Chapter Text
Being a spark is fine. Well, mostly fine. Except that one morning into September Stiles finds himself vomiting his stomach out in the toilet, and he has to go to the 9am lecture hardly awake, and the medicine he takes doesn’t work at all because the day repeats itself again, again and, again. He’s a bit worried and about to go to the college doc, stopped by a call from home and you wanna see what’s worse?
He has to happen to have a Zoology Student as roommate whose laptop’s meanwhile playing a Discovery show on wolves. Hunting. Pack. Mating. Knots. Cubs.
He freezes once he thinks of the Beacon Hill pack.
What the show fails to tell is that fucking werewolves have knots too. Or not their fault, he guesses, because the show’s about and wolves and fucking were-s are still kinda human and they don’t supposed to have knots. Except that they do.
Stiles’ so fucked.
The adrenaline made them do it. It’s no big deal. Not until now. Just once- yeah, there’s always tension between the two, sexual or non-sexual, but they only did it once. The summer heat seemed to be a plus, and adrenaline became the icing of the cake. It supposed to be one casual relaxing night, nothing more, and they agreed to never mention it again by the next morning, when they woke up in Derek’s bed spooning. In theory that Never-Mention-It included Derek Hale’s fucking werewolf knot and that idiot knotted Stiles out of blue without warning, and Stiles’ chilled after the sore faded like, three days later. They hung out until the teens went their way to colleges as usual- more like the pack of teenagers basically claimed the Hale living room as the perfect camping site and held bonfire party every night without a bonfire chatting and not-so-trying-to-kill-each-other. It should have been nothing.
Then Stiles runs to the toilet the second time in the morning.
Nothing turns to something and he has always hates something, because every time something came up from nothing it never ended well. And maybe, maybe a part deep inside of Stiles wants things to be different at least for once.
For this once.
He finds himself driving all the way back to Beacon Hill and shaking badly in his second-hand car (he leave his baby home ‘cause she’s not fit for long driving, though he misses her all the time, especially right now), non-stop, save the 10 minute in the service station for washroom and drinks, in such particular order. He thinks for a sec on cigarettes and gives up as the-next-one-in-line. Instead, he settles for a cup of coffee, still no good for pregnant woman (wait no, man, but heck his knowledge of pregnancy does base on a certain gender due to limitations of human beings and now he doesn’t know anymore. And he never wants to an exception. Not in such case.), he gets it, but a man needs a minute for himself. Stiles needs more. It seems that he never have enough, though, something always appears from nowhere, like at this very moment.
But hey, he knows where it comes, saving loads of research. It comes from Derek.
Not funny at all.
Also not funny when one’s stuck in the aisle of the vet clinic. Because he knows what it means. It means the mountain ash walls and doors are keeping some uninvited supernatural from entering the room, and Stiles’ 100% human for sure, fragile bones and all, thank you very much, so what can be easily deducted as 1+1=2 is:
He’s truly carrying a werewolf cub.
And it sucks.