Werewolves are meant to be invulnerable, but it’s just Derek’s luck that he should fall sick. Battling mistletoe poisoning, the last person he expects to take care of him is Peter, and yet—there he is.
For chanelle (AO3): I really want a fic where Derek is sick or injured and just needing babied in general! Doesn't matter to me what kind of sick/injury. Vomiting fever etc.
As for who I want to see mother henning... I'd like it to be Uncle Peter! Not a slash pairing at all but just where uncle loves and cares for his nephew! I feel like there really aren't enough fics out there that show this side of Peter. Also I really believe Peter does care in his own way.
Derek felt the world spin around him, his stomach churning as he found it harder and harder to swallow past the rising bile in his throat. His body felt heavy, his legs dragging across the floor as he struggled to make his way to the kitchen. He staggered and slumped against the benchtop, bracing himself on his trembling arms as the urge to vomit overtook him. Bursts of light blinded his vision as he collapsed against the sink and hurled.
Inky black sludge splattered against the steel sink. He turned the tap on, washing it down the drain. He cupped his hands and drank the water, spitting out the remnants of the mistletoe and black fluid in his mouth. He splashed the cool water across his face, feeling clarity ease his mind as he shut off the water and straightened his back.
“Derek?” a voice called from the living room.
Derek let out a heavy sigh, grabbing the dish towel and drying his face before staggering over to the doorway and glaring at the man standing in the larger space of the loft.
“Good god, you look like hell,” Peter remarked.
Derek narrowed his glare. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically, still clutching the towel in his hand.
“What happened to you?” Peter asked.
“Got in a fight with a Darach,” Derek explained. “They used mistletoe spores.”
“Okay, you need to lie down,” Peter said, rushing over to his nephew’s side and gently escorting him towards his bed.
Derek brushed Peter’s hands away. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine.”
“Look, we’ve had our issues in the past, there’s no denying that,” Peter said. “But you are my nephew.”
“Peter,” Derek said firmly. He looked his uncle in the eye as he insisted, “I’m fine.”
“Will you please just lie down?” Peter said pleadingly.
“If I lie down, I’m not going to get up again,” Derek pointed out.
“Then let me help you,” Peter insisted.
“You’re not going to leave me alone unless I say yes, are you?”
Peter smirked. “You know me too well.”
Derek rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he huffed, dragging his lethargic body over to the bed and collapsing among the sheets. He felt his energy drain away, so exhausted that he didn’t even try to fight Peter off as his uncle pulled the blanket up over him.
He let his eyes drift shut as sleep overcame him.
When he woke, he heard noises in the kitchen. He let to a weak grunt as he forced himself to sit up in bed.
Peter seemed to hear him, because he came rushing out of the kitchen with a glass of water and a packet of crackers.
“Here,” Peter said, passing the glass of water to Derek. “Drink up. And when you’re feeling well enough to eat, have some of these.”
He set the crackers down on the bed-side table.
“I’ve called Deaton and he’s going to bring over some herbs and stuff to help get the mistletoe out of your system,” he explained.
Derek watched as Peter reached over to the bed-side table, picking up a small towel that sat in a bowl of cool water, ringing it out before placing it against Derek’s forehead.
Derek pulled back slightly, squinting suspiciously at his uncle.
Peter rolled his eyes. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”
“If you were in my place, would you trust you?” Derek asked.
Peter’s brow knitted together for a moment as he looked at his nephew. He shook his head slightly, his face relaxing as he looked at Derek. “You are my sister’s son, my nephew. Believe it or not, I care about you. You’re the only family I have.”
Derek paused for a moment, shocked by his uncle’s sincerity.
“I guess I’m just not used to you mother-henning me,” Derek croaked. “You were always more of a ‘survival of the fittest’ kind of person.”
“I know, but things tend to change when there’s only two of us left,” Peter admitted. He sat still for a second before setting the towel back in the bowl and rising to his feet. “Deaton won’t be here for a couple more hours, so just try and get some more sleep. I’ll make soup.”
Derek sat still watching his uncle make his way back to the kitchen, his eyes darkened by pain and his sullen face falling into an expression of sorrow. He waited for a little while before reaching for the packet of crackers, nibbling on them until he felt he couldn’t eat any more. He set the box down on the drawer and shuffled back under the blankets, pulling them back up around his face and letting himself settle into sleep again.
He woke to the smell of chicken soup, blinking he eyes open. He kicked the blankets off and threw his legs off the side of the bed, struggling to his feet. He staggered into the kitchen, collapsing on one of the chairs by the table.
“You know I would have brought it to you if you had stayed in bed, right?” Peter scolded him.
“I didn’t want to stay in bed,” Derek muttered.
Derek could almost hear Peter roll his eyes. He watched as his uncle dished the soup into bowls and brought it over to the table.
He picked up three small vials that sat on the counter, sitting down at the table across from Derek. He set the vials down in front of Derek, pointing at the first two as he explained, “Ginger for nausea and cumin extract for abdominal pain, constipation and diarrhea.” He pointed at the third vial. “And a mixture of dandelion, red clover and cilantro to flush the toxins out of your system. Deaton says you can put the last two in your soup and the ginger in your tea.”
Derek nodded, unscrewing the small lids on the vials and sprinkling the herbs into his soup. He stirred them in before lifting a spoonful to his lips. His heart fluttered as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. He couldn’t help but smile as he said, “It’s just like mum used to make it.”
Peter smiled at him, but his smile fell as a glint of pain filled his eyes. He lowered his head and began to eat his soup.
Derek didn’t say anything else.
They sat in silence as they ate.
Derek’s heart ache as Peter’s words returned to him: it was only the two of them.
When he finished, he let Peter clear away the dishes and help him back to bed, letting his uncle take care of him.
