interest in Papa Stilinski.
ALSO: The Chocolate Crème Brulee wasn't finished. After the two hours in the fridge, you dust it with sugar, crystallize it with a propane torch, and then serve immediately.
PLEASE DO NOT USE THE TORCH UNLESS CONFIDENT IN YOUR ABILITIES. I DO NOT PROMOTE HOUSE FIRES OR BURNS FROM SUCH A DEVICE. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK!