It goes like this--there’s a rock. There’s a rock, in the middle of a fairy circle on a full moon in the spring. It appears out of nowhere, and Stiles finds it in the middle of the night.
He doesn’t even know how he got here, doesn’t know when he left his bed. His feet are bare, his sleep pants thin, his t-shirt a useless barrier against the brisk night wind. The trees branches rustle like some secret conversation he can’t understand is happening all around him.
I should go home, he thinks to himself, and finds himself taking a step forward. I should not touch that rock, he thinks, but it’s sleek and glossy like white marble, a smooth pillar with a slight curve in the middle and so he moves forward, reaches out and strokes it. It’s warm under his fingertips, and that warmth seems to spread through him, like a blanket reaching out to cover him.
He wakes up the next morning in his own bed, and remembers the outdoors, the grass beneath his feet, but nothing else. After he showers, he can’t even really remember that, and eventually he forgets it all together.
The next night, instead, he dreams of someone calling for him, looking for him, just out of sight, out of reach.
He swears off snacking at night.
Three months later, he passes his chem final, his honors latin exam, and a pregnancy test. The latter Scott makes him take after a couple weeks of voracious appetites, mood swings, and the constant, almost obsessive rubbing over the soft swell of his tummy.
“Pee on this one,” Scott says. “It makes a picture of a stork if you’re knocked up.”
“You pee on it,” Stiles says, surrounded by smug, pastel-colored sticks.
“I did,” Scott says. “It gave me a sad face. Which honestly, I think is a little insensitive, because not everyone would be particularly sad about that.”
“You are,” Stiles says, mutinously
“Damn straight,” Scott says. “I’d be so good at being pregnant. I’d be so fat and happy, and I bet my boobs would get huge.” He gestures a foot away from his chest, breasts the size of beach balls.
Stiles imagines his own breasts, god, pecs damn it, swelling, and he falls backwards to sprawl bonelessly in their bathroom tub. “What am I going to do?” he says, pathetic and sniffling.
Scott climbs in with him immediately, tucking his body around Stiles’s, pulling him in close. “You can do anything you want,” he says, his voice serious, calm. “You know Deaton will help you.”
“I know,” Stiles says, miserable. His throat feels choked up and his eyes feel tight. Deaton will help him, and his dad will help him, and no one will be mad at him for getting magically knocked up despite his total lack of appropriate plumbing. Everyone will pull together and do whatever Stiles wants.
Whatever that is.
He and Scott both graduate and pack up their shitty campus apartment in old banana boxes and garbage bags. Stiles goes to graduation because Scott does, because Melissa threatened them both, a digital camera waved like a weapon in their faces. He goes, and he sits next to Robby Stine and he thinks what do I want?
The pack assembles at Deaton’s, once they’re home. Scott had asked if Stiles had wanted privacy for this, but Stiles hasn’t wanted privacy about anything having to do with his body for years, not after the Nogistune. If anything he wants any and all physical oddities peer reviewed and duly judged by a full jury.
Malia fistbumps him when she finds out, delight on her face. “I’m gonna run around with your kid on my back and teach it coyote stuff. I hope it doesn’t have a tail.”
“Stop calling my kid an it,” Stiles says, cranky. “And she’s not going to have a tail.”
“How do you know?” Liam says, interestedly.
“Because humans don’t have tails,” Stiles says, and chucks a pen at him.
“I think he means the gender,” Deaton says mildly, emerging from his office.
Stiles hesitates, and then says, “I’ve been having dreams.”
Scott yelps, punches his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me that!”
Stiles rubs the spot, glaring at him. “You’ve been giving me a lot of lectures about my right to choose! I didn’t want to confuse the issue!”
“You do have the right to choose,” Scott shrieks. “Dreams or no dreams, magic or no magic!”
“What are the dreams,” Deaton asks, redirecting them.
“I’m in the forest,” Stiles says, and he shivers, despite the relative warmth in the air. “I can hear her calling, and I can’t--.” He shakes his head, frustrated.
When he looks up, Derek’s in the doorway, frozen mid step. He’s staring at Stiles, wide-eyed, shocked. “She’s just out of reach,” he says, hoarsely, and Stiles knows, knows without a shadow of a doubt that Derek’s having them too, that Derek’s in this with him.
For a beat, they just look at each other. Objectively, this is no weirder than anything else they’ve been through. Scott’s been turned into a cat twice, Liam met an ogre, and Lydia, after a vicious altercation with a pixie, had lost her grip on gravity and for three memorable hours, had to be held onto with a string, a snarling, furious balloon.
So he and Derek are having shared dreams about Stiles’s impossible unborn child. Add it to the list, he thinks, and finally looks away from Derek, rubbing his stomach tentatively.
“Well papa,” he says, addressing his father, who so far has been sitting, shellshocked, on stacks of cat food. “I think I’m keeping my baby.”
“That’s awful,” Scott says. “Should have gone with a Juno joke.”
Nothing happens for awhile. He gets a swell, just a little one. Nothing anyone would notice, like maybe he just ate a few too many burritos, skipped too many lacrosse games. His back starts to ache, sometimes, and he complains about it until Scott draws away his pain.
The biggest problem is that he doesn’t have anything to do. He’s got his diploma, and pre-Pipsqueak he had plans to find a job, to join the hordes of the disgruntled graduates looking for whatever scraps of employment there were to be found in Northern California.
That’s out of the question now. His bump isn’t worthy of comment at the moment, but in a few more months, it will be. Deaton isn’t sure how he’ll tolerate the later parts of pregnancy, has warned that Stiles might find himself on bedrest.
Stiles has no intention of letting that happen, but it doesn’t mean he wants to push his luck either.
Luckily there’s one other person in Beacon Hills who’s as big a bum, if not more so, as him.
“Give me that key back,” Derek says immediately, when Stiles slides open the door.
“Absolutely not,” Stiles says with glee. He’s amassed a collection now, a whole ring of house keys belonging to almost every person he counts as friend. It soothes hims sometimes, when he can’t sleep. He counts them, traces the edges.
Now he uses Derek’s key solely to annoy him.
“I could have been naked,” Derek says.
“Too bad,” Stiles says, because he’s an asshole. He settles down on the floor next to Derek, looks at the papers Derek’s got spread out. “What are you up to?”
“Drawing a map,” Derek grunts, points to a rolled up scroll next to him. “Deaton wants an accounting of the property lines, what was my mother’s, and what belongs to the neighboring packs.”
He shows Stiles the book he’s working from, a dusty tome full of names Stiles doesn’t recognize.
“Gimme,” Stiles says, immediately, and settles in to help.
He doesn’t get morning sickness, thank god. He wakes up like he usually does, as if surfacing from a vat of molasses, spending a good fifteen minutes hating everyone and everything, before he’s up and facing the day. Same routine he’s had since he was twelve.
He does, however suddenly and inexplicably develop a hatred of the smell of coconut.
“Your blood pressure looks good,” Deaton tells him, after a check-up.
“Thank you,” Stiles says. “I come by it naturally.”
“Eat more dark, leafy greens,” Deaton says, and Stiles rolls his eyes.
That afternoon, he lets himself into Derek’s loft to find a salad waiting for him, kale and arugula.
“Were you eavesdropping?” Stiles says, appalled. Derek flushes, which is all the answer Stiles needs. “I already have a father, you know,” he says. “And an Alpha.”
“I’m still having dreams,” Derek says, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m invested.”
“Ugh,” Stiles says, but he takes a bowl, and when he has an appointment again, he brings Derek with him.
“You should name the kid Scott,” Scott says one afternoon, when he’s mercilessly spanking Stiles at Madden.
“Pipsqueak is a girl,” Stiles says. It’s starting to get uncomfortable to sit on the floor, his hard little bump getting in the way.
“Scott can be a girl’s name,” Scott says. “Scottina. Scottisha. Scottsophine.”
“Scottielle,” Stiles says, and they high-five. He feels weird, all of a sudden, in his skin but it helps having Scott here, leaning against him, being with him. “You’re definitely godfather,” he says suddenly.
“Dude,” Scott says, and tears up.
The weird feeling doesn’t go away, just seems to sink into his bones. Scott leaves, and Stiles lies down on his bed. He’s under the covers at first, hoping to nap, but it gets too humid too fast. He kicks them off, and after a minute takes off his clothes too. Spread out on the bed, naked in the breeze coming from the open window, he lies there, trying to catch his breath. I hope Derek comes, he thinks, inexplicably. There’s no reason for Derek to come over--that’s not how their relationship works. Stiles barges into Derek’s life, and Derek pretends to hate it. There’s no reason for Derek to come anywhere near him.
Derek comes through the window a moment later, stops stock still when he sees Stiles on the bed.
“What are you doing?” Stiles croaks, and his throat feels itchy, his skin tight. He might have a fever.
“I don’t know,” Derek says, and inches forward, eyes wide and shocked.
“I think I’m dying,” Stiles tells him.
“No you’re not.” Derek sounds so sure, and Stiles isn’t inclined to believe him except that Derek sits on the edge of the bed, and Stiles feels better. He closes his eyes and when Derek brushes his fingers over the back of Stiles’s hand, he moans.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. He shifts his fingers until he and Derek are holding hands, palm to palm. The contact makes him shudder, makes his heart pump faster, and suddenly, inexplicably he wants Derek on top of him, covering him.
He’s never been attracted to Derek before. He’s not blind, Derek’s attractive, always has been, but he’s never wanted like this, with every part of him straining, needing him.
“You owe me,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t quite know what he means, but he knows it will work, will get Derek to move, and it does.
Derek’s tentative when he touches Stiles, leaves their hands linked but uses the other to tilt Stiles’s face up for a kiss. It’s sweet, nice, nothing like Stiles had thought about, if he’d thought about how Derek would kiss. Derek touches his face like Stiles might break, and he should be annoyed, but he kind of likes it, leans into it.
After a minute, Derek does shift, settling gingerly beside Stiles on the bed. “What do you need?” he says, quietly.
“Just touch me,” Stiles says, and when Derek wraps his hands around his dick, it’s almost too much. He’s not a virgin by any means, not new to handjobs, has gotten a few people to spank his monkey, but something feels different about the way Derek strokes at him, like he’s milking Stiles for something, pulling something from him. Stiles comes with a sigh, pulsing over Derek’s hand, and Derek licks it up.
The fever seems to dissipate, things not so hazy, and Stiles starts to feel a little self-conscious about how he’s naked, sweaty, fucked out in his bed with his big bump on display while Derek’s fully dressed, still mostly composed.
“You okay?” Derek says, and Stiles is, tells him so, but also doesn’t let him leave, tugs on his clothes until Derek kicks them off too, settles over Stiles, covering him like a big heavy blanket.
Stiles sleeps for a bit. When he wakes, the room is dark and cool, but he’s on fire. He gasps himself awake, shifts to find himself wet between his legs. “My water broke,” he says, stupidly, and Derek reaches down, feels him.
“It’s not water,” Derek says, and presses a finger inside him, using the slick coating the way.
“Fuck,” Stiles says, and arches into it. He’s still confused, betrayed by his body again, but he can’t do anything but want it, to spread his legs and beg for it.
Derek kneels between his legs, rubs a calming hand over his thigh and presses them even wider. He’s fingerfucking Stiles faster now, pressing and feeling where Stiles is so hot and wet.
“It’s not going to be enough,” Stiles gets out at one point.
“I know,” Derek answers, and looks at Stiles, raises his eyebrows.
Stiles nods. He’s already knocked up, it’s not like he’s going to get more knocked up, although maybe nothing’s impossible now.
Derek kneels up, kisses him again, and links one of their hands together again, fingers tangled up, palms together. He uses his free hand to guide his cock in, and Stiles gasps, lightning shooting all down his spine.
Derek won’t fuck him hard, won’t respond to the way Stiles presses his heel against Derek’s back, urging him on. Instead, Derek fucks him deep, each thrust purposeful and directed, a rhythm that’s slowly driving Stiles insane.
“Come on,” he begs. “Fuck, come on.”
“Like this,” Derek grits out, and he holds Stiles still, makes him take it again and again until Stiles is coming again, shaking and shivering with it.
“Do it,” Stiles says, when he can. “Do it, I swear to God, you have to do it.”
“I know,” Derek says. “Shut up.” He speeds up then, moving faster until Stiles can feel something nudging against him, pressing him wider until Derek forces it in. Stiles knows then that’s what he’d needed, what he’d been waiting for, and he feels like he can breathe again.
“You okay?” Derek says, cupping his jaw. His hands are warm, and he’s searching Stiles’s eyes, like he’s going to find recrimination, blame.
“She’s yours, isn’t she,” Stiles says, which isn’t what he meant to say. What he meant to say was yes, this feels amazing, or I will be when I get a shower, or can we order pizza?
Derek winces. “I think I wished for this,” he admits, and he rolls them over, takes Stiles’s weight. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” Stiles says, and he means it, he thinks.
Derek doesn’t leave his side after that. Deaton estimates another six weeks, and keeps threatening bedrest, but Stiles feels okay, good even. Derek sleeps with him now, sometimes in Derek’s bed, sometimes in his own. The moon pulls at them still, and Stiles rears up on all fours, shoving back onto Derek’s knot, because he wants to sleep, wants Derek to get him ice cream and most of all wants to come, wants Derek’s come inside of him.
“Pregnancy makes you stupid,” he says, sighing as he comes, spunk hitting the freshly laundered sheets. Damn it.
“Couldn’t tell the difference,” Derek grunts, and his hand rubs circles over Pipsqueak, comforting patterns, and doesn’t stop, even when Stiles reaches back to punch him in the ribs.
His chest fills out, nipples get puffy and sore and he leaks now. “This,” Stiles says, “This you should apologize for.” He stands there with his hands on his hips, examining his wreck of a body in the mirror. It’s unrecognizable, he thinks, softer, alien.
Derek stands behind them, cups his chest with his soft, sure hands. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Derek looks interested, licks his lips, and oh.
Oh. Derek doesn’t apologize, not exactly, but Stiles forgives him anyway. Especially after the last round, when Derek sucks a hickey on him, a mark right over his soft breast that Derek fed from, and Stiles gets to come on Derek’s face, in his mouth.
“There are important decisions to be made here,” Scott says, on D-Day. Stiles is lying on the table, instruments everywhere, waiting for Deaton to finish reading the portents. Or the ultrasound pictures. Both seem to be occupying equal parts of Deaton’s attention.
“Stiles,” Scott calls, snapping his fingers. “Pay attention, I have an important matter to discuss.”
“What,” Stiles says, crankily. Derek isn’t speaking, is just sitting there like a panicked bump on a log. Scott’s bouncing around like a demented cartoon character, and he can’t quite decide which one of them is getting more on his nerves.
“What is she going to be for Halloween?” Scott says, dramatically, and oh, oh, that is an important question.
“Ladybug,” Stiles decides. “No, a shark. Ladybugshark. Sharkybug.”
“Yes,” Scott hisses. “A red shark with polka dots. I love it.”
Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat, like a protest. Stiles glares at him. “A hat with a fin and antennas,” he says, and gestures emphatically. “If I don’t make it through this, you remember that. Big old antennas.”
“You don’t make it through this, and I’ll drag you out of hell to kill you myself,” Derek says, and his fingers are white, bloodless and cold where they’re clutching at Stiles.
“I love you too,” Stiles says, and that’s when Deaton tells him it’s time.
Their baby girl is seven pounds, eleven ounces, and there’s a flower crown on her head when Deaton pulls her from Stiles’s wombless insides. Scott wants to name her Sodapop, Derek wants to name her Jane, and Stiles can still only think of her as Pipsqueak. No one wants to name her after anyone gone.
She screams, pissed as hell at the world, and Stiles loves her more than he ever thought possible. Loves the fairy circle that gave her to him, loves Derek for his desperate wishes to a silent moon. She screams, strong and loud and Stiles thinks, maybe, it almost sounds like a howl.
They name her Maggie.
A few weeks later, Stiles stuffs Maggie in a shiny red onesie with black polka dots. Derek gently pulls the cap over her head, the one he’d carefully hot glued a red shark fin on top of.
“Happy Halloween, Pipsqueak,” Stiles crows, and they put her in the stroller, and walk out into the night. The calls of the trick-or-treaters echo down the neighborhood and Stiles hums excitedly as they approach their first house.
He blinks, and then they’re in the forest, the fairy ring in front of them, moon high in the sky.
“You can’t have her back,” Stiles snarls, and he yanks Maggie out of the stroller, tucks her into his arms.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Derek says, slow, cautious.
Maggie laughs, and they look down, surprised. She’s too young to laugh, too young to smile for anything but gas, and yet she is, laughing and reaching forward towards the trees, rustling their approval, their blessing.
“All right,” Stiles concedes. “Maybe they just wanted to see her in her super cute Sharkybug costume.” He turns back towards the ring, and holds Maggie up to it, tentatively. “We can visit,” he says. “Won’t we, Pipsqueak?” Maggie waves her chubby fist in agreement, getting a fistful of Stiles’s hair.
“Thank you,” Derek says to the forest, and he puts his hand on Stiles’s shoulder, one hand on Maggie’s neck.
When they blink, they’re back on the front walk of a house whose door is opening, revealing an elderly lady with a bag full of Reese’s Cups.
“What a little treasure,” she says, smiling down at Maggie.
“Lady,” Stiles says. “You have no idea.”