Chapter 2

Cora's gone already, taken her bag and lugged it out the door. She gave Stiles a funny look as she left, but it was only curiosity at being asked to go on without Derek, nothing scathing, not any more.

Like her, Derek has softened, but it took him longer to get there. Stiles figures it might not look that way from his perspective, but from where Stiles is standing it's been a slow progression from 'I'm going to rip your head off with my teeth' to the quiet, albeit wary, way he watches Stiles now.

"Scott said you were leaving town," Stiles says, his hands thrust into the pockets of his hoody, fists bunched in the fabric.

Derek looks down at the bag at his feet. "Yeah."

"You don't have to, you know." The words spill out of Stiles' mouth too fast, he sounds too desperate, and he presses his lips together hard. "I just mean, you've got friends here. It's not like there's nothing left."

Derek stares at him for a long time, saying nothing, his face blank except for a tiny crease between his brows. "I know." He licks his lips and looks toward the door. "I got my sister back. I don't have a pack anymore, but I've got family. I need to remember what that means."

Stiles lets his breath out in a rush. It's loud, shaky.

Derek looks up. "What's wrong, Stiles?"

Stiles shakes his head. He can feel the way his eyes are reddening around the edges, and he keeps them downcast as much as he can. "Nothing. Nothing." He swallows the lump in his throat, takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, then lifts his head. "Drive safe," he says, and forces a smile that proves to be too hard to maintain.

"Stiles?" Derek closes the space between them, his hand wrapping around Stiles' upper arm. "What? Is it... It's what you did, isn't it? You and Scott and Allison? What you did to find your parents?" Derek shakes his head. "There's nothing I can do." He drops his hand, steps back and hauls his bag onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Stiles can feel it. The darkness around his heart, just like Deaton said. It's like dread, like knowing bad things are coming, like knowing there's nothing you can do to stop them. Even that doesn't compare to the panic he feels as he watches Derek walk away. "It's what we did," he says, lifting his chin even though his eyes are stinging and there's a tear soaking through his lower lashes. It's wet on his skin, cooling in the breeze that swirls into the room through the broken skylight. "You and me."

Derek stops at the bottom of the steps. "Stiles," he says without turning, without dropping his bag. He looks down at the floor. "You were supposed to be okay with that."

"I was," Stiles says. He stands motionless, staring at Derek's back. "I didn't... It was weird. But that's normal, right? For things to be weird, afterward?"

Derek turns his head just enough to show his profile. "I thought we did alright."

Stiles pulls his hands out of his pockets, pushes his fingers through his hair. "Okay. Maybe we did. I don't know. I've still got nothing to compare it to."

Derek's head turns, just a little more.

"I've gotta tell you something," Stiles says. He takes a single step forward, then thinks better of it and stops. "You're gonna think I'm crazy." He turns around, faces the window, rubs his fists against the sides of his jeans. "I think I'm crazy. I think Deaton's crazy. Maybe I just wish he was."

"Stiles."

Stiles looks over his shoulder. Derek has turned back, dropped the bag off his shoulder so it hangs from his hand. "He saw it," Stiles says, shifting his feet to face Derek again, but not quite meeting his eyes. "He said he saw it, while I was in that tub. Said he knew it wasn't just me in there. He knew what we did. You and me. He knew what happened." He lifts his eyes to meet Derek's. "There's only one reason that happens, Derek. It's got one purpose." Stiles looks down at his hand, stretched toward Derek, because he has no memory of reaching out. He balls it into a fist, presses it against his hip. "You knew. Maybe not consciously, but you knew. You said it. You talked about it while you were—"

"No." Derek's bag hits the floor, and so do his feet as he crosses the room in less than a second. "No. No." He grabs Stiles by the shoulders, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise. "No. You're lying."

"I'm not." A tear falls this time, streaking down his cheek, hitting the corner of his mouth. He tastes salt.

"Then Deaton's lying." Derek shakes his head, looks away, over at the bed where it happened. "It's impossible." He jerks his head back to Stiles. "It's not possible."

"Apparently, it is," Stiles snaps. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Scott's heard it. He doesn't know what, but he's heard it. He thinks there's something wrong with my heart. Told me I should talk to his mom about it. I made him swear not to tell anyone."

Derek goes very still, turns his head to the side, pulls Stiles closer.

"Can you hear it?" There's a lump in Stiles' throat that threatens to choke him.

"Shh." Derek pulls Stiles just a little nearer, bends his head. His forehead is creased in a frown as he listens.

Then he gasps, sucking air into his lungs before dispelling it in a rush. "Oh, my god." He swallows and shakes his head. "How?"

"You heard it?" Stiles feels lightheaded, sick. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Derek's eyes are wide, his pupils contracted to tiny dots. "Yes, I'm sure. I've been around pregnant women before. I know what a fetal heartbeat sounds like."

"Oh my god. Don't say that word. I'm trying not to even think that word." Stiles tries to push Derek away, the sudden need to run overpowering.

Derek holds him tight. "Pregnant?"

"And he keeps saying it!" Stiles twists out of Derek's grip and takes long strides toward the door. "I wasn't going to tell you," he mutters, shaking his head and clenching his fists. "Shouldn't have told you, should have just let you go, should have let Deaton take care of it—"

Then Derek's there, blocking his way, fingers tight on his upper arms. He pushes Stiles until he's backed up against the wall. "What do you mean, take care of it?"

"What do you think I meant? In case you didn't notice, I am a boy, not a girl. I'm not equipped for this. You should know that, because you had my dick in your mouth the same day this happened. I. Can't. Do. This." Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight, but it does nothing to stem the flow of tears that run down his face. "I shouldn't have to do this."

Derek loosens his grip, takes a step back. "No. You shouldn't. But you can't do what you're thinking, Stiles. Please, you can't."

"He said I shouldn't tell you."

"Because he knew. He knew I couldn't let you."

Stiles opens his eyes. "Why not? It should never have happened in the first place. Deaton hasn't even heard of it happening, and he always knows what's going on. He can't tell me if it's even gonna last."

"Do you know how rare werewolves like me are? Like Cora? My mother was lucky to have the children she did. It was part of why she was special..." Derek trails off, stumbles back, lowers himself to the step where he sits with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging limp between them. "It doesn't make any sense. Why would it happen to me?"

"Maybe it's a bloodline thing. Runs in families. Was Peter born a werewolf?"

Derek looks up. "Yes. But it only happens to Alphas. I'm not an Alpha anymore, Stiles. This is my only chance."

Stiles lets his head fall back against the wall and breathes out in a rush. "Awesome. Guilt. Because I don't get enough of that."

Derek looks up. "I'll take it," he says. "As soon as it's born, I'll take it and you'll never have to see either of us again. You can forget it ever happened. We won't disrupt your life."

Stiles lifts his head and slides down the wall, wraps his arms around his knees. "Okay," he says, because he can't handle the fear and desperation on Derek's face anymore. "Okay."

Then Derek's on his feet, crossing the space between them. He crouches down, puts one hand on Stiles' knee, the other on the back of his neck. "Thank you," he breathes. "You can do this, Stiles. I know you can."

Stiles turns away, shaking his head.

"You're strong. You're gonna be okay." Derek leans in and presses his lips to Stiles' mouth. The kiss is quick, over before Stiles can give in to instinct and kiss Derek back like he wants to, grab on and hold him like he wants to, then Derek is gone, too, striding across the floor and picking up his bag.

"You're still leaving," Stiles says.

Derek turns back and nods. "Yeah. I have to."

.

It hurt, at first. A burning stretch that made him whimper as Derek pushed inside. The pain faded fast, though, as Derek waited, pressing kisses to his shoulders, sliding warm hands over his back and sides, stroking, soothing.

And then it was too easy, too good. Stiles had expected to have to bite his lip and bear it, to hold on until Derek was done, to hope that it would be over fast, but it was nothing like that.

Stiles focused on the rough texture of the brick beneath his fingertips, on the way it grazed the heels of his hands with each thrust Derek made into his body. He had to have something, something other than the heat and fullness, something other than the rapid beat of his heart, he had to have something outside to ground him. He was afraid that he might lose himself if he let go, afraid that it would become something he couldn't live without.

"It's okay," Derek whispered, pressing a hand to Stiles' cheek, pulling his head around so he could kiss him. Stiles lost his grip, his control, moaned into Derek's mouth, pushed back against him. "You're allowed to like it."

Stiles cried out as Derek pulled back, pushed back in, slow, careful.

"You like that, don't you?" Derek asked. "Does it feel good?"

"Yes." Stiles nodded, his fingernails scratching against the wall. His dick started to fill again as he let himself feel it, as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensations, to the emotions too intense to make sense of.

"I like it, Stiles," Derek said, his voice gone rough and raw. "I like the way you feel around me, you feel so good." He took a few shallow, gasping breaths, and his hands began to shake. "Stiles, fuck. Too good." Then he dropped his forehead to the back of Stiles' neck as the shaking spread throughout his body.

"Are you coming?" Stiles asked, eyes wide and staring as a flush spread out over his body.

"Sorry, god, I can't—" Derek took hold of Stiles' hips, pushed right inside, as deep as he could go. "I have to—"

"It's okay." Stiles wondered if he should feel it, if he should feel Derek coming inside him. He could feel something, but the jerking pulse he expected wasn't there. Instead, he just felt fuller, a second later even more so. "Oh god," he gasped, as it became too much, as it kept filling him. He tried to pull away.

"Keep still," Derek said, hands tight on Stiles' hips. "You have to keep still."