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Another pack meeting is winding up. They're still held at Derek's loft as Peter's apartment is too small--well, that's the excuse. The Alpha just doesn't want business held in his den. He's rebuilding the Hale House, but that will take several months.
It should be ready for his spawn to run around in.
A sour taste of bile rises to the back of his throat and Stiles forces it down. He's already thrown up twice today--morning sickness is a misnomer someone needs to pay for as he's sick at completely random times--and there's nothing left in his stomach but the water he's been drinking.
The pack members start to get up, talking amongst themselves. The two new Betas--refugees from a decimated pack in western Oregon--still look hesitant but are listening to Derek's instructions. Beside him on the couch, Lydia shuts down her tablet and pats his knee before heading out. They don't talk much during these meetings, but then Stiles rarely talks during them to anyone, answering questions directed at him in a monotone with as few words as possible.
He can feel when Peter's attention turn to him--damn mate bond--but doesn't look his way, just stands up and waits, hands stuffed in the pockets of his baggie hoodie. It's not a surprise to him or anyone when Peter slides his arm around his no longer slender waist and guides him to the door. This is why he always gets a ride to the meetings--he never goes straight home.
They're silent on the drive to the Alpha's apartment. Stiles staring out the window, distracted. Peter obviously lost in his own thoughts. Once inside the warmly decorated apartment, Stiles starts for the bedroom, because that's where they always end up and he's too tired to fight it, but Peter's hand on his arm stops him.
"We need to talk."
Staring unblinking at him, Stiles nods and takes a seat on the couch.
"Take off your jacket."
"I thought you wanted to talk," he bites out, but shrugs out of his hoodie. His t-shirt is tight across his stomach and he's had to resort to track pants as none of his skinny jeans or fitted pants will fasten without discomfort.
Two and a half months. It's only been seventy eight days and the thing is already showing on his narrow body. Stiles glares at Peter, who ignores the look and sits down next to him, his hand going right for the bump, not letting Stiles shy away. Instead, as the Alpha feels him up, he bites his lower lip and blindly stares across the room.
"You're showing sooner than I expected," Peter says softly, his fingers lightly caressing.
Deaton warned Stiles he'd carry differently from a woman but that's just one of many things he prefers to ignore. His stomach turns again and he swallows hard but doesn't respond, and the older man sighs, then withdraws his hand.
"I'd hoped to wait another month, but the cub is growing. It needs my touch." There's a hint of censure in Peter's voice, as if he knows Stiles never touches it if he can help it, but he ignores that as well as a feeling of dread mingles with the nausea. "You should be able to continue with school until Spring Break. After that, I'll tutor you. But, I want you living here within the week."
"No," Stiles protests. "You said I could stay at home."
"Circumstances have changed," is Peter's cool reply, and Stiles responds by jumping from the couch and rounding on him.
"You bastard! You never meant it because you knew this would happen. You always planned on dragging me here, away from my dad and my home."
Slowly Peter rises to his feet but he retains a composure Stiles lost months ago. "This is your home now. As soon as the house is finished, we'll move in there. Did you really think I would allow you to raise my cub away from me?"
Incredulous, Stiles gapes at him. "I don't give a shit about your cub! You can have it! If you insist on making me live with you until it's cut out of me, fine, but don't expect me to ever be happy about it, and the day it's out of me, I'm going home. My home."
He refuses to cower when Peter's eyes flash red and his face twists in anger. "No."
Stiles waits for more but when nothing comes, he flails and yells, "'No'? That's it? A big fat 'no'? God I hate you so much." Turning, he stomps towards the door, furious, scared, frustrated, and desperately wanting to break down and cry but he can't give Peter that satisfaction.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Home. I'll fucking walk."
Peter's blocking the door before he can reach it, and Stiles makes a frustrated noise. "Stiles," he says, placatingly, "You need to calm down. This isn't good for the cub."
"I don't care! Maybe it'll die!"
Hard hands grab his biceps, pulling him in before he can get away, and Peter's eyes and nostrils flare. "I warned you about taking care of yourself."
"I am. Stop it. Let me go."
"...You just lied. You're not taking care of yourself. You're hoping to miscarry, aren't you."
Feeling himself go light-headed, Stiles shakes his head in denial and fear. So much fear, because Peter's not yelling now.
"Your heart is racing with the lies," he murmurs, so coldly, and one hand goes to the nape of Stiles' neck, squeezing until his knees buckle. "I'll force feed you. Take you on walks like a pet. Stuff vitamins down your throat. And you won't see your friends. And you won't see your dad. The cub and I will be your whole world and, except for exercise and doctor's visits, all you will see is the bed I chain you to."
Terrified, Stiles whimpers.
"Is that what you want?"
"No. Please," he chokes out, and when Peter releases him, he runs for the bathroom, barely making it to his knees in front of the toilet before he vomits up stomach acid, heaving until his whole body shakes and he's sobbing.
He barely notices his mate soothing him, stroking his shoulders, cleaning him up and undressing him and tucking him in the bed. Still crying, Stiles falls into an exhausted sleep.
*****
Curled on the bed next to him, Peter listens to Stiles' heartbeat slow, his breathing even out. The boy's face is still twisted in fear, mottled from his tears, but sleep will help.
Beneath that heartbeat is another one, soft and fast, and the Alpha leans down to press his cheek to the small mound bearing his child. A smile of pleasure crosses his face, but it's quickly replaced by concern. For the last few weeks Stiles has insisted on darkness during their matings and Peter's indulged him, but that's hidden how thin his mate has become. His body already angular and lanky is now bony. He's losing muscle tone.
It's obvious he's not eating food that will stay down. Deaton stressed the necessity of a healthy diet, light exercise, plenty of water. Even if he takes care of himself, there's a fifty percent chance he'll lose the cub in this first trimester.
And he's not taking care of himself.
So damn stubborn. So damn angry. Peter'd expected that, though. Despite his intelligence and maturity, Stiles is only sixteen, still a child in many ways. And Peter knows he's taken what's left of that childhood from him, but he couldn't wait. His Pack, his position as Alpha, are too vulnerable. Having a fledgling Emissary doesn't help, but having that Emissary bear his cub...He needs the strength that will give him.
And, he's coming to realize he needs the cub for itself as well. He hadn't expected to love it, certainly not so soon, not after losing Gracie and Marta with their unborn babe inside her. The fire had left him a shell, not only physically but emotionally. Love shouldn't exist for him.
But, it does, for this tiny little creature the size of a nut.
So, Stiles better damn well take care of it. Peter's still a bit stunned at the revelation that Stiles doesn't want to raise his child, in fact, wants nothing to do with it. That he's hoping to lose it, makes Peter horrified and angry. Cubs are to be cherished by the whole Pack. While Stiles initial reaction to the pregnancy didn't come as a surprise, it's been three weeks and his attitude has just gotten worse. That's another reason he wants his mate here. To make him see the miracle they've created.
He hopes that Stiles will acquiesce without any more fuss. He really doesn't want to threaten the boy's father. He also hopes the Sheriff doesn't try anything stupid. He knows full well the beating Derek took from the man because he couldn't take on the Alpha. If Peter has to throw his nephew to the man as his whipping boy again, he will.
His mate already hates him. What's one more thing?
*****
When Stiles wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's warm, comfortable. Then he remembers and his stomach clenches. Gritting his teeth, he waits out the roll of nausea. When it fades, he slowly turns onto his back and that's when he realizes he's not in his own bed. Everything from the night--night? it's day already? Oh fuck--before comes back and he scrabbles at the nightstand, searching for his phone. His dad...
"When I realized around eleven last night that you weren't waking any time soon, I called your father," Peter says sleepily from beside him, and Stiles stares at him. The Alpha has bed head and stubble on his cheeks.
Stiles has never seen him waking up. He's only ever taken short naps with the older man and he's pretty sure Peter's remained awake through them.
He supposes he'll have to get used to that.
That sour thought makes his stomach turn again and he groans. "Was he mad?"
"He wasn't happy."
"Bet he was mad," Stiles mutters, "Bet he'll be glad to see me go." When Peter doesn't respond, he glares at him. "You win again."
"I'm not going to fight with you before breakfast, Stiles," Peter says evenly, yawning before rising from the bed revealing that he's wearing only a pair of low slung navy pajama pants. At the sight, Stiles' mouth goes dry and he hates that. "I'm going to make you something healthy and hearty and you're going to eat every bite."
"I'll just puke it back up. Maybe on you," he adds maliciously.
"And then we're going to see Deaton and have him recommend some foods that will be soothing to your stomach and nourishing for the cub."
"My next appointment is in two weeks," Stiles says flatly as Peter goes into the bathroom.
"Yes, well, if you'd taken care of yourself, it would still be."
"Maybe if anything stayed down," he mutters towards the closed door then groans softly as his stomach aches. He's both nauseous and hungry again, but he knows that eating is futile.
Although if he ate healthy food rather than grease and sugar, it might not be.
Angrily shoving that annoying thought aside, he turns his stare back to the ceiling until Peter emerges, freshly shaved and wearing a t-shirt that molds to his chest in a very distracting way.
"Feel free to borrow some clothes. What sounds good? Eggs?" Stiles makes a face. "Granola?"
"No milk," he groans.
"Pancakes?"
That sounds...almost tempting, so he nods and watches Peter leave the bedroom.
It feels weird being in this bed without having had sex, so Stiles gets up and staggers into the shower. The sickness and crying had left him feeling sweaty and gross, and Peter does have the most decadent body wash in his double headed shower.
*****
Three hot pancakes, a glass of apple juice--because orange is too acidic for his tender stomach--and some hot tea awaits him at the kitchen counter. Sitting down on a bar stool, he reaches for the syrup bottle and Peter intercepts him, pouring out no more than a spoonful, a small spoonful. He glares at him and the older man just smiles, then takes a seat and drowns his own pancakes.
"Hate you," he mutters again, but then takes a bite and the pancake nearly melts in his mouth. Stomach growling from hunger, he takes another bite, a big one.
"Slowly."
Stiles know he should. Eating too quickly will just make him sick and despite wanting to lose the thing, vomiting sucks, as his sore stomach and chest muscles can attest. So, he glowers, but takes a smaller bite and then a sip of juice. The scent of the tea reaches his nose and makes it wrinkle. "What is that?" Because it's not normal tea or even green tea or the chamomile his mom...Shaking off that thought, he lifts the cup for a hesitant sip. "Ginger?"
"It's good for your stomach. I asked Alan when I spoke to him earlier about an appointment. It's obvious you're keeping very little food down."
At the scolding tone, Stiles retorts, "You're the one who made me puke last night."
Peter frowns. "And there was hardly any food in the bile." Making a face at the thought of Peter examining vomit, Stiles takes another sip of the tea. It's actually quite good. "How much weight have you lost?" He shrugs and Peter frowns even harder. "It's been a couple weeks since I've seen you without your bulky clothes. It's obvious you've lost weight. We need to remedy that."
Remembering the Alpha's threats from the night before, he hesitantly asks, "You're not really going to force me to eat, are you?"
"Not if you start eating healthy foods." He gestures to the plate and Stiles dutifully takes another bite of the truly awesome pancakes.
*****
The doctor's appointment doesn't go well. Stiles figures it's because Deaton is actually a vet, has never done more than stitch up a human, and has never even assisted at a werewolf's birth, but he sullenly keeps his mouth shut at the scoldings, however gentle, and the frown growing deeper and deeper on Peter's face.
He weighed one hundred and fifty one pounds when they discovered the pregnancy. One month later he weighs one hundred and forty. At nearly six feet tall, even with his lanky build, that's too thin. Of course the thing is growing fine and on schedule and because of Stiles' male hips and pelvis it's showing way too soon and is just going to make him bigger and bigger, riding all low on his stomach. His belly button is already a bit distended, which he thinks is gross, and there are going to be stretch marks.
Still in the dangerous first trimester, he's still hoping to lose it, but self-preservation keeps his mouth shut on that subject, too. His inability to keep most food down is the only thing Deaton and Peter are aware of, but he's also not taking the prenatal vitamins, not drinking enough fluids, not getting enough sleep, and not eating food that's actually good for him or the thing.
He keeps his mouth shut about those, too, making vague promises to do better--vague enough that Peter doesn't catch him lying.
Afterwards, Peter drives Stiles home, but before he can clamber out of the car, Peter takes his wrist, turning him towards him. "One week." It's not a threat, almost sounds like a promise, but Stiles' heart stutters painfully. He doesn't want to leave his home, his dad, but what can he do?
So, he nods, lets Peter kiss him, and gets out of the car.
End