Could I ask for fluffy Allison/Stiles/Boyd (if you're not fond of that ship, maybe Boyd/Erica?) with maybe some hurt comfort? <3
I hope you start feeling better soon, friend! <3 Here’s some Allison/Stiles/Boyd fluff n stuff for you <3
Stiles has the flu. it is not a pleasant experience, but maybe Boyd and Allison make it better. 2k, no warnings
Stiles steals the covers on a good night. He doesn’t mean to, but he rolls around on the nights that he’s not snuggled up behind Allison or curled around Boyd, and in the process, he tangles himself up in the sheets. They tease him lovingly for it the next morning when they unwrap him from his blanket cocoon and envelope him in gentle touches and soft kisses before they’re all off for the day.
But today is not a good day.
Stiles has had a fever for the last two days, can’t breathe through his nose, has a migraine, and can’t keep down anything that isn’t tasteless liquid. Today, the illness has come to a head. Normally, Stiles is the last one out the door for work, but he couldn’t find the energy in him to get up and go to work, so he called in sick. All it took was him rolling over in bed and huffing into the phone that he didn’t feel very well for his supervisor to tell him not to come back in until he felt better.
After getting off the phone with his boss, Stiles calls Allison. He tries to time it so that she’s between the gym and her walk to the coffee shop for pre-work coffee. She answers the phone breathless but chipper.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” she says fondly, and Stiles imagines her walking down the sidewalk with her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, the same way she talks to Boyd on the phone when Stiles has made her late for date night and she’s fumbling around in her purse for her keys.
“Allison, I’m dying,” Stiles croaks in response. His voice is low and gravelly and he feels like if he speaks too loudly, he might be sick.
“Stiles? What’s wrong?”
“I think I have the flu,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have ignored being really hot the last few days, but now...oh god.” Stiles drops his head into the pillow with a pitiful whump and whines into the phone. “Allison, save me.” Allison chuckles. If she were there, she would cup his cheek and kiss him on his temple and stroke his chest until he fell asleep. Stiles thinks about it and pouts.
“I can call Scott, have Melissa drop off some soup here at lunch so I can bring it home to you, if you want. You remember where Boyd keeps the Theraflu, right?” They’re all good solutions. Good, practical solutions for someone who has other things to do than listen to their significant other sniffle into the phone about how sick they are for the next seven to nine hours. Stiles is unimpressed.
“Fine,” he whines, wriggling on the bed in a subdued temper tantrum. He regrets the decision instantly, the quick motion in his limbs stripping him of his energy and making him dizzy. “Yes, mom, I know where Boyd put the stupid Theraflu.” Before he knows it, there are tears filling his eyes, and Stiles groans, frustrated. He’s always been sensitive when he’s sick, and the fact that he’s going to be home alone all day is a little overwhelming.
“Honey, I gotta go,” Allison says, unaware of Stiles’ crisis on the other line. “Drink water, rest. I’ll see you tonight. I love you.” Allison’s ‘I love you’ is always a little softer than the rest of whatever she has to say, and Stiles stifles a quiet sob as he tells her he loves her too, hangs up, and culs onto his side. The sunlight from under the blinds hurts his head and his eyes, but the dark makes his head spin. With an annoyed huff, he picks up the phone and calls Boyd.
It’s luck that he answers. Boyd’s a TA while he works on his graduate project in Architecture, and sometimes his seminars run over, or a student stops him to pick his brain after office hours.
“This is Boyd,” he answers, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
“You have to start checking your caller ID before you answer the phone eventually,” Stiles tries to joke, but it comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he winces into the phone. “I’m sorry, I’m--”
“You’re sick.” There’s no question or inflection in Boyd’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Allison?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” Stiles lingers on the sentiment and conjures up a tiny smile.
“Come make me feel better,” Stiles pleas. Boyd sighs and Stiles can hear him rubbing the side of his jaw with his palm, wants to feel that strong hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back. “Please?”
“Stiles...”Boyd warns. He has another class later today, Stiles knows it, but it’s the last straw. He’s sick and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to have to get his own medicine and be a grown up and take care of himself. He wants to be pampered.
“Whatever,” Stiles snarls into the receiver. When he hangs up, he puts his phone on Do Not Disturb and tosses it to the far side of the bed where he won’t be tempted to call back and beg again later. With a snotty sniffle of defeat and finality, Stiles yanks the comforter over his head and attempts to shiver away his chills.
He falls asleep between one cold sweat and the next, and when he wakes up, there’s a pleasant coolness against his forehead that lulls him into a half-consciousness. He’s not lying in the same position that he was when he fell asleep the first time: he can feel where the blanket is bunched up across his hips, and his pillow is under his left arm, but his head is still elevated. Confused, Stiles turns to the side, and the cold towel on his forehead slips down onto the bed. His head drops off of Boyd’s lap onto the bed and Boyd jerks awake underneath him at the sudden motion.
Boyd’s glasses are still on his nose, paperwork and a pen in a neat pile on the bed from where he’d been inadvertently sucked into the nap that Stiles was taking.
“You’re awake,” Boyd says, and reaches out the back of his hand to feel Stiles’ forehead and face while he pushes up his glasses on his head. “You sweat through the sheets. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the doctor?”
“What do you mean ‘am I sure’?” Stiles asks, leaning into Boyd’s touch. His hands are blessedly cool, and he basks in it, then goes in to rest his cheek against Boyd’s chest, regulating his breathing to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “This is the first time you’ve asked me.”
“Stiles, how long do you think I’ve been home?”
“You weren’t!” he insists. “I hung up on you. You had class. You said...” Stiles squints and looks at the clock on the bedside table. “You came home early for me?” The urge to cry tugs in Stiles’ chest, and he buries his face a little deeper into Boyd’s shirt.
“You were...you sounded so sick. And then you didn’t answer your phone. I called. Twice. I texted.”
“Sorry I worried you,” Stiles mumbles, and then takes one long breath through his mouth, fighting for air and the energy to remain upright.
“Just don’t do it again,” Boyd says, kissing the top of his head. “Gross, your head’s sweating,” he teases, dramatically wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand. Stiles musters a single chuckle from where he’s starting to fall asleep again. “Oh no, not yet. It’s time for water and more cold medicine if you refuse to go to the hospital,” Boyd says in his ‘I mean business’ tone, and Stiles knows it’s not worth it to argue. If he does Boyd will just pick him up and carry him wherever he’s supposed to be, and he doesn’t have the energy to pretend to resist.
“In a minute, okay? Don’t go yet. I just got to hold you.”
“Stiles, I’ve been here for four hours,” Boyd says, exasperated, but his grip tightens on Stiles nonetheless. Stiles gets deliberately still, pretends to go to sleep, and before long, Boyd’s snoring lightly above him. The sound eases the tighness in Stiles’ chest enough that he follows suit.
The next time he wakes up, he’s alone again and it’s dark outside. Stiles can hear the sound of Allison’s laughter in the kitchen, followed by the softer, deeper sound of Boyd’s snort. The familiar sounds, the life in the apartment and the knowledge that he’s not alone, give him a little bit of energy, and Stiles manages to swing himself out of bed and into the hall. Once he’s there, though, he realizes that he underestimated how weak his body actually is. Halfway down the hallway, he has to stop, winded, and sinks to the floor.
“Guys?” he calls, and his voice is scratchy and thick from sleep and bodyache. The laughter pauses.
“Stiles?” Allison calls, and he hears the tap of her shoes on the tile in the kitchen as she starts down the hall. She sees him as soon as she rounds the corner. “Stiles! Boyd,” she says, hurried, but he rests a hand on her knee to soothe her.
“Just tired. I woke up. I heard you,” he says, and the dopey smile he gives her cracks her stern interior.
“Let’s get you back into bed. Melissa made you tomato soup, okay?” Boyd comes into the hallway then, and rolls his eyes, but the smile on his lips is soft.
“Will you carry me?” he says to Boyd, reaching up his arms past Allison’s reach. Boyd takes a breath and chuckles, but kneels down and pulls Stiles into his arms. Stiles locks his legs around Boyd’s waist and his arms behind his neck, resting his heavy head on Boyd’s shoulder. “Have I ever mentioned I love how strong you are?” Boyd’s chuckle vibrates Stiles’ chest.
“Only every time you want something.”
“Can I have a kiss, my big, strong man?” Stiles coos, dropping soft kisses into Boyd’s neck while Boyd maneuvers them down the hall and into bed.
“Once you’re better,” Bod promises, but kisses him on the corner of his mouth anyway. “If I get sick,” Boyd says, and Stiles claps a hand over his mouth.
“I swear I won’t try to put my tongue in your mouth until I’m 100% healthy.”
“Now there’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one,” Allison says, coming into the room with a tray full of hot tomato soup and a chunk of French bread. There’s a steaming mug of something in the corner, and Stiles knows it’s Theraflu by the powdered lemon scent. Still, though, his stomach grumbles at the thought of having something to eat, and he downs the medicine with only one or two complaints.
Stiles eats slowly, stopping often to flop back against the pillows propping him up and breathe. Allison tells him about her day and Boyd grades papers at the desk next to the bed while Stiles throws little bread crumbs at him every time he ignores or doesn’t laugh at one of Stiles’ puns about being sick. Bedtime comes early: Stiles falls asleep halfway through his soup and a tirade about how much he could really go for some curly fries right about now. He wakes for a moment when he’s jostled into a horizontal position, open his mouth to complain, but he feels Allison’s head on his chest, soft hair tickling his arm, and Boyd’s chest against his back, and the complaint dies in his throat.
His desire to cry comes back, and Stiles swallows through the tightness in his throat. “I love you,” he mumbles, one tear slipping down his cheek as he reaches down to draw the comforter up over Allison’s shoulders. They whisper that they love him back, and Boyd confirms that his love is true even when Stiles is a sick pain in the ass.
“But I’m your pain in the ass,” Stiles protests, the last coherent thought he has before he drifts off.
“Yeah,” Boyd and Allison whisper at the same time. “Yeah, you are”.
In the morning, Stiles has stolen all of the blankets again and is almost too hot, but when he’s wrapped up in his lovers, he can’t find himself to be too uncomfortable at all.