Then, he gets the text. The text, okay. I’m pregnant, it reads. All unassuming, no punctuation or emoticons or, you know, actual emotion. Derek checks the date. It’s not April first. It’s the beginning of March, which Derek probably should have remembered. A moment later, another text comes in that says, Dad says I should have waited to tell you in person. Then, two seconds after that,He also says I shouldn't have admitted that I told someone before you. Love you, boo. Call me.
"So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.
God, he dreams.
He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."
Derek wakes up to the sound of bare feet hitting the hardwood floor and sighs. Rolling over to blink at the alarm clock, he listens to Ben shuffling down the hallway. It’s a bit after one a.m and Derek only went to bed about twenty minutes ago. He sighs again, shifts onto his back, tugs his t-shirt back down from where it has rucked itself up under his armpits and waits for the inevitable to happen. It’s always the same every time Stiles has to go away for a few days.