Echoes of the Fox

Notes:

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Stiles's Pov

The thing about surviving a nightmare is that it doesn't really feel like survival. Not at first. The Nogitsune is gone—that much I know. It's like a storm that rolled through and left me standing in the ruins of my own mind, trying to make sense of what's left. People keep saying we won, but how is this winning when Allison's gone, and Aiden's gone, and I don't even feel like myself anymore?

I'm haunted by a quiet. A stillness that feels unnatural. I'm so used to my head being filled with something—thoughts running a hundred miles an hour, my dad nagging me about cleaning my room, Scott's relentless optimism breaking through my sarcasm like sunlight in a storm. But now it's just... empty. Quiet. And it scares the hell out of me.

I don't know what to do with quiet.

It's been a few days since we got the Nogitsune out of me—since I watched the Oni disintegrate into nothing and Allison fall to the ground. I can't shake the memory of her lifeless eyes. Or Scott's broken expression as he held her in his arms. Aiden was barely a footnote in all of this, wasn't he? We mourned him for about a minute before we moved on, because we're so used to death that it barely registers anymore. Isn't that messed up? Someone died, and we just accepted it like it was part of the routine. Like it was inevitable.

But it's Allison that keeps me awake at night. It's her blood on my hands, even if I didn't actually kill her. The Nogitsune did. But it used me to do it, and no amount of it wasn't your fault or you were possessed will ever make me believe I wasn't responsible. I was the door it walked through, and that makes me guilty. Maybe not in a court of law, but in the courtroom of my own head? I've already been sentenced.

The house is too quiet when I get home after school. Dad's not here. He's been working longer shifts at the station lately. He says it's because they're short-staffed, but I know the truth. He doesn't know how to deal with me. Not really. How do you deal with a son who was possessed by a murderous trickster spirit? Who watched his best friend's first love die and can't even pretend he's okay? Dad's always been my rock, but now... I can feel the distance growing between us. He wants to help, but I don't know how to let him.

I toss my backpack onto the couch and collapse next to it, staring blankly at the ceiling. The house smells faintly like old coffee and the air freshener Dad insists on using. It should feel like home, but it doesn't. Not anymore.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a moment, I debate ignoring it, but the weight of silence feels heavier than the thought of talking to someone. I pull it out and glance at the screen. It's a text from Scott.

Hey, you okay?

Three words. That's all. Three words that feel like they should mean more than they do. Scott's been checking in, sure, but it feels half-hearted. Like he doesn't know how to talk to me anymore. Or maybe he's just too wrapped up in his own grief to deal with mine. Either way, it's not the same between us, and I hate it. We're supposed to be best friends, but right now, it feels like we're just two people who survived the same tragedy but don't know how to talk about it.

I type back, Yeah, I'm fine, because it's easier than admitting the truth. Easier than saying, No, I'm not okay. I'm falling apart, and I don't know how to stop.

His reply comes a few seconds later. Let me know if you need anything.

I stare at the screen for a long time before putting the phone down without answering. I want to need him. I want to lean on him like I always have. But something's shifted between us, and I don't know if it's me, him, or both of us. Maybe it's just everything. That night, the nightmares come. They always do.

I'm back in the mental hospital, running through endless hallways. The Nogitsune's laugh echoes around me, and every door I open leads to another dead end. Blood drips from my hands, staining the floor, the walls, everything I touch. I hear Allison scream, and then there's Scott's voice, yelling my name like it's the only thing tethering him to reality. I try to find him, but the Nogitsune's face looms in front of me, and I can't breathe. I can't move. I'm trapped.

When I wake up, my chest is heaving, my throat raw from screaming. The room is dark, the only light coming from the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck to the ceiling years ago. They're supposed to be comforting, but right now, they feel like a cruel joke. My phone is on the nightstand, and for a moment, I think about calling Scott. But what would I even say? Hey, sorry to wake you, but I can't stop seeing Allison's dead body every time I close my eyes?

No. I can't do that to him. Not when he's barely holding it together himself.

Instead, I get up and go to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I swear I see the Nogitsune's smirk staring back at me. I blink, and it's gone, but the fear stays. It always stays. The next morning, I drag myself out of bed and try to convince myself that today will be different. That I won't feel like a ghost walking through my own life. But as soon as I get to school, I realize nothing's changed.

People look at me differently now. Like I'm a walking reminder of everything that went wrong. Lydia tries to be kind, but there's something guarded in her eyes when she talks to me. Isaac's avoiding everyone, and Scott's too busy trying to keep the pack together to notice how much I'm falling apart. Even Kira, sweet and sunny Kira, seems unsure of how to act around me.

I spend most of the day zoning out in class, barely registering anything the teachers say. When the final bell rings, I grab my stuff and head out, not bothering to stick around for anything or anyone. The hallways feel suffocating, and I need to get out before I lose it. The woods have always been my escape. Something about the way the trees block out the rest of the world makes it easier to breathe. I don't have a destination in mind—I just start walking, letting the crunch of leaves under my boots drown out the noise in my head.

I end up at the Nemeton without meaning to. It's still scarred from everything that's happened here, but somehow, it feels more alive than I do. I sit down on one of the roots, resting my head in my hands. The silence here isn't the same as the silence at home. It's heavier, but not in a bad way. It feels like the earth is holding its breath, waiting for something.

Maybe it's waiting for me.

When I finally go home, the sun's already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Dad's still not back, and the house feels as empty as it did when I left. I heat up some leftovers, but I barely eat. My appetite's been crap since the Nogitsune, and food tastes like ash in my mouth.

I sit on the couch, flipping aimlessly through channels until I give up and turn the TV off. My phone buzzes again, another text from Scott, but I don't read it. I'm too tired. Too numb.

I don't know how long I sit there, staring at nothing, but eventually, I drag myself to bed. The nightmares come again, and the cycle starts over.

This is my life now. A loop of grief and guilt and trying to pretend I'm okay when I'm not.

I survived the Nogitsune, but sometimes, I think it might've been easier if I hadn't.

Somewhere between the nightmares and the silence, I've started to avoid mirrors. I mean, who needs that level of honesty first thing in the morning? Not me. The thing about mirrors is, they don't lie. They don't sugarcoat anything or give you a pass for having a rough go of it. You stand there, and they show you exactly who you are—no filters, no excuses. And let's just say that who I am these days isn't someone I'm in any rush to look at.

But here I am, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at a version of myself I barely recognize.

I didn't mean to look. Honest. I'd just finished brushing my teeth, and the habit kicked in—glance up, wipe my face with a towel, and move on. Except this time, my eyes caught on my reflection, and now I can't look away. I don't even know what I'm looking for, but I keep searching, like the answer to everything wrong in my life might be written somewhere in the cracks of my reflection.

What stares back at me doesn't feel like me. The Stiles I used to be was sharp edges and quick wit, all bright eyes and boyish charm. This version? He's... off. Thinner, paler, with shadows under his eyes so dark they look like bruises. My cheekbones are more pronounced, my skin stretched too tightly over my face, and my eyes—they're dull. Lifeless, almost. Like the light got snuffed out, and no one bothered to tell me.

My hand drifts to the back of my neck before I even realize I'm doing it. It's a subconscious thing, this urge to check. My fingers brush over the skin there, and even though I've done this a dozen times, the sensation still sends a jolt through me.

The scars are there. Lichtenberg figures. Lightning scars, some people call them. They spiderweb across the back of my neck like a frozen bolt of electricity, pale and jagged against my skin. I can't see them without twisting around or using another mirror, but I know they're there. I can feel them.

They're a souvenir from the Nogitsune. A parting gift. Like I didn't already have enough reminders of everything it did to me.

I drop my hand and let out a shaky breath, leaning against the sink. My eyes flicker back to the mirror, but this time, I'm not looking at my face. I'm looking at my neck, at the scars that shouldn't be there. Scars that scream, You're not the same anymore. You'll never be the same.

I don't know why I keep expecting them to fade. They won't. Deaton said they're not just physical—they're magical. A mark of the Nogitsune's possession, like a brand burned into my soul. They'll never go away. And honestly? Even if they did, it wouldn't matter. I'd still feel them. I'd still remember.

I grip the edge of the sink so tightly my knuckles turn white. I don't want to think about it, but the memories creep in anyway. The feeling of not being in control, of my body being a puppet while something dark and twisted pulled the strings. The things I did. The lives I destroyed.

The lives it destroyed.

I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because then I see her. Allison. The look on her face as she fell, the light fading from her eyes. Scott's voice echoes in my head, screaming her name. My chest tightens, and I force my eyes open, gasping for air like I've been drowning.

The reflection hasn't changed. It's still me, still not me, still that stranger with scars on his neck and guilt etched into every line of his face. I want to smash the mirror, to shatter the image into a thousand pieces so I don't have to see it anymore. But I don't. Because what's the point? Breaking the mirror won't fix what's broken inside me.

Instead, I turn away. I grab a towel, wipe my face, and leave the bathroom like I didn't just have a minor existential crisis in front of the sink. Like I didn't just stare into the eyes of someone I barely recognize and hate every second of it. The scars itch sometimes. Not in a physical way, but in a way that makes me hyper-aware of them. I'll be sitting in class or lying in bed, and I'll feel this phantom itch, like the scars are trying to remind me they're still there. Like I could ever forget.

I asked Deaton about it once, and he said it's probably a side effect of the magic. That the scars are more than just skin-deep—they're a mark on my very essence, whatever the hell that means. All I know is that they're a constant reminder of what I went through. What I survived.

But the thing is... I don't feel like I survived. Not really. Surviving implies that you came out the other side intact, and I'm anything but intact. I feel hollow. Broken. Like the Nogitsune took something from me that I'll never get back.

Scott tries to tell me it's not my fault. That I wasn't in control. That I didn't kill anyone—the Nogitsune did. But that's easy for him to say. He wasn't the one wearing the monster's face. He wasn't the one who stood there, helpless, while his own hands did unspeakable things.

I was. And no matter how many times people tell me it wasn't my fault, it still feels like it was.

I go through the rest of the day in a fog. Classes blur together, the voices of my teachers and classmates fading into background noise. I sit in the back, doodling in the margins of my notebook and pretending to listen. No one really bothers me. They've stopped trying. At first, people would ask if I was okay, if I needed anything. But I think they've realized by now that the answer is always going to be the same.

"I'm fine." It's a lie, but it's easier than the truth. No one wants to hear the truth. Hell, I don't even want to hear it.

By the time the final bell rings, I'm practically bolting out of the classroom. I don't want to be here anymore. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy. I need to get out, to breathe, to escape.

I drive home in silence, the radio turned off for once. I can't handle music right now—it feels too loud, too invasive. The sound of the tires on the road is enough. When I pull into the driveway, the house looks the same as it always does. Familiar, but not comforting. Not anymore.

Dad's car isn't there, which isn't surprising. He's been working longer hours at the station, and I can't blame him. I think it's his way of coping, of avoiding the mess that is his son. I don't hold it against him. If I could avoid myself, I would. Later that night, I find myself back in front of the mirror. I don't know why. Maybe I'm hoping I'll see something different this time. Maybe I'm just torturing myself. Either way, I stand there, staring at the scars on the back of my neck, twisting my body to get a better look.

They almost look beautiful in a way. Like art. The patterns are intricate, branching out like the roots of a tree or the veins of a leaf. But I can't appreciate them for what they are, because I know what they represent. Pain. Darkness. Loss.

I run my fingers over them, tracing the lines. They're smooth, almost like they're part of my skin. But they don't feel like me. They feel foreign, like a reminder that I don't belong in my own body anymore.

The Nogitsune is gone, but it left its mark. On my neck. On my soul. On everything.

I don't know how to move forward from this. I don't know how to heal. I don't even know if healing is possible. All I know is that every time I look in the mirror, I see a stranger staring back at me.

And I hate him.

Food has always been a comfort thing for me. Like, growing up, it was Pop-Tarts after school, pepperoni pizza after a bad day, or my dad’s famous scrambled eggs when he wanted to pretend he could cook something other than bacon. Food used to feel like home. Like a tiny piece of normal when everything else felt like chaos.

Now? Food feels like the enemy.

It’s not that I don’t want to eat. I do. I think about eating all the time, actually. I think about pancakes drowning in syrup or burgers so greasy they make my hands shine. But the thought of actually putting any of it into my mouth? That’s a whole different story.

I sit at the kitchen table, staring down at the plate in front of me. Two slices of toast. Dry, because butter feels like too much effort. They’re slightly burnt, but that’s on me for getting distracted while the toaster was doing its thing. I should probably throw them out and start over, but I don’t. That would mean standing up, opening the bread bag, and repeating the whole process. And right now, I just… can’t.

So I sit there, staring at the toast like it’s some kind of existential puzzle I can’t figure out. My stomach growls, low and angry, but the thought of taking a bite makes my throat close up. It’s like my body is fighting itself—one part of me screaming for sustenance, the other recoiling at the idea of chewing, swallowing, digesting.

I pick up a piece and take a bite, forcing myself to chew. The dry, slightly burnt taste fills my mouth, and I have to fight the urge to spit it out. My jaw works mechanically, my mind distant, and when I finally swallow, it feels like I’ve just forced down a mouthful of sand.

“Great,” I mutter to myself, dropping the toast back onto the plate. “You’re officially losing to bread now, Stiles. Congratulations.”

The sound of my voice in the empty kitchen feels wrong, so I shut up and focus on the plate again. I manage one more bite before giving up entirely. The toast sits there, sad and untouched, while I sit across from it, equally sad and untouched.

Dad notices, of course. He notices everything, even when he pretends he doesn’t.

“You’re not eating,” he says one night over dinner, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. He’s trying to play it cool, but I can see the worry etched into his face.

“I’m eating,” I lie, poking at the spaghetti on my plate with my fork. It’s technically true—I’ve taken a few bites. But that’s about as far as it’s going to go.

“Stiles,” Dad says, his tone shifting into that I’m your father and I know you’re full of crap voice. “You’ve barely touched your plate.”

I shrug, trying to act like it’s no big deal. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Since when?”

The question catches me off guard. I look up, and for a second, I see the exhaustion in his eyes. The kind of exhaustion that comes from worrying about someone you love and not knowing how to help them. It makes my chest ache, and I hate myself a little more for putting that look there.

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say, forcing a smile that I know doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s just a phase or whatever. I’ll be back to eating my body weight in junk food in no time.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he sighs and takes another bite of his own dinner, the conversation falling into silence. The truth is, I don’t know why eating is so hard. It’s not like I’m trying to starve myself or anything. It’s just… my body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Ever since the Nogitsune, everything feels off. The hunger is there, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn. I don’t know if it’s the guilt, the stress, or something else entirely, but eating feels like just another thing I’m failing at.

And it’s not just food. Sleep’s a joke. My body’s exhausted, but my brain won’t shut up long enough to let me rest. I lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that happened over and over again. And when I do finally pass out, the nightmares come. Every. Single. Time.

Some nights, I wake up drenched in sweat, the taste of blood in my mouth. Other nights, it’s her voice—Allison’s voice—calling out to me, and I can’t reach her.

The mornings are the worst. That’s when the weight of everything hits me the hardest. The emptiness in my stomach feels like a metaphor for everything else that’s missing—Allison, Aiden, the pieces of myself the Nogitsune stole.

I’ve tried to explain it to Scott, but he doesn’t get it. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. Every time I try to bring it up, he brushes it off, like he’s scared of what I might say. You’re strong, Stiles. You’ll get through this, he tells me, like it’s some kind of magic spell that’ll fix everything.

But I’m not strong. Not anymore.

One night, I find myself sitting in the kitchen again, staring at the fridge. It’s almost midnight, and the house is quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I know I should eat something. Anything. But the thought of opening the door and seeing all the food inside makes my chest tighten.

Instead, I grab a glass of water and sit at the table, sipping it slowly. It’s not much, but it’s something. At least water doesn’t turn my stomach inside out.

As I sit there, I think about the Nemeton. About how everything seems to lead back to it. The nightmares, the Nogitsune, the scars on the back of my neck that itch and burn when I’m alone. I can still feel its pull sometimes, like a low hum in the back of my mind. It’s quiet now, but it’s there, waiting.

I wonder if it’s connected to this… whatever this is. The not eating, the not sleeping, the not feeling like myself. Deaton said the Nemeton has a way of affecting people, even when they’re not aware of it. Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe it’s the Nemeton. Or maybe it’s just me.

I don’t know.

The next day at school, I try to force myself to eat lunch. I grab a tray and sit with the pack, trying to act like everything’s normal. Like I’m normal.

“Stiles, are you gonna eat that?” Lydia asks, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow as she gestures to the sandwich I’ve been tearing apart instead of eating.

“Yeah,” I say, plastering on my best fake smile. “I’m just… savoring it.”

She gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but she doesn’t push. I can tell she wants to, though. Lydia’s sharp—too sharp sometimes. She sees things other people miss. And right now, I can feel her watching me, analyzing me like I’m one of her math problems she’s trying to solve.

I take a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly. It tastes like cardboard, but I force it down anyway. The pack chatters around me, their voices a blur as I focus on getting through the meal without gagging. By the time lunch is over, I’ve barely eaten half of it. But it’s progress. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Back at home, I sit on the couch with a bowl of cereal, hoping the sugar rush will kick-start my appetite. I stare at the TV, not really watching whatever show’s playing. The cereal gets soggy, but I keep eating anyway, spoonful by spoonful, until the bowl is empty.

It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, something feels like a victory.

I don’t know how long this is going to last—this inability to eat, to sleep, to feel like myself again. But I know one thing: I have to keep trying. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not when there’s so much left to fight for.

Even if the fight is just me versus a bowl of cereal.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I don't know how long this is going to last—this inability to eat, to sleep, to feel like myself again. But I know one thing: I have to keep trying. Because giving up isn't an option. Not when there's so much left to fight for.

Even if the fight is just me versus a bowl of cereal.

Stiles's Pov

Funerals are supposed to bring closure. That's what people say, right? You go through the motions—cry a little, say some words, and by the end of it, you're supposed to feel like the world makes sense again. Like the person you're burying—or in this case, cremating—isn't really gone, just... resting somewhere better.

Yeah, that's not how it works. At least, not for me.

Allison Argent is dead. And there's no world, no prayer, no ritual that's going to make that fact any less horrible.

I sit in the back of the funeral home, fidgeting with my tie and staring at the urn on the table at the front of the room. It's small, delicate, and painfully beautiful—just like she was. It doesn't look big enough to hold all that was Allison. All her fire, her strength, her kindness. But it's all that's left of her now. A pile of ashes in a silver urn.

Born January 1994. Died November 2011. That's what the little plaque says. Two dates, separated by a dash, summing up an entire life. I can't stop staring at it.

She was seventeen. She was seventeen, and she died because of me. Because I couldn't stop the Nogitsune.

I don't care what anyone says—it's my fault. I was the one it used. My hands, my face, my voice. I can't stop replaying that night in my head. The way she fell. The way Scott screamed her name. The way everything slowed down, and I couldn't do anything to stop it.

It's my fault.

The room is filled with people, but it feels empty. The pack is here, of course—Scott, Lydia, Kira, Isaac—but there are others too. Hunters, Argent family friends, people I don't recognize but who all look like they belong here more than I do.

Chris Argent is sitting in the front row, his shoulders stiff, his face unreadable. He hasn't cried, at least not in public. But there's something about the way he's sitting, so still and so silent, that makes me think he's holding himself together by a thread. I can't even imagine what this must feel like for him. Losing his wife was bad enough. Now his daughter too? It's like fate has a personal vendetta against him.

Scott's sitting next to him, and he looks... broken. There's no other word for it. He's staring at the urn with this hollow expression, like he's not really here. Like part of him died with Allison.

And maybe it did.

The service starts, and I try to focus, but it's hard. The words the priest is saying feel empty, like they're meant for someone else. He's talking about how Allison was "taken too soon" and how her "spirit will live on in our hearts," but none of it feels real. None of it feels like her.

Allison wasn't a spirit. She was flesh and blood and fire. She was the kind of person who would charge into danger without hesitation, who would fight for what she believed in no matter the cost. She was brave. Too brave.

That's what got her killed.

I glance over at Scott again, and for a second, I want to say something to him. I want to tell him I'm sorry. But the words get stuck in my throat, just like they have every time I've tried to talk to him since it happened. Lydia gets up to speak, and the room goes quiet. She looks flawless, as always, but there's a fragility to her today that I've never seen before. She stands in front of the crowd, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusts the microphone.

"Allison was my best friend," she says, her voice shaking. "She was my sister. She was... everything."

She pauses, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "She was the strongest person I've ever known. And not just in the 'she could shoot a bullseye from a hundred yards' kind of way—although, let's be honest, she was terrifyingly good at that. She was strong because she cared. She loved fiercely. She fought for the people she loved, even when it scared her. Especially when it scared her."

Lydia's voice breaks, and she looks down, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I don't know how to live in a world without her. I don't want to. But... she wouldn't want us to give up. She'd want us to keep fighting. To keep living. For her."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I can see the rest of the pack reacting too—Kira wiping her eyes, Isaac staring at the ground, Scott clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles are white.

Lydia steps down, and for a moment, the room is silent again. Then the priest invites anyone else who wants to speak to come forward.

I stay in my seat.

When the service is over, people start filing out of the room, murmuring quietly to each other. I stay where I am, staring at the urn. Scott's still there too, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

I want to say something to him, but I don't know what. What do you even say in a moment like this? Sorry your first love is dead because of me? Sorry I couldn't stop the monster that killed her?

I don't know.

Instead, I sit there, the guilt wrapping itself around me like a suffocating blanket. Later, there's a small reception at the Argent house. People gather in the living room, eating tiny sandwiches and drinking coffee, but no one's really talking. The whole place feels heavy, like the air itself is grieving.

I wander around aimlessly, not sure what to do with myself. I keep expecting Allison to walk in, to crack some joke or roll her eyes at something stupid I said. But she doesn't. She never will.

Scott's standing in the corner, staring at a picture of Allison on the mantle. It's a candid shot—her laughing, her hair blowing in the wind. She looks so alive in it that it hurts to look at.

"I should've saved her," he says quietly, his voice so soft I almost don't hear him.

I want to tell him it wasn't his fault, but how can I, when I know it was mine?

Eventually, I sneak out of the house and head for the woods. I need to get away from all the people, all the sadness. The Nemeton feels like the only place that makes sense right now. When I get there, I sit on one of the roots and stare up at the sky. The sun's setting, casting the forest in shades of orange and gold. It's beautiful, but it feels wrong. Like the world shouldn't be allowed to look this peaceful when Allison is gone.

I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually, I hear footsteps behind me. I don't need to turn around to know it's Scott.

"She would've hated all that," he says, sitting down next to me.

"All what?"

"The funeral. The speeches. The... everything."

I nod, because he's right. Allison wasn't the kind of person who wanted people to cry over her. She'd want us to celebrate her, to remember her strength, not her death.

But that's easier said than done.

"She'd also hate how much guilt you're carrying," Scott says, his voice soft but firm.

I glance at him, startled. "What?"

"You think I don't notice? Stiles, it wasn't your fault."

I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats, looking me straight in the eye. "You were possessed. You didn't have a choice."

"Yeah, well, try telling that to the part of my brain that keeps replaying it like a freaking highlight reel," I mutter.

Scott doesn't say anything for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. "I miss her."

"Me too," I whisper.

We sit there in silence, the weight of everything settling over us. It doesn't feel like closure. It doesn't feel like healing. But it feels like something.

And maybe that's enough for now.

The days after Allison's funeral passed in a haze of grief, exhaustion, and a deep, unsettling emptiness that I couldn't seem to shake. The house was too quiet, too empty, too... suffocating. My dad, bless him, kept trying to act normal, but I could tell he was worried. He didn't know how to help me, and truthfully, I didn't know how to help myself. I barely had the energy to get out of bed most mornings, let alone reassure him that I wasn't falling apart.

That morning started the same as any other in the post-Nogitsune, post-Allison world. I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. A text from Scott, just a quick check-in, asking if I was okay. I stared at the screen for a long time before typing out a quick "Yeah, I'm fine" and hitting send. It wasn't true, but it was easier than explaining the truth. That I felt hollow. That every time I closed my eyes, I saw Allison falling, saw the blood on my hands. That the scars on the back of my neck still itched and burned like they were trying to remind me of something I didn't want to remember.

I swung my legs out of bed and stood up, my head spinning slightly as I did. My stomach churned, an uneasy wave of nausea washing over me. I grabbed the edge of the dresser for support, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself. It wasn't the first time I'd felt like this in the past few days, but I'd been chalking it up to stress. Or maybe the fact that I hadn't been eating much. Or sleeping much. Or functioning like a normal human being in general.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at me looked like a stranger. Pale, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and a hollow look that made it hard to recognize myself. I rubbed the back of my neck, my fingers brushing over the raised, jagged lines of the scars the Nogitsune had left behind. They were like lightning frozen in my skin, a permanent reminder of everything that had happened. Everything I couldn't forget.

My stomach lurched again, and this time I barely made it to the toilet before I was throwing up. Dry heaving, mostly, since there wasn't much in my stomach to begin with. The bile burned my throat, my entire body trembling as I clutched the edge of the toilet bowl. When it was over, I slumped against the wall, my head resting on the cool tile.

I sat there for a long time, trying to catch my breath. My body felt drained, like I'd just run a marathon. What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe I was coming down with something. A flu or a stomach bug. That had to be it, right? My immune system probably wasn't at its best, considering I wasn't eating or sleeping properly. It made sense.

Eventually, I dragged myself back to my feet, brushing my teeth to get rid of the sour taste in my mouth. The nausea had eased slightly, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach lingered. I made my way downstairs, hoping a cup of tea might help settle it.

The kitchen was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound. I put the kettle on and sat down at the table, resting my head in my hands. My dad had already left for work, and the empty house felt heavier than usual. I missed the days when he would hover, asking if I needed anything or trying to make me eat. Lately, though, he'd been giving me space, which I appreciated... and hated at the same time. The space gave me room to breathe, but it also gave me room to think. And thinking wasn't exactly my favorite activity these days.

When the kettle whistled, I poured myself a cup of tea and sat back down at the table. I sipped it slowly, the warmth soothing my throat, but the nausea didn't go away entirely. My stomach still felt unsettled, like it was tied in knots.

By the time I left for school, I was feeling marginally better. The nausea had dulled to a faint queasiness, and I managed to force down half a granola bar on the drive over. I parked in my usual spot and sat in the Jeep for a minute, staring at the front doors of the school. I didn't want to go in. I didn't want to deal with the stares, the whispers, the pitying looks from people who thought they understood what I was going through. But skipping wasn't an option. I had to keep up the illusion of normalcy, even if I was barely holding it together.

The day passed in a blur, my nausea coming and going in waves. I didn't eat lunch, opting instead to sit in the library and pretend to study. Lydia stopped by at one point, dropping a textbook on the table in front of me and sitting down across from me without a word. She didn't ask how I was doing, didn't say anything about the fact that I was clearly falling apart. She just sat there, flipping through her book, her presence oddly comforting.

By the time I got home that afternoon, the nausea was back in full force. I barely made it through the front door before I was running to the bathroom again. This time, it was worse. My stomach cramped painfully as I heaved, my entire body trembling with the effort. When it was finally over, I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, my cheek pressed against the cool tile.

I felt like I was dying. Or at least, I felt like I wanted to die. My head was pounding, my body ached, and my stomach felt like it had been through a blender. This wasn't normal. This wasn't just stress or a stomach bug. Something was wrong with me. Something was really, really wrong.

For a moment, I considered calling Scott. Or Lydia. Or Deaton. Someone who might be able to tell me what the hell was going on. But the thought of explaining how pathetic I was, how I couldn't even handle being sick without falling apart, stopped me. I didn't want to be a burden. They were all dealing with their own grief, their own trauma. They didn't need mine on top of it.

So I picked myself up, brushed my teeth again, and went to bed, hoping that whatever this was, it would pass. Hoping that tomorrow would be better.

It wasn't.

The next morning, the nausea hit me the moment I sat up in bed. I stumbled to the bathroom and spent the next ten minutes hunched over the toilet, my entire body trembling with the effort. By the time I was done, I was so exhausted I could barely stand. My hands were shaking as I turned on the sink, splashing cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out.

I couldn't keep going like this. I needed answers. I needed help. But I didn't know where to start.

The rest of the day was a blur of nausea, exhaustion, and a growing sense of dread. By the time evening rolled around, I was too tired to even think about eating. I crawled into bed, clutching my stomach and praying that sleep would come quickly.

It didn't.

The nightmares were worse that night. I dreamed of Allison, of the Nogitsune, of blood and shadows and laughter that made my skin crawl. I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding in my chest. My stomach twisted painfully, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I was throwing up again. I sat on the bathroom floor for what felt like hours, my head resting against the wall, my body trembling with exhaustion. Something was wrong with me. I didn't know what it was, but I couldn't keep pretending it was nothing. I needed answers. And I needed them soon.

Monday, November 19, 2011.

Thanksgiving break was finally here, but the holiday spirit was the last thing on my mind. The halls of Beacon Hills High had been buzzing with talk of family dinners, road trips, and all the free time everyone was looking forward to, but I couldn't bring myself to care. None of it mattered. Not really. Not when every step I took felt like wading through quicksand.

The days since Allison's funeral had blurred together, a haze of exhaustion, nausea, and an overwhelming sense of heaviness. My life felt like it had been split into two parts: Before the Nogitsune and After. Before, I'd been sarcastic, hyperactive, a little annoying but full of life. After? I was just... existing. A pale shadow of who I used to be. I didn't feel like Stiles Stilinski anymore. I wasn't even sure who I was.

Monday morning started the same way it had for the past week: nausea hitting me like a truck the moment I sat up in bed. It was becoming routine at this point. Wake up, feel like crap, spend ten minutes on the bathroom floor trying not to dry heave my lungs out. I'd given up on breakfast entirely, which wasn't much of a loss since my appetite was non-existent. Even the thought of food made my stomach turn.

I leaned over the sink, gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turned white. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, pale and gaunt, with shadows under my eyes so dark they looked like bruises. I barely recognized myself anymore. My body felt like it wasn't my own, like it was rebelling against me. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would shock me into feeling something. Anything. But the numbness in my chest didn't budge.

I stumbled downstairs, the silence of the house pressing in on me. My dad had already left for work, his coffee cup sitting empty on the counter. The sight of it made my chest ache. He'd been trying so hard lately, checking in on me, making sure I had everything I needed. But I could tell he was struggling too. The distance between us had grown since the Nogitsune, an invisible wall neither of us seemed to know how to break through. He didn't ask about my nightmares or the scars on the back of my neck, and I didn't offer any details. It was easier that way, for both of us.

The Jeep rattled to life as I turned the key, the familiar sound grounding me for a moment. I didn't have a destination in mind, but the thought of staying in the empty house all day made my skin crawl. The streets of Beacon Hills were quiet, most people probably sleeping in or heading out of town for the break. I drove aimlessly, the radio off, the silence inside the Jeep as heavy as the silence in my chest.

At some point, I ended up at the Nemeton. I didn't mean to, but my feet seemed to carry me there on their own. The ancient tree stood in the clearing, its gnarled roots twisting into the ground like something out of a nightmare. The sight of it sent a shiver down my spine. I hated this place. Hated everything it represented. But I couldn't seem to stay away.

I sat down on one of the roots, leaning back against the tree. The air was cold, the smell of damp earth filling my lungs. For a moment, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. The nausea had subsided for now, but the uneasy feeling in my stomach remained, a constant reminder that something was wrong. I didn't know what it was, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was connected to everything that had happened. The Nogitsune, the Nemeton, the scars on my neck that still ached whenever I was alone.

I stayed there for hours, lost in my thoughts. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the light filtering through the trees in soft golden beams. It was beautiful, in a way, but it felt wrong. Like the world shouldn't be allowed to look this peaceful when everything inside me was falling apart.

By the time I got home, the sky had turned gray, clouds gathering on the horizon. The house was still empty, my dad working late again. I heated up a can of soup, forcing myself to eat even though I wasn't hungry. Every bite felt like a chore, my stomach twisting uncomfortably with each spoonful. When I finally gave up, the bowl was still half-full, and I left it on the counter, too tired to deal with it.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of nothingness. I sat on the couch, flipping through channels without really watching anything. My phone buzzed a few times with texts from Scott and Lydia, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. They meant well, I knew that, but I didn't have the energy to pretend I was okay. Not right now.

Eventually, I dragged myself upstairs and collapsed into bed. The nausea hit me again as I lay there, but I was too tired to move. My body ached, my head pounding, and sleep felt impossibly far away. When it finally came, it was restless and filled with nightmares. The same ones I'd been having since the Nogitsune. Blood, laughter, Allison's face as she fell, the weight of her death pressing down on me like a stone.

I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of my alarm clock. 3:17 AM. I sat up, my hands trembling, the nausea rising again. This time, I didn't even make it to the bathroom. I grabbed the trash can by the bed and retched into it, my entire body shaking with the effort. When it was over, I collapsed back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as tears burned in my eyes.

I couldn't keep going like this. Something was wrong with me, and I didn't know how to fix it. I felt like I was falling apart, piece by piece, and no one could see it. No one could save me.

The next few days passed much the same way. The nausea came and went, unpredictable and relentless. Eating was a struggle, sleeping was even worse, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down on me like a constant, suffocating presence. Thanksgiving was just a few days away, but the thought of it felt distant, almost surreal. How was I supposed to sit at a table, smile, and act like everything was okay when I felt like I was dying inside?

I spent most of my time driving around Beacon Hills, avoiding home, avoiding people, avoiding myself. The Nemeton became my refuge, even though I hated it. There was something about the way it stood there, ancient and unyielding, that made me feel less alone. Like it understood what it meant to carry the weight of something you couldn't escape.

On Wednesday, I finally broke down and called Deaton. His voice was calm and steady as always, but I could hear the concern in his tone when I told him how I'd been feeling. He asked me to come by the clinic the next day, and I agreed, even though part of me wanted to back out. I didn't want to know what was wrong with me. I didn't want to face whatever this was. But I didn't have a choice anymore. I couldn't keep pretending it would just go away.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I tried to convince myself that everything would be fine. That Deaton would have answers. That I wasn't as broken as I felt.

But deep down, I knew the truth. This wasn't going to be fine. Nothing had been fine for a long time, and I wasn't sure it ever would be again.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I tried to convince myself that everything would be fine. That Deaton would have answers. That I wasn't as broken as I felt.

But deep down, I knew the truth. This wasn't going to be fine. Nothing had been fine for a long time, and I wasn't sure it ever would be again.

Stiles's Pov

Thursday, November 22, 2011

When I wake up Thursday morning, it's to the familiar churn of nausea deep in my stomach. It's been two weeks of this now, and I still can't get used to it. The worst part isn't the puking—that's become mechanical by now, a thing I can just let happen without much thought. No, the worst part is the dread that comes right after, the knowing that the rest of the day is going to be just as heavy, just as exhausting.

I stay hunched over the toilet for a few minutes longer than I need to, breathing deeply and trying to shake off the chill that always follows. My hands feel clammy as I grip the edge of the sink to pull myself up. I rinse my mouth out, spit, and look up into the mirror. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and pale. I've stopped trying to convince myself that I look "okay." There's no point. I look like I've been dragged backward through hell, which, honestly, isn't too far from the truth.

The scars on the back of my neck tingle faintly, almost like they know today is going to be something. I hate when they do that—when they remind me that no matter how much distance I try to put between myself and the Nogitsune, it's still there, carved into my skin, into my memories. I run my fingers over them briefly, and the sensation makes my stomach turn again. It's not magic. Not really. It's just me being in my own head too much.

Deaton's clinic smells exactly the same as it always does—some mix of herbs and antiseptic that hits me the moment I walk in. It's not a bad smell, but it's strong, and my stomach churns in protest.

Deaton looks up from where he's organizing some jars behind the counter, his calm, knowing expression making me feel both relieved and slightly defensive. There's something about the way he sees through everything, like he knows exactly what's going on even when you're trying your hardest to keep it together.

"Stiles," he says, his tone neutral but warm. "I wasn't sure if you'd actually come."

"I'm here," I say, running a hand through my hair. "Against my better judgment, but yeah. I'm here."

He gestures toward the back room, and I follow, my hands shoved into the pockets of my hoodie. The clinic is quiet today, the kind of quiet that feels heavier than it should. Or maybe it's just me.

I sit on the exam table while Deaton pulls up a chair across from me, his hands resting on his knees as he studies me. I fidget under his gaze, looking everywhere but at him.

"So," I say, my voice awkwardly loud in the stillness. "You've got the floor, Doc. Tell me what's wrong with me. Am I dying? Is this some weird leftover Nogitsune curse? Because if it is, I gotta say, it's really lame. Like, no offense, but I feel like I deserve something cooler than constant puking and an existential crisis."

Deaton doesn't smile, but there's a slight softening of his expression, like he knows I'm trying to deflect.

"Tell me about your symptoms," he says instead, his voice calm and even.

"Where do I start?" I mutter, running a hand over my face. "Okay, so. Nausea. Pretty much constant. Worse in the mornings, but it sticks around all day. And it's not like I'm eating anything that could cause it, because, newsflash, I'm barely eating anything at all. Food's just... ugh." I make a vague, disgusted gesture. "I force myself to eat something small, and half the time it comes right back up. The other half, it just sits there like a rock in my stomach."

Deaton nods, listening intently.

"Then there's the exhaustion. Like, I'm tired all the time. And not just 'didn't get enough sleep' tired. I'm talking bone-deep, could-fall-asleep-standing tired. Except, funny thing is, I can't actually sleep. Not properly, anyway. Nightmares. Every night. And when I do manage to sleep, I wake up feeling just as drained as before."

He nods again, his eyes thoughtful. "Anything else?"

I hesitate, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "Sometimes it feels like my body isn't... I don't know, mine. Like I'm disconnected from it. Like it's rebelling against me or something. And the scars..." I trail off, my fingers brushing the back of my neck.

"The scars?" Deaton prompts gently.

"They itch sometimes," I admit. "Not all the time, but enough to freak me out. It's like they're alive, or—I don't know. It's probably just in my head."

He leans back slightly, his hands resting on his thighs. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, his gaze distant as if he's piecing something together in his mind. Then he exhales softly, his shoulders relaxing.

"Stiles," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "What you're describing isn't uncommon for someone who's been through what you have."

I blink at him, confused. "What I've been through?"

"Your body and mind were taken over by a powerful, malevolent entity," he explains. "The Nogitsune didn't just inhabit you—it consumed you. It used your body, your voice, your memories, and your emotions as tools for its own agenda. That kind of violation leaves a mark, even after the entity is gone."

I frown, his words sinking in slowly. "So... what, you're saying this is all in my head?"

"Not exactly," he says. "The physical symptoms you're experiencing—nausea, exhaustion, the lack of appetite—those are real. But they're a result of the psychological toll the Nogitsune took on you. Your body is responding to the trauma, even if you don't consciously realize it."

"Post-Nogitsune stress," I say dryly, trying to make it sound less terrifying than it is.

He gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. "In a way, yes. It's a combination of physical and psychological responses to what happened. The guilt you're carrying, the nightmares, the memories—they're all contributing to the state you're in now."

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. I should feel relieved, right? This isn't some weird magical curse. I'm not dying. But somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, it makes me feel worse. Because if this is all just my body reacting to stress and guilt, then what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

"Is there... I don't know, a pill for this?" I ask, half-joking but mostly desperate.

Deaton's lips twitch slightly, but his expression remains calm. "There's no quick fix, Stiles. This will take time. Your body and mind need to heal, and that's not something that can be rushed."

I nod slowly, swallowing hard. "Okay. So what do I do in the meantime? Just... ride it out?"

"For now, focus on taking care of yourself as best you can," he says. "Eat small, frequent meals, even if it's difficult. Rest when you can. And try to find ways to process what you're feeling. Talk to someone if you need to."

I let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, because talking about my feelings is definitely my strong suit."

"You might be surprised at how much it helps," he says simply.

I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. My chest feels tight, my throat closing up as I try to process everything he's said. It's not the answer I wanted, but it's the answer I've got.

As I leave the clinic, the cold November air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. My mind is spinning, replaying Deaton's words over and over again. Post-Nogitsune stress. Guilt. Trauma. Healing takes time.

I don't know how long I stand there in the parking lot, staring at nothing. Eventually, I climb into the Jeep and drive home, the weight in my chest heavier than ever.

That night, as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, I try to remind myself that Deaton said this would pass. That it's not permanent. That I'll get through it.

But deep down, I'm not sure I believe him.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The smell of roasted turkey hit me the second I opened my bedroom door. It was warm and rich, the kind of smell that usually made my stomach growl in anticipation, but today it only made my nausea stir. My hand reflexively went to my stomach as I stepped into the hallway, trying to will it to settle down. Not today. I couldn't let it ruin today.

It was Thanksgiving. A day where you were supposed to eat too much, nap on the couch, and pretend like the world wasn't falling apart. A day where families came together and, at least for a few hours, pretended everything was fine. And if there was one thing I was good at, it was pretending.

Dad had been working so much lately, drowning himself in late nights at the station and too much coffee, but I could tell this holiday mattered to him. I'd overheard him on the phone earlier in the week, telling someone at work that he was going to make sure "Thanksgiving felt normal this year." Normal. God, what a concept.

I shuffled down the stairs, still in my sweats, my hoodie pulled tight around me. The nausea hadn't let up since yesterday, but I was determined to ignore it. I could power through it for a day. For Dad.

When I reached the kitchen, I found him standing at the counter, a carving knife in one hand and his reading glasses perched on his nose as he stared at the turkey like it was a suspect he couldn't crack. A half-empty mug of coffee sat beside him, steam curling up into the air.

"Morning, kiddo," he said, glancing up with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Happy Thanksgiving," I said, trying to match his tone. My voice came out scratchy, and I cleared my throat quickly. "That smells... amazing." It wasn't a total lie. It did smell amazing. It just also made my stomach churn.

Dad raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to me like he was trying to assess how I was doing. I gave him my best "I'm fine" smile, the one I'd been perfecting over the last few weeks.

"You sleep okay?" he asked casually, but I could hear the undercurrent of concern in his voice.

"Yeah," I lied, moving to the fridge to grab some orange juice. "Like a rock."

He didn't push, which I was grateful for. Instead, he went back to slicing the turkey, his movements careful and precise. I leaned against the counter, sipping my juice and trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.

We didn't talk much as we worked to get the food ready. Dad had insisted on doing most of the cooking himself, but I helped where I could—setting the table, peeling potatoes, stirring gravy. It felt weird, almost surreal, to be going through the motions of a normal Thanksgiving when everything inside me felt so far from normal.

By the time we sat down to eat, the table was covered in enough food to feed a small army. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, cranberry sauce—the works. Dad had even made a pumpkin pie, which sat in the center of the table like a crown jewel.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Dad said, his voice tinged with pride as he surveyed the spread.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "You outdid yourself, Dad. Gordon Ramsay would be jealous."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's not get carried away, kid."

We sat down, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Dad bowed his head, murmuring a quick prayer under his breath, and I stayed silent, staring down at my plate. When he finished, he looked up at me, his expression soft.

"Let's dig in," he said.

I picked up my fork and speared a piece of turkey, chewing slowly and forcing it down even though my stomach protested. I could feel Dad's eyes on me, and I made a point of taking another bite, then another. I couldn't let him see how bad it really was. Not today.

"So," Dad said, breaking the silence. "Anything you're thankful for this year?"

I hesitated, my fork hovering over my plate. The question felt heavier than it should have, like it carried the weight of everything I didn't want to think about.

"I guess... I'm thankful for you," I said finally, the words coming out quieter than I'd intended.

Dad's expression softened, and for a moment, he looked like he might cry. But he just nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Me too, kiddo," he said. "Me too."

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, the clinking of forks against plates filling the space between us. I managed to eat a little bit of everything, even though every bite felt like a battle. My stomach was still twisting uncomfortably, but I pushed through it, determined not to let Dad see how bad it was.

After dinner, we moved to the living room, where Dad turned on the football game. I stretched out on the couch, my head resting against the armrest as I stared at the screen. The nausea had dulled slightly, but the heaviness in my chest hadn't.

Dad sat in his recliner, his eyes on the game but his focus clearly elsewhere. I wanted to say something to him, to let him know that I appreciated everything he was doing, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I stayed quiet, pretending to watch the game while my mind wandered.

The day ended the same way it began—with me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. My stomach was still unsettled, my head pounding from the effort of keeping up the charade all day. But at least Dad hadn't seemed suspicious. At least, not too much.

I rolled onto my side, clutching my pillow as the weight of the day pressed down on me. I'd made it through Thanksgiving, but the thought of everything still ahead—Christmas, New Year's, the endless stretch of days that felt more like obstacles than time—was overwhelming.

I closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep. But the nightmares were already waiting for me, lurking in the shadows of my mind. And I knew, no matter how hard I tried, that I couldn't outrun them forever.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Things were finally starting to feel... not normal, but something close to it. Less suffocating. More manageable. After two weeks of dry toast and forcing down water like I was some contestant on a sadistic game show, I'd started eating actual meals again. My appetite wasn't what it used to be—no way was I ready to tackle a stack of pancakes or a greasy slice of pepperoni pizza—but I could stomach small portions of real food without my body completely rebelling. That was progress, right?

Even my dad noticed. I caught him watching me during breakfast this morning, his fork hovering mid-air as I shoveled spoonfuls of oatmeal into my mouth like it wasn't some kind of miracle. He didn't say anything, but I saw the relief in his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed just a little. I think he was starting to believe I was going to be okay.

I wasn't entirely sure he was right about that, but at least I felt like I was moving in the right direction.

The nightmares were still there, of course. They came and went like unwelcome houseguests, crashing into my head every time I closed my eyes. But I'd stopped waking up drenched in sweat every night. Some nights, I even managed a solid few hours of sleep without seeing Allison's face or hearing the Nogitsune's laughter echo in my ears. That was something, wasn't it?

I spent most of the day at home, trying to work on a history paper that was due next week. The keyword being "trying." Every time I started writing, my mind wandered to things I didn't want to think about—Allison, the scars on my neck, the lingering nausea that hadn't completely gone away. I ended up staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop for an hour before slamming it shut and deciding to give up for the day.

By the time evening rolled around, I was feeling restless. I wanted to get out of the house, to do something that didn't involve staring at a screen or wallowing in my own head. I texted Scott to see if he wanted to hang out, but he didn't reply, which wasn't unusual. He'd been... distracted lately.

That was putting it lightly, actually. Scott hadn't been himself since Allison's death. None of us had, but with him, it was like he'd built this wall around himself, shutting everyone else out. I knew he was hurting—I'd seen the way he'd looked at her urn during the funeral, like the weight of losing her was too much to bear. But he wasn't talking about it. Not to me, not to Lydia, not even to his mom.

And when Scott shut down, the whole pack felt it.

I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. I stared at my phone for a moment, debating whether to leave a message, before finally hanging up and tossing it onto the couch.

I should've known something was wrong.

It wasn't until later that night, when I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, that I heard the knock on my window.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. I froze, my toothbrush halfway to my mouth, and listened. For a moment, there was nothing. Then it came again—three quick taps against the glass.

I set my toothbrush down and moved cautiously to the window, pulling back the curtain. Scott was standing there, his face pale and his eyes wide with something I couldn't quite read.

I pushed the window open, the cold December air hitting me like a slap in the face. "Scott? What the hell—"

"Let me in," he said, cutting me off. His voice was tight, urgent.

I stepped aside, and he climbed in, his movements quick and jittery. The second he was inside, I closed the window and turned to face him.

"Okay, what's going on?" I asked, crossing my arms. "You look like you've just seen a ghost or, I don't know, a really bad TikTok."

Scott didn't laugh. He barely even acknowledged the joke. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his breathing was shallow, like he'd just run a marathon.

"It's Derek," he said finally, his voice low.

My stomach sank. "What about him?"

"I think he's in trouble."

I frowned, my mind racing. I hadn't seen Derek in weeks—not since Allison's funeral. He'd been quiet, even for him, and I'd figured he was just off brooding in some dark corner somewhere, doing his usual lone wolf routine. But if Scott thought something was wrong, then it probably was.

"Okay," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Start from the beginning. What happened?"

Scott took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "I went to his loft earlier. I hadn't heard from him in a while, and I thought... I don't know, maybe he was just avoiding us. But when I got there..."

He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

"When you got there, what?" I pressed, my chest tightening with unease.

"There were shell casings everywhere," Scott said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dozens of them. And they all had the same symbol engraved on the side."

"What symbol?"

"The Calaveras."

I felt my stomach drop. The Calaveras. The self-proclaimed hunters of hunters. The ones who had already tangled with Derek once, back when Kate Argent was still alive. If they'd gone after him again...

"Are you sure?" I asked, my voice shaky.

Scott nodded. "Positive. It was their skull symbol. And there was blood."

My heart was pounding now, my thoughts racing. "Do you think they...?"

"I don't know," Scott said, his hands clenching into fists. "But if they did, if they took him—"

"We have to do something," I interrupted. "We can't just sit here and hope he shows up."

Scott nodded, his jaw tight. "I already called Lydia and Kira. They're meeting us at the loft. I figured you'd want to come too."

"Of course I do," I said, already grabbing my jacket.

The drive to Derek's loft was tense and quiet, Scott's knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. I didn't bother trying to make conversation. I could tell he was barely holding it together, and honestly, I wasn't doing much better. The thought of Derek being captured—or worse—made my chest feel tight, like I couldn't quite catch my breath.

When we arrived, Lydia and Kira were already waiting outside, their faces pale and worried. Lydia had her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line, while Kira stood beside her, fidgeting nervously.

"What did you find?" Lydia asked as soon as we got out of the car.

Scott didn't answer. He just unlocked the door to the loft and pushed it open, stepping inside. The rest of us followed, our footsteps echoing in the empty space.

The loft was a mess. Furniture was overturned, and the floor was littered with broken glass and shell casings. Scott wasn't exaggerating—there were dozens of them, scattered across the floor like confetti at the world's worst party.

I crouched down, picking up one of the casings and turning it over in my hand. The skull symbol was there, etched into the metal, its hollow eyes staring back at me.

"Do you think he fought back?" Kira asked, her voice trembling.

"Looks like it," Scott said, his voice tight. "But there's no sign of him. No body, no tracks, nothing. It's like he just... vanished."

Lydia frowned, her eyes scanning the room. "If the Calaveras took him, they wouldn't leave a trail. They're too smart for that."

"Then how do we find him?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

Lydia didn't answer.

The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until Scott finally spoke.

"We'll find him," he said, his voice firm. "We have to."

None of us argued. But as I looked around the wreckage of Derek's loft, a sinking feeling settled in my gut.

This wasn't going to be easy. And something told me we were running out of time.

The loft was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards as we paced back and forth, all of us too keyed up to sit still. Scott was standing near the overturned couch, his jaw tight and his arms crossed, like he was trying to will himself into finding answers by sheer force of will. Kira hovered by the window, biting her bottom lip and fidgeting with her fingers, while Lydia sat perched on the edge of the coffee table, her hands folded neatly in her lap but her sharp eyes darting around the room, taking in every detail.

And then there was me, Stiles Stilinski, the one who couldn't shut up even if I tried.

"Okay," I said, clapping my hands together in a way that was supposed to seem confident but mostly came off as manic. "We need a plan. And not just any plan. A brilliant plan. A plan so airtight that not even Chris Argent could poke holes in it. So... ideas, anyone? Preferably ideas that don't involve us all getting killed or arrested?"

Scott didn't even look up. He was staring at a spot on the floor, where a faint smear of blood had dried into the wood. "We need to find the Calaveras," he muttered. "They have to have him. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Sure," I said, "but, uh, minor issue—how exactly are we supposed to do that? Just Google 'Calaveras secret evil hunter hideout'? Maybe there's a Yelp review or something."

Kira snorted softly, but Scott didn't respond. His shoulders were tense, his eyes shadowed with worry, and I knew he wasn't in the mood for my usual brand of snark. Not that it ever stopped me.

"What about tracing the shell casings?" Kira suggested, turning toward us. "Like, maybe the symbol on them—does it mean anything? Other than, you know, being a giant red flag that says 'Calaveras were here'?"

"Symbol tracing would take weeks," Lydia cut in, her voice crisp. "Even if we could find someone who knows about it, they'd probably want something in return. Information. Or money. Or—" she glanced at Scott—"favors. And we don't have weeks. If they have Derek, they could..." She trailed off, but we all knew what she was thinking.

I nodded, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, so the casings are a dead end. What else do we have?"

Scott finally looked up, his brow furrowed. "They might've taken him out of town. Maybe even out of the country."

That caught everyone's attention.

"Out of the country?" Lydia repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"They're hunters," Scott said. "They've got resources, connections. If they think Derek's dangerous enough, they might've taken him somewhere far away. Somewhere we can't find him."

"Or somewhere we wouldn't think to look," I added.

The room fell silent as the weight of that realization settled over us. If the Calaveras had taken Derek out of the country, we were going to have to figure out how to get to him—and fast.

"Okay," I said, breaking the silence. "First question: does everyone here have a valid passport?"

Kira blinked at me. "A... passport?"

"Yes, a passport," I said, waving my hands around for emphasis. "You know, that little booklet that says 'I'm allowed to cross international borders without being tackled by customs officers.'"

"I have one," Lydia said, tilting her head. "But where exactly are you planning on going, Stiles? South America? Europe? The Bermuda Triangle?"

"Wherever they've got Derek!" I shot back. "Look, we can't rule anything out, okay? If they took him out of the country, we need to be prepared to follow. That means passports, plane tickets, maybe a crash course in Spanish. Or Portuguese. Or whatever language they speak wherever we're going to have to go!"

Scott frowned. "We don't even know for sure if they took him out of the country. What if they're still here? What if we're wasting time trying to figure this out when he's..."

His voice broke, and I could see the frustration and worry etched into every line of his face.

"Okay, okay," I said, holding up my hands. "You're right. We don't know for sure. But we can't wait around hoping they're still here, either. We need to be ready for anything. That means we need a plan. A real plan. And step one of that plan is figuring out what to tell our parents."

"Tell our parents?" Kira asked, her eyes widening.

"Yeah, unless you think they're going to be totally cool with us just vanishing for a week or two," I said.

Lydia, who had been sitting silently with her arms crossed, suddenly spoke up. "We tell them we're going camping."

I blinked. "Camping?"

She nodded, her expression calm and confident. "It's perfect. We've done it before. Well, you've done it before," she added, glancing at Scott. "It's not out of the ordinary for us to go off into the woods for a weekend. If we say it's a school project or an extracurricular activity, our parents will believe it."

I stared at her, my mind racing. It wasn't a bad idea, actually. "Okay, but what about school? We've still got a week left before winter break starts. What do we do about that?"

"We leave after school on Friday," Lydia said matter-of-factly. "That gives us five days to get everything in order. Passports, supplies, transportation, and, most importantly, figuring out exactly where Derek is. If we don't have a solid lead by Friday, we don't leave."

Scott looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Okay. Five days."

I clapped my hands together, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. "Great! So, we've got a plan. Or the start of one, anyway. Now we just need to figure out the hard part—how to track down the Calaveras."

Kira raised her hand slightly, like we were in class. "What about Chris Argent? He's worked with them before, right? Maybe he knows something."

"That's actually... not a bad idea," I said, nodding. "Scott, you're tight with Allison's dad, right? Maybe you can ask him if he's heard anything."

Scott hesitated, his jaw tightening. "I don't know if he'll talk to me about it. Not after everything that's happened."

Lydia frowned. "You don't have to tell him everything, Scott. Just ask him if he's heard from the Calaveras lately. It's worth a shot."

He nodded reluctantly. "Okay. I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"Perfect," I said. "And in the meantime, I'll... do some research. See if I can dig up anything on where they might be hiding out. Lydia, you're the brains of this operation. You've got any ideas?"

"I'll make a list of possible locations," she said. "If the Calaveras have a base of operations in the area, it's probably remote. Somewhere hard to find."

"And I'll... help with supplies?" Kira offered, looking uncertain.

"Supplies are good," I said. "We're going to need plenty of those. Food, water, sleeping bags, maybe a taser or two. You never know."

The room fell silent again, the weight of the situation settling over us once more. We had a plan—or at least, the beginnings of one—but the reality of what we were up against was starting to sink in.

"Do you think he's okay?" Kira asked softly, her voice barely audible.

Scott didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady. "He has to be."

None of us said anything after that. Because deep down, we all knew that wasn't guaranteed.

We had five days to figure this out. Five days to find Derek. And we couldn't afford to waste a single second.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

"Do you think he's okay?" Kira asked softly, her voice barely audible.

Scott didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady. "He has to be."

None of us said anything after that. Because deep down, we all knew that wasn't guaranteed.

We had five days to figure this out. Five days to find Derek. And we couldn't afford to waste a single second.

Stiles's Pov

Monday, December 5, 2011

There's a certain level of denial you get used to when your life's been one constant train wreck for the past couple of months. Denial becomes a survival mechanism. You tell yourself you're fine, that the nightmares don't keep you up at night, that the constant nausea is just a bug or some lingering stress from being possessed by a supernatural murder fox. It's easier that way. Denial keeps you moving forward, and right now, I don't have the luxury of falling apart.

Finding Derek is all that matters. Whatever's wrong with me can wait.

Monday started the way most of my mornings have for the past few weeks—with my stomach doing its best impression of a washing machine on the spin cycle. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was dry-heaving into the toilet, my body trembling from the effort. I stayed there for a few minutes after it was over, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, breathing hard. My throat burned, my hands shook, and my knees felt like they were about to give out.

This was my new normal. Morning sickness—except I didn't know that's what it was yet. As far as I was concerned, it was just another lovely side effect of the Nogitsune screwing up my life.

By the time I managed to drag myself downstairs, Dad was already gone, his empty coffee mug sitting on the counter as usual. The house felt eerily quiet, but that wasn't new. I was used to the silence by now. I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, knowing I needed to eat something even if the thought of food made my stomach churn.

The nausea didn't ease completely, but it dulled enough that I could function. I shoved my backpack over one shoulder, climbed into the Jeep, and headed to school. The day dragged on like molasses. It was one of those Mondays where the clock seemed to actively mock me, each tick of the second hand feeling slower than the last. I tried to focus in class, but my mind kept wandering back to Derek. Was he still alive? Was he hurt? Was he chained up in some dungeon, surrounded by Calaveras with itchy trigger fingers?

I couldn't shake the image of his loft, the bloodstains on the floor, the shell casings scattered like breadcrumbs leading to nowhere. Scott hadn't been able to talk to Chris Argent yet—apparently, Chris had been out of town over the weekend and wasn't answering his phone. That left us with nothing. No leads, no plan, and a rapidly shrinking window of time to find him.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was ready to scream.

"Any updates?" I asked Scott as we sat at our usual table in the cafeteria.

He shook his head, his expression grim. "I tried calling Chris again this morning, but he still hasn't answered. I left another voicemail."

"Great," I muttered, stabbing at the limp salad on my tray with a plastic fork. "So we're still stuck spinning our wheels."

"We'll figure it out," Scott said, though he didn't sound convinced.

Lydia, who was sitting across from us, arched an eyebrow. "We'd better. If the Calaveras have taken Derek out of the country, the longer we wait, the harder it's going to be to find him."

"Yeah, no pressure," I said, leaning back in my chair.

The plan, such as it was, was to spend the rest of the week gathering as much information as we could about the Calaveras. That meant talking to Chris, following up on any leads Lydia could dig up, and figuring out the logistics of our "camping trip" cover story. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all we had.

By the time school let out, I was already exhausted. The nausea had crept back in sometime during sixth period, and by the time I got home, I was ready to collapse.

I barely had time to kick off my shoes before I heard the knock at the door. It was sharp, deliberate, and immediately put me on edge. No one knocked like that unless they wanted something.

When I opened the door, I found myself staring into the sharp, unnervingly blue eyes of Peter Hale.

"Peter?" I said, blinking in surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Lovely to see you too, Stiles," Peter drawled, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "May I come in?"

I hesitated, my hand tightening on the doorframe. Peter wasn't exactly on my list of favorite people, but he had a knack for showing up when things were about to go sideways. That, and the look on his face told me he wasn't here for a social visit.

"Fine," I said, stepping aside. "But if you're here to ruin my day, you'll have to take a number. Mondays have dibs."

Peter stepped inside, glancing around the house like he was cataloging every detail. "Charming as always," he said. "I'd forgotten how... quaint this place is."

"Get to the point, Peter," I said, crossing my arms.

He turned to face me, his expression serious. "You're looking for Derek."

My stomach dropped. "How do you know that?"

"I have my ways," he said cryptically, waving a hand. "But that's not important. What is important is that I know where he is—or, at the very least, where you should start looking."

My heart started pounding. "You know where he is?"

"I said I know where you should start looking," Peter corrected, his tone annoyingly smug.

"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "Where?"

Peter's smirk widened. "Mexico."

I stared at him, my brain struggling to process the word. "Mexico? As in tequila and sombreros and spring break?"

"Yes, Stiles, that Mexico," Peter said, clearly unimpressed with my geography skills. "Specifically, a nightclub called La Muerte Negra. It's owned by the Calaveras—or, at the very least, they use it as one of their base operations. If Derek's alive, that's where they're holding him."

"How do you know this?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Peter's expression darkened, the smirk slipping for a moment. "Let's just say I have sources."

"Sources?"

"Yes," he said curtly. "Sources. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Stiles."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. I didn't trust Peter as far as I could throw him, but if he was telling the truth...

"Fine," I said. "We'll check it out. But if this is some kind of trap—"

"It's not," Peter said, cutting me off. "Believe me, Stiles, I don't want the Calaveras any more than you do. If they've taken Derek, they need to be dealt with. Quickly."

I didn't like the way he said that, but I let it go.

Peter left as abruptly as he arrived, leaving me standing in the living room with a million questions and no answers.

Mexico. A nightclub. The Calaveras.

We had our first lead. Now we just had to figure out how to use it.

And I still had to figure out how to keep my breakfast down. One crisis at a time.

Friday Morning, December 9, 2011

By the time Friday morning rolled around, I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. Twice. Maybe three times, for good measure. The week had been a whirlwind of planning, lying, and running on fumes. Between school, getting Malia's passport sorted out, gathering supplies, and keeping the whole "we're secretly planning a rescue mission to Mexico" thing under wraps, I hadn't had a single second to breathe. And the nausea wasn't helping.

Every morning, without fail, it hit me like clockwork. Sometimes it was just a dull queasiness that made eating breakfast feel like scaling Mount Everest. Other times, it was full-blown dry heaving in the bathroom, clutching the toilet bowl like it was my only lifeline. This morning was one of the bad ones.

I groaned as I leaned over the toilet, my hands trembling slightly as I tried to steady myself. My stomach was empty, so there wasn't much to throw up, but the effort left me lightheaded and weak.

"Get it together, Stilinski," I muttered to myself, my voice hoarse.

After splashing some cold water on my face and brushing my teeth for the second time, I made my way downstairs. The smell of coffee greeted me, and for once, it didn't make my stomach churn. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him, his mug of coffee steaming next to his plate of toast.

"Morning, kiddo," he said, glancing up at me. "You look..." He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he took in my appearance.

"Like crap?" I offered, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl. "Yeah, I know."

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

"Totally fine," I lied, peeling the banana and taking a bite. It tasted like mushy cardboard, but I forced it down anyway. "Just didn't sleep well, that's all."

My dad gave me a look—the kind of look that said he wasn't buying it but didn't want to push.

"Big day today," I said, changing the subject. "Camping trip starts right after school. You know, outdoor survival, bonding with nature, all that good stuff."

"You sure you're up for it?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "If you're not feeling well, you don't have to go."

I shook my head quickly. "No, I'm good. Really. I think some fresh air and sunshine will do me good."

It was only partially a lie. Sure, we weren't actually going camping, but a change of scenery—Mexico, specifically—did sound kind of appealing. Even if the whole point of the trip was to rescue Derek from a bunch of trigger-happy hunters.

"Alright," my dad said, still looking a little unsure. "Just... be careful, okay? And call me if you need anything."

"I will," I promised, giving him a small smile.

Before meeting up with the pack, I made a detour to Deaton's clinic. I hadn't told anyone I was going—I didn't want to worry Scott or the others—but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was seriously wrong with me. The nausea, the exhaustion, the way my body didn't feel like my own anymore... it was too much to ignore.

The clinic was quiet when I arrived, the faint smell of herbs and antiseptic filling the air. Deaton looked up from the counter as I walked in, his expression calm and unreadable as always.

"Stiles," he said, his tone even. "I wasn't expecting you this morning."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting to feel like I've been possessed by a demon raccoon for the past two weeks, so..." I trailed off, shrugging awkwardly. "Surprise."

Deaton raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Instead, he gestured toward the back room. "Come in. Let's take a look."

I followed him, dropping into the chair across from him as he sat down.

"So," he said, folding his hands in front of him. "What's going on?"

"The same thing I told you last time," I said, running a hand through my hair. "I'm still nauseous all the time, especially in the mornings. I'm exhausted even though I'm sleeping more—well, trying to sleep more. And... I don't know. I just feel off. Like my body's not mine anymore."

Deaton nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "And the nightmares?"

"Still there," I admitted. "Not as bad as before, but they're not exactly gone either."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. "Stiles, I told you last time that what you're experiencing is a result of the trauma you went through with the Nogitsune. The nausea, the exhaustion, the sense of disconnection from your body—it's all part of how your mind and body are processing what happened. This isn't something that will resolve overnight. It will take time."

I frowned, my hands tightening into fists in my lap. "Yeah, but... what if it's not just that? What if it's something else? Something worse?"

Deaton tilted his head slightly. "What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," I said, my voice rising slightly. "That's why I'm here. You're supposed to be the expert on all this supernatural crap, right? So tell me. Is there something else going on? Something you're not seeing?"

Deaton's calm gaze didn't waver. "I've already run diagnostic tests, Stiles. Both physical and magical. There's nothing to suggest that this is anything more than post-traumatic stress. Your body is reacting to the psychological toll of what you've been through. It's not uncommon for the symptoms to manifest physically."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to wait it out?" I asked, my voice dripping with frustration.

"Yes," Deaton said simply. "But in the meantime, take care of yourself. Eat when you can, rest when you're able, and don't hesitate to reach out if you need help."

I let out a shaky breath, leaning back in the chair. I wanted to argue, to demand answers he couldn't give me, but I knew it wouldn't do any good.

"Okay," I said finally. "Thanks, I guess."

Deaton nodded, his expression softening slightly. "You're stronger than you think, Stiles. You'll get through this."

I wasn't so sure about that, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I stood up, gave him a small nod, and left the clinic.

By the time I met up with the pack after school, I'd managed to push the morning's events to the back of my mind. I didn't have time to dwell on what Deaton had said—or what he hadn't said. We had a mission, and that had to come first.

Scott was already waiting in the parking lot when I pulled up in the Jeep, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Lydia and Kira were standing next to him, deep in conversation, while Malia leaned against Scott's bike, looking bored. After school ended, the rush of adrenaline kicked in like a shot of espresso. Maybe it was because we were finally doing something—finally moving forward with a plan instead of sitting around feeling helpless. Or maybe it was just the thought of leaving Beacon Hills behind for a few days, of putting some actual miles between me and everything that had been haunting me lately. Either way, by the time the pack gathered in the parking lot, I felt almost... alive.

The parking lot was mostly empty by the time I pulled the Jeep into a spot. Most of the students had already left, probably off to enjoy their Friday night or start their weekend plans. For us, though, this wasn't just another weekend.

Scott was already there when I arrived, leaning against his bike with his arms crossed and his face set in that serious, brooding expression he'd been wearing a lot lately. Kira stood next to him, adjusting the straps on her backpack, while Lydia checked her nails like we were heading to a fashion show instead of a life-threatening mission to Mexico. Malia, of course, was sitting on the hood of Scott's bike, looking as nonchalant as ever.

I pulled the Jeep into park and stepped out, slinging my bag over one shoulder. "Alright, team," I said, clapping my hands together. "Let's hit the road. Mexico's not going to save Derek for us."

Scott looked up at me, his expression softening slightly. "You got everything?"

"Everything and then some," I replied. "Snacks, maps, a portable charger, and enough sarcasm to get us through the border."

Malia snorted. "Great. Sarcasm will totally help when the Calaveras start shooting at us."

"Hey, it's gotten me this far in life," I shot back.

"Barely," Lydia muttered under her breath, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Alright, let's get moving," Scott said, cutting through the banter. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

The pack piled into the Jeep with a surprising amount of efficiency. Scott took the passenger seat, while Lydia, Kira, and Malia squeezed into the back. It was a tight fit, but no one complained. Not that I expected them to. We all knew what was at stake here.

I cranked up the engine, the familiar rattle and hum of the Jeep filling the air. "Next stop: Mexico," I announced, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

The first hour of the drive was quiet, the tension in the car palpable. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, the weight of what we were about to do settling heavily over us. Scott stared out the window, his jaw clenched, while Lydia scrolled through her phone, probably searching for more information on the Calaveras or their creepy nightclub. Kira sat quietly, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket, and Malia leaned back against the seat, her eyes half-closed like she was trying to nap.

I focused on the road, the steady rhythm of the tires against the asphalt grounding me in a way that almost felt comforting. The nausea that had been plaguing me all day had dulled to a faint ache, which I was grateful for. The last thing I needed was to puke in front of the pack and give them another reason to worry about me.

"So," I said finally, breaking the silence. "Anyone got any brilliant ideas for how we're supposed to break into a hunter-run nightclub in the middle of Mexico and rescue Derek without getting ourselves killed?"

"We'll figure it out when we get there," Scott said, his voice firm but distant.

"Solid plan, McCall," I said, glancing at him. "I feel so reassured."

"We'll need a distraction," Lydia said from the backseat, not looking up from her phone. "Something big enough to draw their attention away from Derek but not so big that it gets us caught."

"Like setting the place on fire?" Malia suggested casually.

"No," Scott said quickly, shooting her a look.

"It's not the worst idea," I pointed out, earning myself a glare from Scott. "What? I'm just saying, fire's effective. And dramatic."

"We're not burning down a nightclub," Scott said firmly.

"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. "No fire. Got it. But we're going to need something, or we'll be walking into a death trap."

"We'll figure it out," Lydia said, her tone distracted.

As the sun began to set, we stopped at a gas station to refuel and stretch our legs. Malia immediately wandered off toward the vending machines, while Kira checked out the small convenience store for snacks. Scott stood by the pump, staring at the horizon with a faraway look in his eyes.

I joined him, leaning against the Jeep as the tank filled. "You okay?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

He didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "I'm just worried about him. Derek. I keep thinking about what they might be doing to him, and..."

He trailed off, his fists clenching at his sides.

"We'll find him," I said, my voice steady. "We always do."

Scott nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease.

Back on the road, the atmosphere in the Jeep lightened slightly. Maybe it was the snacks—Malia had somehow acquired an entire bag of gummy bears, which she was now sharing begrudgingly—or maybe it was the fact that the miles were ticking away, bringing us closer to our destination.

"Does anyone actually know what this nightclub looks like?" Kira asked, popping a pretzel into her mouth.

"It's called La Muerte Negra," Lydia said. "The Black Death. Charming, isn't it?"

"Very," I said. "I'm sure it's got great Yelp reviews."

"It's supposed to be underground," Lydia continued. "Literally. The entrance is disguised as an abandoned warehouse, but the nightclub itself is beneath the surface. If the Calaveras are using it as a base, there's no telling how many of them are down there."

"Perfect," I said sarcastically. "Nothing like storming an underground bunker full of armed hunters to make you feel alive."

"We'll be fine," Scott said, though I could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure," I said. "What could possibly go wrong?"

We drove late into the night, stopping only once more for gas and a bathroom break. The closer we got to the border, the quieter the car became. It wasn't just exhaustion—it was the weight of what we were about to do.

By the time we reached a motel just outside the border, everyone was too tired to argue about sharing rooms. Scott and I took one, while Lydia, Kira, and Malia took the other.

As I lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, my mind raced. Tomorrow, we'd cross the border and head into unknown territory. Tomorrow, we'd put ourselves in danger for a chance to save Derek.

And tomorrow, I'd have to pretend that the nausea clawing at my stomach didn't exist.

One crisis at a time. That's all I could handle.

For the first time in weeks, I managed to get a full night of sleep without any nightmares. No Nogitsune whispering in my ear, no flashes of Allison falling, no blood-stained hands clawing at my subconscious. Just... sleep. Honest-to-God sleep.

When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the thin curtains of the motel room, and for a second, I let myself lie there and enjoy the quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn't heavy or suffocating, but calm. Peaceful. The kind of quiet I hadn't felt since before everything went to hell.

Scott was still snoring softly in the other bed, sprawled out in the way only he could manage. His face was relaxed, his breathing steady, and I felt a small pang of guilt for what we were about to put him through. He carried so much weight already—being the Alpha, leading the pack, trying to save everyone. And now we were dragging him into Mexico to go up against the Calaveras, a family of hunters who probably wanted him dead as much as they wanted Derek.

But we didn't have a choice. Derek needed us.

With a groan, I pushed myself out of bed, rubbing at my face to shake off the lingering sleep. My stomach gave a familiar, queasy lurch as I stood, and I closed my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose.

"No," I muttered to myself. "Not today. I actually slept. You're not ruining this."

My stomach, of course, didn't listen.

I stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the sink for support as another wave of nausea hit me. For a second, I thought I might actually throw up, but it passed as quickly as it had come, leaving me shaky and exhausted.

I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like hell. Pale, with dark circles under my eyes and hair that stuck up in about ten different directions. I'd been blaming the nausea on stress, lack of sleep, and lingering Nogitsune trauma, but at this point, it was starting to feel like something else.

Something worse.

But I didn't have time to think about that right now. We were on a mission, and Derek's life was on the line. My body would just have to get over itself.

By the time I came out of the bathroom, Scott was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and rubbing at his eyes. He looked over at me, his brow furrowing.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

"Yeah," I said quickly, waving him off. "Just not a morning person. You ready to hit the road?"

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he nodded, grabbing his bag from the floor. The rest of the pack was already waiting in the parking lot by the time Scott and I emerged from the motel room. Lydia was leaning against the Jeep, scrolling through her phone, while Kira and Malia stood nearby, talking quietly.

"Morning," I said, forcing a smile as I approached.

Lydia glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you lost a fight with your pillow."

"Thanks," I said dryly. "Always a pleasure to hear your feedback, Lydia."

She smirked, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"Absolutely," I lied. "Let's go rescue Derek, shall we?"

The drive to the border was quiet, the tension in the Jeep palpable. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, the weight of what we were about to do settling heavily over us. Scott sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window with a distant expression. I could tell he was replaying every worst-case scenario in his head, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. And honestly? I was doing the same thing.

Kira sat in the backseat next to Malia, fiddling nervously with her katana. She didn't say much, but the determined set of her jaw told me she was ready for whatever came next. Malia, on the other hand, looked completely relaxed, like this was just another road trip to her. Lydia was next to them, her phone in hand as she scrolled through what I could only assume was a map or some kind of plan for how we were going to pull this off.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white as I focused on the road ahead. The nausea was still there, a low, constant ache in my stomach that refused to let up. I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, and I knew I needed to, but the thought of food made me feel even worse.

"You okay, Stiles?" Scott asked, glancing over at me.

"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just focused."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press the issue.

Crossing the border was easier than I expected. Lydia had prepared all the necessary paperwork, and we stuck to our cover story about a camping trip. The customs officer barely looked at us before waving us through, and just like that, we were in Mexico.

"Okay," Lydia said, pulling up a map on her phone. "La Muerte Negra is about two hours from here. If we drive straight through, we should get there by early afternoon."

"Great," I said, adjusting my grip on the wheel. "Let's not waste any time, then."

The drive through Mexico was... surreal. The landscape was dry and barren, dotted with cacti and small towns that seemed to blend into the desert. The sun was bright, the sky a piercing blue, and for a moment, I almost forgot where we were going.

Almost.

"We should go over the plan again," Lydia said, breaking the silence.

"Do we even have a plan?" Malia asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course we have a plan," Lydia said, her tone sharp. "We're not just walking in blind."

"Could've fooled me," Malia muttered.

Lydia ignored her. "The nightclub is underground, which means there's probably only one entrance and one exit. We'll need to create a distraction to draw the Calaveras away from Derek while we get him out."

"And how exactly are we supposed to do that?" I asked.

Lydia smirked. "That's the fun part."

The closer we got to La Muerte Negra, the quieter the Jeep became. The reality of what we were about to do was sinking in, and I could feel the tension in the air like a physical weight.

Scott was sitting up straighter now, his jaw clenched and his eyes sharp. Kira had stopped fiddling with her katana and was staring out the window, her expression unreadable. Malia was uncharacteristically quiet, and even Lydia seemed more serious than usual.

And me? I was trying not to throw up all over the steering wheel.

The nausea had been building steadily for the past hour, and I was doing my best to push it down. I couldn't afford to get sick now. Not when we were so close.

"We're almost there," Lydia said, glancing at her phone. "It should be just up ahead."

I nodded, my grip on the wheel tightening. My heart was pounding, my stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and whatever was making me feel like crap.

Whatever happened next, we had to be ready.

For Derek. For the pack. For whatever waited for us in that nightclub.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

The nausea had been building steadily for the past hour, and I was doing my best to push it down. I couldn't afford to get sick now. Not when we were so close.

"We're almost there," Lydia said, glancing at her phone. "It should be just up ahead."

I nodded, my grip on the wheel tightening. My heart was pounding, my stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and whatever was making me feel like crap.

Whatever happened next, we had to be ready.

For Derek. For the pack. For whatever waited for us in that nightclub.

Stiles's Pov

The nightclub loomed ahead of us, a dark, nondescript building at the edge of a dusty road. If you didn't know what you were looking for, you'd probably drive right past it. But even from outside, I could feel the heavy thrum of bass vibrating through the air, the faint, distorted sound of music slipping through the cracks of the walls. Neon lights in jagged shapes flickered faintly, barely visible in the night.

La Muerte Negra. The Black Death. Charming name, really. Subtle. Definitely the kind of place you'd expect to be a front for a group of homicidal hunters.

Scott, Kira, and Malia had gone in first, blending in with the crowd of partygoers lining up at the entrance. They were playing the part—acting like a bunch of twenty-somethings (which, let's be real, none of us were) just looking to dance, drink, and forget the world for a while. I'd watched them disappear inside about fifteen minutes ago, and now it was just Lydia and me, sitting in the Jeep parked a few blocks away, waiting for the signal to join them.

"This doesn't seem so bad," I said, leaning back in the driver's seat and glancing over at Lydia.

She turned to me slowly, her expression the perfect blend of exasperation and disbelief. "It's not the town, Stiles. It's the plan."

I frowned. "What's wrong with the plan?"

"Stiles," Lydia said, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was already regretting every life choice that had brought her here. "This could be the stupidest plan we've ever come up with. You're aware of that, right?"

"I'm aware it's not our best," I said defensively, holding my hands up. "But in our defense, we didn't have a lot of time to come up with something better. And it's not like we had a lot of options."

Lydia stared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We are going to die."

"Are you saying that as a Banshee," I asked, turning to face her, "or are you just being pessimistic?"

She gave me a withering look. "I'm saying it as a person who doesn't want to die, Stiles."

"Okay," I said quickly, holding up my hands again. "Would you mind restricting any talk of death to actual Banshee predictions? You know, for the sake of morale."

"This plan is stupid, and we're going to die," Lydia said flatly, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh. Thank you," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Mmm," she hummed, turning her attention back to the nightclub.

A group of people walked by, speaking rapid-fire Spanish and laughing loudly as they made their way toward the entrance. Lydia tilted her head slightly, listening, before slipping into her role effortlessly.

"¿Estamos aquí para la fiesta?" she said under her breath, testing the words.

"We're here for the party," I translated, my tone mockingly chipper. "Totally casual. Totally inconspicuous. Nothing suspicious about us at all."

Lydia shot me a look, her lips twitching in what might've been a smirk. "Just don't talk when we go in, Stiles. Your Spanish accent is atrocious."

"Excuse me," I said, feigning offense. "I'll have you know my Spanish is perfectly serviceable. Un poquito."

"Exactly," Lydia said dryly.

The plan was simple on paper: Scott, Kira, and Malia were inside, keeping an eye on the crowd and looking for any sign of the Calaveras. Lydia and I would hang back, wait for their signal, and then join them to help scope out the place. From there, we'd figure out where Derek was being held, create a distraction, and get him out.

Of course, simple plans had a way of going spectacularly wrong when we were involved.

"Do you think they've found anything yet?" I asked, glancing at Lydia.

"Probably not," she said. "They haven't signaled us."

I nodded, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. The silence was starting to get to me, the waiting making my nerves buzz.

"What if he's not here?" I asked suddenly, the thought slipping out before I could stop it.

Lydia didn't answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, measured. "Then we move on to the next lead. But he's here, Stiles. I can feel it."

I swallowed hard, nodding. If Lydia said he was here, then he was here. She was rarely wrong about things like this. About ten minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text from Scott.

Inside. No sign of Derek yet. Come in, but stay low.

"That's our cue," I said, showing the message to Lydia.

She nodded, grabbing her bag from the backseat and slinging it over her shoulder.

"You ready?" I asked, opening the driver's side door.

"No," she said bluntly, stepping out of the Jeep.

"Great," I muttered, following her.

The closer we got to the nightclub, the louder the music became, the heavy bass thumping in time with my racing heartbeat. The line to get in wasn't long, but the people waiting outside were a mix of the type of club-goers you'd expect and a few who looked like they'd stepped out of a Jason Bourne movie—sharp eyes, stiff postures, and a noticeable lack of dancing shoes.

As we approached the bouncer at the door, Lydia slipped into character like flipping a switch. She smiled easily, her posture relaxed but confident, as she handed over her ID.

"¿Estamos aquí para la fiesta?" she said with perfect Spanish.

The bouncer barely glanced at her ID before nodding and waving her through.

I handed him my ID next, trying not to look like I was two seconds away from throwing up.

"¿La fiesta?" I said awkwardly, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet.

The bouncer gave me a long, unimpressed look before finally letting me through.

"See?" I whispered to Lydia as we stepped inside. "Perfectly serviceable."

She rolled her eyes.

The inside of the nightclub was a sensory overload. Strobe lights pulsed in time with the music, illuminating the space in flashes of red, blue, and white. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something metallic that made my stomach turn. The dance floor was packed, bodies moving in a chaotic rhythm, while the bar along the back wall was swarmed with people shouting drink orders.

Scott, Kira, and Malia were somewhere in the crowd, blending in while they searched for anything that might lead us to Derek.

Lydia and I stuck to the edges of the room, keeping a low profile as we scanned the space.

"This place is a nightmare," I muttered, trying to ignore the way my stomach twisted with each thump of the bass.

"Focus," Lydia said sharply, her eyes darting around the room. "Look for anything unusual."

"Define unusual," I said. "Because right now, this whole place is screaming 'bad idea.'"

"Just keep your eyes open," she said.

I nodded, forcing myself to push past the nausea and focus on the task at hand. Somewhere in this mess, Derek was waiting for us. And we weren't leaving without him. The compound looked nothing like the nightclub. The transition had been seamless, almost too easy, which was what worried me the most. One minute, Lydia and I had been inside La Muerte Negra, surrounded by flashing lights, pounding bass, and sweaty bodies, and the next, we'd been quietly guided through a narrow hallway to a heavy door that led to... this.

The compound was cold, quiet, and clinical. Its walls were made of concrete, the floors smooth and industrial. The faint hum of fluorescent lights replaced the thrum of music, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil and dust. Every step Lydia and I took echoed around us, the sound unnervingly loud.

"This doesn't feel like a trap at all," I muttered under my breath, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Keep your head down," Lydia said softly, her tone clipped and tense.

Our guide, a stern-looking man with a scar running across his left cheek, didn't say a word as he led us deeper into the compound. His hand rested casually on the rifle slung across his shoulder, but the way his fingers twitched told me he was ready to grab it at a moment's notice.

We turned a corner and entered a large, open room filled with rows of tables, some covered in weapons, others with papers and maps. A few hunters lingered, talking quietly or cleaning their rifles, their eyes flicking toward us as we passed.

Our guide stopped in front of a door at the far end of the room, rapping his knuckles against it twice before opening it.

"Entra," he said, jerking his head toward the door.

Lydia stepped inside first, her posture straight and confident, like she wasn't walking directly into the lion's den. I followed closely behind her, trying not to look like I was about to pass out.

The room we entered was smaller, more intimate. A single wooden table sat in the center, surrounded by chairs. The air was heavy with the scent of cigar smoke, and seated at the head of the table was Araya Calavera herself.

She looked up as we entered, her expression calm but calculating. She was an older woman, her dark hair streaked with gray, her eyes sharp and unyielding. She wore a crisp white blouse and dark trousers, her presence radiating authority and control.

Severo, one of her right-hand men, stood off to the side, speaking into a radio. His voice was low, but his words were clear enough.

"Tenemos visitas," he said, his tone carrying a note of amusement.

I didn't need Lydia to translate that one. We had visitors. That was us.

Severo glanced at us, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he switched to English. "No. On the house. Most American teenagers don't cross the border to refuse a drink."

"We didn't come here to drink," Lydia said smoothly, her voice sharp and direct.

Severo chuckled but didn't respond.

Araya exhaled slowly, setting her cigar down in an ashtray as she leaned back in her chair. "Severo hates this music," she said, her tone conversational. "Me? I've always loved the music of youth. This especially—it has a savage energy."

"Fitting," Lydia said. "We're here for Derek Hale."

Araya raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into an amused smile. "Is that so?"

"We know you have him," Lydia continued, her voice steady. "And we've heard you can be bought."

I swallowed hard and stepped forward, pulling an envelope out of my jacket pocket. I slapped it onto the table, trying to ignore the way my hands were shaking.

"That's fifty thousand," I said, my voice cracking slightly before I steadied it. "For Derek."

Araya tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied me. "Fifty thousand," she repeated, her tone thoughtful. "Now, where does a teenage boy get money like this?"

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I hadn't exactly thought this part through.

"Japanese mafia?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It's... complicated," I said weakly.

"Not smart to come alone," Araya said, leaning forward slightly.

"What makes you think we came alone?" I shot back, forcing myself to hold her gaze.

Araya's expression didn't change, but I saw the faintest flicker of something—surprise, maybe—cross her face.

"You brought a wolf into my house?" she asked, her tone turning icy.

"We brought an Alpha," I corrected.

Araya leaned back again, her hands resting on the arms of her chair. She let out a long, slow sigh, her gaze sweeping over Lydia and me.

"My friends," she said finally, her tone almost regretful. "I don't think you're aware of your poor timing."

"Timing?" Lydia asked, her voice sharp.

Araya nodded. "Do you know what the dark moon is?"

"The part of the lunar phase when the moon is least visible in the sky," Lydia replied, her tone clipped.

"But do you know its meaning?" Araya pressed.

Lydia hesitated for a moment before answering. "Some people say it's a time of reflection... or grief."

"Grief and loss, mija," Araya said, her voice soft but firm. "I wonder why, when you and your friends have suffered so much loss, you would risk it again for someone like Derek Hale."

"Because we don't like to lose," I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

Before Araya could respond, the radio on Severo's belt crackled to life.

"Nadie en la cantina," a voice said. "Front door clear, south clear."

Severo's eyes narrowed slightly. "North? ¿Norte?" he asked, his tone sharp.

"¿Dónde está el norte?" the voice on the radio asked, sounding confused.

My heart leapt into my throat as Scott's voice suddenly cut through the static.

"Stiles," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Take ten off the table."

I glanced at Lydia, my heart racing.

"Maybe you should just take the deal," she said quietly.

Araya exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "While I am keen to follow the warning of a bean sídhe," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance, "I'm going to have to decline."

The tension in the room was suffocating, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen. My mind raced, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation, but I was coming up empty.

We were running out of time. The room seemed to grow colder after Araya dismissed our offer. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, pinned us in place as though she were a predator deciding whether to pounce. My heart was racing, and I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck, but I plastered on my best grin, the one I reserved for moments when I was absolutely terrified and trying to mask it with humor.

"Awww, come on," I said, spreading my hands like this was all just some big misunderstanding. "Just give us Derek. You don't want him anyway! Haven't you noticed what a downer he is? No sense of humor, poor conversationalist..." I paused, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "Honestly, he's kind of a wet blanket. And let's not even get started on his obsession with leather jackets. How many does one guy really need?"

Araya's expression didn't change. If anything, her gaze became colder.

"Just, come on," I added, my voice tinged with desperation. "Take the money."

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers drumming lightly against the tabletop. Then, without taking her eyes off me, she turned to Severo.

"Severo," she said, her voice calm but deadly. "Show them how the Calaveras negotiate."

Oh, crap.

Severo's smirk widened as he stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of the machete at his side.

"Okay," I said quickly, taking a step back. "Let's not get hasty. We can talk about this, right? Negotiations are all about compromise—"

I didn't get a chance to finish before the world tilted sideways. Someone grabbed me from behind, and before I could react, everything went black. I woke up to the sound of voices. Faint, muffled, and echoing around me like they were coming from the far end of a tunnel. My head was pounding, and my stomach churned with that now-familiar nausea that made me want to curl into a ball and die.

"Scott, he's awake!" a voice said, loud and clear this time. Kira.

I blinked, my vision swimming as I tried to focus on the tiled floor beneath me. The tiles were cracked and stained, and the room smelled like damp concrete and sweat.

"Guys, he's awake!" Kira repeated, her voice tinged with relief.

"Scott, you okay?" I heard myself say before I even realized I was speaking. My voice sounded weak, like it was coming from someone else.

"Yeah," Scott mumbled groggily. "Yeah, I'm okay."

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, wincing at the ache in my shoulders. Scott was sitting nearby, rubbing the back of his head like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. Kira knelt beside him, her face pale but determined, while Malia paced the room like a caged animal.

"They don't have him," Scott said suddenly, his voice hoarse but firm. "They don't have Derek."

"We know," Kira said quietly. "But right now, they've got Lydia."

Scott's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "Lydia? What do they want with Lydia?"

"That's the million-dollar question," I muttered, forcing myself to sit up fully.

Malia stopped pacing, her gaze flicking between us. "We already looked for a way out," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "I think a lot of people have."

I frowned, glancing around the room. The walls were solid concrete, and the only exit was a heavy metal door with no handle on our side. It was clear we weren't the first people to be locked in here—there were faint scratches and scuff marks around the edges of the door, as though someone had tried to claw their way out.

"I say," Malia continued, her voice cutting through the silence, "when that door opens again, we take out whoever's standing in the way and run for it."

"What about Lydia?" Kira asked, her tone sharp.

Malia tilted her head, clearly confused. "What about her?"

Scott's eyes narrowed. "We're not leaving without her."

"Why not?" Malia asked, genuinely baffled.

"Because we don't leave without people," I snapped, my voice louder than I intended. "Remember, we talked about this? Rules of the wild kingdom don't apply to friends."

Kira nodded, crossing her arms. "Is that what you would do as a coyote? Leave her for dead?"

"If she was weak and injured, yeah," Malia said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "If hunting had been bad that season, I would eat her."

She paused, shrugging. "Then I'd leave."

I stared at her, my mouth hanging open slightly. "Mmm... Believe it or not, that's progress."

Scott shook his head, his expression grim. "Alright, guys. We're not dead yet, and that means Araya wants something. We just have to figure out what it is."

"And if the Calaveras don't know where Derek is," Kira said slowly, "that means they didn't take him from the loft, right?"

"Maybe he left on his own," I suggested, though the thought didn't sit right with me.

"Maybe," Scott said, his voice thoughtful. "Or maybe someone else got to him first."

The room fell silent as we all processed that possibility. If someone else had taken Derek, we were back to square one.

"Great," I muttered, leaning back against the wall. "Just great."

The door creaked open, and we all snapped to attention. Two hunters stepped inside, their expressions hard and unyielding. One of them held a pair of cuffs, while the other kept his hand on the rifle slung across his chest.

"Let's go," the first hunter said, nodding toward Scott.

Scott stood slowly, his hands raised slightly in a show of submission.

"Where are you taking him?" I demanded, my voice shaking slightly.

The hunter didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed Scott's arm and pulled him toward the door.

"Scott!" Kira called, taking a step forward.

"It's okay," Scott said quickly, his voice calm. "I'll be fine."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the rest of us in tense, suffocating silence.

"This is bad," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Malia agreed. "Really bad."

Kira glanced at me, her expression determined. "We'll figure it out," she said. "We always do."

I nodded, though the pit in my stomach told me this time might be different.

The door slammed shut again, and this time, it was Kira they dragged out, leaving just me and Malia in the cold, concrete room. My heart was pounding in my chest, a steady, panicked drumbeat that I couldn't seem to slow down. The moment the door shut behind her, the silence grew unbearable, a heavy weight pressing down on us.

Kira's wide, frightened eyes as they pulled her out of the room replayed in my mind, but I shook the image away. No time to spiral. If I let myself fall apart, this room—this awful, suffocating cell—would swallow me whole.

Malia was pacing again, her movements sharp and restless. Her eyes darted around the room, her breathing shallow, and I could see the tension radiating off her in waves. She was about two seconds away from snapping, and if that happened, things were only going to get worse.

"Do you hear them?" I asked suddenly, my voice cutting through the silence.

Malia stopped mid-step, turning to face me with a confused frown.

"Can you hear Scott?" I pressed, taking a step closer to her. "Can you hear Kira? Lydia? Anybody?"

Her frown deepened, and she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she was trying to focus.

"What are they saying?" I asked, my voice urgent.

Malia's frustration was immediate. She growled, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "I... I can't," she said, her voice rising. "I can't concentrate. There's too many sounds... too many voices..."

"Okay," I said quickly, holding up my hands in what I hoped was a calming gesture. "It's okay. Just breathe. Breathe with me, all right?"

She shook her head, taking a shaky step back. "I'm trying!"

"It's okay," I repeated, my voice softer this time. "It's okay. Just focus on something."

Her eyes darted around the room again, her frustration mounting.

"Here," I said, stepping closer. "Look at my eyes. Just focus on me."

Her gaze snapped to mine, and for a moment, I thought she might lash out. But then her breathing began to slow, just slightly, her chest rising and falling in time with mine.

"Very good," I said softly, keeping my voice steady and calm. "Just focus on the sound of my voice. All you have to do is try to concentrate. Concentrate."

She closed her eyes briefly, her hands still clenched into fists. And then, all at once, her eyes flew open, wide and wild.

"They're killing him!" she said frantically, her voice breaking.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "What?" I said, my heart lurching.

"They're killing him," Malia repeated, her voice trembling. "Scott. I can hear him. He's in pain. They're—"

"That's impossible," I said, cutting her off. My voice was shaking, but I forced myself to stay calm. "It's impossible! That can't be what he said."

"Why not?" she shot back, her voice sharp with fear. "Who—who's Kate?"

The name stopped me cold.

"Kate?" I echoed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Scott said her name," Malia said, her voice urgent. "Who's Kate?"

"She's..." I hesitated, my mind racing. "She's a Hunter. An Argent."

Malia's confusion deepened. "A Hunter? What does she have to do with this?"

"I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "But if Scott said her name..." I trailed off, my stomach twisting with unease.

Kate Argent. The name alone was enough to send a shiver down my spine. She was supposed to be dead—killed by Peter Hale before the Nogitsune ever entered our lives. But if Scott said her name, if she was somehow involved in all of this...

I didn't want to think about what that meant.

When the door opened again, I half-expected them to drag Malia out next. Instead, we were both shoved into the hallway by the same two hunters who had brought us in. They said nothing, their faces impassive as they marched us through the compound and out into the open air. The first thing I saw when we stepped outside was Scott, Kira, and Lydia standing by the Jeep. Scott looked battered but alive, his jaw tight and his eyes blazing with determination. Kira was at his side, her hand hovering near the hilt of her katana, while Lydia stood slightly apart from them, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.

"So," Scott said, his voice wary as he addressed Araya, who was standing a few feet away. "You're just letting us go?"

Araya raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I sent four men out to where Kate was rumored to have been seen," she said calmly. "None of them came back. Let's see if you can do better."

Scott's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You could have just told me she was alive," he said, his voice low.

"You wouldn't have believed me," Araya replied, her tone almost amused.

She stepped closer to him, her gaze piercing. "Now I know what kind of Alpha you are," she said softly. "And where your next step lies."

Scott frowned, his confusion evident. "What next step?"

Araya's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "When you take the bite of an innocent—when you make a wolf of your own," she said, her voice carrying a quiet intensity. "When you do that, then I will cross your border and come knocking at your door."

I stepped forward, unable to stay silent any longer. "So, what now?" I asked, my voice edged with frustration.

Scott turned to me, his expression grim. "She thinks she knows where we can find Derek."

Malia stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "She's gonna tell us where?"

Scott hesitated. "Uh, actually," he said slowly, "she's giving us a guide."

"A guide?" I repeated, my brow furrowing.

Before Scott could answer, a woman stepped out from the shadows, her movements smooth and deliberate. She was tall, with dark skin and a confident swagger, her leather jacket fitted perfectly over a tank top and combat pants. She carried herself like someone who had seen it all and come out the other side stronger for it.

Lydia's eyes widened slightly. "Braeden," she said, her voice tinged with surprise.

"Who's Braeden?" Malia asked, her tone wary.

"She's a mercenary," Lydia replied, her voice steady.

Braeden smirked, her gaze sweeping over the pack before settling on Scott. "Right now," she said, her tone casual but firm, "I'm the only one who's gonna take you to La Iglesia."

"La Iglesia?" I asked, glancing at Lydia. "What's 'The Church'?"

"It's not a place you'll find God," Braeden said, her smirk fading into something colder.

The weight of her words settled over us, heavy and foreboding.

La Iglesia. Whatever waited for us there, it wasn't salvation

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

"La Iglesia?" I asked, glancing at Lydia. "What's 'The Church'?"

"It's not a place you'll find God," Braeden said, her smirk fading into something colder.

The weight of her words settled over us, heavy and foreboding.

La Iglesia. Whatever waited for us there, it wasn't salvation.

Stiles's Pov

The weirdest part about Derek being a teenager again wasn't that he didn't remember us. It wasn't even the fact that he looked so young—like the awkward, vulnerable kid he probably hated being before everything went to hell. No, the weirdest part was how much he gravitated toward me.

I mean, sure, I'm charming. I'm funny. I'm the glue that keeps this ragtag pack of misfits from completely falling apart half the time. But Derek Hale? Even when he was an adult, he wasn't exactly the "stand really close to Stiles Stilinski" kind of guy. His love language was more "grumpy silence and glaring at you until you figured out how badly you'd screwed up."

But now? Teenage Derek? He was sticking to me like glue.

At first, I thought it was because he was scared. Which, fair. Waking up with no memory of who you are, looking like you've hit rewind on your entire existence, and finding yourself surrounded by a bunch of strangers who keep throwing around words like "werewolf" and "magic" would probably freak anyone out. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized there was something... else. Something about the way he kept looking at me, his eyes flicking to me whenever I moved, like he was trying to figure something out but couldn't quite put it into words.

It was starting to freak me out.

"Okay," I said, clapping my hands together as I stood near the motel room door. "Food. Let's go get some. Because if I have to sit in this room for one more second, I'm going to lose my mind."

"We should all go," Scott said, his Alpha voice slipping in. "We need to stick together."

"Agreed," Lydia said, grabbing her bag.

Malia stretched lazily, still perched on the edge of the bed. "Do you think this place even has food worth eating?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"It's a small town in the middle of nowhere, Mexico," I said, shrugging. "We're lucky if the gas station has expired granola bars."

"Comforting," Lydia muttered as we filed out of the room.

We ended up at a tiny diner just down the street from the motel. It was the kind of place with peeling vinyl booths, mismatched silverware, and a waitress who looked like she'd seen everything and cared about none of it. But the smell of fresh tortillas and frying bacon was enough to make my stomach rumble despite everything else going on.

The six of us slid into a booth near the back of the diner, with Derek squeezed between me and the window. Malia was on my other side, her gaze flicking to the small menu taped to the wall. Across from us, Scott and Kira shared a booth, while Lydia sat on the edge, carefully examining a chipped coffee mug like it might give her tetanus.

The waitress appeared almost immediately, her pen poised over a battered notepad. "¿Qué quieren tomar?" she asked, her tone clipped.

"I'll have coffee," Lydia said without hesitation, her Spanish as perfect as ever.

"Agua, por favor," Scott said, glancing up.

"Same," Kira added quickly.

"Uh, what's the Spanish word for Coke?" I whispered to Derek.

"Just say 'Coca,'" Lydia muttered, not looking up from her menu.

"Right," I said, nodding. "Coca, por favor."

Malia ordered a water too, and Derek didn't order anything, instead sitting quietly next to me, his eyes scanning the diner like he was cataloging every detail.

When the food arrived, Derek still hadn't said much. He poked at the plate of scrambled eggs and tortillas in front of him like he didn't quite trust it, glancing at me occasionally as if waiting for some kind of reassurance.

"You okay?" I asked softly, leaning closer to him.

He blinked, like the question startled him, and nodded quickly. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

"Okay," I said, though I didn't believe him.

I went back to my own plate, but I couldn't shake the feeling of Derek's eyes on me. He was sitting so close that I could feel the heat radiating off him, and every now and then, I caught him sniffing the air subtly, his nose wrinkling slightly.

It wasn't unusual for werewolves to rely on scent. I'd spent enough time around Scott and Malia to know that much. But this? This felt different. Derek wasn't just noticing my scent—he was fixating on it.

"You're being weird," I said finally, turning to look at him.

He blinked, his cheeks flushing slightly. "What?"

"You're being weird," I repeated. "You keep looking at me like I have something on my face."

"You don't," he said quickly, his voice soft. "It's just... your scent. It's..."

"What about my scent?" I asked, frowning.

He hesitated, glancing at the others before leaning closer and lowering his voice. "It's different," he said. "It's... changing."

"Changing?" I repeated, my stomach twisting.

He nodded, his brow furrowing. "There's something new," he said. "Something I don't recognize."

I stared at him, my mind racing. My scent was changing? What the hell did that even mean?

"And there's something else," he added, his voice even quieter now. "It smells... sad."

I froze, the words hitting me harder than I expected.

Sad.

I knew exactly what he meant. He didn't know it, but he was picking up on something I'd been trying to ignore for weeks—months, even. The depression. The weight of everything the Nogitsune had done, everything I'd done while possessed, still lingering like a dark cloud I couldn't shake.

"You're imagining things," I said quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Derek didn't look convinced, but before he could press the issue, Malia leaned over me, her elbow digging into my ribs.

"What are you two whispering about?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," I said quickly, shoving a piece of tortilla into my mouth.

Malia narrowed her eyes at me but didn't push.

By the time we left the diner, the sun was high in the sky, and the weight of Derek's words still sat heavily in my chest.

My scent was changing.

I didn't know what it meant, but I knew it couldn't be good.

For now, though, I shoved the thought aside. We had bigger problems to deal with. Derek might not have remembered who we were, but we were still his pack. And pack meant everything. After breakfast at the diner—a meal that should've felt normal but was anything but—we returned to the motel, and the question of what the hell to do next hit us square in the face. Sure, we had Derek back, but he was now a confused, teenage version of himself who didn't remember any of us, or apparently, anything past the Hale fire.

That left us with one very big, very immediate problem: how the hell were we supposed to get Teenage Derek Hale, who didn't have ID, a passport, or even a clear grasp of modern slang, back across the U.S. border without raising a dozen red flags?

The answer? We didn't know. Not yet, anyway.

The room was cramped, the air stale with the smell of old carpet and mildew. Derek sat on one of the beds, his legs drawn up under him like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He hadn't said much since we left the diner, and every now and then, I caught him glancing at the rest of us with an expression that was somewhere between suspicion and confusion. Scott was pacing near the door, his brow furrowed in that classic "I'm the Alpha, so I have to fix this" way of his. Kira was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, her katana resting across her lap, while Malia sprawled in the chair by the window, looking like she was seconds away from climbing the walls. Lydia leaned against the desk, her arms crossed as she watched Scott with a mixture of impatience and exasperation.

"So," I said, breaking the tense silence. "Does anyone have a genius plan for how we're going to sneak Derek across the border without getting arrested?"

"Why would we get arrested?" Derek asked, frowning.

"Because you don't have any ID," Lydia said bluntly.

Derek's frown deepened. "Why would I need ID?"

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Welcome to 2011, buddy. You can't just wander around the world without paperwork anymore. Unless you want to get flagged as a suspicious, potentially supernatural teenager by Customs and Border Protection."

He blinked, clearly not understanding half of what I'd just said.

"Look," Scott said, stopping mid-pace. "We'll figure it out. We just need to come up with a plan."

"Great," Malia said, throwing her hands up. "So let's come up with one already. Because the longer we sit here, the more likely it is that the Calaveras—or something worse—will show up."

"She's right," Lydia said, her voice sharp. "We're on borrowed time. If we don't move soon, we're going to lose whatever window we have to get out of Mexico."

"Okay," Scott said, taking a deep breath. "Let's think this through. What are our options?"

"Smuggling," Malia said immediately.

Kira's eyes widened. "Smuggling?"

"Yeah," Malia said, shrugging. "People do it all the time, right? Sneak across the border. How hard could it be?"

"Extremely illegal," Lydia said, shooting Malia a look.

"Also dangerous," Scott added.

"And the last thing we need is to get caught by border patrol," I said, shaking my head. "If they find out Derek doesn't have any ID, we'll all end up on some kind of watchlist. Or in jail. Or both."

"Okay, fine," Malia said, rolling her eyes. "What's plan B?"

We tossed around ideas for what felt like hours, but none of them were particularly good.

Lydia suggested trying to forge documents for Derek, but without access to the right equipment or resources, that was a non-starter. Kira floated the idea of claiming Derek was a long-lost relative who'd lost his ID while traveling, but that would only work if we had someone back in the States who could vouch for him—and even then, it was risky.

"I could call my dad," Scott offered at one point, but even he didn't sound convinced. "Maybe he could help?"

"Do you really want to drag your dad into this?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because explaining why we have a teenage Derek Hale with no memory and no paperwork is going to be a fun conversation."

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I just... I don't know what else to do."

Meanwhile, Derek sat quietly on the bed, watching us with a wary expression. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to me, and I could feel the weight of his confusion pressing down on me like a physical thing.

"Do you guys always argue this much?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

We all turned to look at him, startled.

"Pretty much," I said, shrugging. "Welcome to the pack."

He frowned, his brow furrowing. "I don't understand any of this," he said, his voice low. "Why are you doing this for me? You don't even know me."

"Yes, we do," Scott said, stepping closer. "You just don't remember us yet. But you're part of this pack, Derek. That means we don't leave you behind."

Derek looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," I added, trying to lighten the mood. "And trust me, we're going to remind you of that every five seconds until it sticks."

That earned me a faint smile from Kira and a snort from Malia, but Derek still looked unconvinced. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of brainstorming, we landed on a plan. It wasn't great, but it was the best we could do. Braeden, who'd been scouting nearby and occasionally checking in, returned with a lead: an old contact of hers who specialized in "alternative travel arrangements." Translation? Someone who could smuggle us across the border without too many questions.

"It's risky," Braeden warned, leaning against the doorframe as she spoke. "But if you want to get him back to the States without paperwork, this is your best shot."

Scott hesitated, glancing at the rest of us. "What do you guys think?"

"It's not like we have any better options," Lydia said, her voice resigned.

"Agreed," Malia said.

"Let's do it," I said, nodding. "The longer we stay here, the worse this is going to get."

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the journey, and the tension in the room was palpable. None of us liked the idea of relying on a smuggler, but we didn't have a choice. And through it all, Derek stayed close to me, his presence a constant reminder of just how far from normal our lives had become. I didn't know why he was drawn to me, why he seemed so fixated on my scent, or why he kept looking at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

But I did know one thing: whatever was happening to me, whatever was changing inside me, I couldn't ignore it forever. For now, though, I pushed those thoughts aside. We had to get Derek home. And we'd deal with the rest later.

The Jeep rattled and bounced along the uneven road, its overworked engine humming like an old song on its last note. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting against the door, gripping it tighter every time we hit a bump. The drive from the motel to the border town wasn't supposed to take long, but the tension in the Jeep made every mile feel like a marathon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the desert landscape. The open road stretched out ahead of us, dusty and desolate, with nothing but scrub brush and rocky outcroppings to break up the monotony. It was quiet—too quiet, if you asked me.

Derek sat in the passenger seat, his body stiff and his gaze fixed straight ahead. He hadn't said much since we left the motel, and the silence between us was starting to feel suffocating. In the backseat, Scott, Lydia, Malia, and Kira were crammed together, their hushed conversations occasionally breaking the stillness.

"Stiles," Malia said suddenly, leaning forward between the seats. "How much longer until we get there?"

I glanced at the GPS on my phone, which was mounted to the dashboard with duct tape and hope. "About two hours," I said.

"Two hours?" Lydia repeated, her tone sharp. "You didn't mention it would take that long."

"Sorry," I said, shrugging. "I didn't exactly have time to run a background check on the route while we were getting chased by hunters and supernatural weirdness."

"Fair point," Lydia muttered, leaning back against her seat.

The Jeep hit another bump, and Derek flinched, gripping the edge of his seat like the road might open up and swallow him whole.

"You okay?" I asked, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Fine," he said quickly, though his knuckles were white against the seat.

"You don't look fine," I said, frowning.

He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward me before returning to the road ahead. "It's just... this doesn't feel real," he said quietly.

"What doesn't?"

"All of it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You, the pack, this whole... situation. It's like I'm trapped in someone else's dream."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I settled for the only thing I could think of. "Well," I said, forcing a grin, "if this is a dream, it's a pretty crappy one. I mean, no flying, no superpowers... just a bunch of awkward road trips and near-death experiences. Talk about disappointing."

Derek didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and I counted that as a win. Behind us, Scott and Kira were quietly discussing the plan for crossing the border, their voices too low for me to catch every word.

"We're trusting Braeden's contact with this?" Kira asked, her tone skeptical.

"Do we have another option?" Scott replied, his voice steady but tired.

Kira didn't respond, but the tension in her silence was palpable.

"I don't like this plan either," Lydia said, her voice cutting through the quiet. "But she's right—it's our only option."

"Yeah, and let's not forget the other fun detail," I said, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. "We're smuggling a teenage werewolf who doesn't even know his own name back into the U.S. I'm sure this will go great."

"Stiles," Scott said, his voice carrying that warning tone he used when he thought I was being too negative.

"What?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking."

"Well, stop," Lydia snapped. "You're not helping."

"Fine," I muttered, focusing on the road again.

About an hour into the drive, the silence in the Jeep became too much to bear. My stomach was twisting itself into knots—partly from the stress of the situation, partly from the nausea that seemed to be my constant companion these days.

"You're quiet back there," I said, glancing at Malia in the rearview mirror. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," she said, her tone flat.

"Liar," I said, smirking.

Malia sighed, crossing her arms. "I don't like this," she said. "The whole plan feels wrong. We're putting too much trust in someone we barely know, and we don't even know what we're walking into."

"She's got a point," Kira said, nodding.

"I know it's risky," Scott said, his voice calm. "But we don't have a choice. We need to get Derek back home. He's not safe here."

"Yeah, because a teenage werewolf with no memory will totally blend in back in Beacon Hills," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Do you have a better idea?" Scott shot back, his tone sharper than usual.

I didn't, so I stayed quiet.

We reached the outskirts of the border town just as the sun was beginning to set. The air was cool, and the streets were quiet, save for the occasional car passing by. The town was small, a collection of rundown buildings and dusty roads that looked like they hadn't seen much change in decades.

"Are we really staying here?" Lydia asked, wrinkling her nose as we pulled into the parking lot of yet another sketchy motel.

"Unless you want to sleep in the Jeep," I said, turning off the engine.

She sighed, grabbing her bag as we climbed out of the car.

Braeden was already waiting for us near the entrance, her arms crossed as she leaned against her bike.

"You made it," she said, her tone neutral.

"Yeah," Scott said, nodding. "What's the plan?"

Braeden's gaze flicked to Derek, who was standing close to me again, his body tense and his eyes wary. "We meet my contact tomorrow morning," she said. "They'll get us across the border—quietly."

"And if they can't?" Malia asked, her tone sharp.

Braeden's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Then we improvise."

"Great," I muttered. "Because that's always worked out so well for us."

Braeden didn't respond, her gaze shifting to Derek. "How's he holding up?"

"Confused," Scott said. "But he's hanging in there."

"Good," Braeden said, pushing off the wall. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

That night, as we settled into yet another cramped motel room, the weight of everything hit me all at once. We were one step closer to getting Derek home, but the road ahead felt longer than ever. And deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something much, much bigger.

Something we weren't ready for.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The morning light was already spilling into the tiny, musty motel room when I found myself hunched over the toilet again, trying to keep my insides from clawing their way out. My whole body shook with the effort of it, my stomach cramping violently as I retched into the bowl. There was nothing left in my stomach to throw up—there hadn't been for days—but that didn't stop my body from trying.

"God," I muttered hoarsely, pressing my forehead against the cool porcelain. "Why can't this stop? Just... stop."

The nausea had become so constant, so consuming, that I was starting to forget what it felt like to be normal. Not that I'd felt normal in months—not since the Nogitsune. The sound of footsteps creaking on the motel floorboards made me groan. Great. Someone was coming.

"Stiles?" Scott's voice called from outside the bathroom door, cautious but concerned. "You okay?"

For a second, I just sat there, clutching the sides of the toilet bowl and trying to breathe through the nausea. And then something inside me snapped.

Was I okay? Was I okay? The question echoed in my head, and I felt something dark and sharp rise in my chest.

I pushed myself to my feet, stumbling as I opened the bathroom door. Scott stood there, his face a mask of worry, and behind him, I could see the rest of the pack hovering nearby, their expressions ranging from curious to anxious.

"Am I okay?" I said, my voice trembling with barely contained anger. "Really, Scott? That's your question? You're still asking me if I'm okay?"

Scott blinked, clearly caught off guard by my tone. "I just... you don't look good, Stiles. I'm worried about you."

"You're worried about me?" I repeated, my voice rising. "Wow, that's new. Because you sure as hell weren't worried about me when I was possessed by a freaking Nogitsune for months, were you?"

The room went dead silent.

"Stiles," Scott started, his tone soft, but I cut him off.

"No," I snapped, stepping closer. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to act like you care now when you didn't notice anything back then. I was possessed, Scott. Do you know what that feels like? Do you have any idea what it's like to have something inside you, controlling you, using you? To watch yourself hurt the people you care about and not be able to stop it?"

Scott's face fell, guilt flashing across his features, but I wasn't done.

"I was screaming for help," I said, my voice cracking. "Every day, I was screaming inside my own head, but no one could hear me. Not you, not anyone. You were too busy worrying about Allison, or Kira, or whatever other crisis was happening that week to notice that your best friend was falling apart right in front of you."

"Stiles," Lydia said softly, stepping forward, but I shook my head.

"Don't," I said, my voice sharp. "Don't try to make me feel better about this, Lydia. Because it's not okay. It's never going to be okay."

The words were spilling out of me now, years of frustration and pain boiling to the surface.

"Do you know what it's like to wake up every morning and feel like you don't even know who you are anymore?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Because I do. Every day since the Nogitsune, I wake up and I feel... wrong. Like I'm still not in control. Like I'm still... tainted. And now this."

I gestured vaguely to myself, my hand trembling.

"This constant nausea, the throwing up, the headaches... I feel like my body is betraying me, and I don't even know why. And all you guys can do is ask me if I'm okay? No, I'm not okay! I haven't been okay for months!"

By the time I finished, my chest was heaving, my throat raw from shouting. The room was silent again, the pack staring at me with wide eyes, no one daring to speak.

For a moment, I felt like I might cry, the weight of everything crashing down on me all at once. But then I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to calm down.

"I'm going for a walk," I said hoarsely, grabbing my jacket from the back of a chair. "Don't follow me."

"Stiles—" Scott started, but I shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't," I said firmly.

And with that, I walked out of the motel room, slamming the door behind me. The cold morning air hit me like a slap in the face as I stepped outside, but I welcomed it. It was sharp and bracing, cutting through the fog in my head like a knife.

I didn't have a destination in mind. I just needed to get away. Away from the motel, away from the pack, away from everything.

The small town was quiet, the streets mostly empty at this early hour. I wandered aimlessly, my thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess.

Why couldn't I just be normal? Why couldn't I go back to the way things were before the Nogitsune? Before everything fell apart?

I felt like I was trapped in a body that wasn't mine anymore, like I was still fighting something I couldn't see or touch. And no matter how hard I tried to push it down, to ignore it, it kept coming back, eating away at me little by little. I found myself sitting on a bench near the edge of town, staring at the cracked pavement beneath my feet. My stomach churned again, and I pressed a hand to my abdomen, grimacing.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up.

The pack deserved better than this—better than me.

And yet, for some reason, they hadn't given up on me.

Maybe it was time to stop giving up on myself.

When I finally made my way back to the motel, the others were still there, waiting for me. Scott was the first to speak, his voice hesitant.

"Stiles," he said, stepping forward. "I'm sorry. For everything."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I know you are, Scott," I said quietly. "But sorry doesn't fix anything."

"I know," he said. "But I'm here. We're all here. And we're not going anywhere."

I looked around at the pack, at the people who had stuck by me through everything, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to do this alone.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I know you are, Scott," I said quietly. "But sorry doesn't fix anything."

"I know," he said. "But I'm here. We're all here. And we're not going anywhere."

I looked around at the pack, at the people who had stuck by me through everything, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to do this alone.

Stiles's Pov

The sun was high in the sky by the time we packed up the Jeep and left the motel. Dust clung to the windows, the vehicle looking every bit as beat up as I felt. I'd barely slept after my meltdown the night before, and the stress of the past few days felt like it had settled into my bones. My stomach was a churning mess of nausea and nerves—partly from the lingering sickness, partly from the weight of everything we still had to do.

I wanted to get out of Mexico. I wanted to go home, back to Beacon Hills, where the dangers were at least familiar and predictable. Mexico had been one long nightmare, a whirlwind of hunters, ruined churches, supernatural teenage werewolves, and the constant, nagging feeling that everything was on the verge of falling apart.

But now, finally, we had a plan. A shaky, cobbled-together plan, but a plan nonetheless. Braeden had made the arrangements the night before, contacting someone she trusted—or at least someone she trusted more than most people. A smuggler, she explained, someone who specialized in moving people across borders without the hassle of paperwork or official documentation.

The idea of relying on someone like that didn't sit well with me—or with anyone, really—but it was the only way we were going to get Derek back into the U.S. He didn't have any ID, and trying to explain to a border agent why he looked like a fifteen-year-old runaway would've raised more red flags than a parade in North Korea.

The plan was simple on paper: Braeden would take Derek and go with her contact, slipping across the border through one of the smuggler's established routes. The rest of us—Scott, Lydia, Malia, Kira, and me—would cross the border the way we came in: legally, with our passports.

It was the safest option. Or at least, the least risky. We arrived at the meeting point just after noon, pulling into a dusty lot on the outskirts of a small, sleepy border town. The place looked like it hadn't seen a coat of paint in decades. There were a few rusted-out cars parked near a weathered shack that might've once been a diner, but other than that, the area was eerily quiet.

Braeden's contact was already waiting for us, leaning against a battered pickup truck with tinted windows. He was a wiry man in his late forties, with a thick mustache and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His clothes were dusty, his boots scuffed, and he had the kind of face that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of bad days.

"This is him?" Scott asked, his voice low as we climbed out of the Jeep.

Braeden nodded. "This is him."

The man pushed off the truck and approached us, his sharp eyes sweeping over our group. His gaze lingered on Derek, narrowing slightly before shifting to Braeden.

"You didn't tell me you were bringing a kid," he said, his voice gruff.

"He's not a kid," Braeden said evenly.

The man raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Fine," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "But it's gonna cost extra."

"Not a problem," Braeden said, her tone sharp.

The man nodded, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his boot. "Let's get moving, then," he said. "I've got a schedule to keep."

Braeden turned to us, her expression serious. "We'll meet you on the other side," she said. "It shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"You sure about this?" Scott asked, his brow furrowed.

"It's the best shot we've got," she said.

Scott nodded reluctantly, glancing at Derek. "You'll be okay?"

Derek, who'd been quiet for most of the day, shrugged. "I guess," he said, his voice flat.

Scott placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "We'll see you soon," he said.

Derek nodded, his expression unreadable.

As Braeden and Derek climbed into the pickup truck, I felt a pang of unease twist in my gut. Something about this whole situation felt wrong, like we were splitting the pack at the worst possible time. But what choice did we have?

The truck's engine roared to life, kicking up a cloud of dust as it pulled away, heading toward the smuggler's route.

Scott watched it disappear into the distance, his jaw tight. "Let's go," he said finally, turning back to the Jeep. The drive to the border was tense. No one said much, the air in the Jeep thick with unspoken worries. Scott sat in the passenger seat, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Lydia and Kira sat in the back, their heads close together as they whispered quietly. Malia, meanwhile, was practically bouncing in her seat, her restless energy filling the small space.

I focused on the road, my hands gripping the wheel tightly as I tried to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in my chest.

"We'll see them on the other side," Scott said suddenly, as if reading my mind.

"Yeah," I said, my voice tight. "Sure we will."

The border crossing came into view about half an hour later, a long stretch of highway lined with fences, guard booths, and surveillance cameras. The line of cars waiting to cross stretched on for what felt like miles, the sun beating down on the asphalt and making the heat shimmer like a mirage.

"Here we go," I muttered, pulling the Jeep into the line.

As we inched forward, the tension in the car grew. Scott sat up straighter, his hands resting on his knees as his leg bounced nervously. Lydia tapped her fingers against the armrest, her gaze darting between the guards and the line of cars.

"You guys are acting like we've got a body in the trunk," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Do we?" Malia asked, raising an eyebrow.

I stared at her, unsure if she was joking.

When it was finally our turn, I pulled up to the booth, rolling down the window and handing over my passport. The border agent was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face like a brick wall. He took the passport, flipping it open and glancing at it before looking at me.

"Purpose of your visit to Mexico?" he asked, his voice monotone.

"Uh, sightseeing," I said quickly. "You know, soaking up the culture, eating tacos, that sort of thing."

The agent raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He glanced at the others, his gaze lingering on Scott for a moment before handing back my passport.

"Welcome back," he said, waving us through.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, rolling up the window as we drove forward.

"That wasn't so bad," Lydia said, though her tone was still tense.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a grin. "Piece of cake."

But as we crossed the border and made our way back into the U.S., I couldn't shake the feeling that the real challenges were still ahead of us.

Because this wasn't the end. Not even close. Crossing the border wasn't the victory it should've been. Sure, we were back in the States, but instead of celebrating, I felt like we were holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because in our world, the shoe always drops.

The plan was to meet Braeden and Derek in a small truck stop just across the border, far enough from prying eyes that no one would ask questions about a teenage werewolf with no paperwork or the pack of stressed-out twenty-somethings trying to keep him alive.

The drive there was quiet, the kind of silence that wasn't comfortable but wasn't tense either. It was just... heavy. Scott was staring out the window again, his brow furrowed in thought. Lydia was scrolling through her phone in the backseat, probably researching whatever obscure supernatural nonsense might've caused Derek's de-aging. Kira looked out of sorts, her katana resting on her lap like a security blanket. Malia, for her part, seemed restless, her eyes darting out the window as though she was expecting something to jump out at us from the desert.

"Everyone okay back there?" I asked, breaking the silence as I adjusted the Jeep's rearview mirror to glance at them.

"Define okay," Lydia said without looking up from her phone.

"Not screaming, not bleeding, not running for our lives," I said. "That kind of okay."

"Then yes," she said dryly.

The truck stop came into view about an hour later, a small collection of weathered buildings and gas pumps surrounded by a sea of cracked pavement and dust. A neon sign buzzed faintly over the diner, its letters flickering in and out as if it were struggling to stay alive.

Braeden's pickup was parked near the far end of the lot, its windows dark and its engine silent.

"There they are," Scott said, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah," I said, pulling into a spot next to them. "Let's hope everything went smoothly on their end."

We climbed out of the Jeep, stretching our legs as Braeden stepped out of the truck. Her expression was as calm and controlled as ever, but there was a tension in her posture that immediately put me on edge.

"Everything good?" Scott asked, his voice steady but cautious.

Braeden nodded. "We made it," she said simply.

"And Derek?" I asked, craning my neck to look into the truck.

The passenger door opened, and Derek climbed out, his movements slow and deliberate. He still looked young—too young—but his body language had shifted. He didn't seem as unsure or vulnerable as he had before. There was a flicker of the old Derek in the way he stood, his shoulders squared and his jaw set, but his eyes still held that shadow of confusion and hesitation.

"You okay?" Scott asked, stepping closer to him.

Derek nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. "I'm fine," he said, his voice quiet.

I frowned, crossing my arms as I leaned against the Jeep. "You sure about that? Because you don't look fine."

Derek shot me a glare, and for a moment, it felt like things were back to normal. But the sharpness in his expression faded quickly, replaced by something softer—something almost... lost.

"I said I'm fine," he repeated, his voice firmer this time.

"Okay," I said, holding up my hands in surrender. "Fine. But if you pass out or turn into a baby next, I'm calling dibs on not being the one to carry you."

Derek didn't respond, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting back a smirk. We regrouped in the diner, squeezing into one of the booths near the back. The place smelled like burnt coffee and grease, and the linoleum floor was sticky underfoot, but it was quiet and out of the way—exactly what we needed. The waitress came by to take our orders, her eyes lingering on Derek a little longer than necessary before she left with a skeptical glance over her shoulder.

"So," Braeden said, leaning back in her seat. "What's the plan now?"

"Get home," Scott said immediately.

"And then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Scott hesitated, glancing at Derek. "We'll figure it out," he said finally. "One step at a time."

"That's not much of a plan," Malia muttered, picking at the edge of her menu.

"It's better than no plan," Kira said quietly.

"Is it?" Malia shot back.

"Okay," I said, cutting in before things could spiral. "Let's focus on what we do know. Derek's safe—for now. We're back in the U.S. We've still got to figure out how the hell to fix this whole teenage-werewolf situation, but at least we're not dodging hunters and getting lost in creepy ruins anymore. So, let's take the win where we can get it, yeah?"

Malia didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue.

As we waited for our food, the conversation turned to Derek—or rather, what the hell had happened to him.

"It has to be connected to La Iglesia," Lydia said, tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. "The carvings, the energy in that place... it wasn't normal."

"Yeah, no kidding," I said. "But why Derek? Why not one of us? What makes him special?"

"Other than being a Hale?" Kira asked.

"Exactly," I said, nodding.

"Derek's family has always been connected to weird supernatural stuff," Scott said thoughtfully. "The Hale fire, the Alpha spark, Peter coming back from the dead... Maybe this is just another part of that."

"Maybe," Lydia said, frowning. "Or maybe it's something else entirely. Something we haven't seen before."

"Great," I muttered. "Because what we really need right now is another mystery."

Derek sat quietly through most of the discussion, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. But every now and then, I caught him glancing at me, his expression unreadable. When the food finally arrived, he barely touched his plate, poking at his scrambled eggs with his fork like he wasn't sure they were safe to eat.

"You need to eat," Scott said gently, his Alpha voice slipping in.

Derek glanced at him, then at me, before finally taking a small bite. After we'd finished eating and paid the bill, we returned to the parking lot, where the Jeep and Braeden's truck sat side by side in the fading afternoon light.

"What now?" I asked, leaning against the Jeep.

"Now we drive," Scott said. "Straight back to Beacon Hills."

"And hope nothing else goes wrong on the way," Lydia added dryly.

"Don't jinx it," I said quickly.

Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Jinx what? This is us, Stiles. When does anything ever go smoothly?"

She wasn't wrong.

As we piled back into the Jeep and started the long drive home, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were only scratching the surface of whatever was happening to Derek. But for now, we were together. We were safe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

The drive home was one of those stretches of time where everything felt like it should be normal but wasn't. It was long, uneventful, and full of that suffocating kind of silence that only seems to happen when everyone is thinking about the same thing but no one wants to say it out loud.

The Jeep hummed along the highway, its engine running smoother than it had any right to after everything it had been through in the past few days. It wasn't the usual "comforting background noise" kind of hum, though. It was the "if you push me too hard, I might give up and explode" kind.

Derek was in the passenger seat, sitting a little too close to the door like he wasn't quite sure he belonged there. He hadn't said much since we left the diner, and every now and then, I caught him staring at me out of the corner of my eye.

The backseat was a little more crowded than usual. Scott and Kira shared one side, while Lydia and Malia occupied the other. It was a tight squeeze, and Malia didn't seem too happy about the lack of personal space.

"How long is this drive again?" Malia asked, her voice cutting through the quiet.

"Too long," I muttered, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel.

"It's about twelve hours, give or take," Scott said from the backseat. "We'll probably stop for the night somewhere halfway."

"Or we could just keep driving and get it over with," I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

"Stiles," Scott said gently, his tone carrying that "voice of reason" quality he always tried to use on me. "We've all been through a lot. We need to rest."

I didn't respond, my jaw tightening as I focused on the road. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the landscape. The highway stretched out in front of us, a seemingly endless ribbon of asphalt cutting through the desert.

"So," Malia said after a long pause, leaning forward slightly. "What's the plan when we get home?"

"Figure out what's happening to Derek," Scott said without hesitation.

"And how exactly are we supposed to do that?" Lydia asked, raising an eyebrow.

Scott sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'll talk to Deaton. He might know something. If not, we'll look into the carvings from La Iglesia, see if there's a connection."

"And if that doesn't work?" Kira asked, her voice soft.

"Then we'll keep looking," Scott said firmly. "We'll find a way to help him."

"That's a lot of 'if's,'" Malia muttered, crossing her arms.

"That's how we do things," I said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "We make it up as we go."

Derek shifted in his seat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn't joined the conversation at all, and I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

"You good over there?" I asked, keeping my voice casual.

He hesitated before nodding. "Yeah," he said, though he didn't sound convincing.

"Uh-huh," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

He didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

"Listen," I said after a moment, keeping my eyes on the highway. "I know this is all... a lot. And I know you probably don't trust us, or even really like us, but we're trying to help you."

"I didn't say I don't trust you," Derek said quietly.

"No, but you're thinking it," I said.

That earned me a small frown, but he didn't argue. The miles passed slowly, the landscape outside the Jeep shifting from dusty desert to rolling hills. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky deepened into shades of orange and purple before finally settling into darkness.

We stopped at a gas station just off the highway, stretching our legs and stocking up on snacks for the rest of the drive. Derek lingered by the Jeep, his expression unreadable as he watched the rest of us move about with an ease that must've felt completely foreign to him.

"You want anything?" I asked, holding up a bag of chips.

He shook his head.

"Suit yourself," I said, tossing them into the Jeep.

Back on the road, the quiet settled in again, broken only by the hum of the engine and the faint sound of music playing from the radio. I let the others choose the station—something mellow and forgettable that blended into the background. Lydia was the first to doze off, her head resting against the window. Kira followed not long after, her head resting on Scott's shoulder. Malia, somehow, was still wide awake, her restless energy keeping her alert despite the late hour.

"You need a break?" Scott asked after a while, leaning forward to look at me.

"I'm fine," I said quickly.

"You've been driving for hours, Stiles," he said, his tone patient. "You need to rest."

"I said I'm fine," I repeated, a little more sharply this time.

Scott sighed but didn't push.

A few hours later, we finally pulled into a small roadside motel, the kind of place with flickering neon signs and a parking lot full of beat-up trucks. It wasn't fancy, but it was clean, and at this point, that was all that mattered. We checked in and split into two rooms, just like we had back in Mexico. Derek ended up in my room again, along with Malia and Lydia. The room was small and cramped, with two twin beds and an old TV that buzzed faintly when we turned it on. Derek sat on the edge of one bed, his posture stiff and his expression unreadable.

"You okay?" I asked, dropping my bag onto the floor.

"Yeah," he said, though his tone was unconvincing.

"You sure?" I pressed.

He hesitated before nodding.

"Okay," I said, letting it go.

That night, as I lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling, I couldn't stop thinking about everything we'd been through in the past few days. Derek's de-aging, the ruins of La Iglesia, the Calaveras... It felt like we were just scratching the surface of something much bigger. As much as I wanted to believe we'd figure it all out, a part of me couldn't shake the feeling that we were in way over our heads.

But for now, at least, we were on our way home.

And that was something.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

The nightmares had been coming for months now. Some nights, they were hazy and disjointed, a swirling mess of images that didn't make sense. Other nights, they were vivid and sharp, so real that I'd wake up gasping for air, my chest tight and my heart racing.

This one was different.

It started the same way they always did: I was back in Beacon Hills, walking through the woods at night. The trees loomed tall and dark around me, their branches clawing at the sky like they were alive. The air was thick with fog, and the only sound was the crunch of leaves under my boots.

But then I heard it. That familiar, hollow laugh.

The Nogitsune.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as the sound echoed through the woods.

"No," I whispered, my breath fogging in the cold air. "You're gone. We destroyed you. You're gone."

The laugh grew louder, closer, until it felt like it was coming from inside my own head.

"You can't destroy me," the voice said, low and menacing. "I'm a part of you now."

I turned, trying to find the source of the voice, but the woods were empty.

"Stop it," I said, my voice trembling. "You're not real."

"Not real?" the voice taunted, a cruel edge to its tone. "I'm as real as the blood on your hands."

Suddenly, I was no longer in the woods. I was in the middle of the school hallway, surrounded by my classmates. Only... they weren't moving. They were frozen in place, their faces twisted in fear.

And then I saw the blood.

It was everywhere—on the lockers, pooling on the floor, smeared across my hands.

"No," I whispered, stumbling back. "No, no, no."

"You did this," the voice said, cold and unfeeling.

"I didn't," I choked out, my throat tightening. "It wasn't me."

"Wasn't it?"

I turned, and suddenly the Nogitsune was standing in front of me, wearing my face but twisted into something monstrous. His smile was cruel, his eyes dark and empty.

"It wasn't me," I said again, my voice breaking.

He leaned closer, his breath cold against my skin. "But it was."

I woke with a start, my body jerking upright as I gasped for air. My heart was racing, my chest heaving as I struggled to pull myself out of the nightmare. The motel room was dark and silent, the only sound the faint hum of the heater in the corner. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The weight of the dream was still pressing down on me, suffocating me. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but it felt like the air wasn't coming fast enough.

"Stiles?" a voice said, low and groggy.

I turned to see Malia sitting up in her bed, her hair wild and her eyes half-closed.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," I said quickly, my voice shaking. "I'm fine. Just a bad dream."

She frowned, her gaze sharpening as she looked at me. "You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine," I snapped, harsher than I meant to.

Malia raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. Instead, she lay back down, her head hitting the pillow with a soft thud.

"Fine," she muttered. "But if you start screaming or something, I'm throwing a shoe at you."

I forced a weak laugh, though it felt hollow in my chest. "Noted."

I got up quietly, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair and slipping out of the room as quietly as I could. The cold night air hit me like a slap in the face, but I welcomed it. It was sharp and bracing, cutting through the fog in my head like a knife. I leaned against the wall of the motel, staring out at the empty parking lot as I tried to shake off the lingering fear from the dream.

It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

But it felt real. Too real.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples. The Nogitsune was gone. We'd destroyed him. He wasn't coming back.

So why did it feel like he was still here?

"Stiles," a voice said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turned to see Scott standing a few feet away, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. His hair was messy, and he looked like he'd just woken up, but his eyes were sharp and full of concern.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

"Because we're worried about you," he said simply.

I sighed, leaning back against the wall. "I'm fine," I said, though the words felt like a lie.

Scott didn't say anything, but the look on his face said he didn't believe me.

"I just needed some air," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "The room was... stuffy."

He nodded slowly, stepping closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," I said quickly.

"Okay," he said, his tone calm. "But you know you can, right? Whenever you're ready."

I didn't respond, my gaze fixed on the asphalt beneath my feet.

The rest of the night passed in a haze of restless sleep and jumbled thoughts. When morning finally came, it felt like no time had passed at all, and the weight of the nightmare still clung to me like a shadow.

But I pushed it aside, because that's what I always did. There were bigger things to worry about.

And I couldn't let them see how broken I really was. The sunlight streaming through the motel curtains wasn't what woke me. It was the telltale, gut-wrenching churn in my stomach that had become my least favorite part of every single morning.

For a brief, blissful moment, I was still caught in that half-asleep haze, too tired to fully realize what was happening. Then the nausea slammed into me like a freight train, and I bolted upright in bed, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.

Not again.

I threw the blankets off and stumbled to the bathroom, my legs shaky as I fumbled to push the door open. My stomach gave another violent twist, and I barely made it to the toilet before the retching started. The thing about throwing up first thing in the morning—every morning—was that you'd think it would get easier. Like your body would adapt, or you'd find some trick to make it suck less. Spoiler: it doesn't. It just becomes another miserable part of your routine. I knelt on the cold tile, my forehead pressed against the edge of the toilet seat as I tried to catch my breath. My entire body was trembling, and my stomach felt like it had been hollowed out and stuffed with broken glass.

"Ugh," I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "This sucks. This seriously, seriously sucks."

By the time I was done, my legs were numb from kneeling on the tile, and my throat felt raw. I sat back on my heels, leaning against the wall as I tried to convince my body to stop shaking. It was always like this. The nausea, the dizziness, the overwhelming exhaustion that followed. But this morning, there was something else.

Something... off.

I glanced down at my stomach, frowning as I noticed the way my T-shirt was clinging to me. My hands trembled slightly as I lifted the fabric, revealing the pale skin beneath.

And that's when I saw it.

A small bump, barely noticeable, but definitely there.

For a second, I just stared, my brain struggling to process what I was seeing. It wasn't much—just a slight rounding of my stomach, almost like I was bloated. But I wasn't stupid. I knew my own body, and this wasn't normal.

"What the hell..." I muttered, running a hand over the bump.

The skin was soft and smooth, but it felt... firm, like there was something underneath. My stomach gave another lurch, and for a split second, I felt a surge of panic so strong it made my chest tighten.

No. It's nothing. It's just bloating. That's all it is. I stood up shakily, leaning against the counter for support as I stared at myself in the mirror. The face staring back at me looked almost unfamiliar. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, hollow cheeks. The Nogitsune had left me unnaturally thin—too thin—and even though I'd been trying to eat more lately, my body still hadn't bounced back.

That was probably it. I was just bloated because my body was still trying to recover from months of being possessed by a sadistic, body-stealing fox spirit. Nothing weird about that, right? But even as I tried to convince myself, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered something else.

What if it's not that? What if it's something worse? I splashed cold water on my face, trying to snap myself out of it. I was overthinking. That's what I always did.

"Get it together, Stilinski," I muttered, glaring at my reflection. "You're fine. You're totally fine."

But I wasn't fine. Not even close. When I stepped out of the bathroom, Malia was already up, sitting cross-legged on the bed and scrolling through her phone. She glanced up as I walked in, raising an eyebrow.

"You were in there a long time," she said.

"Yeah, well, it's not like I was having a spa day," I shot back, flopping down onto my own bed.

"You're still sick?" she asked, her tone somewhere between concern and curiosity.

"No, Malia, I just enjoy throwing up every morning for fun," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

She frowned, tilting her head. "You should see Deaton again. Or a real doctor. This isn't normal."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I told you, it's just... leftover stress from the Nogitsune. Or maybe I picked up some stomach bug in Mexico. It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," she said, her gaze lingering on me.

I avoided her eyes, pulling the blanket up over myself. "I'm fine, okay? Can we just drop it?"

She didn't argue, but I could feel her watching me, her sharp coyote instincts probably picking up on how off I was. By the time the rest of the pack was up and moving, I'd mostly managed to shove the morning's weirdness to the back of my mind. The bump wasn't a big deal. It couldn't be. Still, as we packed up the Jeep and prepared for the next leg of the drive, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. I caught Derek watching me as I adjusted my seatbelt, his gaze flicking to my stomach for a split second before he quickly looked away.

"What?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

"Nothing," he said quickly, his cheeks flushing.

I narrowed my eyes at him but didn't push.

The drive home stretched out in front of us, long and monotonous, but I couldn't stop glancing down at my stomach, my mind racing with questions I didn't have answers to.

It's just bloating, I told myself again and again. Just bloating.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't.

And I was terrified to find out what it really was.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I narrowed my eyes at him but didn't push.

The drive home stretched out in front of us, long and monotonous, but I couldn't stop glancing down at my stomach, my mind racing with questions I didn't have answers to.

It's just bloating, I told myself again and again. Just bloating.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't.

And I was terrified to find out what it really was.

Stiles's Pov

The last few hours of the drive back to Beacon Hills felt like they stretched on forever. The Jeep's engine hummed steadily beneath my fingers, the vibration running through the steering wheel a comforting constant. The sky had shifted from deep blue to a muted gray as we got closer to home, thick clouds hanging low over the hills like a warning.

No one really spoke much during this part of the drive. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe we were all just too caught up in our own thoughts. Either way, the silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was just there.

Malia had fallen asleep somewhere outside of Fresno, her head resting against Lydia's shoulder, while Kira stared out the window, lost in thought. Scott was awake, but quiet, his gaze flicking between the road and Derek every now and then, like he was making sure he was still there.

And Derek... well, Derek was staring out at the passing scenery, looking like he was trying to place something familiar but couldn't quite remember where he'd seen it before. I tightened my grip on the wheel as the first "Welcome to Beacon Hills" sign came into view.

Almost home.

I should've felt relieved, but instead, a knot of anxiety settled in my stomach. Nothing about this felt over. We'd made it back, but Derek was still a teenager, I was still sick every morning, and none of us had a single clue how to fix anything.

Scott seemed to sense the shift in my mood because he finally spoke up.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"Define okay," I muttered, repeating Lydia's words from earlier.

Scott sighed. "We'll figure this out, Stiles."

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smirk. "Because that's gone so well for us so far."

Scott didn't respond right away, but I could feel his eyes on me. "We always find a way," he said eventually. "We're not alone in this."

I let out a breath, nodding. "I know."

And maybe, for once, I actually believed it.

We rolled into Beacon Hills just after sunset, the familiar streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The town was quiet, the way it always was when something big had just happened, like it was holding its breath, waiting for the next storm to hit. No one said it out loud, but we all knew we weren't heading to our respective homes tonight. There was only one place we could go—one place where we could regroup, figure things out, and, hopefully, get some answers.

The Hale loft.

If there was anyone who could help us understand what was happening to Derek, it was Peter Hale. When we pulled up outside the building, I killed the engine and let my hands rest on the wheel for a moment before finally exhaling.

"We're here," I said, as if they didn't already know.

Derek stared up at the loft, something shifting in his expression. For the first time since we'd found him, he didn't look entirely lost.

"Do you recognize it?" Scott asked, watching him carefully.

Derek hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think so."

Relief washed through me. If he remembered this, then maybe there was hope. Maybe he wasn't as far gone as we thought. We made our way inside, the loft's familiar open space feeling colder than usual. Dust motes hung in the air, catching the dim light from the windows, and the faint smell of old books and something vaguely metallic clung to the walls. And then, of course, there was Peter. He was already there, sitting comfortably in an armchair near the center of the room like he'd been expecting us.

"Well, well," Peter drawled, his lips curving into a smirk. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Derek froze at the sound of his voice, his posture going rigid.

For a second, I thought he was going to bolt.

Then, slowly, he turned to look at Peter. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to place a memory just out of reach.

Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the suspense. "Do I at least get a 'hello'?"

Derek stared at him for a long moment, and then—finally—his expression shifted.

"I know you," he said.

Peter let out a low chuckle. "Of course you do. You should know me. I'm family, after all."

Something about those words seemed to ground Derek. He took a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

"You're Peter," he said, more certain this time.

Peter's smirk widened. "Very good, Derek. Gold star."

I rolled my eyes. "Can you not be insufferable for five minutes?"

"Unlikely," Lydia muttered.

Peter stood up, crossing the room to get a better look at Derek. His expression shifted, amusement giving way to something more calculating as he took him in.

"Huh," he said, tilting his head. "You really are young again."

"No shit," I muttered.

Peter ignored me, his sharp gaze flicking between Derek and Scott. "And you don't know what caused it?"

Scott shook his head. "Not yet."

Peter hummed thoughtfully, circling Derek like he was some kind of science experiment.

Derek stiffened but didn't move away.

"I have to admit," Peter said, "this is fascinating. A full physical regression, yet his memories are fragmented rather than wiped. The question is... why? What triggered it?"

"We were hoping you'd tell us," I said, crossing my arms.

Peter sighed dramatically. "I wish I had all the answers, Stiles. Truly, I do. But magic like this? It's not simple. It's ancient, unpredictable."

Lydia frowned. "So you don't know how to fix it."

"Not yet," Peter admitted, his smirk fading slightly. "But I do know one thing..."

We all waited, watching him expectantly.

Peter turned to Derek, his blue eyes sharp. "Your body may be young again, but your power... that's still inside you. Somewhere."

Derek frowned. "What do you mean?"

Peter clasped his hands behind his back. "You're still an Alpha, Derek," he said simply.

Silence.

Then—

"No," Scott said, shaking his head. "That's not possible."

Peter smirked. "Oh, but it is. It's just... dormant. Locked away, waiting."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. "Waiting for what?"

Peter's gaze flicked to me, and for the first time, his expression was completely serious.

"To wake up," he said.

The weight of those words settled over the room, heavy and unshakable.

Derek's power was still inside him.

Which meant this wasn't just some weird, random regression.

Something—or someone—had done this to him.

And we needed to find out why.

Fast.

The streets of Beacon Hills were dark and quiet as I drove Lydia to the school. The Jeep hummed softly beneath us, its engine still holding on despite all the abuse it had endured over the past six days. The cold winter air was seeping through the cracked windows, but I didn't care. I was too caught up in the simple fact that we were finally back home.

Well, "home" felt like a bit of a stretch. Beacon Hills was where we lived, sure, but I wouldn't call it a safe haven. Not with everything we'd been through. But there was a familiarity to it, and after the nightmare that was Mexico, I'd take familiarity any day of the week. Lydia was quiet in the passenger seat, her arms crossed as she stared out the window. I could see her reflection in the glass, her brow furrowed in thought. She hadn't said much since we left the loft, and I couldn't blame her. None of us had. The school came into view as I turned the corner, its looming shape outlined against the faint glow of streetlights. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few scattered cars and the faint hum of a janitor's floor buffer coming from inside the building.

"You sure your car's still here?" I asked, glancing at Lydia as I pulled into the lot.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Stiles. I didn't hallucinate leaving it here."

"Okay, just checking," I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender.

I pulled into a spot near her car, which was parked under one of the few working lights in the lot. It was exactly where she'd left it, untouched and gleaming despite the layer of dust that had settled on it over the past week.

"See? Told you," she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, leaning back against my seat.

Lydia grabbed her bag from the floor of the Jeep, pausing for a moment before stepping out. She turned to look at me, her green eyes sharp even in the dim light.

"You okay, Stiles?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

It wasn't the first time someone had asked me that in the past few days, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But coming from Lydia, it felt different. She wasn't asking out of obligation or guilt—she really wanted to know.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a small smile. "I'm fine."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push.

"Get some rest," she said as she climbed out of the Jeep, her heels clicking against the pavement.

"You too," I called after her, watching as she walked to her car.

She gave me a small wave before climbing in and starting the engine. Her taillights disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the empty parking lot. I sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. The school looked eerie at night, its windows dark and its hallways empty. It reminded me of all the times we'd been here when we shouldn't have been—running from monsters, searching for answers, fighting for our lives. And now, after everything, it was just... a school.

With a sigh, I shifted the Jeep into gear and pulled out of the lot, heading for home. The Stilinski house was dark when I pulled into the driveway, the porch light casting a faint glow over the snow-dusted yard. For a second, I thought my dad might not be home, but then I saw his cruiser parked on the street, half-hidden under a layer of frost. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, the weight of the past six days settling over me like a heavy blanket.

Six days.

It felt like a lifetime.

When I finally made my way inside, the familiar smell of my dad's coffee hit me like a punch to the chest. It was comforting and nostalgic in a way that made my throat tighten.

"Stiles?" my dad's voice called from the living room.

"Yeah, it's me," I said, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.

I found him sitting on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table and a half-empty mug in his hand. He looked tired, his uniform rumpled and his eyes shadowed, but there was a small smile on his face when he saw me.

"Back already?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," I said, dropping my bag near the stairs. "The trip didn't last as long as we thought."

"How was it?"

"It was... fine," I said, forcing a shrug. "You know, lots of trees, campfires, the usual."

Dad nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Glad to see you're in one piece," he said, his tone light but laced with that undertone of concern he always had.

"Yeah, well, it's camping," I said, trying to sound casual. "Not exactly the most dangerous thing in the world."

Dad gave me a look. "Stiles."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "It was fine, okay? Nothing happened."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push.

I made my way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and leaning against the counter. My dad's words lingered in my mind, stirring up memories of everything that had happened over the past week.

Camping.

It was the story we'd all agreed on, the excuse we'd give to our parents to explain our absence. It was simple, believable, and—most importantly—it didn't involve hunters, werewolves, or the supernatural.

But standing there in my quiet, normal kitchen, the weight of everything we'd been through felt almost unbearable. When I finally went back to the living room, my dad had dozed off on the couch, his mug resting precariously on the edge of the table. I grabbed a blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over him, taking the mug and setting it on the counter before heading upstairs. My room was exactly how I'd left it—messy, cluttered, and comforting in a way that made my chest ache.

I dropped onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the past week played out in my mind.

The Nogitsune, Mexico, Derek...

The small bump on my stomach.

I pressed a hand against my abdomen, my fingers trembling slightly. It wasn't bloating. I knew that now.

But I still wasn't ready to face what it might mean.

Not yet.

As I lay there in the dark, listening to the faint creak of the house settling, I felt a strange sense of relief.

For the first time in days, I was home.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

I didn't wake up screaming, which was a minor victory in itself. But I did wake up gasping for air, my chest tight and my throat raw, as though I'd been yelling in my sleep. The nightmare faded the moment I opened my eyes, leaving behind nothing but fragments—flashes of blood, shadows crawling along the edges of my vision, and that familiar hollow laugh echoing in my ears.

I sat up in bed, rubbing a hand over my face and trying to steady my breathing. My room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside my window. The clock on my nightstand blinked 5:27 AM in bold red numbers, taunting me with the promise of a too-early morning.

It was the same as every other night since Mexico—or maybe even before that. The same restless sleep, the same broken dreams, the same feeling that I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn't control.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cold floorboards as I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. My stomach gave a small, warning churn, and I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Not again.

But the nausea didn't care what I wanted. It rose steadily, a wave of heat and sickness that left me scrambling out of bed and rushing toward the bathroom.

I barely made it to the toilet before I started retching, my hands gripping the edge of the bowl as my body tried to expel whatever wasn't even there. It was dry heaving this time, painful and hollow, my stomach twisting violently even though it had nothing left to give.

By the time it was over, I was slumped on the cold tile floor, my forehead pressed against my arm as I tried to catch my breath. My entire body felt weak, trembling from the exertion, and my throat burned like I'd swallowed a mouthful of acid.

I didn't bother moving right away. What was the point? This had become my new normal—this miserable, exhausting cycle that I couldn't seem to break.

I let out a shaky laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. "Morning sickness," I muttered under my breath. "What a joke."

It wasn't morning sickness. It couldn't be. That was impossible.

Wasn't it?

I shoved the thought away as quickly as it came, forcing myself to focus on the present. My body was just... weird lately. That's all it was. The Nogitsune had messed me up in ways I didn't fully understand, and this was just one of the side effects. Nothing more.

The nausea eventually subsided, leaving me feeling hollow and drained. I pushed myself up onto shaky legs, leaning against the sink for support as I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto my face.

The mirror above the sink was fogged with condensation from my breath, and I stared at my reflection through the blur. My face looked pale and drawn, my cheeks sunken and my eyes dark with shadows. I looked like a ghost—someone who'd been dragged through hell and barely made it back.

And in a way, I guess that's exactly what I was.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before stripping off my shirt and tossing it onto the floor. A shower. That's what I needed. Maybe it would make me feel human again, at least for a little while.

The water was scalding as it hit my skin, and I welcomed the sting. It felt like it was burning away the memories of the dream, the lingering tendrils of fear that still clung to me. I let it run over me, washing away the sweat and grime from the past few days, and closed my eyes as the steam filled the small bathroom.

For a few minutes, I let myself pretend everything was fine. That I wasn't sick. That I wasn't haunted by nightmares. That there wasn't a tiny, inexplicable bump on my stomach that I was doing my best to ignore.

But reality had a way of creeping in, no matter how hard I tried to push it away.

I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist as I wiped the fog from the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, and for a moment, I almost didn't recognize the person I was looking at.

My eyes drifted down to my stomach, and there it was—the small, rounded bump that had caught my attention the day before. It was subtle, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, but now that I knew it was there, I couldn't stop staring at it.

I reached out, pressing my fingers against the skin. It was firm but not hard, the kind of firmness that didn't come from bloating or eating too much junk food.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the bathroom fan.

My gaze traveled lower, to the faint scar that cut across my abdomen. The scar left behind by the Nogitsune. The scar that marked the place where I'd stabbed myself to get rid of him.

I traced the line with my fingers, the memory flashing in my mind like a scene from a horror movie. The pain, the blood, the overwhelming fear that I might not survive.

And yet, here I was. Alive. Barely.

I let out a shaky breath, my hand dropping to my side as I turned away from the mirror. I couldn't think about this right now. Not when I felt like I was one step away from falling apart completely.

I dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of sweats and a hoodie before heading downstairs. The house was quiet, the early morning light streaming through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor.

My dad had already left for work—his cruiser was gone from the driveway—and the silence felt almost oppressive. Normally, I would've relished the solitude, but today it just made me feel... lonely.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table, staring at the worn wood as I tried to piece together my thoughts.

The bump wasn't bloating. I knew that now.

But what else could it be?

I didn't have an answer. And that scared me more than anything else.

The clinic was silent after everyone left, the air still and heavy in a way that made my skin itch. The pack had scattered—Scott waiting outside in the Jeep, Derek following Lydia and Malia to God-knows-where, and Kira heading home to check in with her parents. That left me standing alone with Deaton in the dimly lit room, my hands shoved deep into my hoodie pockets as I tried to figure out how to say what I needed to say.

Deaton didn't push. He never did. He just stood there, watching me with that calm, expectant expression, like he already knew I had something on my mind. Which, of course, I did.

I let out a slow breath, finally pulling my hands free and crossing my arms over my chest. "So, uh, you remember the last couple of times I was here?"

Deaton nodded. "Yes. You were experiencing persistent nausea, exhaustion, and unexplained weight loss. I told you it was likely post-traumatic stress from the Nogitsune."

"Right," I muttered, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "And, I mean, I agreed with you at the time because, you know, that made sense. I was possessed by a sadistic trickster demon for months, and I have been feeling like complete and utter garbage ever since. So yeah, PTSD made sense."

Deaton waited, his gaze steady, patient.

"But..." I exhaled sharply, ruffling my already-messy hair. "Something's changed."

His expression didn't flicker, but I swore I saw his eyes sharpen with interest. "Changed how?"

I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek before finally mumbling, "I, uh, noticed something weird this morning."

"Weird in what way?"

I huffed, dragging a hand down my face. "Weird as in I looked in the mirror after my usual round of morning puking, and there was... a bump. Like, a bump bump." I gestured vaguely at my stomach, my voice getting more rushed the more I spoke. "And before you say anything, yes, I know I've lost weight. I know I look like a freaking walking skeleton, so there shouldn't be a bump. And I thought maybe it was just bloating or something, but it's still there. It shouldn't be there."

Deaton's gaze flicked downward, briefly scanning my torso before he nodded toward the exam table. "Why don't you sit down?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Why do I feel like I'm not gonna like where this is going?"

Deaton didn't answer, which only made my stomach twist harder. But I did as he said, hopping up onto the table and sitting stiffly while he pulled on a pair of gloves and rolled his stool closer.

"Lift your shirt," he said gently.

I hesitated for a second before slowly tugging my hoodie and T-shirt up, exposing my stomach. The bump wasn't huge—not even close—but it was definitely noticeable on my too-thin frame.

Deaton examined it carefully, his fingers pressing gently against my skin in a way that made me squirm.

"Any pain?" he asked.

"No," I muttered. "Just... weirdness. It feels weird. Like it's not supposed to be there, but it also... I don't know. Feels normal? That doesn't even make sense."

Deaton hummed thoughtfully, his fingers lingering just below my navel. "And you've been experiencing nausea every morning?"

I snorted. "Like clockwork."

His gaze flicked up to meet mine, his expression unreadable. "How long has it been since your last full physical check-up?"

I blinked at him. "Uh... I don't know? A while? I mean, I got checked after the whole Nogitsune thing, but they mostly focused on making sure I wasn't, you know, dying or anything."

Deaton nodded, as if that was the answer he expected.

I frowned. "Okay, you're being all mysterious and Deaton-y, and it's kinda freaking me out. Just... tell me. What do you think is happening?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, moving over to a cabinet and pulling out some equipment—an ultrasound probe and a bottle of gel.

My stomach dropped.

"Whoa, hold on," I said, pointing at the probe. "Why do you need that? That's a baby thing."

Deaton finally met my gaze, his expression still frustratingly calm. "I'd like to confirm something before I say anything definitive," he said simply.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. "Confirm what?"

Instead of answering, he gestured for me to lie back.

I didn't move. "Deaton," I said, my voice strained, "just tell me."

Deaton sighed, rolling his stool back over and resting a hand on my shoulder in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. "Stiles," he said gently. "I believe you might be pregnant."

I stared at him.

The words didn't make sense. They couldn't possibly make sense.

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. "Okay, that's—That's not even possible."

Deaton didn't argue. He simply gestured to the ultrasound again. "Let me check. If I'm wrong, then we'll look for another explanation."

I wanted to keep arguing. I wanted to demand he come up with a logical answer—one that didn't involve that.

But my stomach was twisting violently again, and I wasn't sure if it was from nausea or panic.

With shaking hands, I pulled my shirt higher and lay back on the exam table.

Deaton squeezed the gel onto my stomach, and I hissed at the sudden coldness. He pressed the probe against my skin, moving it carefully as he adjusted the screen.

The room was eerily silent.

And then—

A faint, rhythmic thump-thump-thump filled the space.

I stiffened. My breath hitched.

Deaton turned the screen slightly so I could see.

There, in the black-and-white swirl of the monitor, was something small. Something moving. Something... alive.

I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

"That's..." My voice cracked. "That's not—"

Deaton gave me a soft, knowing look. "That's a heartbeat."

My own heart was racing, my pulse thundering in my ears as I stared at the tiny flicker on the screen.

No. No, no, no. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening.

I felt my whole body start to shake.

Deaton reached out, pressing a steadying hand to my arm. "Breathe, Stiles."

I couldn't.

Because everything—everything—had just changed. The room was spinning. It wasn't like my usual dizzy spells—the ones that came with the nausea and exhaustion, the ones I'd learned to push through with sheer stubbornness. This was different. This was the kind of spinning that made the world tilt on its axis, that made my chest tighten like I'd been sucker-punched by a supernatural freight train.

I couldn't stop staring at the flickering heartbeat on the monitor.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.

And yet, there it was.

A heartbeat.

A tiny, fluttering heartbeat that didn't belong to me.

Something cold crawled up my spine, a deep, bone-deep kind of terror that settled in my ribs and made it impossible to breathe. I wanted to speak, wanted to say something, but my throat had completely closed up.

Deaton, of course, was maddeningly calm.

"Stiles," he said gently, his hand still resting on my arm. "I need you to breathe."

Breathe? Breathe? Was he serious?

I wrenched my gaze away from the screen, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. "Breathe? You want me to breathe?" My voice was higher than usual, cracking on the last word. "Deaton, there's a—" I gestured wildly at the screen, "—thing in me. A—a human thing! And you want me to breathe?"

Deaton gave me the kind of patient look that a kindergarten teacher gives a particularly excitable five-year-old. "Yes," he said simply. "Hyperventilating won't help."

I let out a sharp, borderline-hysterical laugh, running a shaking hand through my hair. "Nothing is going to help, because this isn't happening. This isn't real. It can't be real."

But the problem was, it was real.

The evidence was literally right in front of me.

I felt my stomach twist violently again—not with nausea this time, but with raw, mind-numbing panic.

I turned back to the monitor, staring at the tiny flicker of life inside me.

A baby.

A human baby.

I pressed a hand over my stomach, half-expecting it to feel different now that I knew what was there. But it was the same—just the faintest hint of a bump, just barely noticeable under my too-thin frame. I felt disconnected from my own body, like I was looking at someone else entirely.

"Stiles," Deaton said again, his voice steady. "I need you to listen to me."

I dragged my gaze away from the screen and forced myself to focus on him, even though my head felt like it was full of static.

"You are pregnant," he said carefully, his tone gentle but firm. "But this is not a normal pregnancy. It is the result of residual dark magic left behind by the Nogitsune."

I swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the exam table like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. "Dark magic?" My voice came out hoarse.

Deaton nodded. "When the Nogitsune inhabited your body, it altered you in ways we still don't fully understand. This pregnancy is not a natural biological event—it's a manifestation of that residual energy. The dark magic that was left behind found a way to create this." He gestured toward the screen.

I shook my head, my pulse hammering in my ears. "But how? I mean, how? I don't—I can't—" My brain was short-circuiting. "I don't even have the right parts for this, Deaton!"

His lips twitched, almost like he was fighting back a smile. "Normally, that would be true."

I stared at him, waiting for the explanation that would somehow make this make sense.

He exhaled, folding his hands in his lap. "The Nogitsune's possession altered your body beyond what we could detect at the time. It didn't just take control of you—it changed you. The residual magic created what I can only describe as a temporary, magical womb. One that is sustaining the pregnancy despite the biological impossibilities."

A magical womb. A magical womb.

I clapped a hand over my mouth and wheezed out a laugh that was probably more crazy than funny. "That's your explanation? Magic? You're telling me my body just decided to grow an entire new organ because of magic?"

Deaton nodded, completely unfazed. "Yes."

I let out another laugh, shaking my head. "Unbelievable."

"It is highly unusual," he admitted.

"Gee, you think?" I shot back, my voice slightly hysterical.

Deaton, as always, remained infuriatingly calm. "I also need you to understand that, despite its origins, the baby itself is completely human."

That made me freeze.

I swallowed, feeling something cold settle in my chest. "What?"

Deaton gestured toward the monitor. "Whatever created this pregnancy, it did not influence the child's nature. There are no supernatural markers. No sign of dark energy. The baby is, by all accounts, entirely human."

I stared at him, my heart pounding. "Human human?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

A strange mix of emotions surged through me all at once—relief, confusion, panic. My hands were trembling, my breath uneven.

"How far along am I?" I asked after a long pause.

Deaton checked the monitor again. "Given the size and development, I estimate you will be six weeks along on December 18th. Your due date would be August 18th, 2012."

I let those numbers settle in my head, feeling the weight of them press down on me like a ton of bricks. Six weeks. Due in August. That meant...

I did the math quickly, my stomach twisting as the realization hit me.

The Nogitsune. This—this—had happened while I was possessed.

My breath caught in my throat.

Deaton must've seen the look on my face because he leaned forward slightly, his tone reassuring. "Stiles, I know this is overwhelming. But you need to understand something very important."

I forced myself to meet his gaze, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

He held my stare, his voice steady. "This child is not the Nogitsune's. It is not tainted. Whatever dark magic caused this, it did not corrupt the child. The baby is yours, and yours alone."

Mine.

I had no idea what to do with that information. No idea how to process it.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and glanced back at the monitor one last time. The tiny, flickering heartbeat. The impossible reality growing inside me.

Mine.

I pressed a hand against my stomach, my fingers curling slightly.

This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

And I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do next.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I let out a slow, shaky breath and glanced back at the monitor one last time. The tiny, flickering heartbeat. The impossible reality growing inside me.

Mine.

I pressed a hand against my stomach, my fingers curling slightly.

This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

And I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do next.

Stiles's Pov

The clinic felt smaller than before, like the walls were closing in on me. The air was too still, too heavy, pressing down on my chest like a weight I couldn't shake. The sound of the monitor still echoed in my head, that faint but undeniable thump-thump-thump of a tiny heartbeat—something that shouldn't have been possible but was.

A baby. My baby.

Created from dark magic. A pregnancy that shouldn't exist. A life that shouldn't exist.

My stomach twisted violently—not from nausea this time, but from the sheer magnitude of it all. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to get out.

Deaton had let me sit in stunned silence for a while, letting the weight of reality settle in. He didn't push me, didn't bombard me with questions or impossible choices. He just handed me a bottle of water and told me to go home, rest, and process everything before I made any decisions.

As if that was going to be easy.

Now, stepping outside into the cold afternoon air, I sucked in a sharp breath, letting the chill shock me back into reality. The sky was overcast, gray clouds stretching across the horizon like an omen.

And there, parked right where I left it, was my Jeep.

Scott was sitting in the passenger seat.

Waiting.

I stopped mid-step, my pulse jumping in my throat.

Right. Of course, Scott was still here. He had been waiting for me while I talked to Deaton. While I learned the most earth-shattering news of my entire life.

And Scott—Scott had werewolf hearing.

Oh, shit.

My heartbeat picked up. I knew that he knew. I knew it the second I saw the way he was gripping the edges of the seat, his knuckles white, his posture rigid.

I forced my legs to move, walking toward the Jeep like I wasn't completely unraveling.

Scott didn't look at me when I opened the driver's side door. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his breathing controlled but too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then climbed in and slammed the door shut behind me. The sound echoed in the silence.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then—

"You're not actually going to keep it, right?"

The words hit like a slap.

I blinked, turning to him, my hands still on the wheel. "What?"

Scott finally looked at me, his brown eyes dark with something I couldn't quite place. "Stiles," he said, his voice low but firm, "you can't do this."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Do what, Scott?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he couldn't believe we were even having this conversation. "This," he snapped, gesturing vaguely at me. "The—The baby." He said the word like it was poison.

My whole body went rigid.

Scott dragged a hand down his face, his frustration practically radiating off him. "It's not normal, Stiles. It's not supposed to happen. It was created by the Nogitsune's dark magic. You know that's not a good thing."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening on the wheel. "Deaton said it's human," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Completely human. Not dark. Not supernatural. Just—" I swallowed hard. "Mine."

Scott shook his head again, his expression hard. "That doesn't matter," he said. "You don't know what it is."

"It's a baby," I snapped, my voice sharp. "A human baby."

"A baby created by dark magic," Scott shot back. "By the Nogitsune."

My stomach twisted.

I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to make me question it, to doubt what Deaton had said.

And a part of me did doubt. A part of me was absolutely terrified.

But this wasn't some horror movie villain growing inside me. This wasn't the Nogitsune, waiting to rise from the ashes.

This was mine.

Scott exhaled harshly, dragging his hands through his hair. "Stiles, you need to think about this. You need to—"

"I am thinking about it," I interrupted, my voice rising. "It's literally the only thing I've been thinking about since Deaton told me!"

Scott's eyes flashed red for a brief second before he looked away, breathing deeply through his nose. He was trying to keep himself from losing control.

He was angry.

And that? That made me angry, too.

Scott ran a hand over his face. "You can't keep it," he said finally, his voice softer but no less firm. "You need to get rid of it before it's too late."

My breath caught in my throat.

Get rid of it.

Just like that.

Like it was something wrong. Something that needed to be erased.

I stared at him, my chest rising and falling rapidly. "Did you seriously just—"

"It's not normal, Stiles!" Scott snapped, his voice rising again. "It's not right! And after everything that happened—after Allison—"

I went still.

The mention of Allison's name was like a gunshot.

Scott froze, like he realized too late what he had just said.

Rage flared hot in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. "Wow," I said, my voice shaking. "Really? That's what you're going with? You're actually trying to use Allison's death to guilt-trip me into—"

"I'm not trying to guilt-trip you," Scott said quickly, but his voice wavered.

"Bullshit!" I snapped. "That's exactly what you're doing! You think this baby is somehow connected to what happened with the Nogitsune? You think it's some kind of punishment?" My voice cracked. "You think I should be punished?"

Scott flinched like I had physically hit him. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what the hell did you mean?" I demanded.

Scott opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking away.

That was all the answer I needed.

I felt something inside me snap. The past six days had been hell, and this—this was my best friend sitting next to me, telling me that the thing growing inside me, my baby, shouldn't exist. That it was wrong.

"Get out," I said, my voice shaking.

Scott's head whipped toward me, his brows furrowing. "What?"

I clenched the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. "Get out of my Jeep."

"Stiles—"

"NOW!" I shouted, my vision blurring with sudden, furious tears.

Scott hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see the raw betrayal on my face—before he finally exhaled sharply and threw the door open.

I watched him step out, watched him slam the door shut harder than necessary, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.

I put the Jeep in reverse and peeled out of the parking lot before he could say another word.

I didn't look back.

I couldn't.

Because if I did, I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to forgive him. I was shaking by the time I reached the main road, my grip so tight on the steering wheel that my knuckles turned white. My chest felt too tight, my breathing uneven.

Scott's words echoed in my head, over and over, looping like a broken record.

"You need to get rid of it before it's too late."

"It's not normal, Stiles. It's not right."

"After everything that happened—after Allison—"

I clenched my jaw, swallowing against the lump in my throat.

He had no right.

No right to make me feel like this. No right to decide what was right or wrong about something inside me. No right to bring up Allison like her death was some kind of punishment from the universe, some kind of twisted reminder that I didn't deserve to hold onto something good.

The worst part?

For a split second—just one awful, agonizing second—I had believed him.

I had let his voice seep into the cracks of my own doubt, let it wrap around the guilt that was already so deeply embedded inside me, and I had wondered—just for that moment—if he was right.

But then I had gotten angry.

I had thrown him out of my Jeep.

And now, I was gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.

I needed to breathe.

I needed to think.

And most of all, I needed to tell my dad before I lost the nerve completely.

I took the turn toward the Sheriff's station before I could talk myself out of it. The parking lot was mostly empty when I pulled in, which wasn't a surprise. It was late in the afternoon, and unless there was some massive emergency, things were usually winding down by this time of day.

I parked in my usual spot near the side entrance, cutting the engine and staring at the front doors. For a long moment, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.

I was about to tell my dad that I was pregnant.

I was about to tell my father, the Sheriff, that his only son—the one who was biologically incapable of pregnancy—was somehow carrying a child.

That was insane.

That was beyond insane.

This was going to be the most impossible, terrifying conversation of my life.

I was going to make him pass out.

Or worse—he was going to yell, and I was going to cry, and then I was going to pass out.

God, why was I even doing this?

I could turn around right now. I could pretend I didn't know, just like I had been doing for the past few weeks. I could avoid this whole thing for just a little bit longer.

But then I thought about the monitor at Deaton's. I thought about that tiny, flickering heartbeat.

And I knew I couldn't pretend. Not anymore.

I exhaled slowly, dragging my hands down my face. "Okay, Stiles," I muttered. "Get your shit together."

Then, before I could lose my nerve completely, I forced myself to open the door and step out.

The station was quiet when I walked in. A few deputies milled around near their desks, finishing up paperwork or chatting over coffee. I nodded at a couple of them as I passed, keeping my head down, hoping that if I moved quickly enough, I wouldn't get stopped.

I reached my dad's office without incident and hesitated for just a moment before knocking on the doorframe.

"Hey, Dad. You got a minute?"

He looked up from the stack of papers in front of him, his expression immediately shifting from focused to concerned.

"Stiles?" He set his pen down. "Yeah, of course. Come in."

I closed the door behind me, suddenly feeling way too hot in my hoodie. I pulled it off and tossed it over the back of the chair before sitting down, rubbing my palms against my jeans.

Dad studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "Something happen?"

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Understatement of the year."

He didn't look away, his concern deepening. "Talk to me."

I opened my mouth. Then shut it.

I had practiced this conversation in my head a dozen times on the drive here, running through a million different ways to break the news, but now that I was actually sitting here, my throat had completely closed up.

Dad leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "Stiles." His voice was gentle, but firm. "What's going on?"

I took a deep breath. Then another.

And then, in a voice that barely sounded like my own, I said—

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Dad just stared at me, like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn't quite process what I had just said.

I forced myself to hold his gaze, even though every fiber of my being was screaming at me to run.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"...I'm sorry. What?"

I swallowed. My heart was pounding. "I—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I'm pregnant, Dad."

The silence stretched longer this time.

Then, finally—

"...Stiles."

I braced myself.

"Are you joking?"

I huffed out a weak laugh. "I wish I was."

Dad's jaw tightened, his brows furrowing in that way that usually meant he was really trying to keep his temper in check. He stood abruptly, running a hand over his face before turning away, pacing toward the window.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath.

I clenched my hands into fists in my lap, my stomach twisting violently. "Look, I know how insane this sounds, okay?" I rushed to explain. "But it's—it's not normal. It's not biological."

Dad turned back around, his expression unreadable. "Explain."

I swallowed hard. "It's... dark magic. From the Nogitsune."

His face went white.

I pushed forward before he could say anything. "Deaton checked. It's not evil, Dad. It's not supernatural. It's just—" My voice wavered. "It's just a baby."

Dad exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "A baby," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded stiffly, my throat burning. "Yeah."

He sat back down heavily, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ," he muttered again.

I twisted my hands together, my heart hammering. "Say something."

Dad let out a long, slow breath. Then he met my gaze. "Are you okay?"

The question caught me completely off guard.

I blinked, my chest tightening. "What?"

"Are you okay?" Dad repeated, his voice softer this time.

I opened my mouth—ready to say yes, ready to lie—but the words caught in my throat.

Because the truth was?

I wasn't.

And somehow, my dad knew.

The lump in my throat grew, and before I could stop myself, I let out a shaky breath and whispered—

"I don't know."

Dad exhaled sharply. Then, without another word, he got up, came around the desk, and pulled me into his arms.

And for the first time in weeks, I let myself fall apart. The hug lasted longer than I expected. My dad was never one for long, lingering embraces, but he didn't let go. He held on tight, one hand on the back of my head, the other gripping my shoulder like he was trying to ground me, to keep me from slipping away.

And honestly? I needed it.

Because I was slipping away.

Because for the first time since Deaton had shown me that flickering heartbeat on the monitor, I wasn't trying to hold everything together. I wasn't biting my tongue or pretending I had control over any of this. I was just me—a scared, exhausted, completely overwhelmed kid who had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do.

I buried my face against my dad's shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut. My throat burned, my chest ached, and I was trying so hard not to cry.

But I knew he could feel it. The way my shoulders shook. The way I clenched my fists in the fabric of his uniform like I was afraid he'd let go.

And he didn't.

He just held me tighter.

"It's gonna be okay, kid," he murmured, his voice rough but steady. "We're gonna figure this out. You hear me?"

I nodded, swallowing down the sob that was trying to claw its way up my throat. "Yeah," I choked out.

But I wasn't sure if I believed it.

After a long moment, my dad pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands still on my shoulders. His face was serious, but there was no anger, no disappointment—just that deep, bone-deep concern that only a parent could have.

"You scared the hell out of me, Stiles," he said quietly.

I let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Yeah, well... join the club."

His lips twitched, just slightly, but the worry didn't fade.

"Look," he said, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. I mean... this isn't exactly something they prepare you for in parenting books."

"Yeah, I don't think 'Magically Pregnant Son' is a chapter in any book," I muttered.

Dad exhaled, shaking his head. "No kidding."

I let out another breath, my fingers twitching in my lap. The weight of everything was still pressing down on me, but some of the panic had dulled. Some of the tension had eased.

But there was still something else.

Something that was clawing at my ribs, making my pulse spike again.

Dad must have seen it, because his brows furrowed. "What is it?"

I hesitated, staring down at my hands.

I didn't want to say it.

But I had to.

I let out a slow breath and forced myself to look up. "Scott knows."

Dad's face went still.

I swallowed hard. "I mean... he heard everything. At the clinic. When Deaton told me." I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Gotta love werewolf hearing, huh?"

Dad's jaw tightened, and I saw his fingers flex against his knee like he was physically holding himself back from reacting too fast. "And?"

I clenched my hands into fists, staring at the floor. "And... we got into a fight."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"What happened?" Dad asked, his voice even.

I licked my lips, forcing down the nausea that was starting to creep back up. "He told me to get rid of it."

Dad's entire body froze.

I kept talking before I could lose my nerve. "He said it wasn't normal. That it was created by the Nogitsune's dark magic, and that keeping it would be—" My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before I could continue. "—would be wrong."

I heard my dad inhale sharply through his nose.

"He—" My voice wavered, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to get the words out. "He used Allison, Dad. He actually—he actually brought up Allison and tried to use her death to make me feel guilty."

Dad cursed under his breath, low and sharp.

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. "He acted like—like this was some kind of punishment. Like it was something I should be ashamed of. Like it was something that shouldn't exist."

Dad's chair creaked as he stood up, pacing across the office. His breathing was measured, but I knew him well enough to recognize the rage simmering just beneath the surface.

He was furious.

And honestly? So was I.

"I threw him out of my Jeep," I admitted, my voice quiet but firm. "I told him to get out, and I drove away. I didn't even look back."

Dad stopped pacing, turning to face me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were hard.

"Good," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

Dad sat back down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You did the right thing."

I swallowed, my throat tight. "Did I?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You did."

I felt something sharp and aching well up in my chest, something I hadn't even realized I was holding onto.

"Scott's your best friend," Dad said, his voice gentler now. "I know that. And I know how much his opinion matters to you."

I looked away. "Not anymore," I muttered.

Dad sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Stiles—"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I mean it, Dad. He—he hurt me." My voice cracked. "He made me feel like I was doing something wrong just for existing. Just for—" I gestured vaguely at my stomach, my breath shuddering. "This."

Dad's expression darkened again. "Scott had no right to say those things to you," he said, his voice sharp with restrained anger. "I don't give a damn what he thinks he knows. He doesn't get to decide what's right or wrong about your life."

I clenched my jaw, staring at the floor. "I don't think I can forgive him for this," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dad exhaled slowly, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

"You don't have to."

I looked up at him, my eyes burning. "Yeah?" My voice was rough. "Because I feel like I have to. I feel like—like I should just let it go because that's what Scott does. He screws up, and we all just—just forgive him because he's the Alpha, because he's the good guy, because he's Scott McCall."

Dad's grip on my shoulder tightened just slightly. "Not this time," he said firmly. "This time, you don't have to let it go."

I let out a shaky breath, my throat thick with emotion.

For so long, I had been the one making excuses for Scott, the one defending him even when I didn't agree with him. But this?

This was too much.

Dad gave my shoulder one last squeeze before pulling back. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

I shook my head immediately. "No. This is between me and him."

Dad nodded, accepting that answer.

We sat in silence for a long moment.

Then, quietly, Dad said, "I'm proud of you, kid."

I swallowed hard, looking up at him. "For what?"

"For standing up for yourself." His voice was steady. "For not letting someone else decide what's best for you."

Something inside me loosened at those words.

I let out a long, slow breath, nodding. "Yeah," I murmured. "Me too."

And for the first time since Deaton had told me the truth, I finally felt like I could breathe. The air in the office felt heavy, but not suffocating. The initial shock had settled, leaving behind something quieter, something real. My dad had sat back down behind his desk, but his posture was looser, less tense than before. He was still taking this all in—probably running through a hundred different scenarios, trying to wrap his head around what I had just told him—but he wasn't angry. He wasn't disgusted. He wasn't disappointed.

And that, more than anything else, made the lump in my throat grow.

I curled my fingers around the edge of my chair, staring down at the floor as I tried to gather my thoughts. "So, uh..." I cleared my throat, my voice coming out weaker than I wanted. "You probably want to know more."

Dad let out a slow breath. "Yeah, Stiles," he said, his voice dry but not harsh. "That'd be nice."

I nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "Okay. Um. So, first of all, I'm not that far along. Deaton said I'll be six weeks on December 18th."

Dad exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Six weeks," he muttered. He let the number sit between us for a moment before straightening. "Alright. That's... good to know. And that means your due date is..."

"August 18th," I finished for him.

His brows furrowed, and I could see him doing the math in his head. "That's—Jesus, Stiles. That's only eight months away."

"Yeah," I said, my throat tightening. "Tell me about it."

Dad sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "Okay," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "Okay."

I sat stiffly in my chair, fingers drumming anxiously against my knee. "I know this is... a lot," I admitted.

Dad let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, kid. That's one way to put it." He looked at me again, his expression unreadable. "But let me get something straight here. You said this isn't normal. That it's... magic."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"And you said Deaton confirmed that the baby's human?"

"Completely," I nodded quickly, eager to emphasize that part. "It's not supernatural. It's not... tainted. It's just—" I hesitated, pressing a hand against my stomach. "Mine."

Dad studied me for a long moment before nodding. "Alright."

That was it. Just alright.

I blinked at him, caught off guard. "Alright?"

Dad gave me a small, tired smile. "I don't know what else to say, Stiles. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do here? Give you a long speech about responsibility? Ask you if you know what this means?" He shook his head. "I think you already do."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Yeah," I admitted quietly. "I do."

Dad rubbed his hands together before resting them on the desk. "So... what are you thinking? What do you want to do?"

The question made my stomach twist.

Because I still didn't know.

I looked down at my hands, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't have an answer for that yet."

Dad nodded, like he expected that. "You don't have to decide everything right now," he said. "But, Stiles, you do need to start thinking about it. This isn't something that just goes away."

"I know," I muttered.

Dad let out another slow breath. "Jesus, kid," he muttered, shaking his head again. "You're seventeen."

"Believe me, I know."

"You're still in high school."

"Again, I know," I said, sighing.

Dad sighed too, dragging a hand down his face. "This isn't gonna be easy."

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, no shit."

He gave me a look but didn't scold me for the language. "But you won't be doing this alone, Stiles."

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. "You mean that?"

Dad's face softened. "Of course I mean that," he said. "You're my kid. You think I'd let you go through something like this on your own?"

I bit my lip, looking down at my hands again. "Scott did."

Dad's face darkened immediately. "Scott can go to hell," he muttered.

I huffed out another weak laugh, rubbing at my eyes. "God, I wish you had been there. You should've seen his face when I told him to get out of my Jeep. He looked like I slapped him."

"You should have slapped him," Dad said flatly.

That made me actually laugh, even if it was short-lived.

Dad sighed again, shaking his head. "I don't get it," he admitted. "That kid has been your best friend since you were five. He's supposed to have your back, no matter what."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, my throat tightening again, "I guess I know where I stand now."

Dad watched me carefully. "This really hurt you, didn't it?"

I swallowed hard, nodding. "Yeah. It did."

For a second, Dad didn't say anything. Then, carefully, he reached across the desk and squeezed my wrist. "You don't have to forgive him, Stiles."

I exhaled slowly, nodding again. "I know."

And maybe, for the first time, I actually believed it.

The conversation drifted after that.

We talked about logistics—about doctor's visits, about school, about how the hell I was supposed to handle something like this. Dad asked if I wanted to tell anyone else, and I immediately shut that idea down.

Not yet.

I wasn't ready.

Dad didn't push.

Eventually, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. "Alright," he muttered. "It's late. You should get home and get some sleep."

I let out a tired breath, nodding. "Yeah."

I stood up, grabbing my hoodie and shoving it over my head. My limbs felt heavy, exhaustion creeping in now that the adrenaline had finally started to fade.

I turned toward the door, then hesitated.

Dad noticed. "What is it?"

I swallowed, shifting on my feet. "You're really not... mad?"

Dad let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Stiles. I'm worried—hell, I'm terrified. But I'm not mad. This isn't your fault."

I exhaled sharply, nodding. "Thanks."

Dad's lips twitched into a small, tired smile. "Go home, kid."

I smiled back, just a little, before heading out the door.

The drive home was quiet.

I kept the radio off, the hum of the engine the only noise filling the space. My mind was still spinning, but the panic wasn't as overwhelming now.

Dad was on my side.

And for the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, exhaustion had settled deep into my bones.

I trudged inside, kicking my shoes off and heading straight upstairs.

Collapsing into bed, I pressed a hand to my stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

Six weeks on December 18th.

Due August 18th.

Eight months.

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes.

Whatever happened next...

At least I wouldn't be facing it alone.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

Collapsing into bed, I pressed a hand to my stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

Six weeks on December 18th.

Due August 18th.

Eight months.

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes.

Whatever happened next...

At least I wouldn't be facing it alone.

Stiles's Pov

Friday, December 16, 2011

I woke up to the now all-too-familiar lurch of my stomach.

It wasn't subtle. There was no slow build-up, no chance to prepare myself. Just bam, instant nausea, crashing into me like a tidal wave the second I was conscious.

I barely had time to shove the blankets off before I was bolting out of bed, my feet hitting the floor so fast I nearly tripped over my own legs. My bedroom door was half-open already from when I had stumbled in last night, too exhausted to close it completely, so I didn't waste time fumbling with the handle—I just ran. The bathroom door slammed behind me, and then I was on my knees, gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as my body convulsed, forcing up whatever was left in my stomach.

Which, of course, was nothing.

It was pure misery—dry heaving, shaking, my entire body weak and wrung out before the day had even started. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against my arm as I struggled to catch my breath. I knew what this was now. I had a name for it.

Morning sickness.

Not the flu. Not stress. Not some random side effect of post-Nogitsune trauma.

Just... pregnancy.

Jesus.

I exhaled shakily, forcing myself to sit back against the wall. My arms felt like lead, my legs weak and unsteady. The whole world seemed too bright, the bathroom light buzzing faintly above me like it was laughing at my misery.

I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. "This sucks."

Because yeah. Knowing why I was throwing up every morning didn't make it any easier to deal with. If anything, it made it worse. At least before, I had been able to convince myself that this would end soon. That eventually, whatever was wrong with me would fix itself.

But now?

Now, I was looking at eight more months of this. Eight months of nausea, exhaustion, weird cravings, mood swings—oh, God, the mood swings. I barely even had normal emotions on a good day. How the hell was I supposed to deal with hormonal emotions?

I groaned again, dropping my head back against the wall.

I needed to learn something. Anything. I needed to figure out what the hell was happening to my body before I lost my mind.

Which meant research.

Which meant I was about to become way too familiar with pregnancy websites.

Ugh.

Once I managed to pick myself up off the bathroom floor, I shuffled downstairs, still feeling like a ghost of a person. My limbs were heavy, my stomach was still queasy, and my brain was moving way too slow for my liking. Dad had already left for work, which was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because I wasn't ready for another heart-to-heart this early in the morning, and a disappointment because, well... I wouldn't have minded the company. I poured myself a glass of water, sipping carefully as I settled onto the couch with my laptop. The second I opened the browser, I hesitated. Where the hell was I even supposed to start? I stared at the search bar for a long moment, my fingers hovering over the keys.

Finally, I typed:

Pregnancy symptoms at 6 weeks

A flood of links popped up immediately.

I clicked on the first one and started reading.

Apparently, six weeks was peak misery time.

Morning sickness was common (no shit), and it could hit at any time of the day. It wasn't actually limited to mornings—whoever named it "morning sickness" was a liar. Food aversions were also common. That made sense, considering even the thought of certain foods lately had made my stomach turn. Fatigue? Check. Mood swings? Double check. The website also mentioned bloating, which... yeah. That made my stomach twist uncomfortably.

I wasn't just bloated, though. There was a bump. A small one, sure, but it was there. I scrolled further. Something about hormone levels skyrocketing, making people more emotional. Great. Because that's exactly what I needed—more reasons for people to call me overdramatic. Then there was the part about prenatal vitamins, which I definitely hadn't even thought about before now.

I bit my lip, my eyes skimming over words like "fetal development" and "first-trimester changes."

I swallowed hard.

This was real.

This was really happening.

Not some vague, distant thing I could ignore. Not some weird medical mystery that would go away on its own.

I was pregnant.

And my body was changing to make room for something that had never been there before.

I exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over my face.

Okay. Okay. I could handle this. I just needed a plan.

Step one: Figure out what foods didn't make me want to die.

Step two: Prenatal vitamins. Probably should've started that already.

Step three: ...Actually start thinking about the future instead of avoiding it.

I swallowed hard at that last one.

Because as much as I wanted to pretend I could put this off forever, I couldn't. I had eight months. Eight months before my entire life changed forever. And I had no idea if I was ready. Or if I ever would be. I stared at my laptop screen, rereading the list of symptoms for what had to be the tenth time. The words swam in front of my eyes, blurring together in an overwhelming mess of medical jargon and things I definitely didn't want to think about right now.

The website had made it painfully clear that I was woefully unprepared.

I needed food that wouldn't make me want to hurl. I needed vitamins because apparently growing a whole human required more nutrients than my usual diet of coffee and sarcastic comments.

And worst of all? I needed to actually start thinking about the future instead of treating this like a really bad fever that would eventually go away.

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face.

Step one and step two. I could handle those.

Anything beyond that?

Future Stiles' problem.

It took me a solid fifteen minutes to convince myself to leave the house. The idea of going to the store and actually buying prenatal vitamins felt... weird. Like, what if someone I knew saw me? What if the cashier gave me a weird look? What if the universe decided to screw with me even more and Scott walked in at that exact moment?

I shook the thought away.

I needed food. I needed vitamins.

I needed to stop overthinking every little thing.

So, I grabbed my keys, slipped on my hoodie, and made my way to the grocery store before I could talk myself out of it. Beacon Hills only had a couple of grocery stores, and I usually preferred the one closer to the school, but today I went to the one on the other side of town. Less chance of running into someone I knew. The bright fluorescent lights overhead immediately made my headache worse, and I groaned, rubbing my temples as I grabbed a basket from the front.

Food first.

I moved through the aisles quickly, grabbing things that didn't seem completely offensive. Crackers, bananas, plain yogurt. Simple stuff. Bland stuff. Things that my stomach might actually tolerate. I hesitated in front of the juice aisle, staring at the selection of orange juice like it held the secrets of the universe.

"Stiles."

The voice came from directly behind me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I whirled around, my heart hammering, only to find Peter Hale standing there, smirking like he had been waiting specifically for this moment just to scare the crap out of me.

I let out a sharp breath, clutching my basket tighter. "Jesus Christ, Peter. What the hell?"

Peter tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes sharp with amusement. "You're rather jumpy today."

"Because you snuck up on me," I muttered, scowling. "What are you even doing here?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion, require food. I don't survive on spite alone, despite what you may believe."

I snorted. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

Then, before I could fully process the fact that one Hale had already appeared out of nowhere, another one showed up.

Derek—teenage Derek—walked up beside Peter, holding a pack of protein bars and looking about as thrilled as I felt.

He narrowed his eyes slightly when he saw me. "You look pale."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Not you too."

Peter's smirk widened. "Oh, so it's not just me who thinks you look awful? Good to know."

I shot him a glare before looking back at Derek. "I'm fine," I said, though the words felt hollow even to me.

Derek frowned, his gaze flicking to my basket. "Why are you buying so many crackers?"

Peter leaned in slightly, peering at the items in my basket with far too much interest. "And yogurt," he added. "How very... pedestrian."

I gritted my teeth. "Again—why are you here?"

Peter gestured vaguely to the protein bars Derek was holding. "We're in need of supplies. Derek's body may have changed, but his appetite remains very much intact."

Derek shot him a look. "I can hear you, you know."

Peter waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, I'm aware."

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. This was not the conversation I wanted to be having in the middle of a grocery store.

Then, because my life was apparently a cosmic joke, Peter's gaze flicked to my stomach.

And he stared.

My entire body locked up.

It was only for a second. A split-second, really. But it was long enough.

Long enough for my stomach to drop.

Long enough for the amusement in Peter's expression to shift into something else. Something sharper. Something knowing.

Crap.

I immediately turned away, grabbing the first juice carton I saw and shoving it into my basket like I was definitely not panicking. "Okay, nope. Not having this conversation here."

Peter's smirk returned, but this time it was different—calculated.

Derek, however, was frowning. "What's going on?"

"Nothing!" I said quickly. Too quickly.

Derek's frown deepened.

Peter tilted his head, his expression one of pure curiosity. "Interesting."

Oh hell no.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "Look," I said, keeping my voice even. "Whatever this is, we are not doing it in the middle of a grocery store."

Peter's smirk grew. "Oh? And where would you like to do it?"

I clenched my jaw. "My house. Thirty minutes. If you want to talk, we'll talk then. Not here."

Peter considered that for a moment before nodding. "Very well."

Derek still looked confused, but he didn't argue.

I exhaled slowly, nodding. "Good. Great. See you then."

Then, before either of them could say anything else, I spun on my heel and walked straight to the checkout line.

Because I was not prepared for this.

Not yet.

The drive home felt both too long and not long enough. My fingers were clenched tight around the steering wheel, my mind racing through a thousand different thoughts, each one worse than the last.

Peter knew.

Or at least, he suspected.

And that was bad. Really bad. Because Peter Hale was one of the smartest, most manipulative people I had ever met, and if he had even an inkling of what was going on with me, it was only a matter of time before he figured out the whole truth.

And Derek?

Derek might still be stuck in his teenage body, but he was still Derek. Which meant that once he noticed something was off, he wouldn't let it go. He'd press, he'd pry, and eventually, I'd break. Because I was terrible at keeping secrets. And this? This was the biggest secret of my life.

I pulled into the driveway, gripping the steering wheel for a second before exhaling sharply. Okay. I could handle this. I just had to survive one conversation without completely falling apart.

Easy.

The house was quiet when I stepped inside, the faint ticking of the kitchen clock the only sound.

Dad was still at work, which was a relief. The last thing I needed was him walking in on this disaster. I dropped my keys onto the counter and set the grocery bags down, forcing my hands to move—to do something—instead of spiraling into full-blown panic. Putting away groceries was a simple task. Mindless. Something normal. Something that made me feel like I had control over at least one small part of my life. The crackers went into the pantry. The bananas on the counter. The yogurt into the fridge. The orange juice beside the milk.

I hesitated when I reached the last bag.

Inside, sitting at the very bottom, was the small bottle of prenatal vitamins.

I swallowed hard, staring at it.

I had grabbed them on autopilot, tossing them into my cart without really thinking about it. But now that I was actually looking at them, now that I was standing in my kitchen with the weight of reality pressing down on me—

It was real.

This was real.

I exhaled slowly and picked up the bottle, turning it over in my hands. The label was simple, nothing flashy. Just a generic brand with the words Supports a Healthy Pregnancy written in bold letters across the front.

Healthy pregnancy.

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head.

God, how was this my life?

I twisted the cap off and shook out a single pill. It was bigger than I expected, chalky-looking and slightly pink.

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and stared down at the pill in my hand.

Once I took it, there was no more pretending.

No more ignoring.

No more telling myself that I had time to figure things out before it became real. I took a deep breath. Then, before I could overthink it, I popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed. The water was cold, the pill heavy as it slid down my throat. I set the glass down with a soft clink and pressed my hands against the counter, my fingers curling against the cool surface. That was it. That was step two. I had officially done something responsible for the tiny, impossible human growing inside me. And somehow, that realization made everything feel a thousand times heavier.

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Now, all that was left to do was wait. I didn't sit down. I couldn't. I felt wired, like my entire body was buzzing with nervous energy. I paced through the house, my fingers twitching, my brain running through every possible scenario of how this conversation with Peter and Derek was going to go.

Spoiler alert: none of them were good.

Peter was too smart. He would pick up on everything. And Derek—God, Derek—he was like a bloodhound when it came to sensing when people were lying. There was no way I was getting through this without giving something away. The question was: how much? I sighed, rubbing my hands over my face. It wasn't like I could just tell them the truth. For one, I wasn't ready for that. And two, Peter knowing anything about this was a very bad idea. He would use it somehow—I didn't know how, but I knew he would.

And Derek?

Derek would probably just stare at me with that broody intensity of his until I cracked under the pressure. I groaned, flopping onto the couch and pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. This was a disaster. An absolute disaster. I should've never agreed to this meeting. I should've just run. But noooo. I had to go and be rational. I had to try and handle this like a normal person.

And now?

Now I was waiting for Peter Hale to show up at my house like some kind of smug, sarcastic grim reaper.

Great.

Just great.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made my stomach flip.

I sat up straight, my pulse jumping.

They were here.

I stood, forcing my hands to stay steady as I walked to the door.

A few seconds later, there was a knock—three sharp, deliberate taps.

Peter.

Because of course he knocked like an asshole.

I took a deep breath, plastered on the most neutral expression I could manage, and pulled the door open.

Peter stood there, dressed in his usual leather jacket, smirking like he had already won something.

Derek—teenage Derek—stood beside him, his arms crossed, looking about as thrilled as I felt.

"Stiles," Peter said smoothly, stepping past me like he owned the place.

Derek followed, his gaze flicking over me with that annoyingly perceptive look of his.

I shut the door behind them and turned, crossing my arms. "Alright," I said, keeping my voice as even as possible. "We're here. You wanted to talk? Let's talk."

Peter's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"Oh, I do love a good mystery," he said, tilting his head slightly. "And you, Stiles... you're practically buzzing with secrets."

My stomach twisted.

I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. "Yeah, well," I muttered, "you're buzzing with smugness, so I guess we're even."

Peter chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

I exhaled sharply, ignoring the way Derek was still staring at me.

I had survived Scott. I had survived telling my dad.

I could survive this, too.

...Right?

God, I really hoped so.

Peter moved through my house like he owned the place, his sharp eyes scanning everything, cataloging details like he was looking for evidence in a crime scene. He took his time, fingers trailing along the back of the couch as he walked further into the living room before finally settling into Dad's armchair like he belonged there.

Derek, meanwhile, stood near the door, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

I stayed where I was, arms folded tightly over my chest, my heart hammering harder than I wanted to admit. This was already off to a bad start. Peter had that look—the one that said he knew something and was just waiting for the perfect moment to drop the bomb.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself before I spoke. "Okay," I said, forcing my voice to stay even. "You wanted to talk? So talk."

Peter smiled, slow and amused, like this was fun for him. "Oh, I think you're the one who should be talking, Stiles."

I clenched my jaw. "About what?"

Peter tilted his head, his blue eyes practically glowing with smugness. "Oh, come now," he drawled. "Let's not play games."

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Peter—"

"You're pregnant."

The words hit like a physical blow. My breath caught, my entire body going rigid. Derek's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked toward me, sharp and watchful.

I forced out a laugh, though it sounded way too forced to be convincing. "Wow, okay. That's crazy. What—what the hell are you even talking about?"

Peter just stared at me, his smirk widening slightly.

"Stiles."

I turned sharply at the sound of Derek's voice. He was still standing near the door, his arms crossed, but there was something different in his expression now. Something I couldn't quite place.

I swallowed hard. "What?"

"You know we can hear it, right?"

I froze.

My pulse spiked.

Derek's eyes flicked downward—toward my stomach—before lifting back up to meet mine. "Your heartbeat's fast," he said quietly. "But there's another one."

My stomach twisted violently. I felt exposed, like someone had just ripped the ground out from under me.

Peter chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, there it is," he said, gesturing toward me. "That moment of realization. Delicious."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "How long?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

Peter's smirk widened. "How long have I known?" He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think. "Oh, weeks now."

I inhaled sharply. "What?"

"Well, to be fair," Peter continued, "I didn't fully know at first. I had my suspicions. But when I first came to see you before you ran off to Mexico, I heard it." His smile turned sharp. "That tiny little heartbeat, so faint, so new."

My breath shuddered in my chest.

"Of course," Peter added, "I knew something was off before that. Your scent had changed."

My stomach dropped.

Derek.

Derek had said the exact same thing in Mexico.

"Your scent is different."

I felt sick.

"You knew," I whispered, my eyes locking onto Derek's.

Derek's expression didn't change. "I suspected," he corrected. "I wasn't sure."

"But you heard it?" My voice cracked. "In Mexico?"

Derek hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," he admitted. "But I didn't know for sure. And I wasn't going to say anything if you didn't bring it up first."

I let out a sharp breath, my heart hammering so hard I was surprised they couldn't hear that, too. "Jesus Christ, this is—this is insane."

Peter leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Oh, it is," he agreed, eyes glittering with amusement. "But let's focus on the important part, shall we? You. Are. Pregnant."

I glared at him. "Yeah, thanks, Peter. I'm aware."

Peter chuckled. "I have to admit, this is new for me. I mean, I've seen a lot of strange things in my time, but this?" He gestured toward my stomach. "This is fascinating."

I hated the way he said that.

Like I was some kind of science experiment.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. "Look," I said, my voice strained. "I don't know what you think you know, but this? Not your business."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Not my business? Not my business?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, Stiles. You poor, naive boy. Everything in this town is my business."

I clenched my jaw. "Not this."

Peter leaned back again, crossing one leg over the other. "Alright," he said, clearly amused. "Then tell me—whose is it?"

My entire body went rigid.

I stared at him, my pulse spiking so hard I felt it in my teeth.

Peter grinned. "Ah. Now I've hit a nerve."

Derek shifted slightly beside him, his brows furrowing.

Peter tilted his head. "So? Who's the lucky father?"

I felt cold.

Like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over me.

Because I didn't have an answer to that.

There was no father.

There was just me.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. "That... doesn't matter."

Peter's smirk widened. "Oh, but it does, doesn't it?"

Derek shot him a sharp look. "Peter," he warned.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, come now. You're not even a little curious?"

Derek's jaw tightened. "Not if he doesn't want to talk about it."

That caught me off guard.

I turned toward Derek, my stomach twisting. "You're okay with just... letting this go?"

Derek sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Stiles, it's not my business unless you want it to be." His eyes met mine, serious and steady. "Do you want it to be?"

I inhaled shakily. "No," I admitted. "Not yet."

Derek nodded once, then leaned back, crossing his arms. "Then I'm not asking."

Something inside me loosened at that.

Peter, however, sighed dramatically. "Well, that's disappointing," he said.

I glared at him. "You're not getting answers from me, Peter," I said, my voice sharp. "So stop trying."

Peter studied me for a moment before sighing. "Fine," he said, waving a hand. "I suppose I can let you have your secrets... for now."

I hated the way he said that. Like this was just a game to him.

I clenched my jaw, taking a deep breath before straightening. "If you don't have anything useful to say, you can leave now."

Peter smirked. "Oh, I'll leave," he said, standing. "But I will be back."

I narrowed my eyes. "Not if I see you first."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, Stiles," he said, shaking his head. "This is going to be so much fun."

I groaned.

Derek sighed.

And I really needed a nap. Peter's smirk still lingered in the air, like the ghost of a particularly smug poltergeist refusing to exorcise itself from my life. I hated the way he said that, like this was just a game to him, like my entire existence had been laid out on a chessboard for his entertainment.

I clenched my jaw, took a deep breath, and straightened my spine. "If you don't have anything useful to say, you can leave now."

Peter tilted his head slightly, still watching me with those damn sharp eyes that saw too much, prying into places I didn't want them to go. Then, slowly, he smoothed his hands over his jacket, rising from my dad's chair like he had all the time in the world. Derek let out a sigh, his own irritation clear as he stood up from the couch and shot Peter a look that very clearly said don't push him any further.

Peter just smirked, patting Derek's shoulder on his way toward the door. "Try not to stress too much, Stiles," he called over his shoulder, all casual-like, as if he hadn't just thrown a grenade into my life. "Wouldn't want that affecting the baby now, would we?"

I gritted my teeth, my fists tightening at my sides. "Peter," I warned.

He winked. "See you soon."

And just like that, he was gone.

The front door shut with an infuriatingly quiet click, and for a long moment, I just stood there, staring at it, my entire body coiled tight like a wound-up spring.

I hated him.

I hated how easily he could tear apart the walls I had barely managed to put up. I hated how he knew exactly which buttons to push to get under my skin.

But mostly?

I hated that he wasn't wrong.

Peter knew something huge had shifted in my life, and now that he had confirmation, he wasn't going to let it go. Not for a second.

The worst part?

I had no idea what he planned to do with that information.

My stomach twisted, the nausea creeping up again, and I forced myself to take a slow, steady breath. Not now, Stiles. Hold it together.

I turned, and that's when I remembered I wasn't alone.

Derek was still standing there, arms crossed, staring at me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression of his.

Great.

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face. "Are you going to start interrogating me now, too?"

Derek didn't move. "No."

I blinked, caught off guard by the immediate answer. "No?"

Derek shrugged, shifting slightly where he stood. "It's not my business unless you want it to be."

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "Wow. Okay. That's new."

Derek's brow furrowed slightly, like he wasn't sure if he should be insulted. "What is?"

I waved a hand. "This," I said, gesturing at him. "You not demanding answers. You not pressing for information I clearly don't want to share. You not being your usual broody, interrogating self."

Derek's expression didn't change. "I know what it's like to have people push you before you're ready," he said simply. "It's not my place to demand anything from you."

I stared at him, something tightening in my chest.

Of all people, I hadn't expected Derek to be the one to give me space.

Not that he had ever been as pushy as Peter, but he had his own way of digging—his own way of demanding answers without actually saying the words.

But this? This was something else.

I cleared my throat, shifting on my feet. "Well, uh... thanks, I guess."

Derek nodded once, like that was all he needed to hear.

And just like that, he turned toward the door, like he was ready to leave.

But before he could step outside, I spoke.

"You knew in Mexico, didn't you?"

Derek stilled.

My pulse jumped. I hadn't even planned on saying it—it had just slipped out, the words escaping before I could stop them.

But now that they were out there, I couldn't take them back.

Derek slowly turned back to face me, his expression carefully blank.

I swallowed. "You commented on my scent change in Mexico."

Derek's jaw tensed slightly, and I knew.

I knew he had suspected.

I let out a shaky breath, shaking my head. "Jesus, how long have you known?"

Derek hesitated for a second before answering. "Since La Iglesia," he admitted, his voice quiet.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through my hair. "Fantastic."

Derek shifted slightly, his expression unreadable. "I didn't know," he clarified. "I just... noticed something was different."

I scoffed. "Yeah, I bet."

Derek tilted his head slightly, studying me. "You're upset."

I let out another breathy laugh. "Oh, you think?"

Derek frowned slightly. "You're upset that I didn't say anything?"

I hesitated, rubbing at my arms. "No," I admitted. "I just—Jesus, Derek, you heard the heartbeat, and you just what? Decided to ignore it?"

Derek exhaled through his nose, his shoulders shifting slightly. "I wasn't sure," he repeated. "And it wasn't my place to ask."

I let that sit for a moment, my emotions still swirling too fast for me to process properly.

Then, finally, I sighed, dropping onto the couch and rubbing my hands over my face. "This is a mess," I muttered.

Derek didn't disagree.

He just stood there, silent and steady, watching me like he was waiting for me to say something else.

I sighed again, letting my hands drop. "You really don't care, do you?"

Derek's brows furrowed. "Care about what?"

"About this," I gestured vaguely at myself. "About the fact that I'm some kind of supernatural medical mystery. That this shouldn't be possible, but somehow, it is."

Derek's expression didn't change. "Why would that change anything?"

I stared at him.

Because of course he would say that.

Of course Derek Hale—the guy who had spent his whole life being hunted for what he was—wouldn't see this as something wrong.

Because to him?

Different didn't mean bad.

I swallowed hard, looking away.

"I don't know," I muttered. "Maybe because everyone else seems to have an opinion about it."

Derek was silent for a moment before he said, "Then maybe you should stop listening to everyone else."

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. Easier said than done."

Derek didn't argue.

He just stood there, steady and solid, the only person in my life who hadn't completely freaked out about this.

And honestly?

That was kind of nice.

For the first time since this whole nightmare started, I felt like I could breathe.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I let out a weak laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. Easier said than done."

Derek didn't argue.

He just stood there, steady and solid, the only person in my life who hadn't completely freaked out about this.

And honestly?

That was kind of nice.

For the first time since this whole nightmare started, I felt like I could breathe.

Stiles's Pov

The house was quiet again.

Derek had left without another word, slipping out the door with the same quiet certainty he always had. No long goodbyes, no drawn-out conversation, just a simple nod before stepping outside and disappearing into the cold Beacon Hills evening. And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe that was the end of it. That I could just exist in the silence. That I could pretend the last hour hadn't happened, that Peter hadn't picked apart my defenses like a wolf tearing through raw meat, that Derek hadn't confirmed he knew something was different about me before I even knew it myself.

I sat heavily on the couch, letting my head drop back against the cushions, eyes closed. I was so tired. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix. My body ached, my head throbbed, and my stomach still churned with the remnants of morning sickness that hadn't fully left me all day. But beneath all of that, buried deep under the exhaustion, there was something else.

Something sharp.

Something nagging.

I tried to push it away, but it dug in like a splinter beneath my skin, impossible to ignore.

It was Peter's voice.

"So? Who's the lucky father?"

My stomach twisted violently, and I sat up so fast that my vision blurred for a second.

Because damn it, I knew how biology worked.

Even if this whole thing was the result of residual dark magic, even if this pregnancy wasn't something that should be possible, even if it shouldn't have happened at all—

It still did.

Which meant there had to be two sets of DNA.

That was just basic science.

My hands clenched against my knees.

I had been so focused on the fact that I was pregnant—on the impossibility of it, on the sheer insanity of my body doing something like this—that I hadn't stopped to ask how. Not how as in why did this happen? I already knew the answer to that. Dark magic. The Nogitsune. But how as in who was the other half of this equation?

Because if there was one thing I knew for certain, it was this:

I had never had sex.

Not with anyone.

Ever.

Which meant someone else's DNA had been used to create this baby.

But whose?

I swallowed hard, my heartbeat picking up.

Deaton hadn't mentioned anything about that. He had just confirmed that the baby was human, that there was no supernatural energy around it, that the Nogitsune's darkness didn't taint. But I hadn't thought to ask about paternity. I hadn't thought to ask who the hell the other parent was. I pressed a shaking hand against my stomach, feeling the faintest curve beneath my palm. It was still small. Barely noticeable. Just a slight rounding beneath my ribs, something that could still be mistaken for bloating. But I knew what it was now.

I knew.

And I knew that somewhere in my body, somewhere inside me, there were two strands of DNA tangled together to create this impossible, unnatural, human life.

One was mine.

But the other?

I had no idea.

A sharp exhale left me, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Okay. Okay, I needed to be rational about this.

There were only so many options.

Either the dark magic had created a second DNA strand from nothing—spontaneous genetic generation, which sounded absolutely terrifying—or it had taken it from someone else. And that was even worse. Because if it had taken someone else's DNA, that meant someone I knew was unknowingly the biological father of this baby. My stomach lurched at the thought.

Jesus Christ.

I shot up from the couch, pacing across the living room, hands in my hair.

Okay. Alright. I could figure this out. I just had to think.

The Nogitsune had been in my body for weeks. It had used me, controlled me, twisted my mind into something unrecognizable.

And at some point, during that possession, it had done this.

Which meant that if it had taken DNA from someone else, it had to be someone who was near me during that time.

My chest tightened.

That... that didn't narrow it down at all.

Because practically everyone had been near me while I was possessed.

Scott.

Lydia.

Allison.

Isaac.

Ethan and Aiden.

Kira.

Derek.

Peter.

Chris

Deaton and the list goes on22

I inhaled sharply, my hands shaking.

No. No, this was insane.

I was spiraling.

I had no idea how this worked. I was just making assumptions, jumping to conclusions without any real evidence.

I needed to calm down.

I needed to breathe.

I needed to call Deaton.

I grabbed my phone off the table, my fingers gripping it tightly.

I hesitated.

Did I really want to know?

Would it make a difference?

I swallowed, staring down at the screen.

Yes. It would.

Because this wasn't just about me anymore.

This was about someone else's DNA—someone else who had no idea that they were technically a parent.

And I needed answers.

Now. I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering over Deaton's number, but I couldn't make myself press call. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it was trying to punch through my ribs, and my lungs felt too small. Every breath rattled in my chest, shallow and unsteady, like a caged animal scrabbling to get out. The longer I stood there, the more my mind spun in circles, conjuring up worst-case scenarios. If there really was another person's DNA involved—if this was some hideous leftover from what the Nogitsune did—did I even want to know? But how could I not? There was no telling what this meant for me, for the baby, for whoever else might be an unwitting parent to a child they never consented to create.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to count to three. Then, with a sharp exhale, I finally tapped the call button. The phone rang three times before I heard the line pick up.

"Stiles?" Deaton's voice was calm, measured, the way it always was—like nothing could rattle him, even if the world was on fire.

I pressed my lips together, realizing how tight my throat felt. "Hey, Deaton. Are—are you busy?"

He paused. "Not at the moment. I assume this isn't a social call."

I let out something between a laugh and a sigh. "No. Definitely not. I, uh... something's come up. I need to ask you a few questions about—about the pregnancy. Is there any way I can swing by tonight?"

"Of course," Deaton said evenly. "I'll be here for a while. Take your time, Stiles. Drive safely."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me, relief warring with dread in my chest. "Right. Thanks. I'll be there soon."

Hanging up, I ran shaky fingers through my hair, my pulse still thudding so loudly that I half-expected the neighbors to hear it. I glanced at the clock on the wall—just past seven in the evening. My dad wouldn't be home until at least nine, and after everything that had happened today, I knew I couldn't just sit in this house and let my thoughts devour me. I needed answers. Or at least the hope of answers.

I slipped on my hoodie, double-checking that I had my keys and wallet. The weather outside was chilly, so I added a heavier jacket. I paused on the porch for a moment, letting the cold air slap some sense into me. The streets were dark, the sky moonless, and the crisp December chill bit at my cheeks. In a weird way, it helped ground me, like I could at least rely on the numbness in my fingers to keep my focus.

The drive to the animal clinic felt both too fast and too slow. My mind churned with every possible explanation for how the baby got a second set of DNA. Dark magic. Nogitsune tampering. Some bizarre leftover energy from the Nemeton. Even if I pinned it down to one of those, it didn't tell me who might be involved. If the magic spontaneously generated an unknown genetic code, that was horrifying enough. But if it stole someone else's...

I gripped the steering wheel harder, trying not to picture the possibility of any of my friends—Scott, Lydia, anyone—winding up as the other parent to this child without their knowledge. The idea felt invasive, violating. The Nogitsune had already caused so much damage, so much hurt. And if it had turned one of my closest friends into an unwitting father...

My stomach roiled, and I forced myself to concentrate on the road. A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of the familiar, worn building of Beacon Hills Animal Clinic. The sign in the window was off, indicating they were closed to regular customers, but the interior lights were still on. Typical after-hours shift for Deaton.

I let myself in through the side door, the one Deaton usually left unlocked for us whenever there was supernatural weirdness afoot. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and faint animal scents—wet fur, cat litter, that kind of thing. I closed the door quietly behind me, slipping down the corridor toward the exam rooms.

Deaton appeared around the corner, still wearing his scrubs and looking as unflappable as ever. "Stiles," he greeted with a small smile, though his eyes carried that gentle concern I'd grown used to seeing lately. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah," I mumbled, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. "Thanks for letting me barge in. I just... I needed to talk to someone who might have answers."

He inclined his head. "I'll do my best. Let's sit in the back room."

He led me to the small break room at the rear of the clinic, where a battered wooden table sat under fluorescent lights. The hum of the light fixture was strangely loud in the silence, and I tried not to fidget as I took a seat. Deaton grabbed two bottles of water from a mini-fridge and placed one in front of me before sitting across the table.

He folded his hands neatly. "You seem tense," he observed. "I gather this is about Peter finding out, or Derek, or both?"

"Partly," I admitted, twisting the cap off the water bottle just to give my hands something to do. "But it's... more than that. I have questions that I didn't think to ask before."

Deaton nodded once, his expression patient. "Take your time."

I fiddled with the water bottle, the plastic crinkling under my fingers. "Look, you said the baby's human. You said there's not any Nogitsune darkness around it. You said that my body is physically adapting to carry a pregnancy, which shouldn't be possible, but... apparently is. I didn't question that back then because I was too busy freaking out. But now, I realize there's a gaping hole in this entire thing."

Deaton waited, eyes never leaving mine.

I bit my lip, pushing the words out before my courage deserted me. "Who's the father?"

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. "You mean biologically?"

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah, biologically. Because if the baby's human, if it's got two strands of DNA, then that means there's got to be someone else's genetic material in there. It can't just be me. And I never—I mean, I've never..." I trailed off, heat creeping up my neck. I knew I didn't have to say it out loud. Deaton was smart enough to piece it together.

He sighed softly, leaning forward. "I understand. And you're right: typically, a human child would require two sets of DNA. But this circumstance is far from typical. You were possessed by the Nogitsune for a prolonged period. It's possible the creation of this embryo didn't follow conventional rules."

I pressed my palms against the tabletop, frustration flaring. "That doesn't help, Deaton. I need specifics. Could the Nogitsune have just... created a new strand of DNA out of thin air? Or did it take someone else's?"

Deaton regarded me steadily, as though weighing his words. "In theory, a being as powerful as the Nogitsune could manipulate organic material in unusual ways. It might have harnessed the Nemeton's energy, or your own spark—your connection to the supernatural—to build the embryo. That could include fabricating genetic patterns that simply never existed before. Alternatively, it might have drawn from the DNA of someone around you, though there's no telling exactly how it would have done that."

I felt sick. The second scenario made my skin crawl. The first scenario seemed equally horrifying. Both were equally plausible.

"How do I find out which it is?" I asked, my voice sounding too loud in the cramped space. "I can't just keep wondering if I'm carrying some kind of Frankenstein baby that's half me, half... I don't even know."

Deaton's gaze flickered with sympathy. "You'd need a DNA test, one that compares the fetal DNA with potential donors. That can be done through amniocentesis, although it's usually recommended later in pregnancy to reduce risks. There are also non-invasive prenatal tests that can pick up fetal cells in your bloodstream, but that technology is still somewhat new. And in your particular situation, the results might be... inconclusive if the DNA was artificially created."

I swallowed hard. "But if it's not artificially created, if it did come from someone else... I'd have to, what, test literally everyone who was near me during that time? That's half the county."

Deaton tilted his head. "Not necessarily. The circle of people who had close contact with you during your possession might be smaller. But yes, you would need to gather samples. It would be a process."

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. "Jesus. Hey, Scott, mind giving me a DNA swab so I can rule you out as the father of my magically conceived child? Lydia, Kira—same question. Or how about Derek, or Peter, or Isaac—"

I broke off, a shudder rolling through me. Deaton waited, letting the silence settle. My mind hopped from one friend to another, imagining the mortification of asking each one for a cheek swab. And that was if I decided to let them know the reason. I could try to lie about the purpose, but none of them were dumb. They'd know something was up, and if I told them the truth, they might freak out. Worse, one of them might be the unsuspecting biological father.

I took a long drink of water, hoping it would quell the nausea swirling in my stomach. "This is insane," I muttered. "I don't even know where to start."

Deaton offered me a gentle look. "You have time, Stiles. The baby is only about six weeks along. Even if you decide to pursue testing later in the pregnancy, you can gather samples discreetly if necessary. This doesn't have to happen overnight."

I nodded, hands trembling around the bottle. "But... I don't want to drag it out. I'm already losing my mind over it. And if someone else is involved, they deserve to know, right? They didn't ask for this any more than I did."

Deaton's expression softened. "That's true. But consider your health as well. The stress of this is considerable. It may be wise to wait until you're further along, when non-invasive prenatal tests can more accurately detect fetal DNA in your bloodstream. That way, we can see if there's a match to your own or if there appears to be a distinct second lineage. Then, if there is, you'd need potential donors. If not—if the baby's genome is somehow entirely yours—then that answers one question right away."

I let that sink in. If the baby was entirely my clone, genetically speaking, that would be a relief in one sense and downright terrifying in another. A baby formed from just my DNA, created by the Nogitsune's twisted magic? I wasn't sure how to feel about that. But at least it wouldn't drag anyone else into the mess.

My thoughts turned to Peter's questions, to Derek's quiet revelation that he'd heard the heartbeat in Mexico. Suddenly, the weight of everything pressed down on me again, and I buried my face in my hands, elbows braced on the table. "This is too much," I mumbled. "I just wanted to survive high school. Now I'm pregnant with a baby that might or might not have some unsuspecting father who got roped into this thanks to a freaking demon-fox-thing. What am I supposed to do?"

Deaton's voice was gentle. "Take it one day at a time, Stiles. Keep your appointments, mind your health, and gather information. You've come this far—your body is managing the pregnancy better than expected. You have friends and family who are willing to help. As for the father, or the lack thereof, we can handle that step by step. You don't have to figure it all out tonight."

I groaned into my hands. He was right, of course, in that maddeningly logical way of his. Still, it left me with a roiling pit of anxiety. Finally, I lifted my head, hating the hot sting of tears at the corners of my eyes. "I just wish I knew how to keep Peter off my back," I said, trying to inject some humor into my voice. It came out flat. "He's going to keep pushing. He wants to know who the father is just as much as I do—probably for his own messed-up reasons."

A hint of a smile crossed Deaton's lips. "Peter is persistent. But he also likes to play the long game. If he thinks you're overwhelmed, he might step back to see what happens. He'll observe. He may try to manipulate you, but as long as you keep your cards close, he won't get far."

I nodded woodenly, recalling Peter's smug grin in my living room. He'd definitely gotten under my skin, but at least now I knew what he was after. Information. Control. He was always hungry for leverage, and a mysterious pregnancy was practically a buffet for someone like him.

Deaton stood, heading to a nearby cupboard. He returned with a small jar of herbal supplements—some mixture of ginger and other dried plants. "These might help with your morning sickness," he said, setting the jar on the table. "Brew a teaspoon in hot water once a day. It can ease nausea."

"Thanks," I murmured, taking the jar and flipping it over in my hands. "Anything's worth a shot at this point. I've been surviving on crackers and bananas."

He nodded. "Try to get as many nutrients as you can. If it becomes too difficult to keep food down, let me know. We'll try a different remedy."

"Right," I said, pushing to my feet. My legs felt wobbly, like I'd run a marathon. Physically, I was drained. Emotionally, I was wrecked. But I had at least a faint plan now. Wait until the pregnancy was further along—maybe eight or ten weeks—and see if the non-invasive tests could pick up a second set of DNA in my bloodstream. If it was just me, then problem solved (well, partially). If not... well, then I had some deeply uncomfortable conversations ahead.

Deaton walked me to the back door, his demeanor calm and composed, as always. "Take care, Stiles," he said quietly. "And try not to let your fears consume you. You have people who care about you—remember that."

I nodded. "Thanks, Deaton. I appreciate it."

I slipped out into the night, pulling my jacket tighter around me as a gust of wind cut through the parking lot. The sky looked like a dome of ink, the stars faint pinpricks overhead. I climbed into my Jeep, heart hammering in my ears. My mind kept replaying Deaton's words: If it's just your DNA, then you'll know. If not, you'll have to find out whose it is.

I drove home on autopilot, the roads nearly deserted at this hour. My thoughts spiraled through the possible ways to approach a paternity test. How to gather samples from my friends without explaining why. How to handle it if I found out one of them was the father. What if it was someone like Isaac, who'd left town? Or Kira, who was going through her own kitsune issues? Could the baby's other half belong to more than one person? That last thought made me grimace—this wasn't a Greek myth about some multi-fathered demigod. Logically, it had to be just one. But the logical side of this entire situation was paper thin.

By the time I parked in front of my house, my nerves were frayed all over again. I sat behind the wheel for a long minute, engine ticking in the cold, trying to gather the energy to go inside. Eventually, I forced myself out of the Jeep, footsteps crunching on the gravel as I trudged up the walkway. I spotted my dad's squad car parked a little ways off, so he was already home. That meant bracing for questions about where I'd been. He knew I was pregnant, obviously, but I wasn't sure if he was ready to hear about this new bombshell.

I slipped inside quietly, my breath puffing out in the dim hallway. The kitchen light was on, and I could hear the low murmur of the television in the living room. Sure enough, my dad glanced up when I rounded the corner, remote in hand.

"Hey," he said, concern lining his forehead. "Everything okay? You went out pretty late."

I shrugged off my jacket, hanging it by the door. "Yeah, just... needed to see Deaton. We talked about a few things."

Dad muted the TV, his gaze sweeping over me. "Everything okay with the baby?"

I nodded, shuffling forward until I could collapse onto the opposite end of the couch. "Physically, yeah, no changes. Still nauseous, still have weird cravings. He gave me some herbal tea stuff that might help."

His eyes flicked to the jar in my hand, and he nodded slowly. "Alright. Good. And you?"

I hesitated, chewing my lip. I wasn't sure how much I wanted to tell him about the paternity panic, the fear that the Nogitsune might have stolen someone else's DNA. But my dad was my dad. He'd been nothing but supportive since he found out I was pregnant. I knew he'd want to help if he could.

So I forced the words out in a rush. "I realized... I never considered who the biological father might be. Or if there even is one. I was so overwhelmed by the fact that I'm pregnant at all, I didn't question how it happened scientifically. Then Peter brought it up, and it kind of messed with my head. Deaton says we can do more tests in a few weeks."

My dad's expression tightened, anger sparking in his eyes at the mention of Peter. "I figured that bastard would stir up trouble. Are you okay?"

I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a humorless laugh. "Not really, but I'm dealing. I'll be better once I know for sure if the baby's just me or if there's someone else I need to worry about. Because if there is, if the Nogitsune took someone's DNA... that's not fair to them. They should know."

Dad reached over, resting a hand on my arm. "You'll figure it out, kid. And if we do find out someone else is tied to this, you won't go through it alone. We'll handle it together, however we have to."

My chest squeezed with gratitude. "Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that."

He gave my arm a reassuring squeeze and then let go, leaning back into the couch cushions. "So, Deaton recommended waiting a few weeks?"

"Yeah," I said, fiddling with the jar of herbs. "He said around eight to ten weeks, some blood tests can pick up fetal DNA. If it's just mine, we're done. If it's not, then we figure out whose it matches."

Dad nodded, though I could see tension creasing the corners of his eyes. "Alright. In the meantime, I'll make sure Peter Hale doesn't come sniffing around the station or anything else. And if he bothers you here, I want you to call me immediately."

A weak smile tugged at my lips. "I will, I promise."

We settled into a weary silence, both lost in thought. The TV was still muted, showing some old detective drama with subtitles scrolling beneath. After a moment, Dad unmuted it, letting the low hum of dialogue fill the living room in a half-hearted attempt at normalcy.

I closed my eyes, resting my head against the back of the couch. I could feel the fatigue dragging at my bones, but my mind refused to shut off. Even with Deaton's advice, even with my dad's support, I was still wound tight, every muscle tensed as if bracing for another blow. I wondered if I'd ever stop feeling like I was waiting for the next crisis.

Eventually, Dad nudged me gently, murmuring that I should get some sleep. He handed me a throw blanket, and I mumbled something about being more comfortable on the couch tonight. He sighed but didn't argue, dimming the lights on his way to his bedroom. I curled up under the blanket, letting the soft drone of the TV lull me.

My hand drifted to my stomach almost on instinct. The small bump was still barely there, but I could feel the difference in my body, in the way my jeans fit, in the way my center of gravity had shifted. It was real. This was real. The baby was real.

One day, soon, I'd have to face the question of paternity head-on. And if the worst came true—if I found out it was someone I cared about—would they hate me for it? Would it tear our already fragile pack apart? My heart twisted at the idea of losing a friend over something none of us had control over. But I couldn't hide forever.

I squeezed my eyes shut, letting the flickering TV images dance behind my eyelids. Tomorrow, I'd worry about how to handle Peter, how to talk to Derek, how to keep my panic at bay. For tonight, the best I could do was hold on to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I was worrying about nothing—maybe the baby was all me, no stolen DNA required.

As I drifted into a restless sleep, the memory of Peter's voice echoed in my mind, mocking and all too smug: "So? Who's the lucky father?" My teeth clenched even in my half-conscious state. If there was a father out there, I'd find out on my own terms. Peter wouldn't get the satisfaction of springing that revelation on me first. No matter how terrifying it was, I had people in my corner. I had Dad, Derek—hell, maybe even Lydia if I asked her for help. I wasn't the same scared kid I'd been when the Nogitsune first sank its claws into me.

The baby's heartbeat pounded in my memory, a reminder that there was a new life depending on me, no matter who else might share the responsibility. I'd fight for it. I'd fight to protect that child from Peter's manipulations, from the shadows of the past, even from my own fear. My breath finally slowed, my body relaxing into the cushions as exhaustion won out.

I fell asleep that night with one last quiet vow: no matter what I learned about this baby's origins, I'd make sure it—and I—didn't become another pawn in Beacon Hills' endless cycle of secrets and darkness. If the Nogitsune had found a way to create a life in the midst of so much death, then I'd find a way to keep that life safe. Even if it meant confronting every terrible possibility that came my way.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

Stiles's Pov

December 18, 2011

6 weeks pregnant

December 18, 2011. I'm six weeks pregnant, and my baby is about the size of a lentil. That's a fun fact I learned from one of the pregnancy websites I've been scouring in the dead of night. A lentil. I never thought a single word could feel so monumental and absurd at the same time. But it does. Because that lentil represents an entire universe growing inside me, and even though I'm doing my best not to lose my mind, I still can't help obsessing over the details.

I'm on the couch in the living room, a blanket draped around my shoulders. The morning light filters through the curtains, pale winter sunshine that does little to banish the cold lodged beneath my skin. Three days. It's been three days since the fight with Scott. I haven't spoken to him since. In fact, I've barely spoken to anyone aside from Dad—and even that's been awkward and tense because he can see how raw I am. The only reason I haven't completely disappeared into my bedroom is that I made a deal with Dad: I have to at least pretend I'm a functional human until I figure out how to handle the rest of this mess.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, rattling against the wood. I flinch, half expecting Scott's name to appear on the screen, but it's Deaton. The notification is short and clinical, reminding me of tomorrow's appointment at the clinic. Deaton's the only one I trust to handle this pregnancy. The idea of some random doctor poking around my body, discovering the impossible, is terrifying. I know Deaton isn't exactly an obstetrician, but he's done his best to keep me healthy since the day I found out. He's the only medical professional who's seen me—who even knows I'm pregnant at all.

I rub my hand over my stomach, still flat enough that no one would suspect a thing if they saw me in passing. My hoodie's loose, and I can almost pretend I'm just my usual scrawny self, but I know better. Sometimes, usually when I first wake up, I swear my midsection is changing in ways nobody else can see. There's a slight rounding that's too firm to be bloating. A small difference that's imperceptible to anyone who doesn't live in my skin. It's a secret I carry everywhere, a secret that's grown heavier since the fight with Scott. I keep replaying those moments in my mind—him telling me I can't keep it, telling me it's not right, that it's not normal. That I should just get rid of it.

The memory makes my chest tighten until it hurts. I try to breathe through it, but it's like there's a vice around my rib cage. My best friend, the one person who's been by my side through every supernatural catastrophe, basically told me to abort my baby. I get why he's scared. Part of me is scared too—terrified. But it doesn't erase the betrayal I felt when he said those words. Or the way he invoked Allison's name, as if losing her meant I had to lose everything else too. It still makes me furious.

I pull the blanket tighter and close my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch. My thoughts are spiraling again, so I focus on my breathing. In, out, count to four, hold, release. Over and over, until my heart stops pounding like I just ran a marathon. My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it for a few seconds, forcing myself to keep the slow rhythm of breath. Finally, I open my eyes and pick it up.

It's a text from Derek: Are you okay?

I stare at the screen. I haven't told Derek about the fight with Scott—not directly, anyway—but I wouldn't be surprised if he's picked up on the tension swirling around the pack. Derek's been weirdly kind ever since he found out I'm pregnant. He visits at random times, usually under the pretense of checking on my "condition," though I suspect part of him just wants to make sure Peter isn't lurking around the corner. He and Peter know I'm pregnant, which is a terrifying fact in and of itself. And of course, Dad and Scott know. That's it. A tiny circle, suffocatingly small, and one of them won't even talk to me.

I type back a short response: I'm fine. Just tired.

A few moments later, Derek replies: If you need anything, let me know.

I almost want to ask him to come over, to fill the silence in this house so I can't spend the morning dwelling on regrets and anger. But something stops me. I'm not sure I can handle more conversation. I text back a quick thanks, then set the phone aside.

I tilt my head to see if Dad's around, but the house is quiet. He's been working extra shifts at the station, probably to pay for the mountain of medical bills heading my way, and maybe also to give me space. The guilt of that weighs on me. He never complains, never makes me feel like I've ruined anything, but I can see the lines of worry etched into his face growing deeper every day. He tries to act casual, asking if I need more crackers or a different flavor of prenatal vitamins, but we both know this is huge, and we're barely treading water. Still, I'm grateful for his calm presence. He hasn't once told me to get rid of the baby. He's left it up to me, letting me decide what I want—something Scott apparently couldn't do.

My stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch, and I groan. Morning sickness doesn't limit itself to mornings in my case. I've been queasy all day, every day. Six weeks pregnant. According to the pregnancy apps I've been scouring, the baby's heart is beating, tiny arms and leg buds might be forming, and it's the size of a lentil. I can't wrap my head around the fact that something that small is causing this much havoc in my body, but I guess that's how it works.

I push off the couch, blanket dropping to my ankles, and shuffle into the kitchen. Plain toast, bananas, saltines—these have become my holy trinity of foods. I rummage through the bread box, only to find that we're down to a single slice. I sigh, mentally adding groceries to my to-do list. Dad tries to keep me stocked, but with his schedule, it's tough. I grab the last slice and pop it in the toaster, setting it on the lowest setting so it won't come out charred. The smell of toast usually doesn't trigger my nausea, thank God.

While it cooks, I lean over the sink, taking slow breaths. I'm so tired of feeling sick, but at least Deaton told me it's normal—my hormones are in overdrive, adjusting to the pregnancy. I wish Scott could've listened when I told him it was just a normal baby, or as normal as it gets. But he heard "Nogitsune," and that was that. My chest clenches again, remembering the cold, determined look on his face when he told me to get rid of it. He was so sure. So final. It stung in a way I can't begin to articulate.

The toaster dings, and I fumble for the bread, slathering it with the tiniest bit of butter. I take a tentative bite. It's still warm enough to be comforting, but not so flavorful as to make my stomach do flips. I stand there in the kitchen, chewing slowly, listening to the quiet hum of the fridge. As I swallow, I realize my hands are shaking. It's been happening a lot lately, the tremor of stress or anxiety or hormones. I'm not sure which.

My phone buzzes again, and I nearly jump out of my skin. This time, it's Dad. He's texting to say he has a late call at the station and might not be home until tonight. I text back an okay, trying not to let the loneliness crush me. Normally, I'd call Scott to hang out or maybe do something mindless, like play video games or watch terrible sci-fi movies. But he's not an option right now, and I haven't yet figured out how to replace that hole in my life.

I finish the toast, my stomach churning but not rebelling outright, so I call that a win. Then I shuffle back to the living room and flop onto the couch, pulling the blanket over me. Maybe I'll watch something stupid to take my mind off reality. I scroll through the channels until I land on a rerun of some old show with too much canned laughter. I let it play in the background, not really paying attention, just wanting some noise.

After about half an hour, my eyelids grow heavy. Sleep is another thing I can't get enough of lately, though it doesn't always help me feel rested. I let myself doze off, drifting in and out of weird dreams—flashes of memories involving the Nogitsune, images of the Jeep with Scott angrily slamming the door, and the sensation of something fluttering under my skin. I jolt awake when the doorbell rings. My heart's pounding so fast I feel dizzy.

Dragging myself upright, I shove the blanket aside and trudge to the door, half expecting to see Derek or the mail carrier. But when I peek through the window, I see Peter Hale standing on the porch, looking annoyingly smug. My stomach drops. I consider pretending I'm not home, but he probably can hear my heartbeat through the door, for all I know.

I open the door just a crack, keeping the chain on. "What do you want?" I snap, no energy to fake politeness.

Peter's smirk widens. "So hostile, Stiles. May I come in?"

I resist the urge to slam the door in his face. "No. I'm not in the mood for whatever game you want to play."

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "I'm not here to play games. Merely to check on you. It's been about two days since we last... talked." He draws out the word, letting it hang in the air.

I scowl, but I can't help the unease creeping down my spine. Peter has been aware of my pregnancy since practically day one, and I still don't understand why he's so interested. "I'm fine," I say shortly. "You can go now."

"Come now," Peter chides lightly, "is that any way to greet someone who's shown genuine concern for your well-being?"

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Genuine concern, sure. Because that's what you're known for."

He sighs dramatically. "You wound me. At least let me in from the cold. You wouldn't want to be responsible for me catching a chill, would you?"

I seriously debate shutting the door in his face. But part of me wonders if letting him stand on the porch is more dangerous. Peter gets suspicious about everything. If I let him talk inside, maybe I can control the conversation. Then again, I might be letting a fox into the henhouse. But I'm so tired, and it's cold outside. With an annoyed huff, I unlatch the chain and step back.

"Five minutes," I warn, shooting him a glare. "If you do anything weird, I'm kicking you out."

He inclines his head graciously, slipping inside as though he's entering a luxury hotel suite. I make a show of rolling my eyes, but close the door behind him. He surveys the living room, noticing the blanket on the couch and the half-watched show on TV. His lips curve in a slight smile.

"So domestic," he observes.

I clamp down on the urge to snap back. "What do you want, Peter?"

He turns to me, expression shifting from smug to almost pleasant. "I merely wanted to see if you needed anything. As you know, pregnancies—especially magical pregnancies—can be complicated. I'd hate for you to be struggling without resources."

I snort. "I have Deaton. I'm fine."

"Deaton," Peter says, mouth twisting into a faint sneer. "He's a capable veterinarian, I'll grant you. But this is not a normal pregnancy, is it?"

My stomach churns at the reminder. "He's handling it," I say firmly, crossing my arms over my chest.

Peter spreads his hands in a gesture of fake surrender. "Of course. I'm sure he's doing his best. But do remember that I have contacts in the supernatural community beyond Beacon Hills. People who've dealt with unusual pregnancies before."

I stiffen, my pulse beating faster. "I'm not letting you or any of your shady friends near me or my baby."

He arches an eyebrow. "Your hostility is noted. But consider this: if things start to go awry, who else can you turn to for specialized help? Deaton isn't an obstetrician, and normal doctors would hardly know what to do with a male pregnancy linked to dark magic."

My jaw clenches so hard it's a wonder my teeth don't crack. I hate how logical he can sound sometimes. But I force myself to hold my ground. "I'll figure it out on my own," I snap. "Thanks for the concern, but I don't want anything from you."

Peter studies me for a long moment, and the silence stretches so thin I can feel it pressing on my eardrums. Finally, he sighs. "Very well. I won't push the matter. However, do remember my offer stands. If Deaton finds himself out of his depth, I can make a few phone calls that might prove enlightening."

I want to tell him to shove his phone calls, but I bite my tongue, feeling a headache coming on. "Is that all you came here for?"

He chuckles lightly. "Not entirely. I also wanted to see how you were coping in the absence of your True Alpha friend. I hear you two are... on the outs."

A flash of anger makes my blood run hot. So he knows about the fight. "That's none of your business."

He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. "Perhaps not. But tension in the pack inevitably concerns me, especially when it centers on something as significant as a pregnancy."

I inhale sharply through my nose, trying to calm the fury building in my chest. "You don't get to talk about the pack," I say, voice trembling with barely contained anger. "You're not part of it."

He puts a hand to his chest with mock offense. "Derek is my nephew, and he's still in contact with me. I'd say I have a certain stake in what goes on."

I don't have the energy to argue. My stomach twists, threatening to lurch. The last thing I want is to puke in front of Peter, so I grit my teeth and will myself to stay calm. "Just get out," I say, stepping back to point toward the door. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

He assesses me, eyes lingering on my face, then dropping to my midsection. I instinctively draw my arms around my abdomen, protective. His lips quirk in a knowing smile, and for a second, I think he's going to say something else—maybe something scathing or smug. But he simply nods, turning on his heel and walking back to the door with unhurried steps.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "You know how to reach me if you change your mind. Take care of yourself, Stiles. Stress isn't good for... lentil-sized hearts."

My blood runs cold at the precise mention of "lentil-sized." He must have gleaned that detail from some website or maybe overheard me mention it to Derek. The fact that he's so informed makes me feel naked under his gaze. But before I can respond, he slips out into the cold afternoon, shutting the door behind him. I stand there, pulse roaring in my ears, half expecting him to barge back in. When it becomes clear that he's really gone, I exhale shakily and twist the lock.

For a moment, I just stand there, one hand pressed to my stomach, trying to quell the swirl of panic. The encounter left me drained, yet weirdly on edge, as if I drank three shots of espresso and chased it with a panic attack. Peter is... he's Peter. Unpredictable, manipulative, and far too interested in my unborn child. But the worst part is that little voice in the back of my mind whispering that he has a point. Deaton's doing his best, but what if something goes wrong? Do I really want to rely on the single vet-druid in Beacon Hills? A wave of guilt washes over me. I trust Deaton, but he can't be an expert in everything.

I push the thought aside. It's too big to deal with right now. Instead, I stumble back to the couch and collapse onto it, head in my hands. The house is quiet again, and I almost resent that silence. Even the stupid laughter track on TV would be better than my own swirling thoughts. But I left the TV off after dozing, and now I can't bring myself to turn it on again. My phone lies on the coffee table, silent. Derek's message is still there, and Dad said he'd be late. Scott hasn't reached out in days, and I'm too furious and hurt to text him first.

After a while, I lie down, pressing my cheek to the couch cushion. It smells faintly of detergent and the last traces of Dad's aftershave. My eyelids drift shut, and though my brain is still a hurricane of worry, exhaustion pulls me under again.

When I wake, the afternoon light is fading, painting the living room in muted grays. My stomach grumbles angrily, reminding me I should eat something. I rub the sleep from my eyes and force myself upright. Another wave of dizziness hits, so I sit still, breathing until it passes. Six weeks pregnant, and I already feel like an invalid.

I shuffle into the kitchen. I'm not in the mood to cook. Dad stocked the fridge with a couple of microwaveable things that might be mild enough not to upset my stomach. I find a container of plain chicken soup. That'll have to do. I poke it into the microwave, leaning against the counter as it rotates, steam beginning to form on the inside of the plastic.

While I wait, my gaze drifts to the window above the sink. Outside, the sky is a dusky purple, thick clouds hinting at snow. Something about the looming winter reminds me of how quickly time is passing. In just a couple of weeks, it'll be New Year's. Then school starts again, and soon enough, I'll be halfway through junior year. Am I even going back to school? How am I supposed to keep up with classes while dealing with morning sickness, doctor's visits, and the constant risk of being discovered?

The microwave beeps, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab the soup, stirring it with a spoon. The smell makes my stomach clench, but I force myself to take slow sips. It's warm, salty, and almost comforting if I don't think too hard about anything else. I manage about half the container before my stomach threatens mutiny. I seal it back up and shove it into the fridge for later.

I return to the living room, aimless and restless, glancing at the clock. It's barely five thirty, but it feels like midnight. Outside, darkness creeps across the neighborhood, streetlights flickering on. I wish I could drive somewhere, just to get out of my own head, but the idea of being alone in the Jeep conjures memories of that fight with Scott, his voice echoing: You can't do this. You need to get rid of it. My hands tighten into fists at my sides.

The doorbell rings again, startling me. I brace myself for another unwanted visitor—maybe Peter decided to come back for round two. But when I open the door, it's Derek. He stands on the porch, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

I stare at him, surprised. "Hey," I say, stepping aside. "Didn't expect to see you."

He nods once, stepping into the entryway. "You said you were tired. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. "Oh... yeah. I'm okay, I guess."

He glances around the living room, assessing. "You look pale."

I huff a near-laugh. "Thanks. It's called morning sickness, though it should really be called 24/7 sickness. Fun times." I gesture for him to sit, and he does, taking the armchair while I sink onto the couch. We face each other across the coffee table, the glow of the lamp casting shadows on Derek's face.

He clears his throat. "Peter was here."

It's not a question. He must smell Peter's scent or something. I nod, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "Yeah, he dropped by to be his usual creepy self. Offered to help if Deaton can't handle the pregnancy. I told him to piss off."

Derek's jaw tightens. "Good. I don't trust him. He always has an angle."

"I know," I say. "He brought up some contacts he has with supernatural pregnancies, but... I can't imagine calling in one of Peter's buddies. That's too risky."

Derek leans back, crossing his arms. "We'll figure something else out if it comes to that. I won't let him back you into a corner."

The warmth in his voice catches me off guard. I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "Thanks." I tug the blanket tighter around me, noticing how my fingers tremble. "Can I ask you something?"

He nods, eyes dark with concern. "Of course."

I hesitate, not sure if I want to open up about my fight with Scott, but I feel like I need to talk to someone. "Did you... talk to Scott lately?"

Derek exhales, gaze flicking to the floor. "Not since you two... you know. He's been avoiding me, too. I think he feels guilty, or he's second-guessing himself."

That stings more than it should. If he feels guilty, why hasn't he tried to apologize? Then again, I'm not sure I want an apology that's forced. "Do you think I should reach out first?" I ask, surprising even myself with the question.

Derek's eyebrows lift slightly. "Do you want to?"

I slump back against the couch. "I'm not sure. Part of me wants to never speak to him again." My voice quivers. "But he's my best friend. We've been through everything together, and I hate that this is how things are."

Derek sighs. "It's your choice. But maybe give yourself time. You're still upset, and for good reason. Scott said... some harsh things."

Harsh is an understatement. I nod, my throat closing up. "Yeah," I whisper, blinking rapidly to keep tears at bay. "I just keep replaying it in my head. All that stuff about how it's not normal, how it's from the Nogitsune... It's like he thinks I'm carrying a ticking time bomb."

Derek's expression softens in a way I'm not used to seeing. "He's scared," Derek says after a moment. "We all are, in our own ways. But that doesn't excuse what he said. He should've listened to you, especially when you told him what Deaton said about the baby being fully human."

I rub my face, exhaustion settling into my bones again. "Yeah, well, apparently he doesn't trust that. Or me."

Derek doesn't answer right away. He shifts forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I know it's not much consolation, but I believe you," he says quietly. "If you say it's human, and Deaton says the same, then that's good enough for me. The important thing is that you're not alone. Even if Scott... even if he's not there right now."

My eyes burn, and I swallow hard. "Thanks," I manage, voice thick. "I appreciate that. You've been... you've been really decent about all this. I didn't expect you to be the supportive one."

He cracks a small, wry smile. "Me neither. But here we are."

A shaky laugh escapes me, followed by an awkward silence where I realize how close I am to crying. I blink it away, forcing a change of subject. "So, um, do you want something to drink? We have water... or water. I'm out of most other stuff."

He gives me a faint nod. "Water's fine."

I stand and head to the kitchen, grateful for an excuse to walk off the looming tears. I fill a glass for Derek and a fresh glass for myself. The water helps soothe my raw throat. When I return, Derek takes the glass, murmuring a quiet thanks. We lapse into silence again, sipping water in the dim light of the living room.

Finally, he sets his glass down. "How are you... physically, besides the morning sickness?"

I shrug. "Tired all the time. Sometimes I get dizzy if I stand up too fast. My appetite's all over the place. Deaton says it's normal for this stage, but it's still miserable. I can't imagine going months like this."

Derek nods gravely. "I've never been around a human pregnancy this closely, but from what I know, it usually gets better in the second trimester. That's a ways off, though."

"Yeah," I mutter, glancing at the clock. "I'm barely at six weeks. That's... what, two more months before the second trimester starts?" The thought is daunting. I try to remind myself that each day I'm getting closer to some semblance of stability. But it still feels like an impossible marathon.

Derek's eyes flick to my stomach, then back to my face. "Do you need help with anything? Groceries? Errands? I'm not exactly a master chef, but if you need bland food, I can pick it up."

His offer sounds so domestic and earnest that it sends a pang of gratitude through me. "Um... maybe? I mean, Dad tries, but he's busy at the station. I don't want to burden you, though."

He shakes his head. "It's not a burden. If it means you get some rest and keep your stress levels down, I'm happy to do it."

I exhale slowly, considering. "Alright. That'd be great. I'm almost out of bread and bananas. Crackers, too." I can't believe I'm discussing grocery lists with Derek Hale, but I'm too tired to care about the strangeness of it.

He nods, making a mental note. "I can pick those up on my way here tomorrow. Text me if you think of anything else."

My chest tightens with gratitude. "Thanks. Seriously."

He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans. "I should let you rest. If you need anything tonight, call me, okay?"

I nod, rising with him. "I will. Thanks for checking on me, Derek."

He offers a small, tight smile. "Anytime." Then he heads to the door, pulling it open. A blast of cold air sneaks in, rustling the edges of my blanket. He pauses on the threshold. "Try not to let Peter get under your skin. He's good at that."

"I know," I say, grimacing at the memory of Peter's smirk. "I won't invite him in next time."

Derek gives a curt nod and steps out into the night, quietly closing the door behind him. For a minute, I stand there, staring at the door, feeling a little lighter than before. It's not that my problems are solved, but Derek's calm presence reminded me that I have more support than I realize.

After locking up, I turn off the lights in the living room and shuffle upstairs to my room. My legs feel like lead, and I'm wincing at the dull ache in my lower back—another fun pregnancy symptom. Collapsing onto my bed, I flick on the lamp and glance at the prenatal vitamins sitting on my nightstand. I sigh. I hate the way they taste, but I know they're necessary. I dry-swallow one with a gulp of water, grimacing at the chalky residue it leaves behind.

I let my head drop back against the pillow, thinking about everything that's changed in six days. Six days since Scott and I fought. Six weeks pregnant. The baby's a lentil. Derek is playing caretaker in his own stoic way. Peter keeps poking his nose into my business. Dad's been working extra shifts, probably trying to keep me afloat without saying it out loud. And me? I'm just trying to hold myself together, one day at a time.

The phone on my nightstand stays silent. No texts from Scott. A part of me wonders if he's waiting for me to message him first, or if he's so dead set against this pregnancy that he can't bring himself to speak to me. Either possibility is painful. Even so, I can't bring myself to reach out. Not yet. The hurt is too fresh.

I turn off the lamp, letting darkness settle around me. My bedroom is quiet, the faint hum of the heater the only sound. I rest a hand on my stomach, picturing that tiny lentil of a baby, a heartbeat fluttering away inside me. Despite everything—despite the fear, the anger, the uncertainty—I feel a spark of something fiercely protective bloom in my chest. Scott's words echo in my mind: You can't do this. You need to get rid of it. But he's wrong. I can do this. I might be scared out of my mind, but I can't let that fear overshadow what I feel. This is my child, my life, my choice. And I'm not going to back down just because he thinks it's unnatural.

Blinking back tears, I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing. The weight of the day presses down on me. Tomorrow I have another check-up with Deaton, more tests, more reassurance that the baby is doing fine. More questions I'm not sure I can answer. But for tonight, I just need to sleep. I can't change the past or force Scott to see reason. All I can do is take care of myself and the tiny life I'm carrying.

In the darkness, I breathe quietly, listening to my own heartbeat. Eventually, that steady pulse lulls me toward sleep. As I drift off, I imagine a second rhythm beneath my own, hidden deep in my body—an impossibly small heart beating in tandem with mine. The image is enough to keep me afloat, even though tomorrow's worries gnaw at the edges of my mind. The night stretches before me, heavy with uncertainty, but for a moment, I hold onto the fragile hope that I'll figure out a way to make all of this work. I have to. There's no turning back now.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

Stiles's Pov

December 19, 2011

I woke up feeling like I'd swallowed razor blades. My throat hurt, my nose was stuffed, and the dull ache in my lower back suggested I'd slept in a weird position. The nausea that had become my daily companion was still there, but muted, like it was taking a backseat to the rest of my body's issues. As soon as I tried to sit up, pain flared across my shoulders, making me wince. I hadn't done anything strenuous that I could recall—just another friendly pregnancy symptom, I guessed. Or maybe the stress was settling into my muscles, refusing to let go.

Six weeks pregnant. That was the official count according to Deaton, though he kept adding disclaimers about how atypical my situation was. The baby—the little lentil, as every website insisted on calling it—was supposedly developing a heartbeat, little buds that would become limbs, and the beginnings of a face. Sometimes, if I let myself think about it too hard, I got choked up. The idea that something was growing inside me, forming eyes and ears and all the other little pieces that made up a living human being... it felt both miraculous and terrifying.

I shoved the blanket aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The clock on my nightstand read 8:03 a.m. Dad was already gone—he'd left half an hour earlier, if the distant memory of hearing the front door open and close was any indication. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, yawning wide, and forced myself to stand. The dizziness that followed was almost routine now. I pressed a hand to the bedpost, breathing slowly until the bedroom stopped spinning.

Downstairs, I could smell coffee. It made my stomach twist unpleasantly. At one point in my life, I'd kill for a steaming cup first thing in the morning. Now, the very thought made me want to heave. Still, the scent was faint enough that it didn't drive me straight to the bathroom. Progress.

I shuffled to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face. Dark shadows pooled under my eyes, and the reflection that stared back at me looked pale and worn. My cheekbones stood out starkly, and my hair stuck up in an unruly mess. I didn't resemble the bright-eyed kid I'd been just a year ago, or even six months ago, before the Nogitsune tore into my life. Now, I was something else—someone else. Pregnant with a child that never should have existed, carrying a secret that weighed more heavily each day.

I dried my face and took a moment to steel myself before heading downstairs. My stomach churned at the prospect of breakfast, but I'd learned that forcing something bland down early helped keep the nausea to a tolerable level. Saltines, toast, maybe cereal if I was feeling brave. Dad had gone grocery shopping with Derek's help a few days ago, so at least I had options. It still felt absurd that Derek freaking Hale was the one picking up my bread and crackers, but I wasn't complaining. Better him than me, especially given how run-down I felt lately. Shopping required energy, and I had none to spare.

Plus, I had a more pressing concern. Christmas was less than a week away, and I hadn't done any Christmas shopping. Normally, I'd have hopped in the Jeep with Scott and we'd do a last-minute spree at the local mall, grabbing silly gifts for Lydia, Isaac, or anyone else in our friend group. But that was before everything fell apart. I hadn't spoken to Scott since he told me—no, demanded—that I get rid of the baby. The memory still lit a flare of anger in my chest. I hadn't gotten over it. And judging by the radio silence from Scott, neither had he.

That left me with zero desire to do anything holiday-related. But I couldn't skip Christmas entirely, not with Dad around. Even if I was furious and exhausted and nauseous, I couldn't let my dad spend the holidays with a son who refused to crawl out of his depression. He'd never say anything outright, but I knew him well enough to sense how badly he wanted some semblance of normalcy. He was trying to balance giving me space and being there for me, and I wanted to at least pretend I could celebrate Christmas without sinking into the quicksand of my life. Maybe the baby needed a father who could pull it together, not someone who could barely drag himself off the couch.

So, yeah. Christmas was coming, and I had nothing—no gifts, no plan, no holiday cheer. I blew out a breath, rummaging for bread, then remembered I'd used the last slice last night for a pathetic dinner of plain toast. Well, that explained the faint coffee aroma. Dad must have seen we were out of bread and planned to pick some up later. My stomach grumbled again, so I settled for saltines and a glass of water. Not exactly a hearty breakfast, but at least it was something.

I'd have to go out if I wanted to do any shopping. The thought made me quake inside. The mall in Beacon Hills was small, but it would still be crowded with last-minute gift buyers. My tolerance for crowds was at an all-time low. The slightest stress made me nauseous, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't paranoid about running into anyone from the pack—or, worse, Peter. Knowing my luck, that jerk would show up in the middle of Hot Topic, offering me "pre-natal supernatural resources."

But it had to be done. I couldn't just hole up in the house forever, letting the days bleed together until December 25th arrived, and Dad ended up with no present, no tree, no holiday at all. He deserved something more than that.

The living room was eerily quiet. I flicked on the TV, turning the volume low so it wouldn't jar me. A morning talk show blared, full of forced cheer about stocking stuffers and cookie recipes. I rolled my eyes but left it on for background noise. The clock on the DVD player read 8:21. If I wanted to beat the worst of the crowds, I should go soon. I'd have more energy in the morning, anyway. By afternoon, I'd be craving a nap like a ninety-year-old man. Or like a pregnant teen, which I was, obviously.

I trudged back upstairs to grab a quick shower. The hot water helped loosen the stiffness in my back, and I spent a good five minutes letting the spray hit my tense shoulders. My stomach roiled once, threatening to rebel, but I breathed through it and forced the sourness back down. Afterward, I toweled off, dressed in a loose hoodie and jeans that still fit around my waist without pinching. I'd have to buy bigger clothes eventually, though the idea made me cringe. Hard to ignore you're pregnant when your waistbands won't close. But it was only six weeks, so I had time. Or so I told myself.

By 9:00, I was heading out the door, keys in hand, wincing at the cold December air that slapped me in the face. The sky was overcast, threatening snow, and my breath came out in cloudy puffs. I walked to the Jeep, bracing for an icy seat and the stale interior that reminded me of the argument with Scott. The memory leapt up immediately—his angry words, his clenched jaw, the way he refused to budge. I exhaled shakily. My hands trembled a bit on the steering wheel as I turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and the heater groaned, reluctant to do its job.

"Come on, girl," I muttered, patting the dashboard. The Jeep shuddered, then finally let out a blast of lukewarm air. Better than nothing. I pulled out of the driveway, turning onto the road that led toward Beacon Hills' modest shopping district. The streets were lined with half-hearted decorations—wreaths on a few lampposts, strings of lights drooping from storefront awnings. A few holiday banners flapped in the breeze, looking more sad than festive against the gray sky.

The drive gave me too much time to think about how isolated I felt. I hadn't spoken to anyone from the pack besides Derek. Lydia had texted me a few times about school assignments, but we hadn't hung out. I told her I was "under the weather." She probably took that to mean leftover trauma from the Nogitsune or something. I hadn't told her I was pregnant. I couldn't stand the thought of her reaction—pity, shock, maybe fear that I was harboring some demonic spawn. No, thanks. I was doing enough freaking out on my own.

A pang of guilt reminded me I'd also avoided Malia. She'd been out of town for a while—Deaton said she was learning more about control with Satomi's pack. But I suspected she was back by now, and I hadn't made a single move to see her. Maybe I was afraid she'd sense the pregnancy the way Derek had. Or maybe I just didn't want to spread the news any further. Every time another person found out, my chest tightened with panic. The baby still felt like something fragile, something that might shatter under too much scrutiny.

I shook those thoughts away as I pulled into the small mall parking lot. The lot was already fuller than I'd hoped, but it wasn't completely packed yet. If I hurried, I could get in and out before the midday rush. A wave of dizziness rolled over me as I climbed out of the Jeep, forcing me to plant a hand against the door for balance. Great start, Stiles. Just keep it together.

The cold air bit at my cheeks, and I flipped my hood up to ward off the chill. I stuffed my hands in the pouch of my hoodie, crossing the lot in quick steps. The automatic doors whooshed open, welcoming me with the smell of cheap pretzels and cleaning product. Strings of garland hung along the walls, and a giant inflatable Santa stood near the entrance, bobbing gently thanks to a small fan. Some kid was gawking at it, pointing and tugging on their parent's sleeve.

A wave of nostalgia rose in my chest. I remembered coming here with my mom when I was little, trailing behind her through the stores while she debated what to buy Dad for Christmas. Even though that was years ago, it felt fresh in my mind—a bittersweet memory that made my eyes sting. I blinked hard, swallowing the lump in my throat, and turned away from the inflatable Santa. I hadn't even begun shopping and I was already near tears. Pregnancy hormones, man. They were the worst.

I forced myself to focus. Dad first, then maybe Derek. That thought made me pause—I wasn't exactly planning to get Derek a Christmas gift, but then again, he'd been helping me. He wasn't big on celebrating holidays, if I recalled correctly, but he also deserved something for being the only one in the pack who'd stepped up for me (besides my dad). Maybe I could find something small and practical. Wolf-proof gloves or something. I snorted at the idea, feeling a tiny bit of tension ease from my chest.

Then there was Scott. My best friend, except apparently not right now. Should I buy him something anyway? The thought twisted my gut. The idea of leaving him out felt wrong, like it would cement the rift between us, but the idea of picking out a present for someone who told me to abort my child was borderline maddening. I shoved that dilemma away, promising I'd handle it later. Or not at all.

I tried not to think about Peter. If I started worrying about whether or not to get him a present, I'd go insane. No way in hell was I buying him anything, no matter how many times he pretended to care about my situation.

I wandered into one of the larger department stores, the bright overhead lights making me squint. Holiday music played softly from unseen speakers—a crooning version of "O Come, All Ye Faithful." The store was warm, almost stifling, and my stomach churned at the sudden shift in temperature. I tugged at my hoodie, scanning the aisles for something Dad might like. Flannel shirts? Ties? He had more than enough of those. A new watch, maybe? But he'd just gotten one from the station last year. I wondered if a new pair of boots might do. I hovered near the shoe section, uncertain.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump. I pulled it out to see a text from Derek: At your place. Brought groceries. You're out?

I quickly typed back, Yeah, had to do some errands. Thanks for the groceries. I'll be back soon.

He didn't reply immediately, which probably meant he was checking things in the kitchen, or simply didn't feel the need. I swallowed a flare of gratitude and guilt. I was out here feeling sorry for myself, while Derek was dropping off food so I wouldn't starve on crackers and water. Talk about a role reversal. Once upon a time, I would've been the one bringing supplies to the lonely werewolf holed up in his loft. Now, Derek was the caretaker, and I was the one struggling.

I shook my head, trying to refocus on the store. One step at a time. Christmas. Dad. Right. My eyes slid over the racks of men's clothing, but nothing jumped out at me. Then I spotted a decent-looking jacket—warm, thick lining, a color Dad might appreciate. I browsed the sizes, wondering if Dad would find it too bulky. Eventually, I found one in a dark olive green that looked functional enough for Beacon Hills' wet winters. I draped it over my arm, feeling a small surge of accomplishment. One present down, or at least close enough.

Next, I spotted a display of leather wallets. Dad's wallet was so battered, it barely held together. Maybe a new wallet could go with the jacket. I thumbed through them, settling on a practical brown leather design with a few extra slots for cards. It wasn't fancy, but Dad wasn't fancy. I added it to my haul.

My arms were full, and I realized I didn't have a cart or basket. I spotted one near the entrance of the aisle and hurried over, dropping the jacket and wallet inside. My stomach cramped, sending a warning shot of nausea through me. That's when I realized I hadn't eaten since the saltines this morning, and it was nearing ten. My body apparently hated me for skipping real food. I glanced around, weighing the risk of stepping into the food court for something bland. Maybe I could get a plain pretzel or something.

But the thought of the crowded food court made me shudder. Too many smells, too many people, and the risk of running into someone from school or from the pack. I couldn't handle that right now. So I swallowed, pressing a hand to my belly, and told it to behave for another twenty minutes. Just enough time to buy these gifts and get out of here. I could find a drive-through for a vanilla milkshake or some fries—anything that might settle my stomach.

As I made my way to the checkout, I caught sight of a rack of winter beanies. One of them was gray, with a simple cable-knit pattern. Something about it reminded me of Derek—maybe because he always ended up scowling in the cold. I considered grabbing it. Would Derek even wear a beanie? Probably not, but the idea of giving him something practical made me snort softly. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the beanie and tossed it in the cart. Worst-case scenario, I'd keep it for myself.

I paid for Dad's jacket, the wallet, and the random beanie, ignoring the questioning look the cashier gave me when she saw the difference in sizes. Probably thought I was buying something for my boyfriend or something. My chest tightened. The concept of "boyfriend" was a can of worms I didn't want to open. I had enough problems without diving into impossible romantic entanglements.

With the purchase complete, I tucked the shopping bag under my arm and headed back into the mall's main corridor. The Santa display in the center was roped off, with a small line of parents and kids waiting to take pictures. The fake snow around the display glistened under harsh spotlights. I tried not to look at it too long, because it made me think of next Christmas—would I have a baby in my arms by then, taking pictures with Santa? The thought threatened to undo me. I wasn't ready for that mental image.

As I passed a pop-up holiday kiosk, my gaze snagged on a row of thick socks and gloves that screamed "perfect for winter hikes." For a heartbeat, I imagined how those might be nice for Derek or even Dad on his early morning shifts. But I already had Dad's gift, and I was just going to stick with the beanie for Derek. Keep it simple, Stiles. Don't overcomplicate.

I forced myself not to linger. Another wave of dizziness smacked into me, and I clutched the bag tighter, picking up my pace toward the exit. Fresh air, that's what I needed. The fluorescent lights were murder on my eyes. But just as I neared the doors, someone called my name.

"Stiles?"

It wasn't a booming voice—rather quiet, almost tentative. I froze mid-step, heart jumping. Slowly, I turned around to see Kira Yukimura standing a few yards behind me, a small shopping basket on her arm. She was wearing a puffy coat and a bright smile, though her expression turned cautious as she noticed my tension.

"Hey," she said, waving a little awkwardly. "I... didn't expect to see you here."

My pulse thundered in my ears. Kira. She'd been gone for a bit after everything with the Nogitsune, but she'd returned to Beacon Hills, or so Lydia mentioned in passing. I hadn't even thought about how to explain my absences to her. But she was part of the pack too, which meant she might know about my falling out with Scott—or maybe she didn't.

I managed a weak smile. "Yeah, just... last-minute Christmas shopping," I said, my voice sounding too tight. "You?"

She lifted her basket a fraction of an inch. "Same. I'm trying to find something for my parents, maybe something for Scott..." She trailed off, her eyes flicking to the side. "But, um, I haven't seen you around lately. Everything okay?"

I tried to swallow the knot in my throat. "Oh, you know, the usual," I lied, forcing a casual shrug. "School stuff, life stuff, family stuff. Nothing major."

She studied me, brow furrowing slightly. "Scott mentioned you two had a disagreement," she ventured carefully. "He's... worried about you. Are you guys—?"

Anger and hurt flared in my chest. Scott is worried about me? That was rich, coming from the guy who practically told me to get lost if I wouldn't do what he wanted. But Kira's voice was so earnest, and I remembered that she was kind-hearted. She probably had no idea what really happened.

"We're not really talking right now," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. "It's complicated."

She nodded slowly. "I get it. He's been distant even with me. I think he blames himself for a lot of... well, everything."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Yeah, well, maybe he should." The venom in my tone shocked even me. I pressed my lips together, trying to calm myself. "Sorry," I muttered.

Kira hesitated. "Don't be. I won't pry. I just... I miss seeing you guys hanging out. Beacon Hills feels weird when everyone's divided."

That stung. I missed hanging out, too. But I couldn't budge on this. Scott had crossed a line. Still, Kira didn't deserve the fallout. She wasn't the one who told me to get an abortion. My shoulders sagged a bit. "Yeah, it's been a crazy few weeks."

She gave a tentative smile. "Maybe after the holidays, we could do a pack movie night or something. If you're up for it?"

My stomach flipped at the word "pack." I swallowed, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "Sure," I lied. "We'll see."

It felt wrong to lie, but I also couldn't handle explaining the pregnancy to her in the middle of a crowded mall. Kira was a kitsune, half fox spirit, half human. Would she sense something off about me? Derek and Peter were werewolves, so they had the smelling advantage. Kira might not pick up on the extra heartbeat. At least, I hoped not. My chest tightened with panic. Was there a faint fox magic that could detect changes in my aura?

She didn't seem to notice anything amiss. Instead, she shifted her weight, glancing at her watch. "I have to run, but it was good to see you," she said. "Take care, okay?"

"Yeah," I answered stiffly, my pulse still thrumming. "You too."

She gave me another small smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd, heading toward a store with big holiday signs plastered on the windows. I stood there for a moment, dazed, until the pressing need to get out of the mall reasserted itself. My legs felt unsteady as I pushed through the exit doors, the cold air hitting me like a slap.

My lungs seized, and for a second, I thought I might throw up. I stumbled to a nearby bench outside the entrance, dropping my shopping bag at my feet, and leaned forward, putting my head between my knees. The wave of dizziness passed slowly, leaving me clammy and weak. No more running into people. No more attempts to act normal in a place teeming with holiday shoppers. I was done.

Once I felt steady enough, I grabbed my bag, headed to the Jeep, and tossed the stuff on the passenger seat. The engine rumbled to life, the heater blasting stale air. I gripped the steering wheel, focusing on breathing until I trusted myself to drive. At least it was only a short trip home. Derek would probably still be there, waiting. The thought was both reassuring and odd.

I pulled out of the parking lot and navigated the streets, trying to ignore the swirl of emotions from seeing Kira. She said Scott was worried about me. How could he be worried when he's the one who cut me out the moment I said I wouldn't get rid of the baby? Maybe he regretted his words, but that didn't erase them. It didn't erase the hurt.

Fifteen minutes later, I turned onto my street, thankful that the Jeep hadn't stalled. The house looked normal enough from the outside—lights off, no decorations. We hadn't even bothered putting up a wreath. No tree, either. Dad asked me about it once, but I just shook my head and said, "Maybe next week." Next week was already Christmas week, so I was running out of time to say "maybe next week." Guilt gnawed at me, but I couldn't muster the holiday spirit to fix it. Maybe we'd do a small tree at the last second.

Derek's black Camaro was parked out front. I pulled into the driveway, shut off the Jeep, and gathered the bag from the passenger seat. My legs wobbled, but I managed to stand without face-planting. A pale sun was trying to break through the clouds, sending weak beams of light across the lawn. The crisp air helped calm my churning stomach. I walked up the porch steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

The house was quiet, but I could sense someone moving around. Sure enough, Derek emerged from the kitchen, a paper grocery bag in one hand. He wore his usual guarded expression, which softened slightly when he saw me. "You're back," he said, stating the obvious. "I wasn't sure how long you'd be."

I set my shopping bag on the floor by the couch and shrugged out of my hoodie. "Yeah, the mall was... not fun. I got what I needed."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bag. "Christmas shopping?"

I gave a short nod. "Yep. For Dad, mostly. And, uh, something small for you." My face flushed. "But it's just, you know, a beanie. Don't get your hopes up."

Derek blinked, looking startled. "You didn't have to—"

"I know," I cut in quickly. "I just... you've been helping me. So consider it a thanks."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

I cleared my throat. "So, groceries?"

He lifted the bag. "Yeah, got bread, bananas, crackers, yogurt, a few other things." A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. "All the essentials."

My chest warmed with gratitude and embarrassment. "Thanks. You really don't have to keep doing this."

He shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

Silence fell, just a little awkward. I rubbed my arms, trying to generate warmth. The house was cold, or maybe I was just still chilled from outside. Derek tilted his head, a question in his eyes, but he didn't ask. Instead, he said, "You should eat something. You look pale."

I almost snapped that I hated being told I looked pale, but the concern in his voice softened my retort. He was right. My stomach was begging for something neutral. "Yeah," I muttered. "Let me just put this stuff away, and I'll have some toast or something."

"I'll do it," he offered, lifting the grocery bag. "You sit."

I hesitated, debating if I should argue. But the ache in my legs won out. "Sure," I relented, heading to the couch and sinking into the cushions. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my knees up, resting my chin on them. My chest felt tight, a lingering weight from seeing Kira and from the anxiety of holiday shopping.

Derek disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the fridge door open, the sound of a bag rustling as he put things away. A faint pang of longing tugged at me: longing for a time when this wouldn't feel so bizarre. A time when I wasn't pregnant at sixteen, unsure if my best friend would ever speak to me again. But that was pointless. Reality was what it was, and I had to deal with it.

A minute later, Derek returned. "Toast or crackers?" he asked simply.

"Toast," I decided, craving something warm. "Thanks."

He nodded, disappearing again. I listened to the faint clink of dishes and the hum of the toaster. Part of me still couldn't believe that Derek Hale—formerly scowling, distant alpha—was making me toast in my own kitchen. This new dynamic was surreal, but I couldn't deny it was comforting.

I let my gaze drift to the window. The gray sky outside matched my mood. I wondered what Dad would think when he got home, seeing me parked on the couch while Derek took care of me yet again. Dad wouldn't say it out loud, but I knew he'd be relieved I wasn't alone. The memory of my fight with Scott threatened to creep back in, but I forced it down. I didn't have the energy to dwell on it anymore.

Derek came back with a plate of dry toast and a glass of water. He handed them to me carefully, and I mumbled a thanks before taking a small bite. It was plain, just slightly crispy, but it settled in my stomach better than I expected. I ate slowly, feeling Derek's gaze flick to me every so often. Not judging, just checking that I wasn't going to collapse.

After I finished one slice, I set the plate on the coffee table. My stomach rumbled, wanting more, but I wasn't sure if I should push it. Derek must have sensed my hesitation. "Still hungry?" he asked.

I shrugged. "A little. I might wait a minute to make sure it stays down. Then maybe I'll have another slice."

He nodded, seeming satisfied. Without prompting, he retrieved the second slice from the kitchen and brought it over. He sat in Dad's armchair, watching me with quiet concern. "You went alone to the mall?" he asked finally.

"Yeah," I replied, bristling slightly at the implied caution. "I can handle it."

He held up a hand. "I'm not saying you can't. Just... must've been overwhelming."

I sighed. "It was. I ran into Kira."

Derek's eyebrows rose. "How'd that go?"

I shrugged. "She mentioned Scott, said he was worried about me. I didn't exactly feel like talking, so I basically brushed her off."

Derek's expression flickered with sympathy. "Makes sense. It's a tough situation."

Anger flashed through me. "Yeah, it is. Doesn't help that everyone keeps telling me how to feel, or that I look pale, or that I should do X, Y, or Z. I'm kind of sick of it."

He studied me, not taking offense. "I get it. If you want me to stop hovering, say the word."

I blew out a breath, feeling a pang of guilt. "I don't want you to stop," I admitted quietly. "You're the only one who hasn't told me I'm messing up my life. It's... nice."

Derek's gaze softened. "Then I'll keep doing what I can."

We fell silent again, the tension in my chest easing just a fraction. I picked at the corner of the second piece of toast, nibbling carefully. My stomach didn't protest, which felt like a small victory. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the window, hinting at a coming snowfall. The quiet inside the house felt strangely peaceful, despite the storm in my head.

I cleared my throat, breaking the hush. "So, you doing anything for Christmas?"

Derek shrugged. "Probably not. Peter might pester me to have some kind of Hale get-together, but I'm not interested."

I grimaced. "Yeah, I wouldn't be either. That guy makes my skin crawl."

"Understandable." Derek paused, eyes flicking to the Christmas shopping bag I'd dropped by the couch. "Your dad's working Christmas Eve, right?"

I nodded. Dad's schedule at the station was posted for the month, and he'd drawn the short straw for Christmas Eve night shift. He'd be home Christmas morning, but half-dead from lack of sleep. "He'll probably just want to veg out on Christmas Day."

A moment of hesitation passed over Derek's face. Then he said, "If you need company, or if you want to do something... Let me know. I don't have plans."

Warmth blossomed in my chest. Derek was basically offering to spend Christmas with me if I ended up alone. That was... unexpectedly sweet. "Thanks," I said softly. "I might take you up on that."

He offered a faint nod. "Sure."

For the next few minutes, we just existed in the same space—me finishing my toast, Derek sitting quietly. It felt almost normal, which was probably the strangest part. Eventually, I decided I should stash the presents somewhere. No point in leaving them out where Dad might snoop, though he wasn't big on snooping. Still, a little Christmas surprise felt right.

"I'm gonna put these gifts in my room," I announced, standing carefully. Derek rose as well, reflexively stepping forward in case I got dizzy. I waved him off and made my way upstairs with the shopping bag. Once in my room, I tucked Dad's jacket and wallet under my bed, then set Derek's beanie on the dresser. I eyed it for a second, debating whether to wrap it or just toss it at him on Christmas Day. Wrapping would be more festive. I decided I'd figure that out later.

I took a moment to rest my hand on my stomach, breathing slowly. The quiet of my room enveloped me, free from the tension I'd felt in public. I mumbled under my breath, "We're okay, right?" The baby, of course, didn't respond. But sometimes talking to it made me feel less alone. A small part of me wondered if that was weird, but honestly, carrying a magical pregnancy at seventeen was weird enough. What was one more quirk?

Gathering myself, I went back downstairs. Derek was in the living room, glancing at a family photo on the mantle—a shot of me and Dad from a few years ago, both grinning like idiots on a fishing trip. My chest tightened at the memory. Mom had taken that photo, which I rarely looked at these days. Seeing Derek's gaze linger there felt strangely intimate.

He turned, noticing me. "You okay?"

I nodded, crossing my arms. "Yeah, just thinking about a million things."

"You need to rest?"

I shook my head. "Nah, I've spent too much time resting. Might try to do some chores or something. Take my mind off... everything."

His lips twitched in a faint smile. "I could help."

"I don't want to turn you into my personal maid, Derek," I said, half joking. "You've already done enough."

He shrugged. "I don't mind."

I appreciated it, but a stubborn streak flared up. I needed to do something myself. Otherwise, I'd feel even more helpless. "I'll vacuum, I guess," I said, gesturing vaguely at the living room rug. "It's something to do."

Derek nodded, not pressing. "Alright. I'll head out, then. Give you some space."

I hesitated, torn between wanting the quiet to clear my head and wanting the company. But I couldn't exactly ask Derek to stand around and watch me vacuum. That sounded humiliating. "Sure," I said, trying to sound casual. "Thanks again for the groceries."

He made a small noise of acknowledgment and grabbed his jacket from where he'd draped it over a chair. "Text me if you need anything. Or if you want to hang out," he added, almost as an afterthought.

I mustered a smile. "Will do."

He left, and the house felt larger, emptier, in his absence. For a second, I stood there, letting the silence wash over me. Then I fetched the vacuum from the hall closet and set to work. The noise filled my ears, drowning out my thoughts for a blissful few minutes. I moved mechanically, pushing the vacuum across the rug, then the hallway, then the small area by the kitchen. By the time I finished, my back ached, and my stomach gave a warning twinge. Right. That was enough labor for one day.

I collapsed onto the couch again, letting the vacuum stand in the corner. My phone buzzed against my thigh. I fished it out, half expecting a text from Derek, but it was my dad:

Running late again. Might not be home until 8 or 9. You okay for dinner?

I typed back: Yeah, I'm good. Derek left some groceries. Probably just have soup or something.

He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and: Be safe.

I set my phone aside and sighed. Dad was always busy, and while I understood it was part of his job, I couldn't help feeling lonely. That lonely feeling turned into a gnawing hunger for something sweet. Another pregnancy quirk—random cravings. I'd never had much of a sweet tooth before, but now, the idea of vanilla ice cream popped into my head and refused to leave. The problem: we had none in the freezer.

Briefly, I considered driving out to get some. But the cold weather and the idea of standing in line again made me shudder. Could I handle another store trip? Probably not. Instead, I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, finally settling on a packet of instant hot chocolate that hadn't expired yet. I boiled water, stirred in the powder, and took a sip. It wasn't the ice cream I wanted, but it was close enough. Sort of. It soothed the craving enough that my brain didn't fixate on it.

I settled back on the couch, cradling the warm mug. The day stretched out before me, a yawning chasm of emptiness. I had no school, no shift at the station (Dad refused to let me do any more volunteer stuff this week—he thought I needed rest), and no social plans. Normally, I'd be texting Scott or Lydia, but that wasn't happening. I flicked on the TV again, flipping channels aimlessly until I landed on some holiday movie that looked cheesy but harmless.

For the next hour, I zoned out to a predictable plot of romance and Christmas miracles. Every so often, a pang of sadness hit me. Christmas used to be something I enjoyed—buying weird gifts for Scott, stuffing my face with cookies, playing pranks. Now, it felt like another obstacle to survive. But I forced myself to keep watching, letting the saccharine story wash over me until I felt lulled into a semi-comfortable state.

My phone buzzed again, jolting me out of the movie. I half-expected Derek, but it was Lydia: Hey, have you started the winter break paper for English?

I groaned. School. Right. Mr. Davies had assigned some essay to be due when classes resumed in January. I hadn't done more than glance at it. I texted back: Haven't started. Not even sure what the prompt is anymore.

She responded: I can send you my notes. Are you okay? You've been MIA.

MIA. A nicer way of saying "you're avoiding everyone." I swallowed hard. Lydia wasn't part of my big meltdown with Scott. She didn't know I was pregnant... I think. As far as I could tell, no one had told her. But she was whip-smart, so maybe she suspected something was off. I typed slowly: I'm fine, just dealing with family stuff. Could you email me the notes?

She replied: Sure thing. Also, group is going to see the new action movie tomorrow. You in?

The group. That would be her, maybe Malia, possibly Kira, and if I was unlucky, Scott. My heart thumped, anxiety blooming. I couldn't handle that. Not yet. So I lied: Can't, sorry. Busy with my dad.

Rain check? she sent back.

Yeah, I wrote, feeling guilty. Rain check.

I tossed the phone aside, tension thrumming through my veins. So now I was lying to Lydia. Great. Another reminder that the pack was fracturing around me. The baby felt like a bomb ticking away beneath my skin, threatening to blow up everything if I told the wrong person. My eyes drifted to the clock. It was only noon. The day was crawling.

I forced myself to do something productive by opening my laptop and staring at the English paper prompt, which Lydia had kindly emailed. I tried to muster some focus, scribbling a rough outline about "Literary Symbolism in the Age of Romanticism." My brain refused to cooperate. Every paragraph felt forced, each sentence drifting off halfway. Eventually, my eyes blurred, and I closed the laptop with a frustrated sigh.

Time for a nap, maybe. I'd barely done anything, yet I was exhausted. I trudged upstairs, flopped onto my bed, and let my body sink into the mattress. My thoughts drifted, half-formed images of me carrying a Christmas tree home, wincing at the smell of pine sap. Of Dad in the new jacket, smiling faintly. Of Derek wearing the gray beanie, probably feeling awkward. Random flickers of memory from the mall—Kira's concerned eyes. The swirling crowd. My stomach lurched, and I pressed a hand over it, hoping it wouldn't escalate to actual vomiting.

Eventually, I dozed. My dreams were disjointed, full of half-sounds and flickering images. I jolted awake an hour later, heart pounding from a nightmare I couldn't remember. Shadows had lengthened in my room. I groaned and sat up, fumbling for my phone to see if Dad had messaged me again. Nothing new. 1:15 p.m. Dad wouldn't be home for hours. For a moment, I considered texting Derek just to have someone around, but that felt pathetic. He was doing enough already. I had to stand on my own two feet.

Downstairs, I searched the kitchen for lunch, settling on a can of chicken noodle soup. The warm broth soothed my scratchy throat, and my stomach accepted it without complaint. Afterward, I hovered by the window, contemplating whether I should attempt a short walk around the neighborhood to clear my head. But the sky looked ominously gray, and the air seeping through the cracks in the window felt icy. If it started snowing, I didn't want to be caught far from home, especially not alone. Instead, I paced around the living room, restlessly picking up clutter.

My phone buzzed again, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The adrenaline made my heart skip a beat. When I saw the name on the screen, I froze.

Scott.

My hand trembled around the phone. I stared at the notification in disbelief. For a second, I considered letting it ring, ignoring it. But curiosity burned. Why was he calling now, after so many days of silence? I swallowed hard and pressed the answer button, lifting the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" My voice came out strained, the single word cracking slightly.

There was a beat of silence, then Scott's hesitant tone filled my ear. "Hey. Um, Stiles?"

I clenched my jaw, fighting a surge of emotions—anger, hurt, longing for normalcy. "Yeah, it's me," I said flatly.

He exhaled, the sound static through the line. "I... how are you?"

I nearly laughed. "How am I? Seriously?"

He paused. "Look, I'm sorry," he started, his voice low. "I know I messed up—"

"Messed up?" I snapped, heat flaring in my chest. "Scott, you told me to get an abortion like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then you just walked away and left me alone. That's more than 'messed up.'"

He swallowed audibly. "I know. I was—God, I was scared, Stiles. I'm still scared. About everything."

"Right," I said, sarcasm dripping. "Because it's all about your fear, not mine. My body, but your fear, right?"

He let out a shaky breath. "That's not what I meant. I just—when Deaton said it was formed from dark magic, I panicked. I thought... I thought we'd be dealing with another monster."

My heart twisted, tears burning behind my eyes. "It's not a monster. It's a baby. Deaton said it's completely human."

"I know," Scott murmured. "I've been talking to him. He won't tell me much—says it's your private medical stuff—but he confirmed that physically it's human. I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

I swallowed hard, letting the words sink in. Part of me wanted to bury the hatchet right there, but the hurt ran deep. "So you believe me now?"

"Yes," he said softly. "I do. I should've believed you from the start. I just... I was so caught up in everything that happened, with Allison and the Nogitsune, I couldn't think straight. I'm sorry."

Silence hung between us. My throat felt raw, tears threatening to spill. "Why now?" I finally asked, voice hoarse. "Why call me now?"

He hesitated. "Christmas is coming, and I... I couldn't stand the idea of us not talking. I kept thinking about all those times we spent Christmas together, the stupid traditions, the jokes about Santa. I realized I couldn't just... stay silent."

A tear slipped down my cheek. "Well, you did a pretty good job ignoring me for days."

"I know," he whispered. "And I regret it. Listen, I don't want to force you to forgive me. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And that I miss my best friend."

My chest constricted painfully. God, I missed him too. Scott was the one constant in my life for so long, the person I relied on. But the wounds he'd inflicted were still fresh. "It's... it's complicated," I managed, blinking through tears. "I can't just forget what you said."

"I know," Scott said. "But maybe... we can talk? Face to face? If you're up for it. If not, I understand."

I rubbed my forehead, feeling a massive headache forming. Could I handle seeing him now? My emotions were all over the place, and I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't lose my temper. But maybe it was better to rip the band-aid off. "Fine," I said after a moment. "We can talk, but not today. I'm wiped."

Scott sounded relieved. "Okay. Sure. Whenever you're ready. Just... let me know. And if you need anything—"

I laughed bitterly. "Scott, you realize I'm six weeks pregnant. That means I need a lot of things, but let's not pretend you're okay with that."

He winced audibly. "I'm trying, Stiles. I know it's your choice. I was wrong to push you."

Another painful silence. My mind whirled with conflicting emotions—anger, hope, exhaustion. Finally, I forced out, "I'll text you. We'll set a time to meet."

"Right," he said softly. "Thank you. And... Merry Christmas, if I don't see you before then."

My throat tightened again, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words back. Instead, I mumbled a choked "Bye," and hung up. The phone slipped from my hand onto the couch cushion. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the onslaught of tears. My whole body shook with pent-up sobs, but I refused to let them out fully. Instead, I let them bubble under the surface, making my breath hitch in uneven gasps.

Finally, I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, forcing my heart rate to slow down. Scott wanted to apologize. He believed me now, believed that the baby was human. But it didn't erase the sting of his betrayal. I wanted to forgive him—God, I wanted my friend back—but I didn't know if I could trust him with something this huge. What if he freaked out again? What if he still thought I was making a mistake?

My phone buzzed, and I almost cursed, thinking it was Scott again. But it was Derek this time: Everything okay?

I exhaled shakily, typing back: Scott called. Apologized. I'm... I'm not sure how I feel.

Derek responded faster than I expected: You want me to come back?

I stared at the screen, tears still threatening to fall. A part of me wanted to say yes—wanted to ask Derek to just sit here in silence while I tried to untangle my feelings. But another part of me didn't want to rely on him like some emotional crutch. I typed back: I'll be okay. Just need time. Thanks, though.

He didn't push the matter, simply replying: Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.

I set my phone aside and took another shaky breath. My head pounded, and I felt drained, like I'd just run a marathon. Maybe I should take another nap, or maybe I should distract myself with something mindless. The thought of picking up the vacuum again made my stomach lurch, so I flopped on the couch, pulling the blanket over me. The holiday movie I'd been half-watching had ended, replaced by some talk show discussing gingerbread house competitions. I let the noise wash over me, focusing on nothing in particular.

The afternoon wore on in a haze of random TV shows and sporadic attempts to read a few pages of my English novel. My mind kept drifting to Scott's call, replaying his voice. He sounded so contrite, so sincere, yet I couldn't shake the memory of his angry command: You need to get rid of it. That betrayal lingered, refusing to be smoothed over by one phone call.

Eventually, around five, the sun began to set. I realized with a hollow pang that I was hungry again, but the idea of cooking anything complicated was too daunting. I settled on another can of soup—tomato this time—and some crackers. Not exactly a Christmas feast, but it filled the void in my stomach.

By seven, the house was dark, the only light coming from the lamp I'd left on in the living room. Dad texted that he'd be even later than expected, probably closer to 10 p.m. Great. Another night on my own. I flicked off the TV, deciding I'd had enough background noise. The silence was both a relief and a burden. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch, thinking about how I'd ended up here.

One year ago, I was a normal teenager—albeit one who knew about werewolves and banshees. Now, I was pregnant, embroiled in some supernatural mystery about paternal DNA, estranged from my best friend, and coping with the possibility that the next eight months would flip my life upside down. Christmas was less than a week away, and I had no idea if I'd spend it in tears or if I'd find some small pocket of joy. Maybe the baby deserved better than a miserable holiday. Maybe I could at least try to put up a tree for Dad's sake.

I forced myself off the couch, heading to the garage. Dad had stored our old artificial tree in a box somewhere. After ten minutes of rummaging, I found it—dusty and battered, but still intact. I dragged the box into the living room, coughing at the dust that flew up. The process of assembling the tree was slow and awkward, especially since I was short of breath half the time. But I kept at it, determined to do something to make the house feel less depressing.

Piece by piece, the plastic branches slotted into the central pole, forming a lopsided but passable tree shape. I plugged in the built-in lights, holding my breath until they flickered to life—white bulbs that glowed softly, giving the living room a faint warm hue. It looked ridiculous, a cheap artificial pine, but the lights were comforting. My chest tightened with unexpected emotion. I brushed off the dust and adjusted the branches to make it look a bit fuller. Then I stepped back, examining my handiwork.

It wasn't grand. But it was better than nothing. I remembered rummaging in boxes for ornaments last year, but the notion of searching for them alone was daunting. Maybe Dad would help me when he got home. That thought gave me a flicker of hope. At least I was trying, right?

I turned off the overhead light, letting the tree lights glow in the dimness. The effect was strangely peaceful. I sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow, letting the gentle twinkle wash over me. Somewhere upstairs was a baby registry book that Deaton had given me, filled with suggestions about vitamins, checkups, and eventual baby gear I'd need. But I couldn't open it yet. I didn't have the strength. Christmas first. One thing at a time.

A tear slipped down my cheek, unbidden. I wiped it away, feeling raw. I thought about the tiny heartbeat inside me, about how next Christmas I might have an infant to take care of, about how maybe I wouldn't be so alone. Or maybe life would be even more complicated, with no Scott by my side and a baby that came from dark magic. My stomach twisted in fear.

"Stop," I whispered to myself, glancing at the tree lights. "Just... let it go for one night."

Easier said than done. But I tried. I curled up with the pillow, listening to the faint hum of the heater, watching the lights on the tree blink softly. The day had been exhausting, emotionally and physically, and I could feel my eyelids drooping. Eventually, I drifted into a doze, lulled by the gentle glow and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I could still find something worth celebrating this Christmas.

I wasn't sure how long I slept, but I woke to the sound of the front door opening. My heart lurched, adrenaline spiking. Then I heard Dad's familiar shuffle, his heavy boots thumping against the entryway floor. I rubbed my eyes, blinking in the dimness. The tree lights glowed gently, illuminating the living room enough to see him pause, gazing at the makeshift tree.

"Hey," I croaked, my voice thick with sleep.

Dad turned, and even in the low light, I could see the surprise on his face. "You put up the tree?" he asked softly, setting his keys on the side table.

I shrugged, sitting up. "Yeah, I figured we needed something for Christmas. Didn't want the house to be a total downer."

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "Thank you," he said, his voice sounding a bit choked. "I know it's been rough. Seeing this means a lot."

My throat tightened. "Glad you like it."

He walked over, flicking on a small lamp near the couch, then turned back to the tree. "We should dig out the ornaments tomorrow if you're up for it," he suggested.

"Sure," I said, offering a faint smile.

Dad glanced at me, expression filled with concern. "You okay? You look... tired."

I laughed softly, no real humor in it. "I'm pregnant, Dad. Tired is my default."

He exhaled, nodding. "Right. Sorry, that was a dumb question."

I shook my head. "Nah, it's fine. How was work?"

His face tightened. "Busy. A couple of domestic calls, a minor car accident. Nothing too major, but it adds up."

"I'm sorry."

He gave me a wan smile. "Nothing to apologize for. Want me to heat you up something? I could make you a grilled cheese or something simple."

I placed a hand on my stomach. "I had soup earlier, but... maybe a grilled cheese would be nice." The day had worn me down, and it might be good to have something else in my stomach before bed.

Dad nodded and headed to the kitchen. "You rest," he said over his shoulder.

I sank back against the couch cushions. In the soft glow of the tree lights, the living room felt almost cozy. Dad's presence soothed some of the lingering tension from my call with Scott. I considered telling Dad about the phone call, but I decided to wait. I wasn't ready to rehash it yet. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe not at all.

A few minutes later, Dad returned with a plate of grilled cheese—cut diagonally, just like when I was a kid. The smell made my stomach rumble with anticipation rather than nausea, which was a welcome change. I smiled in thanks and took a careful bite. The melted cheese and warm bread were heaven after a day of bland soups and crackers.

Dad lowered himself onto the other end of the couch, leaning back with a tired sigh. "Long day," he repeated, more to himself. Then he glanced at me. "You know, if you want to get out of the house tomorrow, we could buy some ornaments or something new for the tree."

I chewed slowly, considering. "Maybe. I have some leftover shopping to do, but I'll see if I have the energy."

He nodded, accepting that as an answer. We fell into a companionable silence, the lights of the tree reflecting in the window. I wondered if Dad noticed the dryness of my eyes, the tension in my posture. Maybe he did, but he was too polite to call me out on it. I was grateful for that.

After I finished my sandwich, I placed the plate on the coffee table. A wave of fatigue hit me again, and I stifled a yawn. Dad stood, patting my shoulder gently. "Get some rest, kid. I'll lock up."

"Yeah," I mumbled, pushing to my feet. My back twinged, and my stomach clenched briefly—just the usual pregnancy aches. I stretched, letting out a small groan. "Night, Dad."

"Night," he said softly, offering a faint smile.

I trudged upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. My bedroom was cool and dark, but I didn't bother with the lamp. I changed into pajamas, brushed my teeth, and slipped under the covers. Part of me was still keyed up from the day's events, but my body had other plans. Within minutes, my eyes drooped, and I sank into sleep, thoughts swirling with images of a half-decorated Christmas tree, Derek's quiet concern, and the echo of Scott's apology lingering in my ears.

December 20, 2011

Morning arrived with the usual jolt of nausea, but slightly less intense than before. I heaved once or twice, managing to avoid a full-blown dry-heaving session. Progress, I told myself. I rinsed my mouth, brushed my teeth, and forced down a handful of crackers to settle my roiling stomach. Despite the rough start, I felt marginally better once I got dressed. The house was empty—Dad had left for work again, leaving a note on the table: Back by 6. If you want to go shopping, the car's got a full tank.

I stared at the note, considering. Did I really want to brave the stores again? The day before had drained me. Then again, Derek had bought me groceries, so I didn't need to go for supplies. But Dad probably wanted me to get something new for the tree, or at least some small ornaments. A strange flicker of determination sparked in me. I was tired of letting my anxiety control every move. Maybe I could handle a quick trip to that little craft store near the edge of town. It wasn't usually crowded, especially on a weekday morning. I wouldn't have to face the chaos of the mall.

I texted Derek, letting him know I was heading out so he wouldn't panic if he stopped by and I wasn't home. He replied with a simple, Be careful. That warmed me more than I wanted to admit. I grabbed my jacket, slid on a pair of boots, and stepped onto the porch. The air was crisp, and a light dusting of snow covered the lawn, enough to make the ground sparkle under the pale sun.

The Jeep started up without protest, though it took a minute to warm. I let the engine run, scanning the street. No sign of neighbors out and about. This part of Beacon Hills was always quiet, especially during work hours. I pulled away from the curb, heading south toward the craft store. The roads were clear of ice, which eased my nerves.

Twelve minutes later, I was pulling into the half-empty parking lot of Craft & Home. The sign out front boasted deals on holiday decor. Perfect. I parked near the door, inhaling a steadying breath. If it got too crowded, I'd leave. No pressure.

Inside, the store was blissfully calm. A few older ladies were browsing fake floral arrangements, and a bored-looking teenager manned the register. Rows of artificial wreaths, plastic ornaments, and tinsel lined the aisles. The faint smell of potpourri wafted through the air. I stepped carefully over a stray roll of ribbon that had fallen on the floor, scanning for something that wouldn't clash too horribly with our ancient artificial tree.

I settled on a box of simple glass ornaments—silver and red. A plastic star topper caught my eye, so I added that too. It wasn't fancy, but it had a kind of classic charm. Then I spied a set of twinkling colored lights. Our tree had lights built in, but half of them were dim or half-burnt. Maybe the extra color would liven it up. With my arms full, I made my way to the register, ignoring the mild protests of my back. The teenage cashier looked barely awake. She rang up my items with a monotone greeting and handed me a flimsy plastic bag that sagged under the weight.

As I stepped outside, a gust of wind blew a dusting of snow off the roof, making me flinch. Tiny flakes fluttered in the air, and I hurried to the Jeep, stashing my purchases in the passenger seat. The sky was that same ominous gray, but the edges of the cloud cover had a brightness that suggested we might get actual sun later. A sense of satisfaction bubbled up. I'd done something. A small victory, sure, but every step counted.

On the drive home, my mind wandered to the conversation I'd eventually have with Scott. I tried to picture it going smoothly—he'd apologize, I'd say I forgave him, we'd hug and do our usual banter. But a cold knot in my gut told me it wouldn't be that easy. We still disagreed on something fundamental. He might say he supported me now, but I couldn't just wipe away the memory of him telling me this baby was a mistake. Maybe it would take more than an apology to rebuild that bridge.

Pulling into the driveway, I grabbed the bag of ornaments and made my way inside, nearly stumbling on a patch of snow that clung to the porch steps. My heart thumped, and I mentally scolded myself to be more careful—I was carrying precious cargo these days. Once inside, I kicked the door shut and shed my jacket. The living room was quiet, the tree still lit with the default white lights I'd left on. I dropped my bag by the couch and stretched, shaking out the tension in my shoulders.

Then I got to work. Carefully, I hung the new ornaments on the branches, spreading them out so the tree didn't look too lopsided. The star topper took a bit of maneuvering—I had to stand on a chair—but I managed to secure it. After that, I wrapped the extra string of colored lights around the tree, plugging them in at the end. A rainbow of blinking hues joined the white lights, creating a festive, if slightly chaotic, display. It was silly and kind of tacky, but it brought a smile to my face. At least it didn't look so sad and bare anymore.

Stepping back, I surveyed the result, hands on my hips. A pang of longing hit me, remembering Christmases past with Mom, how she'd guide my hands when I placed ornaments as a kid, teasing me about clumping them all in one spot. I brushed away the threat of tears. One day at a time, Stiles.

My phone pinged, pulling me from my thoughts. Expecting Derek or Dad, I checked it immediately, only to see a text from Lydia: Movie was lame. You saved yourself ten bucks. How's break going?

I typed back: Doing okay. Put up a tree. Gonna decorate with Dad later. Thanks for the notes, by the way.

She replied quickly: Glad you're somewhat functional. Let me know if you need a study buddy when school starts.

Will do, I sent, though I wondered if I'd be able to focus on anything academic at all.

After that, I dropped onto the couch, letting my eyes close for a moment. I was already worn out from a single store trip and decorating the tree. My fingers brushed across my stomach, which was still flat under my shirt but felt slightly tight. A reminder that I had to slow down—my body was working overtime, building a person from scratch. I'd have to pace myself better if I wanted to avoid total exhaustion.

For a while, I dozed again, drifting in and out. The baby's presence flitted through my dreams—nothing coherent, just flashes of a crib, a faint heartbeat, and an undefined figure standing in the corner. I woke with a shiver, heart pounding, and forced myself to sit up. I needed to do something to ground myself, maybe check the mail or water the plants. Something mundane.

I stepped onto the porch, scanning for mail. The mailbox was empty except for a few flyers. Bills would arrive later, no doubt. The cold bit at my cheeks, and I regretted not wearing my jacket. Just as I was about to head back inside, a car pulled up in front of the house. Derek's Camaro. For some reason, my heart leapt, warmth coursing through me. I tried not to read too much into it—he was just checking in, like he said.

He climbed out, wearing his usual serious expression, a small paper bag in hand. As he approached, I noticed the store logo—some small bookstore downtown. "Hey," he greeted quietly. "You busy?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Just messing with the tree."

He glanced past me, seeing the glow through the window. "Looks... brighter."

I smiled a bit. "I added more lights. Tacky as hell, but I kind of love it."

His lips curved in a tiny smile. "Good. I, uh, got you something. It's not a Christmas gift," he added quickly, "just something you might find useful."

Curiosity piqued, I stepped aside, letting him enter the house. "You didn't have to—"

He shrugged, handing me the paper bag. "It's a pregnancy journal. I was at the bookstore looking for something else, saw it, and thought it might help you keep track of your symptoms, doctor visits, that sort of thing."

I stared at the bag, my chest tight. "Derek..."

He shifted uncomfortably. "If it's too much, you don't have to use it. I just thought—"

"No, it's... it's really thoughtful. Thank you." I swallowed hard, pulling the small book out of the bag. The cover had a simple design with blank spaces to write due dates, ultrasound notes, and weekly progress. It looked more normal than the cryptic stuff I'd been reading online. I ran a hand over the cover, touched beyond words.

He cleared his throat. "I know you have Deaton, but sometimes writing things down helps keep track of changes. My mom used to—" He paused, jaw working, as if the memory was difficult. "She used to say journaling was important for... well, for family history. For anyone in our pack expecting a child."

I blinked back unexpected tears. Derek's mother had been the Hale family alpha, wise and caring from what I'd heard. That he was sharing this piece of family advice with me felt huge. "Thank you," I whispered, voice hoarse. "Really, that's... it means a lot."

He just nodded, eyes shifting away. "You're welcome."

We lingered in the entryway, the warmth of the living room lights spilling around us. A swirl of emotions threatened to overwhelm me—gratitude, confusion, fear for the future. I took a breath and gestured at the tree. "Want to see my handiwork?"

He nodded, following me into the living room. When he saw the newly added ornaments and colorful lights, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It's... festive."

I laughed softly. "It's borderline blinding, but that's how I like it." I set the journal on the coffee table gently, already imagining how I'd fill it out. Maybe it would help me process all these swirling thoughts. "Dad hasn't seen it yet. I think he'll approve."

Derek took a seat on the couch, glancing at me. "How'd your day go?"

I sighed, joining him. "Better than yesterday, I guess. Less crowded store. I picked up ornaments, put them on the tree. Tried not to think about... other stuff."

He gave a small hum of acknowledgment. "Any word from Scott?"

I tensed. "He called me yesterday, apologizing. Said he's scared, he's worried about me, all that. Wants to meet up. I told him I'd think about it."

Derek's expression tightened. "How do you feel about that?"

"Conflicted," I admitted, fiddling with a piece of lint on my pants. "I'm still angry. But he's... he's Scott, you know? My best friend. I miss him."

Derek's gaze was steady, warm. "I won't tell you what to do, but if you do talk to him, make sure he's actually changed his stance. You don't need more stress."

A surge of gratitude filled me. Derek got it—he understood that this wasn't just a spat. It was about whether Scott truly supported me. "Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm not rushing it."

We fell silent, the soft blinking of the tree lights reflecting on the walls. It was strangely cozy. I thought about the beanie I'd bought him and wondered if I should just give it to him now, but that felt awkward. Christmas was still a few days away. Instead, I just soaked in the quiet companionship.

Eventually, I pulled the pregnancy journal onto my lap, flipping through a few pages. There were sections for weekly notes, space for ultrasound photos, questions to ask the doctor. A lump formed in my throat—this was real. I was actually doing this, carrying a child that was partially created by magic, sure, but still a child. My child. A trembling breath escaped me.

"You okay?" Derek asked softly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. After a moment, I managed, "It's just... looking at this makes it all so real, you know? Like, I'm going to have to write about cravings and morning sickness, and eventually, there'll be a... baby."

Derek's gaze flicked to my stomach, then back to my face. He didn't recoil or look disgusted—just a faint note of concern in his eyes. "You're not alone," he said again.

Warmth bloomed in my chest. "Thanks," I said, voice trembling slightly. "I appreciate it more than I can say."

He nodded once, and the silence between us felt charged, heavy with understanding. Outside, a gust of wind made the windows rattle, and I shivered. Derek noticed. "Cold?"

"A little," I admitted. "Heater's not great."

He stood, moving to check the thermostat. After fiddling with it, he returned. "It was set too low. Probably your dad trying to save money. You should keep it warmer—easier on your body."

I shrugged. "Yeah, Dad worries about bills, but you're right. I'll talk to him."

Derek hovered by the couch, seeming unsure whether to stay or go. "Do you... want me to leave you to it? Or I can stick around until your dad gets home."

Part of me yearned for him to stay, keep me company. Another part felt guilty for monopolizing his time. "I'll be okay," I said gently. "But maybe we can hang out another time, closer to Christmas? Dad's working Christmas Eve, so I might be alone."

He nodded, remembering his offer. "I'll come by," he said, matter-of-fact. "Just let me know when."

I mustered a smile. "Will do."

He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then he just offered a small wave and made his way to the door. I followed, opening it for him. A cold gust blew in, ruffling his hair and reminding me of just how chilly it was. He stepped onto the porch, turning back.

"Take care," he said simply.

"You too," I replied, hugging the journal to my chest.

Then he strode to his car, and I watched until his taillights disappeared down the street. My gaze lingered for a moment before I shut the door, locking it. I glanced at the tree lights, at the cozy glow they cast on the living room walls. Despite the uncertainty swirling in my life, the house felt a bit more like a home. Maybe Christmas wouldn't be so bleak after all.

I glanced at the pregnancy journal in my hands and took it upstairs, flipping on my bedroom light. Sitting at my desk, I opened the first page. The instructions said something like, "Write down how you felt when you first found out." A lump rose in my throat. That was a complicated memory—equal parts horror and disbelief. But I decided to try. It might help me process everything.

Grabbing a pen, I began writing in shaky handwriting:

December 20, 2011 (Six weeks pregnant)

I first found out about two weeks ago, but I didn't believe it at first. It's hard to put into words the shock and fear I felt. I'm still processing. Some days, I'm terrified. Some days, I'm numb. But every day, I'm realizing more that this is real. I'm going to be a parent, somehow. I'm not sure how to do this, but I have people who care. My dad, Derek, a few others. I just hope I'm strong enough.

My pen hovered. There was so much more to say—about the Nogitsune, about Scott's reaction, about the father's unknown DNA—but I couldn't bring myself to write it all down yet. Instead, I closed the journal, feeling strangely lighter, as if putting even a fraction of my feelings on paper had lifted a weight.

A faint smile tugged at my lips. Christmas might be awkward, and life might be uncertain, but at least I was moving forward, one step at a time. And for now, that would have to be enough. I didn't realize how long I'd been sitting at my desk until the light outside shifted from bleak winter gray to the muted orange of approaching sunset. The pregnancy journal lay open in front of me, a few lines of messy handwriting still wet with ink. I fiddled with the corner of the page, my stomach twisting in knots. The act of writing down my feelings—putting the reality of my situation in black and white—was cathartic, but it also left me vulnerable. There was something about seeing the words that made everything feel so real, almost unavoidable. It wasn't just a nightmare that would fade with morning.

My phone buzzed on the desk, rattling against a half-empty glass of water. I glanced down to see a text from Dad: Running late again. Home around 8. You good?

I forced myself to breathe evenly, typing back: Yeah, I'm fine. Tree looks good with the new ornaments. Let me know if you want me to make dinner.

He answered almost immediately: I'll grab takeout. Thai sound good?

A smile tugged at my lips. Sure. Thai food was one of the few things I could stomach these days, as long as I avoided anything too spicy. The mention of dinner made my stomach growl, a sign that the toast and random snacks I'd had weren't cutting it. Checking the time—4:45 p.m.—I decided I could wait another few hours.

I closed the pregnancy journal and slid it into the top drawer of my desk. Despite Derek's encouragement, I didn't want it lying around for anyone to see. If Dad stumbled across it, he'd just be reminded of how surreal this situation was. If Scott saw it... well, I had no idea how he'd react to me keeping a pregnancy journal, but it would probably be awkward. My chest tightened at the thought of Scott again. I'd told him I wasn't ready to meet face to face, but deep down, I knew I had to sooner or later. Leaving things unresolved would only make the tension and hurt fester.

I sighed, pushing myself out of the chair. My back ached from hunching over the desk, so I stretched, listening to a few faint pops of my joints. Six weeks pregnant, and it felt like my body was already rebelling. If it was this rough now, how was I going to handle the next eight months—assuming I made it that far without falling apart?

In the hallway, I paused by the half-open door of the spare bedroom. Dad had used it as a storage room for years, stuffing old boxes and memorabilia from Mom. A sudden thought flitted through my mind: What if this becomes a nursery? The idea jolted me. I didn't know if I was anywhere near ready for that kind of commitment—turning an entire room into a space for a baby. But the thought of it being there, one day, with a crib and toys and pastel walls... A wave of dizziness hit me. I shook my head and headed downstairs instead of dwelling on it.

The living room was awash in the rainbow twinkle of the newly added lights. I turned them off to spare myself a headache, leaving only the gentle white glow of the built-in bulbs. It looked more subdued that way, cozier. Then I curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket over me as I stared at the half-lit tree. The quiet house pressed in on me, heavy with thoughts I couldn't quite silence. Every time I tried to relax, my mind drifted back to Scott's call, to what he'd said, what he hadn't said, and the uncertain territory we were now in.

I should just bite the bullet and meet him, I told myself. Before Christmas, if possible. Part of me wanted to push it off. Another part knew that seeing him might bring some closure, or at least a path forward. The longer I waited, the more anxious I'd get. And I had enough anxiety to last me a lifetime.

My phone buzzed again—another text, but this time from Scott himself: Hey, if you're up for meeting, let me know. I'm free tomorrow. We can grab coffee or something... If not, I understand.

I stared at the message, my pulse hammering. A swirl of conflicting emotions surged in my chest—anger, guilt, affection, fear. But I couldn't keep dodging him forever. Slowly, I typed back: Tomorrow's fine. Around noon, maybe? At the coffee place on Willow?

He answered almost immediately: Yeah, that works. Thank you.

I didn't know what to say, so I just let the conversation end there. My heart thudded in my ribs, and my stomach clenched at the prospect of seeing him. Memories of our fight in the Jeep played in my head like a broken record: "You're not actually going to keep it, right?" and "You can't do this." My hands shook a little, and I tucked them under the blanket, swallowing hard. I reminded myself that Derek believed in me, that Dad believed in me, that even Deaton believed in me. One fight with Scott couldn't erase the fact that I was doing what I felt was right.

Time crawled after that. I tried distracting myself by scrolling through random websites on my phone, but I kept drifting back to pregnancy sites, reading up on "6 Weeks Pregnant" for the hundredth time. Nothing new. I hated how they all acted like you had a supportive partner or a glowing sense of anticipation. The reality was more complicated. My own support network had cracks, and half the time I was too nauseous or exhausted to feel anything like excitement. Still, I skimmed the information, telling myself knowledge was power, even if it was depressing.

Eventually, Dad texted me that he was leaving the station to pick up Thai food. I busied myself by setting the table—just two plates, a few napkins, and the half-burnt candle we sometimes lit for ambiance. At least the living room looked festive, even if the rest of the house felt neglected. By the time Dad walked in, the scent of curry and rice filled the entryway.

"Hey," he said warmly, juggling the bags of takeout. "Thanks for setting the table."

"No problem." I forced a smile, taking the bags from him and setting them on the kitchen counter. The aromas hit me—garlic, ginger, coconut milk—and my stomach protested for a second, but then settled. I served myself a small portion of mild curry, careful not to overload my plate.

Dad hung up his coat, rolling his neck with a sigh. "Long day?"

I nodded. "Yeah, but not too bad. I went to that craft store to get ornaments. Then I, uh, heard from Scott."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

I exhaled, stirring my curry. "He apologized yesterday. Today he asked if we could meet. I told him I'd see him tomorrow at noon."

Dad's gaze flicked to me, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. "You sure you're ready?"

"Not entirely," I admitted, poking at a piece of chicken. "But I can't keep avoiding him. We need to talk. Actually talk, not just phone messages."

Dad reached across the table, patting my arm gently. "You're strong, kid. If you need me to come get you or anything, just call."

I managed a small smile. "Thanks, Dad. I'll be okay, though. I need to do this."

He nodded, and we lapsed into quiet, focusing on the food. The mild curry tasted surprisingly good, and I even managed to finish half a plate before my stomach signaled me to slow down. As we ate, Dad filled me in on a few mundane station stories—somebody tried to steal a Christmas tree from the local tree farm, a couple of teenagers got into a snowball fight that escalated into vandalism, that sort of thing. It was nice, listening to normal problems instead of focusing on my own. For a half hour, I let myself pretend I was just a regular kid hearing about his dad's day.

When we finished, I helped clear the table. Dad glanced at the clock, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've got paperwork to finish before bed. You mind if I duck out for a bit?"

I shook my head. "Go for it. I'll clean up here."

He patted my shoulder again, giving me a weary smile before heading to his office. I rinsed the dishes, loaded them into the dishwasher, and wiped down the counters. The repetitive tasks gave my mind time to wander—straight to the meeting with Scott. My stomach twisted, half dread, half hope.

I dried my hands and settled on the couch, turning on the tree lights again. The gentle glow soothed me, like a nightlight for a kid afraid of the dark. I told myself I'd just rest for a few minutes, but my eyes slipped closed, exhaustion tugging at me once more. Pregnancy was draining in ways I never anticipated, and stress multiplied the effect. Soon, I was drifting off despite the early hour.

December 21, 2011

I woke to the first faint light of dawn and the obnoxious crick in my neck that came from sleeping on the couch. Rubbing my eyes, I realized Dad must have covered me with an extra blanket at some point. I yawned, pressing a hand to my still-flat stomach, and carefully stood, ignoring the protest of my stiff muscles. My phone on the coffee table read 7:12 a.m. Too early, I thought, but I was awake now.

Upstairs, I showered quickly, letting the hot water ease my stiff shoulders. I tried not to think about the meeting with Scott at noon, but it loomed in the back of my mind like a gathering storm. After toweling off, I dressed in comfortable jeans and a loose sweatshirt, giving myself a once-over in the mirror. I still looked pale, with dark circles under my eyes, but at least I wasn't trembling with nerves. Yet.

I trudged downstairs, found Dad in the kitchen sipping his coffee. "Morning," he said, eyes flicking up to me. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay," I lied, forcing a smile. "Stomach's not too bad today."

He nodded, not pressing the issue. "I'm heading in for a shift soon. You still meeting Scott at noon?"

"Yeah," I said. "At the coffee place on Willow."

Dad took another sip, considering. "Alright. Just... try not to push yourself too hard. If it gets stressful, leave. You have that option."

I appreciated his concern. "I know," I said softly. "I'll be careful."

He offered a small, tight smile, then set down his mug. "I gotta go. Be safe, okay? And text me when you're done."

I promised I would, and he grabbed his coat and left. The house fell silent except for the distant tick of the living room clock. I grabbed a few saltines and a glass of water, nibbling on them while my stomach woke up. Then I flicked on the TV, half-watching some morning news that talked about an incoming cold front. My thoughts were elsewhere. Noon felt simultaneously too close and too far away.

Finally, around 11:30, I couldn't stall any longer. I slipped on my jacket, pulled on boots, and braved the cold morning air to start the Jeep. The engine sputtered, but after a second attempt, it roared to life. My heart was a blur in my chest as I backed out of the driveway, trying to calm the swirl of tension building inside me.

The drive took about ten minutes. The coffee shop on Willow was a small, cozy place with a handful of tables, some local art on the walls, and a chalkboard menu listing espresso drinks, pastries, and sandwiches. I parked around the corner, not wanting to risk passing out in front of the big windows if my nerves got the better of me. My fingers trembled slightly on the steering wheel as I shut off the engine.

Deep breaths, Stiles. You've faced worse than this.

I repeated that mantra in my head as I got out of the Jeep, pulling my jacket tight against the biting wind. The sidewalks were cleared of snow, but the chilly air stung my cheeks. I rounded the corner and spotted Scott through the coffee shop's window. He was already there, sitting at a small table near the back, staring down at his phone. A jolt of anxiety shot through me, but I pressed on, opening the door to the shop. The bell overhead chimed, and a gust of warm, coffee-scented air enveloped me.

Scott looked up immediately, eyes shadowed with guilt and worry. I noted the deep circles under his eyes, the tension in his posture. He offered a tentative smile, which I couldn't quite return. I forced my legs to move, crossing the space to his table.

"Hey," he said softly, rising halfway from his chair.

"Hey," I mumbled. My throat felt tight. I set my jacket over the back of the chair across from him and sank into the seat. The table was small, and we were close enough that I could see the faint stubble on his jaw. He looked exhausted.

"You want something?" he asked, gesturing to the menu board. "I can get you a hot chocolate or tea."

I hesitated, uncertain if my stomach would accept anything. Then I remembered a website saying warm ginger tea could help with nausea. "Sure," I said, voice strained. "Ginger tea, maybe."

He nodded and stood, disappearing to the counter. I took the moment to breathe, heart racing, trying to keep panic from crawling up my spine. When he returned with a paper cup in hand, he also had a small black coffee for himself. He set my cup down carefully, like he was afraid of startling me, then resumed his seat.

"Thanks," I muttered, wrapping my hands around the cup. The warmth felt good.

He fiddled with his coffee lid, eyes dropping. "How... how are you?" he asked. It sounded genuine, not the forced pleasantries I'd become used to.

I swallowed, trying to reign in my swirling emotions. "I'm... surviving," I said. "Tired a lot. Nauseous. You know. Pregnant."

He flinched slightly at the word, but recovered. "Right. I, uh, I talked to Deaton again. He wouldn't tell me much, just that the baby's healthy so far."

Anger flared momentarily—why was he pestering Deaton instead of trusting me?—but I tried to squash it. "Yeah, Deaton's been monitoring me. It's... normal. Not supernatural."

Scott nodded, relief evident in his eyes. "That's good. Really good." He paused, glancing at me. "I'm sorry if I overstepped by asking him. I just... I was worried. I wanted to know you were okay."

I licked my lips, taking a careful sip of the tea. The ginger flavor was milder than I expected, but soothing. "Look, Scott," I said, setting the cup down. "I don't want to rehash the fight. You know you hurt me—"

He winced, gaze dropping. "I know."

"—but I need to hear why. Why you said those things." My voice trembled, but I forced the words out. "Because it wasn't just panic. You meant it."

He rubbed his temples, exhaling shakily. "I did, at first. I was freaked out, Stiles. I thought—if this baby came from the Nogitsune, it might be... I don't know, dangerous. Dark. And after losing Allison, after everything we went through, I couldn't stand the idea of you putting yourself in danger again."

My chest tightened at the mention of Allison. "You shouldn't have used her name like that," I said quietly.

He nodded, eyes damp. "You're right. I was out of line. Allison... God, I loved her, and losing her messed me up in ways I can't even begin to explain. I know it messed you up too. But I was so desperate to protect everyone that I tried to force you to do what I thought was best, without listening to you at all."

I swallowed a lump in my throat. "What changed?"

He fiddled with his coffee cup, not meeting my eyes. "Deaton explained that the fetus is human. And then Derek cornered me, said if I kept acting like an ass, I'd lose you forever." A wry, pained smile crossed his lips. "He was pretty blunt about it. Made me realize how badly I'd screwed up."

I blinked. "Derek talked to you?"

Scott nodded. "Yeah. He showed up at my house a couple of nights ago. Didn't say much, just basically told me to pull my head out of my ass. And... he's right. I was letting my fear and grief dictate everything. I should've listened to you from the start."

A swirl of conflicting emotions flared in my chest—gratitude that Derek intervened, annoyance that Scott needed someone else's push to see reason, sorrow that it took so long. "So you're okay with this now?" I asked, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

Scott's shoulders slumped. "I'm still scared," he admitted. "But I believe you when you say it's human. If you want to keep it, that's your choice. I won't try to force you to do anything else." He lifted his gaze, meeting my eyes. "And I'm sorry, Stiles. Really. I know I can't take back what I said, but I want you to know I regret it."

Silence fell between us, the hum of the coffee shop seeming to grow louder. A handful of other customers chatted quietly, oblivious to the emotional weight at our tiny table. I studied Scott, noticing the sincerity in his eyes, the rawness of regret.

"It's going to take time," I said finally, voice hoarse. "I can't just forgive and forget in five minutes. You... you hurt me, Scott."

His eyes glistened. "I know," he whispered. "I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you."

I nodded, swallowing past a lump of emotion. "I want to trust you again," I said. "But you have to respect my choices. If you can't do that, I can't have you around."

He swallowed, a hint of red flashing in his eyes—his wolf reacting to strong emotion, perhaps—but he controlled it. "I understand."

We sat there, letting the weight of that statement settle. Part of me felt relieved, like a splinter had been removed from my chest. Another part ached, remembering the closeness we once had. Would we ever get back there? I wasn't sure. But this was a start.

I sipped my tea, fingers still trembling slightly. Scott must have noticed, because he reached out tentatively, letting his hand hover near mine. "Are you okay? Do you need something?"

I hesitated. "No, I... I'm just anxious. Stress triggers the morning sickness sometimes." I managed a weak chuckle. "Though it's afternoon now, so I guess it's just general pregnancy sickness."

Scott withdrew his hand slowly, giving me space. "Have you thought about how you're going to handle this with the pack? Lydia, Kira...?"

The question made my stomach twist. "Not really. Derek knows. Dad knows. Peter knows, which is... unnerving. The rest of the pack doesn't. I'm not sure if I'll tell them yet. Or if they even need to know."

Scott nodded thoughtfully. "Lydia's suspicious. She can tell something's up, but I don't think she suspects pregnancy. She might think you're still traumatized from the Nogitsune stuff, or that we had a falling-out because of something else." He paused. "Are you worried about them finding out?"

I exhaled. "A little. But eventually, they'll notice something, right? I can't hide a baby forever. I just... I'm not ready for their reactions." I shook my head, rubbing my temple. "And then there's the question of paternity," I said, voice catching. "Deaton confirmed there's another set of chromosomes. Which means... someone contributed DNA. I have no clue who."

Scott's expression twisted with concern. "You haven't told me much about that. Do you have any leads?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "Leads? It's not exactly a criminal investigation. But yeah, I guess I do. I've been thinking about it. The Nogitsune had access to a bunch of people's blood or hair or skin cells, especially during fights. It could have stolen DNA from anyone it attacked or injured."

Scott's jaw tightened. "So... how are you going to figure it out?"

I shrugged, feeling the old swell of panic rise. "I started making a mental list," I admitted. "I wrote it down once, actually. Potential fathers. It's short, but also complicated. Derek, because he's a born werewolf, and we had that scuffle in the school when he was de-aged. I bled on him, he bled on me... I don't even remember all the details. Peter, obviously. He's another born wolf, and God knows he's manipulative. Ethan and Aiden were around too—"

Scott winced. "Aiden died."

"Yeah," I said softly. "So if it's him, that's... yeah, I don't want to think about that. Isaac was around, though he left for France with Argent. But he was there during the Oni fights. And... you." My voice dropped. "You were around me too. The Nogitsune might have pulled your DNA."

Scott blinked, mouth opening in shock. "Me?"

I shrugged, cheeks burning. "Look, I don't know. If the demon found a single drop of your blood or hair—who knows? Deaton said we won't know if the baby's a werewolf or fully human until after it's born. The kid might never show any sign of a werewolf gene, or it might shift at some point. The DNA might be dormant."

Scott shook his head as if clearing it. "Are you planning to... test us? Like, do a paternity test with each possibility?"

"I thought about it," I muttered. "But can you imagine me going up to each of you guys with a Q-tip, saying, 'Hey, let me swab your mouth to see if you're my baby's father'? That's insane."

Scott grimaced, clearly picturing the awkwardness. "Yeah, that would be... complicated."

"I'm not even sure if I want to know," I admitted, voice trembling. "Because if I find out it's Peter, or if it's someone who died, or... God, if it's Derek, that changes everything. I'm barely coping with the idea that I'm pregnant, let alone dealing with the father."

Scott regarded me with quiet sympathy. "I get it," he said softly. "But wouldn't it be better to know? Then you could figure out if there are any supernatural complications. If the father's a wolf, that might be important."

A stab of fear went through me. "I know," I said, rubbing my arms. "Derek offered to sniff around, literally. He said he could maybe pick up if the baby smelled like a werewolf. He tried once and said it smelled human, but we're only six weeks in. Maybe the werewolf part hasn't kicked in, or maybe it's just human, or maybe it's a type of wolf gene he can't detect yet. We won't know for sure until it's born, or until I do a full DNA test. Either way, it's... it's terrifying."

Scott reached out again, placing a hand over mine. This time, I let him. He squeezed gently, his eyes earnest. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Stiles. I promise, I'll do better. If you need help, if you want me to talk to the others, I'll do it. If you decide to test for paternity, I'll be first in line to see if it's mine."

A shaky laugh escaped me. "Thanks," I whispered, though the idea of testing Scott's DNA still made my stomach twist. If it was him... that would open a whole new dimension of awkwardness.

He pulled his hand back, sipping his coffee. We let a moment of silence pass, the hum of the espresso machine behind the counter filling the gap. I slowly sipped my ginger tea, grateful my stomach wasn't rebelling. My mind churned with the possibilities. Derek, Scott, Peter, Isaac, Ethan, Aiden—any one of them could be a father, or maybe none of them, if the Nogitsune had stolen genetic material from someone else entirely. The thought made me shudder.

Eventually, Scott cleared his throat. "Can I... can I ask you something else?"

I tensed. "Sure."

"Do you... want me to be involved?" His voice was small, almost timid. "Like, do you see me being part of this, as a support system? Or do you need space to figure it out alone?"

My chest tightened. So many memories of us—running around Beacon Hills, saving each other's lives, leaning on each other through heartbreak—flashed through my mind. Despite the hurt and anger, a large part of me still loved Scott. He was my best friend, my brother in all but blood.

"I do want you around," I said slowly, picking my words carefully. "But I need to know you're not going to freak out on me again. I need you to accept this baby is coming, that I'm keeping it, and I need you to support me, not try to push your agenda."

He swallowed, nodding vigorously. "I promise I won't. I—whatever you need, I'm here."

I exhaled, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. It wasn't a full resolution, but it was a step in the right direction. "Okay," I murmured. "We'll... figure it out."

He offered a small, hopeful smile. "Thank you."

We stayed there another twenty minutes or so, talking in halting bursts—about random pack updates, some mild gossip from school, and the fleeting possibility of me finishing the semester from home if my symptoms got worse. Scott was surprisingly gentle, never pressing too hard. I could tell he was forcing himself not to lecture or show too much overbearing concern. I appreciated the effort, even if it felt a bit strained. We were both learning how to navigate this new reality.

Finally, I glanced at the time on my phone. It was nearing 1 p.m. I had a fresh wave of fatigue creeping in, and the tension headache behind my eyes told me I needed a nap sooner rather than later.

"I should go," I said, standing slowly. "Thanks for the tea. And... thanks for meeting me."

Scott stood as well, fumbling with his jacket. "Of course. Let me know if you get home safe. And if you, um..." He trailed off, looking embarrassed. "If you need anything?"

I managed a faint smile. "Yeah, I will."

He hesitated, then offered a quick, tentative hug. For a second, I stiffened, my mind flashing to the memory of him slamming the Jeep door and storming off. But then I let myself relax, patting his back awkwardly. We pulled apart, both looking a bit red-faced, but it felt like a healing gesture.

I grabbed my jacket, and we left the coffee shop together. Outside, the wind had picked up, swirling the flurries of old snow along the sidewalk. Scott walked me to the corner where I'd parked the Jeep. We paused there, unsure of how to end the conversation.

"Text me," he said softly.

"Okay," I murmured.

Then he gave a small wave and headed down the sidewalk toward his own car, parked in the opposite direction. I watched him go, fighting the urge to call out and say something else—something that might solidify the fragile peace between us. But I stayed silent, turning away and climbing into the Jeep. I sat behind the wheel for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. The conversation had gone better than I expected, but the knot of emotions in my chest remained, a tangled mess of relief, hurt, and lingering mistrust.

I turned the key, and the Jeep rumbled to life. My mind drifted back to that mental list: Derek, Scott, Peter, Ethan, Aiden, or Isaac. A weird part of me wanted to ask Scott right then if he'd be willing to do a paternity test, but that felt too abrupt, too soon. We'd just patched things up enough to talk. I wasn't going to torpedo that by waving a DNA kit in his face.

One day at a time, I reminded myself, shifting the Jeep into drive and pulling away from the curb. The roads were clear, and I made it home without incident. As soon as I walked into the house, I felt my adrenaline crash. My body sagged, demanding rest. I dropped my jacket on the couch, trudged upstairs, and collapsed onto my bed without even taking off my boots. My head hit the pillow, and within minutes, I was drifting off, lulled by the sheer emotional exhaustion of facing my best friend—and the uncertain future of my child.

I roused from sleep to the sound of my phone vibrating against the nightstand. Wincing, I reached for it, squinting at the bright screen. It was a message from Derek: How did it go with Scott?

The time read 4:17 p.m. I'd slept nearly three hours. My mouth felt dry, and my back twinged from lying in an awkward position. Still, some of the crushing fatigue had eased. I propped myself up on an elbow, rubbing at my eyes, and typed a quick reply: Better than I expected. We talked it out. He apologized again.

He shot back almost immediately: Good. You okay?

A pang of gratitude flared in my chest. Derek's constant check-ins were surprisingly comforting. Yeah, just tired. Gonna eat something.

Derek: Need anything? Groceries?

A smile curved my lips. He was so thorough. No, I'm okay. Dad's shift ends soon, we'll figure dinner out.

He didn't reply, and that was fine. I appreciated the quick exchange, the knowledge that someone was thinking about me. With a groan, I forced myself to roll off the bed, kicking off my boots. The mirror above my dresser reflected a rumpled version of me—hair messy, eyes puffy. But I felt a bit lighter.

Downstairs, the living room glowed softly with the Christmas tree lights, just as I'd left them. I realized, with a slight pang, that we didn't have any gifts under the tree except for the ones I'd hidden away for Dad and Derek. Usually, by now, we had at least a few wrapped packages from Dad's coworkers or from distant relatives. This year felt different in every way.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since the ginger tea. A quick rummage through the fridge revealed some leftover Thai curry. Perfect. I warmed it up, doing my best to ignore the lingering swirl of anxiety in my gut. While the microwave hummed, I mulled over the conversation with Scott, replaying his earnest apologies, the guilt in his eyes. It was a start. Maybe we'd never be exactly the same, but at least I wasn't alone.

I ate slowly, savoring the mild spice. My stomach didn't complain—another small victory. Around 5:30, Dad texted that he was on his way, and I filled him in briefly on how things went with Scott. He texted back a thumbs-up and a simple, I'm glad.

Finishing my dinner, I set the bowl in the sink and contemplated what to do next. My eyes drifted to the clock. Still a few hours until bedtime, and I wasn't tired enough to sleep again. The memory of that mental list nagged at me. Maybe I should actually write it down somewhere, see if it helped me process. The pregnancy journal came to mind, but I wasn't sure I wanted to taint that with the messy paternity debate. Still, maybe I needed to get it out in some form.

I went upstairs to my room, rifling through the desk drawer for a spare notebook. Finding a mostly empty one, I sat down, clicked a pen, and stared at the blank page. My heart rate picked up. This felt big, like acknowledging the possibilities out loud. But I pressed the pen to the paper, scrawling the names:

Derek – Born werewolf. We've had physical contact during battles. He was around when I was possessed. The Nogitsune could have taken hair or blood from him. Derek's best guess from sniffing me is that the baby seems human, but that might change. Scott – Born human, bitten by Peter, now a True Alpha. My best friend. There was definitely contact, blood, fights, etc. The Nogitsune could have stolen DNA in any number of ways. Peter – Born werewolf, cunning, manipulative. He was close to me during the Nogitsune possession in multiple instances. If the demon took his DNA, that's horrifying, but possible. Ethan – One of the alpha twins. But they lost their alpha status, right? Still, a werewolf. He might have come into contact with me, especially in fights. Not sure how likely. Aiden – Deceased. But the Nogitsune might have had access to his DNA before he died. Isaac – Bitten werewolf. We fought together in multiple battles. He left for France, but not before the Nogitsune was defeated.

I stared at the list, my stomach churning. It was short, but each name carried massive implications. Any one of them could be the father. Or, horrifyingly, maybe none of them—someone else entirely, unknown to me. Another possibility lingered in my mind: Could the Nogitsune have used my own DNA in some twisted way? But Deaton insisted that the fetus had two distinct sets of chromosomes. So it wasn't just me. Someone else was involved.

The scariest part was how each name felt like a different brand of chaos. If it was Derek or Scott, that changed our relationships drastically. If it was Peter, I'd live in constant fear of what he might do with that knowledge. If it was Isaac, he was on another continent, clueless. If it was Aiden, the father was dead. And Ethan? We hadn't exactly parted on best terms, though he wasn't outright hostile. Any scenario felt overwhelming.

A knock on the front door jolted me out of my spiral. I nearly dropped my pen, heart hammering. I glanced at the time—Dad wasn't due back yet, so who...?

I left the notebook open on my desk, rushing downstairs. Peering through the small window, I saw Derek's familiar silhouette. My pulse slowed, a wave of relief flooding me. I swung the door open.

"Hey," I said, stepping aside. "Everything okay?"

Derek nodded curtly, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Yeah. I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by."

I raised an eyebrow. "Right. Because you just randomly wander my neighborhood."

He shrugged. "Needed some air."

"Sure," I said, not pressing further. "Come in. Dad's not home yet, but you can wait if you want."

He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. "I won't stay long. Just checking in after your talk with Scott."

I exhaled, leading him into the living room. The tree lights glowed gently, casting soft shadows on the furniture. I grabbed a seat on the couch, and Derek stood near the armchair, hands still shoved in his pockets. He looked tense, like something was on his mind.

"It went alright," I said, giving him a quick rundown. "He apologized again. We're... not magically fixed, but we're trying to move forward."

Derek's lips pressed into a thin line. "Good. I don't like seeing you two at odds."

A flicker of warmth tugged at my chest. "Thanks for cornering him," I added. "He told me you basically told him to pull his head out of his ass."

Derek gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes darting away. "He needed a reality check."

I nodded, appreciating his bluntness. We fell silent for a moment, the hum of the house filling the space. My mind drifted to the notebook upstairs, the list of potential fathers. Derek was at the top. I studied him—he looked tired, too, though in a stoic, composed way. My chest tightened with guilt. He'd done so much to help me, and there was a chance he was the father without even knowing it. Should I ask if he wanted to do a test?

I bit my lip, hesitating. Maybe it was too soon. But the curiosity gnawed at me. Finally, I took a breath. "Derek... can I ask you something sort of intense?"

He lifted his gaze, brow furrowing. "Go ahead."

I fiddled with the hem of my shirt. "I've been thinking about paternity tests," I said quietly. "Deaton said we could do them if we wanted, but it would mean telling the potential father. Or collecting samples in secret, which feels... wrong."

Derek watched me carefully. "You want to test me," he deduced, his tone unreadable.

A flush crept up my neck. "I mean, I don't want to. But you're on the short list of people who had enough contact with the Nogitsune—"

He held up a hand. "I understand." His jaw clenched briefly before he continued. "If you want to test me, I won't refuse."

My heart hammered. "Really?"

Derek nodded, expression solemn. "This is your child, Stiles. If it gives you clarity or peace of mind, I'll do whatever you need. We can talk to Deaton, figure out the best way. He can keep it private."

I swallowed hard. "I... thanks. I'm not sure if I'm ready to do that, but knowing you're open to it helps."

He inclined his head. "I meant what I said: I'll support you. If it turns out I'm the father, we'll deal with that. If I'm not, then you can cross me off the list and move on."

Emotion swelled in my chest—relief, gratitude, and a flicker of something else, something unnameable. "That's... big of you," I said quietly, voice wobbling. "Thank you."

Silence stretched between us, charged with unspoken thoughts. Eventually, Derek cleared his throat. "If you'd rather not do an invasive test yet, maybe we wait a few more weeks, see if the pregnancy develops any supernatural markers. I can keep trying to smell changes in your scent, though that's not foolproof."

I nodded, exhaling. "Yeah, let's hold off. I'm... it's too much right now."

He stepped closer, lowering himself into the armchair. "Whatever you decide."

A wave of exhaustion hit me, both physically and emotionally. I leaned back against the couch cushions, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment. The Christmas tree lights blinked behind my eyelids. "Do you think I'm insane for keeping this baby?" I asked suddenly, the question tumbling out before I could stop it.

Derek hesitated, and I could practically feel him choosing his words. "I think you're brave," he said finally. "And maybe a little insane, but so are most of us in Beacon Hills. I understand why you're doing it. It's your decision."

A weak laugh escaped me. "So... a bit insane, but you get it?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "I get it."

I opened my eyes to find him watching me with a faint, almost sad smile. My chest tightened again, overwhelmed by how much he'd been there for me in the past few weeks. I wondered if I'd ever properly thank him.

A few minutes later, Dad's key rattled in the lock, and the door swung open. He paused upon seeing Derek. "Oh, hey," Dad said, a bit of surprise in his voice. "I didn't realize we had company."

Derek stood, nodding politely. "I was just checking on Stiles. I'll head out."

Dad looked between us, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn't press. "Everything alright?"

Derek nodded again, more curtly this time. "Yes, sir."

Dad glanced at me, and I forced a small smile. "We're fine. Derek was just leaving."

Derek dipped his head. "I'll see you later, Stiles." Without another word, he moved past Dad, stepping out into the cold evening. Dad shut the door behind him, turning to me with a curious look.

"You sure everything's okay?" Dad asked, shrugging out of his coat. "You look... stressed."

I rubbed my face. "Just a lot on my mind," I admitted. "But I'm okay. Scott and I talked; it went decent. Derek was checking in because of that."

Dad nodded slowly. "Alright. If you say so." He moved to the kitchen, opening the fridge. "How about I fix us a quick dinner? I grabbed some chicken on my way home. You in the mood?"

My stomach grumbled faintly, though I'd already eaten leftover curry. But I could manage a small portion. "Sure," I said, standing. "Let me help."

We busied ourselves cooking—Dad seasoned the chicken while I chopped up some vegetables. The mundane routine soothed my frazzled nerves. If Dad noticed my shaking hands, he didn't comment. Over the rhythmic scrape of the knife on the cutting board, we discussed random holiday stuff, the final shift schedule for the station, whether we wanted to invite anyone over for Christmas dinner. The question hung in the air, and I realized I might not be up for a huge gathering. Dad seemed to sense that and didn't push it.

Eventually, we sat down to a simple meal. I managed a few bites of chicken, some veggies, and sipped water, feeling more stable. Once we finished, Dad told me he had paperwork to wrap up in his office and excused himself. I cleaned up, letting the soothing monotony guide me. My mind, however, kept wandering back to the list upstairs—the names. Derek's willingness to do a test. Scott's uncertain vow to be supportive. Peter's potential involvement, which gave me chills. If it was him...

Stop, I commanded myself, setting a plate into the dishwasher with more force than necessary. I couldn't do anything about it tonight. Overloading my brain wouldn't help.

After cleaning, I locked up the house and took a quick peek outside. The temperature had dropped further, and the night sky was clear, dotted with stars. Christmas was just a few days away. My heart squeezed at the thought. By next Christmas, I will have a baby. The concept was so alien it almost felt like a dream. A year from now, I could be a teen dad trying to juggle diapers and supernatural threats. It was almost laughable, if it wasn't so terrifying.

Sighing, I turned off the living room lights, leaving only the Christmas tree to glow softly in the darkness. I trudged upstairs, intending to maybe read or start that English paper Lydia had bugged me about. But the pregnancy journal in my desk drawer called to me. I hesitated, then pulled it out, flipping to a fresh page. My pen hovered above the blank space, heart pounding. Finally, I wrote:

December 21, 2011, 6 Weeks and 3 Days Pregnant

Met with Scott today. He apologized. We still have a long way to go, but maybe we can mend our friendship. I'm trying not to dwell on the hurt. It's still there, though. Derek showed up later, said he'd do a paternity test if I want. I don't know what to think about that. Part of me wants to know, part of me is scared to find out. I have a list of potential fathers, but each option feels overwhelming. I keep telling myself to take it one day at a time, but sometimes I feel like I'm drowning. Still, I'm moving forward. Or at least, I'm trying. Christmas is almost here, and I'm trying to find a spark of holiday spirit for Dad's sake. For my sake, too. Maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

I paused, rereading the words. They felt raw, honest. Exactly what this journal was supposed to hold. My hand shook slightly, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. But I took a steadying breath and forced the tears away. Crying every day was exhausting.

Carefully, I closed the journal, locking these thoughts away. Then I booted up my laptop, opening the English paper assignment. Maybe focusing on something else would keep me from spiraling. I typed a few paragraphs of half-hearted analysis before my eyes started to blur. Even though it was only nine, I couldn't keep them open. I saved my document and shut the laptop, crawling into bed.

My mind flickered with images as I drifted off: the Christmas tree lights in the living room, the coffee shop where Scott apologized, Derek standing in my entryway offering to do a DNA test, the half-completed list in my notebook. The swirl of them all weighed on me, but in the darkness of my bedroom, I told myself that tomorrow was another day. Another chance to inch forward, to figure out how to navigate a pregnancy borne from darkness, to keep forging fragile connections with the people who cared about me.

One day at a time. That mantra repeated in my head until sleep finally claimed me.

December 22, 2011

I woke early, not because of nausea—though that was still present, in a dull, annoying way—but because my phone buzzed with a text. Squinting, I fumbled for it on the nightstand, feeling the bleariness of dawn in my bones. The sun hadn't even risen fully, a pale glow barely illuminating the edges of my curtains.

The text was from Lydia: Hey, last-minute Christmas party at my lake house on the 24th. You in?

I stared, my heart sinking. Lydia's family had a small house by the lake they sometimes used for gatherings. A party the night before Christmas? Normally, I might have said yes, or at least considered it. But now? The idea of a social event where the entire pack—and possibly some random classmates—would be there was daunting. My eyes flicked to the date on my phone. December 22. Derek had offered to spend Christmas Eve with me so I wouldn't be alone, and Dad was working that night. The party would probably go late, and I'd be expected to stand around making small talk, hiding my pregnancy from everyone.

No. I shook my head. Too much stress. That environment would be torture, especially with my morning sickness prone to flaring up unpredictably. Guilt tugged at me, though—I didn't want to completely alienate Lydia. But I knew my limits.

Sorry, can't. Family stuff, I typed back, leaving it vague.

She replied with a disappointed emoji: We'll miss you! Merry Christmas if I don't see you before then.

"Merry Christmas," I mumbled under my breath, setting the phone aside. The day stretched out before me, an empty slate. Dad had mentioned something about picking up a turkey or ham in preparation for Christmas Day, but I wasn't sure I'd even have the appetite. I wondered if Derek had plans—no, wait, that was silly. I shouldn't lean on him every hour of the day.

I forced myself to stand, heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My reflection startled me; the shadows under my eyes were more pronounced, and a tightness lingered around my mouth. I touched my lower abdomen, feeling that slight curve that might just be bloat, or might be the earliest hint of a baby bump. Six and a half weeks, and already I felt different. I tried not to imagine what I'd look like at six months.

After a quick rinse, I went downstairs, rummaging for something to eat. Bread—blessed bread that Derek had restocked—was still fresh. I made plain toast and gingerly tested my stomach's reaction. No rebellion. Good. As I nibbled, my phone buzzed again, making me tense. But it was only Dad, asking if I wanted to tag along for groceries. I considered it for a moment, then decided fresh air might help. Sure, I texted back. When?

He said he'd be home in half an hour, then we could go. Perfect. That gave me time to tidy up a bit. I vacuumed the living room, ignoring the ache in my lower back. Again, the monotony helped settle my nerves. By the time Dad arrived, I'd caught a second wind, determined not to let the day slip away in anxious brooding.

We drove to the local supermarket, me in the passenger seat of Dad's cruiser. People stared a bit—probably not every day they saw the sheriff's Jeep (technically an official car, though it was older) parked in the grocery lot—but Dad didn't seem to mind. We grabbed a cart and navigated the aisles. The store was more crowded than usual, everyone doing last-minute holiday shopping. My skin prickled at the noise and chaos, but Dad kept a steady hand on the cart, calmly asking me if I wanted certain snacks or fruits. I was grateful for his presence as a buffer.

We piled the cart with basic staples—milk, eggs, bread, some produce—and eventually made it to the meat section, where Dad eyed a small turkey. "What do you think?" he asked, lifting it. "Is this too much for just the two of us?"

I shrugged. "Might be. But leftover turkey's not bad. We can freeze it."

He nodded, adding it to the cart. "We'll do some veggies on the side. Nothing too fancy. You okay with that? I don't want to overload you if you're feeling sick."

"It's fine," I said. "I'll eat what I can."

Dad gave me a concerned look but let it go, heading to the checkout. The line was long, people chatting about holiday plans or bickering about last-minute lists. I did my best to tune it out, focusing on the steady beep of the scanner at the registers. Dad hummed under his breath, a tune that might have been a Christmas carol. My chest tightened with a sudden wave of emotion. Was this our last Christmas as just the two of us? Next year, we might have a baby in the house—a baby we still knew next to nothing about. I swallowed hard, trying to push the thought aside.

We finally reached the register, unloaded our groceries, and Dad handed over his card. The cashier was a young man, maybe a year older than me, wearing a Santa hat that kept slipping down his forehead. He gave us a polite nod, bagging our items efficiently. I felt a faint pang of envy—just a normal teen with a normal holiday job, no dark magic pregnancies to worry about. Crazy how much my life had changed.

On the way back, Dad tried to make small talk about some of the guys at the station, how they were shifting schedules to be with their families. I nodded, half-listening, but my mind was elsewhere. I thought about Scott, Derek, about the possibility of paternity tests. The idea of going up to Ethan or Isaac with the same question made my stomach churn. 'Hey, guys, are you my baby's father?'
Yeah, that'd go over great.

We unloaded the groceries in companionable silence at home, and Dad glanced at the clock. "I've got to head back soon," he said, stifling a yawn. "Another shift. Sorry."

My heart twisted. "It's okay. I'll be alright."

He pressed his lips together, nodding. "I know. Just check in with me if you need anything. If you want to do something for Christmas Eve, let me know. Otherwise, I'll see you Christmas morning."

I forced a smile. "Sure, Dad. Don't worry about me."

He ruffled my hair, like he used to when I was a kid, then grabbed his keys and left. The house felt emptier with him gone again, but at least we were stocked up for the holiday. The turkey sat in the fridge, a reminder that Christmas was mere days away.

I dragged myself to the couch, flicking on the Christmas tree lights. They blinked merrily, oblivious to my heavy mood. I sighed, scrolling through my phone to see if Derek or Scott had messaged. Nothing. My reflection in the dark TV screen looked tired, hunched over.

Get up, Stiles, I told myself. You can't mope all day.

But my body had other plans—another wave of exhaustion swept in, and I settled deeper into the cushions, letting my eyes slip closed. I must have fallen asleep again, because when I woke, the sun was lower in the sky, painting the walls in a golden hue. The clock read 4:10 p.m. My mouth felt dry, and my throat ached. I rubbed my eyes, wishing my sleep schedule wasn't so erratic. Pregnancy exhaustion was no joke.

A soft knock on the door made me jerk upright. Heart pounding, I stared at the doorway. Another visitor? I swallowed, bracing myself. It might be Derek again, or maybe Scott. Or Peter. The thought made my stomach roll. Slowly, I got up and approached the door, peering through the small window.

It was Scott. Again. My pulse spiked, a mixture of relief and lingering apprehension. We'd just talked, so why was he here? Taking a breath, I opened the door. He stood there in a hoodie, hands tucked in the pockets, looking sheepish.

"Hey," he said. "I know we just saw each other yesterday, but... can I come in?"

I hesitated, then nodded, stepping aside. "Sure. What's up?"

He entered, glancing around as if expecting to see someone else. "Derek around?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, it's just me."

Scott let out a breath, nodding. "Right. I just wanted to talk about... something."

We moved into the living room, and I gestured for him to sit on the couch. He did so, perched on the edge, while I settled in a chair opposite him. The Christmas tree lights blinked, casting faint rainbow patterns on the floor.

Scott fiddled with his hoodie strings, looking uncomfortable. "So... after I left the coffee shop, I kept thinking about the paternity thing. How you don't know who the father is, and how that might be weighing on you."

My heart fluttered. "Yeah," I said warily. "It's not exactly fun."

He bit his lip. "I was thinking... if you need to do a test on me, I'm willing. I know it'd be weird, but if it eliminates me as a possibility, that might help narrow things down, right?"

I swallowed. That was almost exactly what Derek had said. Part of me felt touched that Scott would offer, but another part of me dreaded the result. "What if you are the father?" I asked bluntly.

He flinched, color draining from his face. "Then... we deal with it," he said softly. "I'll be there for you and the baby. I promise I won't freak out again."

My chest clenched with emotion. "Scott..."

"I mean it," he insisted, voice trembling. "I know I messed up, but if this baby is half mine, I'm not going to bail. I'd step up, help out, whatever you need." He exhaled shakily. "But if I'm not the father, at least we can cross me off and you can focus on the other possibilities."

Tears threatened to burn at the corners of my eyes. "I... I don't know if I'm ready," I admitted, voice cracking. "It's so much."

He nodded, expression pained. "I get it. No pressure. I just wanted you to know I'm on board if you decide to go that route."

We let the silence settle, the soft blink of the tree lights our only backdrop. After a minute, I leaned back in the chair, running a hand through my hair. "Derek said the same thing," I confessed. "That he'd do a test if I wanted."

Scott pressed his lips together, glancing at me. "You must feel overwhelmed."

A hollow laugh escaped me. "That's an understatement." I sighed. "I appreciate the offer, though. Really."

He gave me a tentative smile. "No problem."

We sat there, the conversation hanging heavy. Finally, I cleared my throat, changing the subject. "Did you, uh, hear about Lydia's Christmas party?"

He nodded. "Yeah, she invited me. I'm not sure if I'll go. Things are weird with the pack lately."

I grimaced. "Same. I told her I have family stuff. I can't handle a party."

Scott nodded, understanding. "Maybe next year."

The phrase "maybe next year" felt weighty. A year from now, I might have a baby. Scott seemed to realize it too, because he swallowed and looked away, as if the reality of that timeline hit him. We were treading on uncertain ground—both wanting to mend our friendship but terrified of what the future held.

Eventually, I broke the silence with a soft sigh. "Thanks for stopping by. And for offering... that test." I shifted, uncomfortable. "But right now, I think I just want to wait. Let the dust settle a bit more. If it gets to a point where we need to know, we'll talk to Deaton."

Scott nodded, standing from the couch. "That makes sense. I won't bug you about it. Just know it's on the table."

I stood as well, crossing my arms. "Okay."

He glanced at the tree, the blinking lights reflecting in his brown eyes. "You did a good job with the decorations."

"Thanks," I said quietly. "I was trying to keep it from feeling too bleak."

He gave me a sad smile. "You'll figure it out, Stiles. You're... you're stronger than you give yourself credit for."

My throat tightened. "Same goes for you."

A moment passed in which we could have hugged again, but neither of us moved. Finally, Scott glanced at the door. "I should go. My mom wants me to help with some chores. But... Merry Christmas, if I don't see you before."

"Yeah," I said, my voice faltering. "Merry Christmas."

He walked to the door, and I followed. The afternoon light was fading into early dusk, painting the sky in pale oranges. He hesitated on the threshold, like he wanted to say more, but ended up just waving. I watched him walk to his car and drive off, the knot in my chest twisting tighter. With Scott gone, the house felt oppressively quiet again. I paced around the living room, mind spinning. Scott offering a test, Derek offering a test. Both genuinely trying to help. Part of me wanted to run the tests tomorrow, rip the band-aid off. Another part quaked at the possibility of either result. If it's Derek... if it's Scott... My stomach churned just thinking about it.

In a burst of restless energy, I grabbed my notebook from upstairs, the one with the paternity list, and brought it down to the living room table. Settling onto the couch, I set the notebook in my lap, flipping to the page with the names. The small lamp near me cast a warm pool of light.

I stared at the list:

Derek

Scott

Peter

Ethan

Aiden (deceased)

Isaac

Others

Eight lines of possibilities, if I counted "someone else." My chest felt tight. I tapped the pen against the paper, thinking about each scenario. Derek and Scott were already on board to test. Peter... I had no idea how to approach him about that. He'd probably relish the drama. Ethan? I could maybe contact him through Lydia, but that would open a whole can of worms. Aiden was dead. Isaac was in France, but maybe I could track him down through Chris Argent or something.

I scribbled a few notes beside each name. For Derek and Scott, I wrote "Possible test—both willing." For Peter, I wrote "Dangerous. Not sure how to handle." For Ethan, "Need contact info, uncertain." Aiden, "Deceased—DNA sample???. Should have the same DNA as Ethan" And Isaac, "In France—would I even bother him?"

The entire endeavor left me feeling nauseous. I slapped the notebook closed, tossing it onto the coffee table. My pulse hammered, and I sank back against the couch, staring at the twinkling tree lights. The baby might be born in August, according to Deaton's estimate. That gave me eight months to figure everything out, but it also felt like no time at all. My life was changing at breakneck speed.

The front door creaked open, and Dad stepped in, rubbing his temples. He shot me a weary smile. "Hey, kid. Thought I'd be done earlier, but you know how it is. Everything okay?"

I forced a breath, nodding. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

He frowned at the notebook on the coffee table, then back at me. "Paternity stuff?"

I gave a small nod. "Scott offered to do a test," I admitted. "Derek did too. I'm just... not ready."

Dad set his keys down and walked over, resting a hand on my shoulder. "That's understandable, son." His voice was gentle. "Don't push yourself too hard."

I swallowed, blinking back tears. "I won't. Just... it's a lot."

He squeezed my shoulder, then wandered into the kitchen, presumably to find something for dinner. I stayed on the couch, letting the soft glow of the Christmas lights wash over me. Dad rattled around, muttering about leftover turkey or something else, but I barely heard him. My gaze lingered on the notebook, my heart a storm of conflicting impulses.

Eventually, Dad stuck his head into the living room. "You hungry?"

I shook my head, half lying. "I'm okay."

He studied me for a moment. "Alright. I'm heating up some soup. Let me know if you want any."

"Sure," I said, and he disappeared again. My stomach roiled, whether from stress or actual hunger, I couldn't tell. I pressed a hand to my midsection, feeling that faint curve. Lentil. The baby's about the size of a lentil.

Stay calm, I told myself. Christmas is in three days. You can handle that much.

Maybe after Christmas, I'd revisit the paternity test idea. One problem at a time. For now, the best gift I could give myself was to focus on the holiday with Dad, maybe invite Derek over like we'd planned. Let the rest of the world—Scott, the pack, the father question—fall aside for a few days, if that was even possible.

I forced myself up and walked into the kitchen, where Dad stirred a small pot of soup. The simple domestic scene felt grounding. I leaned against the counter, letting the warmth of the stove and the smell of chicken broth calm me. Dad offered me a ladleful to taste, and it was comforting enough that I took a small bowl.

We ate in comfortable silence at the table. Dad tried not to pry, and I appreciated it. Afterward, we moved to the living room, the Christmas tree lighting our quiet conversation about when we'd open presents—probably Christmas morning, after he got home from his shift and grabbed a couple hours of sleep. Neither of us mentioned the pregnancy, or paternity, or the pack. For a few hours, we let the illusion of a normal holiday settle around us.

And for the first time in weeks, it felt manageable. The swirling chaos in my head receded, replaced by a tenuous peace. I knew it wouldn't last, but I clung to it. Maybe that was what Christmas was about this year—carving out a small haven of calm in the midst of upheaval.

Eventually, Dad headed upstairs to bed, and I lingered on the couch, watching the lights blink in the darkness. My hand rested on my stomach, the faintest sense of connection blooming there. Yes, I had a list of potential fathers. Yes, the pack was fractured, and I still had trust issues with Scott. Yes, Peter loomed like a vulture, and the future was uncertain. But in this moment, I was safe, I was warm, and I had a baby—my baby—growing inside me. Maybe that was enough to get me through the rest of the night.

I closed my eyes, and the gentle glow of Christmas tree lights followed me into a dreamless sleep, holding me steady in a world still rife with questions I couldn't yet answer.

December 23, 2011

I woke up feeling a strange mix of dread and excitement thrumming under my skin, like static electricity crackling in the air. My eyes flicked to the clock—6:14 a.m. Too early for a normal day, maybe, but I'd barely slept anyway. My heart was pounding, and my stomach rolled with that now-familiar lurch of queasiness. Today was December 23rd, and in a few hours, I'd have my first official prenatal appointment with Deaton since I learned I was pregnant. It would be my first chance to see—or at least confirm—what was happening inside me with actual medical equipment, beyond the quick blood test I'd done weeks ago.

Groaning, I threw off my blanket, already feeling that burst of cold sweat that hit me most mornings. I sat on the edge of my bed, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My mind whirled with anxious thoughts. Dad was taking me to the clinic; he'd insisted, even though I half expected him to have some last-minute crisis at the station. But he'd rearranged his schedule, letting Deputy Parrish cover for him. The fact that Dad had taken such initiative for this appointment twisted a knot of conflicting emotions in my chest. Gratitude, certainly. Fear, absolutely. And a tinge of guilt, because I knew he was worried sick about me even while trying to act calm.

I forced myself to stand. The wood floor felt ice-cold beneath my bare feet. Downstairs, I heard the faint hiss of the heater, the house creaking as it warmed. I grabbed some clothes—a pair of loose jeans and a soft sweatshirt that didn't cling too tightly to my stomach—and headed to the bathroom. My reflection was the same as always these days: pale, with dark smudges under my eyes, a slight puffiness to my cheeks that might have been bloat or sleeplessness. Six weeks and some days pregnant—six weeks and four or five days, depending on how you counted from that weird initial estimation. I'd lost track of the exact decimal. All I knew was that it was still early, still terrifying. And yet, Deaton said we'd be able to hear a heartbeat if everything was progressing normally.

A heartbeat. That single word echoed in my mind, making my own chest tighten. It wasn't the first time I'd heard the baby's heart—Deaton had done an emergency scan when I'd shown up thinking I was having some post-Nogitsune breakdown, only to discover I was pregnant. But that day had been a blur of panic and confusion. Today felt more real, more official. I'd have Dad with me, which made it both comforting and nerve-racking.

I fumbled for my toothbrush, brushed my teeth, rinsed, then splashed cold water on my face. The reflection in the mirror was still me, but everything felt different. I thought about the others who might have come with me—Scott, Derek, maybe even Lydia—but no, I'd kept the circle small. Scott had offered help in a roundabout way, but after our recent turmoil, I'd decided I just needed Dad there. Derek had an open invitation to future appointments, but for this first big one, I couldn't handle multiple sets of eyes watching me freak out. Dad was enough. Dad was always enough.

Shivering slightly in the bathroom's chill, I hurried back to my bedroom, pulled on my clothes, and grabbed a hoodie. One more glance at the clock—6:25 a.m. Great. Over three hours until the appointment. My stomach churned. Maybe I should eat something bland, hope it stayed down. If I didn't eat, I risked being too nauseous to focus. If I did eat, I risked throwing up in front of Dad at the clinic. Pick your poison, I told myself grimly.

Downstairs, the kitchen light was off, but the faint glow of the outside porch light seeped in, illuminating the counters. I found some saltines in the cabinet and nibbled a few, washing them down with small sips of water. My stomach quivered, but I kept breathing slowly, trying to force calm. Dad wasn't up yet, so the house was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the distant ticking of the clock in the living room.

I slipped onto the couch, pulling the blanket over me and curling my feet beneath me. The Christmas tree lights were off—I hadn't bothered turning them on yet—but the shape of the tree loomed in the dimness. My thoughts churned. In two days, it would be Christmas Eve. So much was happening at once. My phone buzzed on the coffee table, making me jump. I snatched it, squinting at the screen.

A text from Derek: Appointment today, right? Let me know how it goes.
Short, to the point. Yet it sent a burst of warmth through me. At least he remembered. I typed back: Thanks. Will do.

I set the phone aside, rubbing my hands together. Dad had insisted on leaving the house around 9:15, so we could be at Deaton's by 9:45. The appointment started at ten. Deaton had said the earlier, the better, since the clinic wasn't overly busy at that time. I closed my eyes for a minute, letting the quiet lull me. My stomach twisted, an anxious knot that refused to settle.

Time oozed by until the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs alerted me that Dad was up. He appeared in the living room doorway, hair tousled,pj pants on ,shirt untucked. He blinked at me, concern etched on his face.

"You're up early," he said softly.

I nodded, hugging the blanket. "Couldn't sleep. Too nervous."

He sighed, coming over to sit in the armchair beside the couch. "Yeah, me too," he admitted. "But we'll get through this, kid."

My throat tightened at the reassurance in his voice. "Yeah," I whispered, not trusting myself to say more. If I did, I might start babbling about all the what-ifs that haunted me at night.

Dad cleared his throat. "We've got a few hours. You want breakfast? Or we could just wait until after the appointment—maybe pick up something on the way back."

I considered, pressing a hand to my still-queasy stomach. "I ate some crackers," I said. "Might hold off on anything else until we're done. Just in case."

He nodded, a flicker of sympathy passing over his features. "Alright. I'll get ready."

I watched him stand and head back upstairs to finish dressing, a weird wave of affection rolling through me. Dad had always been supportive, but it struck me anew just how much he was juggling to be there for me today. The knowledge both comforted and weighed on me, spurring that age-old guilt that I was causing him more worry than a normal teen would.

Eventually, Dad came back down, fully dressed in his uniform minus the heavy jacket, which he carried over one arm. He looked at me with that gentle, paternal gaze and gestured toward the door. "Ready to go? We can get there a little early, talk to Deaton if you need to."

I stood, smoothing my hoodie over my torso, mentally bracing myself. "Yeah," I said. "Let's do it."

The drive to the clinic felt surreal, the streets of Beacon Hills calm under a gray sky. Snow clung to the edges of the sidewalks, dirty with car exhaust. Dad flicked the heater on, filling the Jeep with warm air that made me drowsy and jumpy at the same time. Neither of us talked much. Dad asked if I was warm enough. I said yes. Then we fell silent, each lost in our own anxious thoughts.

We pulled up to the small parking lot behind the clinic around 9:35. Deaton's sign—Beacon Hills Animal Clinic—looked quaint as ever. A pang of nerves shot through me at the idea that I was going to a vet for a prenatal checkup, but Deaton was more than just a vet, of course. He was a druid, the closest thing we had to a supernatural doctor in town. I had to keep reminding myself he'd handled pregnancies for werewolves and other beings. He can handle me, I thought, forcing a half-hearted smile.

Dad cut the engine, turning to me with a tight smile. "You okay?"

I swallowed, nodding. "Let's just... go." If I sat there any longer, I might back out.

We stepped out into the cold, and Dad hurried around the Jeep, as if to shield me from any stray gust of wind. The clinic's back door was unlocked, leading into a side hallway. Deaton often kept it accessible for emergencies. Inside, the overhead fluorescent lights hummed, casting everything in a clinical glow that made my stomach do flips. The waiting area was deserted except for a lone cat in a carrier, mewling softly near the reception desk. I tried not to think about the fact that I was about to get an ultrasound in a place that usually scanned dogs and cats.

Footsteps approached—Deaton, wearing his typical calm expression. "Stiles, Sheriff," he greeted, nodding at both of us. "You're early. That's good."

Dad offered a polite smile. "Morning, Deaton. Thanks for fitting us in."

Deaton led us down the hallway to the exam room he'd converted for my checkups. "It's no trouble," he said softly. "I have the ultrasound machine set up. We can take a look, confirm everything's on track. How are you feeling today?"

I glanced at Dad, then back at Deaton. "Nervous," I admitted, voice cracking. "Kind of queasy, but that's normal for me now."

Deaton nodded, his expression kind. "That's to be expected in the first trimester. Let's see if we can give you some reassurance." He waved me into the exam room, which was small but clean, with an exam table, a portable ultrasound machine, and a stool for Deaton. Another chair was tucked in the corner, presumably for Dad.

A wave of self-consciousness hit me as Deaton gestured for me to hop onto the exam table. The last time I was here, it was a hasty check that ended with me learning I was pregnant. No Dad, no prior warning, just raw shock. Dad seemed to sense my unease, stepping forward to help me up even though I was fully capable of climbing by myself.

"You'll need to lie back," Deaton instructed gently, turning on the machine. It beeped, the screen flickering to life. I swallowed hard, leaning back against the raised portion of the table, my legs stretched out. Deaton draped a paper sheet over my lower torso. He handed me a gown. "You can just lift your shirt a bit if you're comfortable. I'll use a transducer on your abdomen to get a clearer picture, but we might need a transvaginal ultrasound if the abdominal one doesn't show enough detail. We'll try the external method first."

My cheeks burned. I'd read enough pregnancy info to know that transvaginal ultrasounds were common this early on, but I was really hoping we could see enough with the external one. Plus I don't know how that would work since I'm male and don't have a vagina. Doing it with Dad in the room... yeah, no thanks. I hiked my hoodie up a few inches, baring my lower stomach. Dad's eyes flicked away, like he was giving me privacy, which I appreciated. Deaton grabbed a bottle of gel—stuff that looked suspiciously like the brand used on animals. I bit back a small laugh. This was beyond weird, but at least it was better than nothing.

"This might be cold," Deaton warned, and sure enough, I shivered as the gel touched my skin. The next moment, he pressed the small ultrasound wand against my lower abdomen, moving it slowly, eyes on the screen. My breath caught, heart hammering as I tried to read his expression. The screen displayed fuzzy static for a moment, a swirl of black, white, and gray.

Dad hovered near the foot of the table, arms folded, trying to maintain that stoic cop façade, but I could see the tension in his brow. Please let everything be okay, I thought desperately.

Deaton adjusted the wand, angling it slightly to the left. "Let's see here," he murmured. On the screen, a little blob emerged, a tiny sac shape with a flicker inside. My chest constricted. That flicker was everything—life, a heartbeat, a sign that this was real. My eyes burned with sudden tears.

Dad leaned forward, exhaling sharply. "Is that—?"

Deaton's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Yes, Sheriff. That's your grandchild." He pressed a button, and a faint whooshing sound filled the air. It was quieter than I remembered, maybe because my own pulse roared in my ears, but it was there: the soft, rapid thumping of a heartbeat. My vision blurred with tears.

"Oh my God," I whispered, voice trembling. The last time I heard it, I was too shocked to process it fully. Now, it hit me like a tsunami of emotion, washing away all the fears and frustrations, if only for a moment. My baby—my baby—was alive, heartbeat fluttering like a tiny bird.

Dad stood rigidly, his jaw working like he was trying to hold himself together. "That's it?" he managed, voice thick. "That's the... the heartbeat?"

Deaton nodded, glancing at me. "Around six weeks, it's very small, but it's there. Roughly one hundred to one hundred twenty beats per minute, which is normal at this stage." He shifted the wand slightly. "We can measure the fetal pole, confirm the gestational sac is in the correct position."

I barely heard him. My entire focus was on that flicker, that sound. My eyes stung. I blinked hard, tears slipping down my cheeks. Dad reached out, resting a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me. He didn't say anything, but the emotion in his expression was clear. Neither of us knew how to process this, but in that moment, it didn't matter.

Deaton clicked a few buttons, capturing images, measuring distances. "The embryo measures about the right size for six weeks, give or take a day or two. The sac looks healthy, well-implanted. No abnormalities that I can see." He paused, glancing at me. "How are you feeling?"

I sniffed, giving a shaky laugh. "Relieved? Overwhelmed. All of the above."

Dad squeezed my shoulder. "Same here," he muttered.

Deaton moved the wand, scanning from different angles. The screen flickered, but the flicker of the heartbeat stayed in view, that soothing, quick whoosh-whoosh-whoosh pulsing in the background. I found myself clinging to the sound. For weeks, I'd been living with the knowledge that I was pregnant. But seeing that heartbeat again, hearing it so clearly... it made it all tangible in a way that both thrilled and terrified me.

Finally, Deaton pulled the wand away, wiping the gel off my stomach with a towel. "Everything appears normal," he said. "I'd like to do a more detailed follow-up in a few weeks, but for now, you can take these images if you want." He pressed a button, and the printer beside the ultrasound machine spat out a few grainy black-and-white pictures. He handed them to me carefully.

My hand shook as I took them. Dad peered over my shoulder, silent. The images were fuzzy, but in the center was that tiny shape, a blob of light in a sea of gray. My chest felt simultaneously too tight and ready to burst. This is my baby, I thought, an almost hysterical laugh forming in my chest.

"How's your nausea?" Deaton asked, setting the wand aside.

I cleared my throat, forcing my gaze off the pictures. "Uh, mostly in the morning. But it can flare up any time."

He nodded. "That's normal for many pregnancies, though we'll watch it closely. If it worsens, we might consider medication or stronger herbal remedies. Keep taking your prenatal vitamins, and try to eat small, frequent meals."

I swallowed, nodding. Dad remained quiet, but I could sense his relief at hearing this was normal. Meanwhile, my mind spun with a thousand questions I couldn't quite voice.

Deaton gave me a calm, measured look. "Any questions about your progress so far?"

Questions? A million, but they all jumbled in my head. Will my body handle this? What about paternity? What if something goes wrong next week? Next month? But all I managed was a whispered, "Not yet. Just... thanks."

He offered a reassuring nod. "I'll see you again in a few weeks, or sooner if you have concerns. Let's keep an eye on your stress levels, too. Elevated stress can exacerbate your nausea and fatigue."

I managed a weak smile. "Right. Stress is my middle name."

Dad gently patted my shoulder and stepped back, letting me sit up. My lower abdomen felt strangely warm, the ghost of the ultrasound gel lingering. I carefully tucked the ultrasound pictures into a small envelope Deaton offered, feeling like I was cradling the most precious documents in the world.

Dad cleared his throat. "Thank you, Deaton. This... means a lot, knowing everything's okay so far."

Deaton smiled kindly. "I understand. Let me know if there's anything else I can do."

With that, he gave me a final nod and headed out, likely to check on an actual animal patient. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Dad and me alone in the exam room. My fingers brushed over the envelope, tears threatening again. Dad inhaled shakily.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, voice soft.

I nodded, wiping at my cheeks. "Yeah. It's just... hearing it again. Seeing it. It's so—" My words choked off.

Dad stepped closer, laying a hand on my back. "I know," he murmured, voice thick. "It's a lot."

We stood there for a moment, letting the weight of the experience settle. Then, gingerly, I slid off the exam table. Dad steadied me, his hand firm on my elbow. My legs wobbled a bit, like the emotional drain had sapped my strength.

"You want to head home, or do you need anything?" Dad asked, clearing his throat to steady his voice.

I glanced at the envelope in my hand. "Home," I murmured, not trusting myself in public right now. "I just want to... process this."

Dad nodded, opening the door. I followed him out into the hallway, feeling lightheaded but oddly calm. The short walk to the Jeep felt surreal, as if the entire clinic had shrunk around me. The outside air slapped me in the face with a rush of cold, bringing me back to reality.

As soon as we climbed into the Jeep, Dad fumbled for the heater, blasting warm air onto the windshield. The engine rumbled to life, and we pulled out of the parking lot in silence. I kept the ultrasound pictures clutched in my lap, afraid that if I let them go, I'd lose the only proof I had that everything was okay.

We were halfway home when Dad cleared his throat. "I... I'm proud of you, Stiles."

My heart lurched. "For what?"

He kept his eyes on the road, brow creased in thought. "For handling this. I know you're terrified, but you're doing it anyway. That takes courage." His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "You never asked for this, but you're not running from it."

I stared at the passing scenery, a lump in my throat. "I feel like running sometimes," I admitted. "But I can't. It's my responsibility."

Dad nodded, exhaling. "Well, I'm here for you. Whatever happens."

Emotion welled in me again, and I blinked fiercely. I managed a broken "Thanks, Dad," and said nothing more, letting the hum of the Jeep's engine and the rush of wind outside fill the space. The trip home felt both too long and too short. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I felt drained yet oddly peaceful.

Dad parked, cutting the engine. Neither of us moved right away. I stared at the envelope. Slowly, I lifted the flap and slid out the top ultrasound print. That little blob, that faint shape, with the bright spot that had flickered so beautifully on the screen. The memory of the heartbeat's whooshing filled my ears again. My chest tightened.

Dad cleared his throat. "Want me to take those inside?"

I shook my head, tucking them back into the envelope. "No, it's okay. I'll hold on to them."

He nodded, pushing the car door open. We got out into the cold, shutting our doors in unison, then stepped up onto the porch. Inside, the house was still, the faint ticking of the living room clock greeting us as we hung our coats. I clutched the envelope, suddenly unsure what to do with these precious images. Frame them? Shove them in a drawer? I ended up slipping them into a small box on the coffee table, the one Dad used to store receipts and random mail. I knew I could retrieve them anytime I wanted.

"Do you need to rest?" Dad asked quietly, watching me with that careful concern.

I shrugged, the adrenaline crash hitting me. "Maybe." My stomach rumbled, reminding me I'd only had crackers. "Or maybe I should eat something."

Dad nodded, heading to the kitchen. "I can make a sandwich. You need anything special?"

I followed him, leaning against the counter. "Plain turkey sandwich? Something not too heavy."

"Coming right up," he said, pulling bread from the pantry. His motions were steady, meticulous, and I realized it was his way of keeping calm, giving his hands something to do. I stayed silent, letting him craft the sandwich while I sipped water from a glass. My gaze kept drifting to the living room, where that envelope lay. The heartbeat still rang in my mind, overshadowing everything else. For the first time in a long while, I felt a thread of hope that maybe I could do this.

When Dad handed me the sandwich, I took a small bite, testing my stomach. No immediate protests, so I took another. Slowly, the warmth of real food settled into me. "Thanks," I mumbled, mouth half-full. "This helps."

He gave me a faint smile, grabbing a mug of coffee for himself. "Anytime, kid."

We settled at the table, me nibbling the sandwich, Dad sipping coffee. Neither of us brought up the baby's father, or the pack, or the supernatural drama that hovered over Beacon Hills like a stormcloud. For that moment, it was just us, father and son, coping with the biggest surprise of our lives in the only way we knew how: quiet support, small gestures, and genuine care.

Finally, Dad set his mug down with a sigh. "I wish your mom was here," he said softly, eyes distant. "She'd know exactly what to say. She was always good at this sort of thing."

My throat closed up. Thoughts of Mom filled me with a bittersweet ache. "She'd probably freak out, but in a calm, nurturing way," I said, the corners of my mouth twitching in a sad smile.

Dad laughed softly, though tears glistened in his eyes. "Yeah, something like that."

For a while, we just sat there, letting her memory stand beside us in spirit. The clock ticked, the heater kicked on with a whoosh, and the smell of coffee mingled with the faint aroma of the sandwich. A sense of fragile peace wrapped around me, a bubble I desperately wanted to preserve.

I finished eating, then carried my plate to the sink. The house felt warmer, or maybe it was just me. Dad disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a small cardboard box. "I was looking for something in the attic yesterday," he said quietly, "and I found these." He opened the box, revealing a handful of crocheted baby blankets—old and faded, but clearly handmade.

My breath caught. "Are those...?"

He nodded. "Some of your old stuff, actually. Your mom insisted on keeping it all these years. I'm not saying you need to use them, but I thought—maybe you'd want to see them?"

Tears threatened to spill again. I gently touched one of the blankets, running my fingertips over the soft, worn yarn. "Thanks," I whispered, overwhelmed. The idea of using my old baby blankets for my baby... it was almost too much.

Dad closed the box. "We can leave them in the attic if it's too soon," he said gently. "I just... wanted you to know they're here."

I swallowed hard, nodding. "I appreciate it, Dad."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. I drifted between the couch and the kitchen, occasionally checking my phone to see if Derek or Scott had texted about the appointment. Derek sent a quick How did it go? around three, to which I replied: Healthy heartbeat, everything normal. Thank you. He responded with a simple, Glad to hear it. No mention of paternity tests or next steps, just that calm, steady presence. I was more grateful than I could say.

By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the living room in golden light, I realized I felt... lighter. Tired, yes, and still anxious about the future, but hearing the baby's heartbeat again had taken a huge weight off me. It was real, it was healthy so far, and I had Dad in my corner. That knowledge gave me something solid to hold onto in the midst of uncertainty.

Dad warmed up leftovers for dinner, a simple reheat of soup and half a sandwich. I managed to eat without feeling like my stomach was waging war on me. Afterward, we turned on the Christmas tree lights, letting their soft glow fill the living room. We didn't talk about the ultrasound pictures or the crocheted blankets, but the unspoken understanding hung between us like a comforting presence.

Eventually, Dad headed to bed, leaving me alone with the blinking lights and my swirling thoughts. I sank onto the couch, pulling the blanket over my lap. A gentle peace settled in. The clinic appointment had been one of the scariest and most relieving things I'd done in a while. Holding that moment in my head—seeing the flicker of a heartbeat on the screen, hearing the soft whoosh—felt like an anchor. No matter what else happened, no matter who the father turned out to be, that heartbeat was mine to protect.

I grabbed my phone, typing a final message to Derek: Thank you for checking in. We heard the heartbeat. Hard to explain how incredible it was.

He responded a minute later: Take it easy, Stiles. Get some rest.

A soft smile tugged at my lips. I locked the phone and leaned back, watching the tree lights dance across the ceiling. Yeah, I'll rest. Tomorrow was another day, another series of choices about how to handle this pregnancy, but tonight, I wanted to bask in the reassurance that for now—just for now—everything was okay. The baby's heart was strong, and mine, despite all the fear, beat in tandem with that tiny flicker of life growing within me.

I closed my eyes, letting the memory of the whooshing heartbeat lull me into a calm I rarely felt these days. Christmas was coming, and I was still terrified about a thousand things. But at least for one night, I had hope—and that was more than I'd dared to feel in a long time.

December 24th, 2011

I wake on December 24th to the faint glow of early morning light slipping through the cracks in my bedroom curtains. The clock on my nightstand reads 7:04 a.m., which is late enough by my usual standards these days. Most mornings, I'm jolted awake at the crack of dawn by a wave of nausea, stumbling to the bathroom in a miserable routine that's become all too familiar. But this morning, as I blink away the last traces of sleep, my stomach actually feels... fine. Not perfect, but not twisting itself into knots the way it usually does.

I lie there for a minute, letting the surprise sink in. It feels almost suspicious. I've had so few days where I can open my eyes without wanting to vomit, I'm half convinced this is just a trick my body is playing on me before unleashing a sneak-attack wave of morning sickness. But after another minute passes, I realize my stomach remains steady, aside from the faintest growl of real hunger.

Hunger. That's new. For weeks, I've been on a diet of saltines, bananas, and water—anything else seems to set me off. But I'm actually... hungry this morning. Excitement flickers through me, along with a prickling worry that if I get my hopes up, I'll end up leaning over the toilet in five minutes. Still, the chance to eat something more substantial than plain crackers is too tempting to pass up.

I heave myself upright, pressing a hand to my belly. The last time I actually kept proper food down was... well, it's been a while. And yesterday was a whirlwind—hearing the baby's heartbeat at the clinic with Dad, coming home emotionally exhausted but strangely reassured. After everything, maybe my body decided to grant me a small reprieve. I won't question it too much. I'll take the good days where I can get them.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I notice a faint tightness in my abdomen. Not quite painful, just a reminder that there's a little passenger in there. I rub my eyes, yawning. My room is still a bit chilly, so I slip on my hoodie from the chair beside the bed, shivering until the soft fabric warms me. My mind skims over the day's possibilities—Dad is off duty until later this afternoon, so maybe we'll get a chance to do something normal, like watch a movie or finish decorating. Christmas is practically tomorrow, and the fact that I've been too nauseous and stressed to enjoy it weighs on me. Maybe I can salvage a bit of holiday spirit.

I walk downstairs, bracing myself for a rush of morning sickness that might ambush me once I catch the smell of leftover coffee or something. The house is quiet; Dad must still be asleep or maybe he's in the shower. The living room is dim, lit only by the faint winter light filtering in through the curtains. Our Christmas tree stands by the window, half in shadow, the ornaments glinting even without the lights turned on. A warm sense of pride swells in my chest. We actually got a tree up, I remind myself. It's small, kind of rickety, but it's ours. It's a reminder that even in the chaos of all this baby stuff, life goes on, traditions remain.

In the kitchen, I flick on the overhead light, flinching at how bright it seems against the gray morning. The fridge hums softly, and I open it, peering at the meager contents. My usual safe foods—bananas, yogurt, some crackers in the pantry. But I want something more. My stomach actually feels... almost normal. A cautious hope stirs in me. Could I manage scrambled eggs? Maybe toast with jam?

I grab a carton of eggs, setting it on the counter. My appetite is real, that's clear, but I approach it with the same caution I would a rabid dog. I crack two eggs into a bowl, whisk them gently, and pour them into a small pan on low heat. The sizzle is faint—something that, on another day, might turn my stomach. Today, I'm okay. My heart pounds in a jittery mix of excitement and anxiety. If I can eat eggs without puking, maybe this day will be a good one.

The smell of the eggs cooking wafts up, buttery and warm. My mouth actually waters a little. I scramble them carefully, glancing over my shoulder to see if Dad's stirring. No sign of him yet. Probably for the best—if this backfires and I end up retching in the sink, I'd rather not have an audience.

A couple minutes later, I have a small plate of scrambled eggs, lightly seasoned with salt, plus a piece of toast I popped in the toaster. I slather a thin layer of jam on the toast, biting my lip as I survey my feast. It feels like a lot. Usually I can only handle a few crackers or half a banana. This might be risky, but for the first time in ages, my body is actually craving real food.

I sit at the kitchen table, the wooden surface cool against my forearms. Taking a cautious bite of the eggs, I let the flavors roll over my tongue. Warm. Savory. There's a slight flutter in my stomach, but it's not the surge of nausea I've become so familiar with. It's just... me, being hungry. I allow myself a relieved smile and take another bite. The eggs are plain but delicious, my body welcoming the protein. I nibble the toast, the jam's sweetness contrasting nicely. My heart flutters with cautious joy. I'm really eating.

About halfway through the plate, I set my fork down, waiting for any hint of rebellion from my gut. There's a tiny twinge, like my stomach is testing me, but it fades. Buoyed by success, I manage to finish all the eggs and most of the toast. No immediate queasiness hits me. I slump back in the chair, letting out a trembling sigh. It feels like a victory, a small one, but meaningful in a life that's been overshadowed by morning sickness for weeks.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me glance up. Dad appears in the doorway, hair slightly damp, wearing a rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants. He stops short when he sees me at the table with a plate in front of me. His brows rise in surprise.

"You're up early," he says, echoing his comment from yesterday, but this time there's a different undertone. He eyes the plate. "And eating... eggs?"

I offer a cautious grin, patting my stomach. "Believe it or not, I woke up not feeling like death. Managed to get some real food down." My voice holds a note of pride I can't quite hide.

Dad's expression softens with relief. "That's great, kid. How do you feel?"

I shrug. "A little weird, honestly. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. But for now, I'm okay."

He crosses the kitchen, setting a hand on my shoulder as he passes, a gesture of warmth. "I'm glad. You need to put on some weight, you know."

"Yeah," I murmur, glancing down at myself. He's not wrong. Even though I'm pregnant, I've lost a lot of weight from the constant nausea and from the aftermath of the Nogitsune. My ribs stick out more than they used to, and my arms are thinner. I hate it. I never liked being scrawny, but this is worse—like my body forgot how to rebuild itself after the possession. Now I'm trying to nourish a baby with a body that feels half-starved.

Dad opens the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice. He pours me a small glass, setting it beside my plate. "Try sipping this. It might help keep your energy up."

I nod, grateful for the suggestion. I take a cautious sip. The tangy sweetness dances on my tongue, and a pang of nostalgia hits me. Orange juice used to be my go-to drink when I was a kid, especially in the mornings with Mom. "Thanks," I say quietly. "I appreciate you fussing over me."

Dad huffs a gentle laugh, taking a seat across from me with his own coffee mug. "Not fussing, just... parenting."

"Same thing," I tease, but there's gratitude in my tone.

We sit like that for a few minutes, me finishing my juice, Dad sipping coffee. The quiet hum of the heater fills the background, a comfortable domestic scene that feels too normal given everything swirling in my life. Eventually, Dad sets his mug down and gives me a thoughtful look.

"Yesterday was good," he says softly. "Hearing the baby's heartbeat... I still can't wrap my head around it."

My chest tightens at the memory. "Yeah," I murmur. "It was... I don't know how to explain it. A lot."

He nods, understanding. "I just wanted to say I'm proud of you for handling it so well. I know it's terrifying."

I stare at the empty plate, swallowing a lump of emotion. "Thanks, Dad. I'm trying."

He reaches across the table, giving my hand a brief squeeze, then pulls back. It's enough to convey the love and support without words. We lapse into silence. I can tell he has more to say, but he's choosing to let me process on my own. I appreciate that about him.

After a few more minutes of companionable quiet, I stand, collecting my plate and glass. The rest of the toast remains uneaten, but I'm satisfied with what I managed. Dad moves to help, but I wave him off, depositing them in the sink. My stomach remains calm, a small miracle.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I say. "Then maybe we can figure out what to do with the day. Christmas is basically tomorrow, so... I don't know, maybe we can watch some dumb holiday movie or something."

Dad's face brightens. "That sounds good. I have a shift tonight, so we can hang out until I have to go in."

I nod, heading upstairs. My legs feel a bit steadier than usual, probably because I actually have some nourishment in me. It's such a small thing—scrambled eggs and toast—but it makes a world of difference.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower, letting the water run until it's hot enough to steam up the mirror. Stripping off my clothes, I catch my reflection in the foggy glass, a murky outline of my body. I step into the stream of water, hissing a little at the initial sting of heat. The water cascades over me, soothing the tension in my shoulders. My thoughts drift to the day before: that flicker of a heartbeat, Dad's awe, Deaton's reassurance that everything looks normal. I cling to that reassurance as the water beats against my back, letting myself hope that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay for a while.

I shampoo my hair, running my fingers through the strands, noticing how it's grown a bit since the start of the school year. The dryness of my scalp reminds me I haven't been taking care of myself as well as I should. You can't let yourself fall apart, Stiles, I think, pressing my lips tight. You have a baby to think about now.

After rinsing, I shut off the water, the bathroom now thick with steam. I grab a towel, wrapping it around my waist, and wipe a swath across the mirror with my palm. My reflection stares back at me—hair plastered to my forehead, cheeks still a bit hollow. I look tired, but not as ghastly as I did a few weeks ago, at least. I let the towel drop to mid-chest, exposing my torso so I can examine myself more closely.

That's when my gaze zeroes in on my ribcage. I hate how visible my ribs are, the shallow dip between them. The skin is tight, pale, still recovering from the havoc the Nogitsune wreaked on my body. It's been months, but I never quite regained the muscle or slight bit of healthy weight I used to have. Then, beneath my ribs, there's the faintest curve—a tiny bump. It's small enough that it could still pass for bloating if I wore a baggy hoodie, but I know the truth. That's the baby. It's pushing outward, making room for itself.

I run a hand gently across my abdomen, swallowing a surge of complicated emotion. Part of me is amazed that something so tiny could be so important. Another part feels ashamed at how thin I look otherwise. I need to eat more, I remind myself for the hundredth time. I have to keep this baby healthy. I can't let it starve because I'm too sick or too stressed to eat.

I rub the small bump with my palm, the sensation sending a tingle up my spine. The baby is only six weeks along—well, nearly seven now, I guess—but seeing even the slightest physical change makes it more real. Yesterday's ultrasound made me realize how far I've come from that day I first saw the positive test. How has it only been a few weeks? I wonder. It feels like a lifetime.

Stepping closer to the mirror, I tilt my body sideways, examining the bump's profile. It's still subtle, a gentle swell rather than a pronounced curve, but it's there. My mind floods with questions: Will I start showing more soon? Will I gain weight in time to support a healthy pregnancy? What if my body can't handle it?

I force myself to breathe, in and out, pressing my palm flat against the bump. A rush of protectiveness surges in me, surprising in its intensity. You're here, I think, as if addressing the baby. I'm here, too. I'll try to do better for both of us.

A trembling breath escapes me. I lift my gaze to my collarbones, the faint shadows beneath them, my long neck that looks a bit too skinny. My cheeks flush at the memory of how I used to be scrawny but nowhere near this bony. The Nogitsune's possession took more than mental peace—it robbed my body of stability, leaving me with the aftermath. And now, ironically, I'm carrying new life. The whiplash is enough to make my head spin.

I wrap the towel more securely around myself, turning away from the mirror as if I can't bear to look any longer. The feeling of vulnerability is too strong. I grab another towel for my hair, rubbing it briskly before combing out the tangles. My reflection is still there in my peripheral vision, reminding me of everything I need to do—gain weight, reduce stress, figure out the father's identity eventually. The list never ends.

Once I'm mostly dry, I step into my bedroom, letting the cool air brush my damp skin. I pick out a soft T-shirt and loose pajama pants. Normally, I'd put on jeans, but since I have no immediate plans to go out, I opt for comfort. The sensation of cloth against my newly aware bump makes me shiver. I can almost feel it pushing back, a gentle reminder that I'm not alone in my own body.

Downstairs, Dad has the TV on low—a morning news segment I rarely watch. I smell coffee and, to my surprise, something sweet. When I get to the kitchen, I see he's sliced up a banana and added some peanut butter on a plate. My stomach rumbles, a sign that the eggs I ate might not be enough to sustain me for the morning. Dad grins at me over his shoulder.

"Figured you could try this," he says, gesturing at the peanut-butter-topped slices. "It's extra protein and a bit of sugar, in case your blood sugar is low."

I feel my eyes well up with gratitude. "Thanks," I murmur, sliding into a chair. "I'll try to eat it slowly."

He sits across from me, coffee mug in hand. "No rush," he says gently. "I'm just glad you managed the eggs earlier."

I take a small slice, biting into the banana. The sweetness mixes with the salty richness of peanut butter, and I have to close my eyes for a second, savoring it. It tastes amazing, like the best snack I've had in ages. I realize how much I've missed real flavors. Another piece goes down easily, my stomach accepting it without protest. Dad's watching me with cautious optimism, and I can't help but smile back.

"Who knew peanut butter and bananas could taste this good?" I say, half-joking.

He chuckles. "When you're used to dry crackers, I guess anything else is heavenly."

I nod, finishing another piece. So far, so good. No nausea creeping in at the edges. I let my mind wander to the day's possibilities. December 23rd—two days until Christmas. The baby's first Christmas with me, even if it's still the size of a lentil. My chest warms at the thought. Maybe I can do something holiday-related, like finish those decorations I never got around to, or wrap Dad's present. I still need to figure out when to give Derek his beanie. Maybe on Christmas itself, or maybe I'll slip it to him before. He's been so supportive, it feels like the least I can do.

Dad stands, rinsing his mug in the sink. "I'm gonna do some quick errands this morning," he says. "Just need to pick up a gift card for Parrish, maybe grab some last-minute groceries. You want anything?"

I shake my head, chewing the last bit of banana. "I'm good. Might just chill here, maybe wrap some presents or something."

"Alright," he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "If you start feeling sick, call me. I'll come back."

I give him a small smile. "I'm alright, Dad. Seriously. But thanks."

He nods, eyes lingering on me for a moment, then heads off to get dressed. I finish my snack, savoring the last crumb of peanut butter, then move to the living room. The TV's still on, some talking head rambling about holiday travel. I'm not really interested, so I switch it off, preferring the silence. The Christmas tree stands near the window, half-lit by the soft glow of morning. A wave of affection stirs in my chest for this silly little tree. It's leaning a bit, the star on top slightly off-center, but it's ours. Dad and I might not be the most festive people under normal circumstances, but we tried.

I decide to wrap Dad's present properly. I gathered the materials last week but never mustered the energy to actually do it. Digging into the hallway closet, I find a roll of red-and-green wrapping paper, plus some scotch tape and a pair of scissors. The gift—a decent jacket and a new wallet—waits in my room, hidden under my bed. I gather everything and spread it out on the living room floor, near the tree.

Kneeling, I tug the gifts out of the bag. The jacket is folded neatly, the wallet nestled in a small cardboard box. My stomach twinges, reminding me I'm not used to so much movement after eating. I take a moment to breathe, pressing a hand to my belly. Still okay, I tell myself. I can do this.

I carefully wrap the wallet first, placing it in a plain brown box, then wrapping that in the festive paper. My corners end up slightly crumpled, but it's good enough. The jacket is trickier, so I fold it as neatly as possible and cut a generous swath of wrapping paper, fumbling a bit with the tape. The end result is lumpy, but it'll do. I top both with small stick-on bows, red for the wallet, green for the jacket, and label them with Sharpie: "To Dad, From Stiles."

A sense of accomplishment blooms in my chest. It's a small gesture, but it feels normal, and normal is a rarity these days. I place them under the tree, smoothing the paper. They're the only gifts there. Dad's probably hidden my gifts, or maybe he's giving me something intangible like extra support. Hell, I'm not sure I want any big presents. The best gift I could ask for is a healthy baby and some measure of peace.

I sit back on my heels, admiring the wrapped presents. My stomach grumbles again, and for once, it's not complaining—just a small hunger pang. Weird, I think, rubbing my hand over my sweater-clad midsection. I've eaten more this morning than I usually do all day, and I'm still hungry. Another sign that maybe the morning sickness is easing up, if only for the day. I decide to heed the pang, pushing to my feet and heading back to the kitchen. Might as well keep fueling up while I can.

I rummage through the fridge, finding some leftover yogurt Derek bought me last week. Plain, but I can add a drizzle of honey. The idea doesn't make me nauseous, so I grab it, stirring in a small spoonful of honey. The first taste is tart, but the honey sweetens it enough to be pleasant. I can't help but grin around the spoon. Look at me, eating like a normal person.

Dad emerges from his room, fully dressed and slipping on his coat. He glances at the yogurt in my hand, eyebrows lifting. "Wow, you're on a roll today," he remarks.

I shrug, trying to act casual. "Yeah, guess my body finally decided to give me a break." Beneath the teasing tone, a swirl of relief and joy pulses. I can't remember the last time I felt this good. Maybe I'll regret it later if the nausea comes back with a vengeance, but for now, I'm enjoying it.

He opens the front door, cold air swirling in. "I won't be long," he says. "If you need anything, text me."

"Sure thing," I reply, taking another spoonful of yogurt. "Drive safe."

Dad nods and heads out, the door clicking shut behind him. The house returns to its quiet state. I wander into the living room, yogurt in hand, and sink onto the couch, flipping on the Christmas tree lights. They blink in rainbow patterns, casting gentle colors on the walls. Usually, I find them a bit garish, but this morning, they feel cheerful—like a reminder that there can still be bright moments in the midst of all this.

As I finish the yogurt, my mind drifts back to the mirror—my ribs, the small bump, how thin I still am. My heart tugs with determination. I need to keep this up, I think. Keep eating, keep resting, and let Dad or Derek or Scott help if I need it. I might not like relying on others, but I'm carrying a baby. That changes the stakes entirely.

Setting the empty yogurt cup aside, I close my eyes, letting the couch cradle me. The house is warm, the day open before me. I have a mental list of everything I could do—wrap the last of the ornaments around the tree, maybe text Derek to see if he wants to come by tomorrow, check on how Scott's doing with his holiday plans. But for once, I'm not rushing from one worry to the next. I'm just... existing, with a relatively calm stomach and a sense of cautious hope.

I doze off briefly, lulled by the hush of the house. When I wake, it's still morning, but closer to ten. My phone buzzes with a message from Lydia, asking if I'm sure I can't make her Christmas get-together tomorrow night. I sigh, typing back a polite but firm no, explaining that I'm dealing with family stuff. She sends back a disappointed "Aw" and a promise to do something after Christmas. A pang of guilt hits me—I miss hanging out with her, but I can't handle a big party. Not in my condition. Maybe I'll talk to her after the holidays are done, I tell myself. I owe her that much.

Dad isn't back yet, so I wander into the bathroom to check my reflection again. It's silly, I know, but I can't help being curious about whether the tiny bump might look any different now that I've actually eaten today. The mirror shows essentially the same thing—lean arms, prominent collarbones, a slight softness in my lower abdomen. The same mix of worry and pride churns inside me. We'll get there, I think, turning away.

With a determined sigh, I grab my phone, texting Derek: Morning sickness decided to chill out today. Actually ate eggs, toast, bananas with PB. Feels weirdly normal. I hesitate, then hit send. A rush of embarrassment follows—am I oversharing? But Derek's the one who's been invested in my well-being, so maybe he won't mind.

He replies a few minutes later: Glad you're doing better. Take advantage of it and rest.

A small smile tugs at my lips. I will, I type back, then consider adding something else. My fingers hover over the screen. Wanna come by tomorrow for Christmas Eve? My heart hammers, but I hit send before I can overthink it.

He doesn't respond immediately, which ratchets up my anxiety. I busy myself by tidying the living room—folding the blankets, straightening the coffee table items. Thankfully, before I can spiral, his reply pings: Sure. When's good?

Relief floods me. Anytime in the afternoon, I guess? Dad's working, so it'll just be me, but if you're okay with that, great.

That's fine, he answers. I'll bring something. Let me know if you need groceries or anything.

I grin, texting back a quick thanks. My phone drops into my lap. The idea of Christmas Eve with Derek is still strange if I think too hard about it. We used to barely tolerate each other—now he's my main support aside from Dad. Life in Beacon Hills is never short on surprises.

My stomach rumbles again, though less urgently. I decide to hold off on more food for the moment, not wanting to push my luck. Instead, I consider tackling the basement, which is a mess of boxes Dad never sorted. Then I remember my vow not to overexert myself. Take advantage of feeling well, Derek said. Rest.

I sigh, flopping back onto the couch. Resting is harder than it sounds when your brain is in overdrive. But maybe I can channel my energy into something less physically demanding—like working on that English paper, or reading. English paper it is, I decide grudgingly, grabbing my laptop from the side table.

As I boot it up, my eyes wander to the Christmas tree. The blinking lights reflect on the laptop screen. Something in my chest feels light, almost hopeful. For the first time in a while, I can imagine a future—maybe not a perfect one, but one where I manage to handle this pregnancy, keep the baby healthy, and keep living. The fear doesn't vanish, but it's softened by the memory of that heartbeat, the knowledge that I'm not alone. Between Dad, Derek, and even Scott—who's trying to mend our friendship—I have a support system that might just carry me through.

I open the paper file, scanning my previous half-hearted attempts at analyzing some text I can barely remember. It's dull, but it's a distraction. Typing a few lines, I find my thoughts drifting again to the baby, to that faint curve in my abdomen, how it felt to eat eggs without gagging. Instead of fighting the distraction, I let myself daydream for a minute. Maybe next Christmas, I'll have a baby in my arms. Maybe that baby will be crawling around under the tree, grabbing ornaments, drooling on everything. The mental image makes my heart ache with a mixture of terror and tenderness.

I force my eyes back to the screen, typing another paragraph about symbolism or something. My phone buzzes—a group text from the lacrosse team chat, guys throwing around jokes about the holiday break. I skim it, not feeling the desire to participate. They don't know, I think. They have no idea how different my life is now. And that's okay. I'm not ready to share this with them anyway.

A wave of tiredness hits me unexpectedly. My arms feel heavy as I type, my eyelids drooping. The day has been good so far, but the emotional roller coaster of the past weeks has drained me more than I realized. I close the laptop after a few minutes of forced progress, letting it slide onto the coffee table. Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt, especially if I'm hoping to keep this calm stomach throughout the day.

Curling up on the couch, I tug the throw blanket over me, inhaling slowly. The lingering scents of my morning meal—peanut butter, eggs—drift through the air, not unpleasant for once. My hand settles on my lower abdomen instinctively. "We did good today," I whisper, feeling silly talking to something the size of a lentil. But I swear I sense a faint warmth there, a silent acknowledgment of my effort.

The Christmas tree lights blink in my peripheral vision. My eyes grow heavy, lulled by the gentle patterns of color dancing on the walls. For the first time in a long time, I slip into sleep without dreading the next wave of sickness. Instead, I cradle the hope that when I wake, my body will still be on my side, fueling not just me, but the tiny life inside me. The road ahead is still steep, but for this moment, I'll savor the small victories—like a morning without nausea and a plate of scrambled eggs that stayed down.

One day at a time, I remind myself as I drift off. One small miracle after another.

December 25th, 2011

Seven weeks pregnant

I wake up on Christmas morning feeling a mix of emotions so tangled, I don't know where one ends and the other begins. The first thing I register is warmth—actual, comfortable warmth instead of the cold sweat I usually wake up in. My blanket is tangled around my legs, the faint glow of morning filtering through the curtains. I shift onto my side, pressing a hand to my stomach, feeling that slight curve that wasn't there a few weeks ago.

Seven weeks. I'm officially seven weeks pregnant today.

The baby is about the size of a blueberry now. Still tiny, still barely anything more than a cluster of developing cells, but already growing into something more. Its brain is forming, its tiny heart is beating—faster than mine, like a little hummingbird. The arms and legs are starting to sprout, little nubs that will soon be recognizable limbs. Deaton said its face is beginning to take shape now, tiny nostrils, dark spots where eyes will be.

And I can feel it.

Not like kicks or anything—obviously, it's way too early for that. But I can feel my body changing. My stomach isn't flat anymore. It's subtle, more of a fullness than an actual bump, but enough that my jeans have started getting uncomfortably tight. Last night, when I was getting ready for bed, I tried buttoning my usual pair of pajama pants, and they barely fit. It's like my body is already making space for this kid, stretching, adjusting. It's weird. And a little terrifying.

I run my hand over my stomach, my breath catching when I feel the firm spot just below my belly button. Not just bloating. Not just food weight. Real.

I let out a shaky breath, pushing the thought aside. It's Christmas. My last Christmas before everything changes. Before there's a baby in this house, before my entire life gets rewritten. I should enjoy it while I can.

Dragging myself out of bed, I pull on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, because there's no way I'm trying to squeeze into jeans today. Not happening. When I step out into the hallway, the house is quiet except for the faint sound of the heater kicking on. The smell of coffee drifts from downstairs, meaning Dad is already up.

When I step into the living room, he's sitting on the couch, mug in hand, staring at the Christmas tree like it might talk to him. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, but when he sees me, he musters a small smile.

"Merry Christmas, kid," he says.

I flop onto the couch beside him, tucking my feet under me. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The Christmas tree lights blink softly, reflecting in the window. It's early—barely past seven—but the world outside is already bright with morning light. The streets are quiet, most people probably still in bed, wrapped up in warm blankets, waiting to open presents.

Dad nudges me with his elbow. "Hungry?"

I hesitate. The nausea has been better the past couple of days, but mornings are still unpredictable. "Maybe," I admit. "I could probably do toast or something."

Dad nods and pushes himself up, heading to the kitchen. I watch him go, a familiar ache settling in my chest. He's been doing so much for me lately. Making sure I eat, checking in constantly, rearranging his shifts just to be around more. I know he's worried. I know he probably lies awake at night thinking about what's coming, just like I do.

He comes back a few minutes later with a plate of toast and a glass of orange juice. I take it with a small smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he says, sinking back into his chair with a sigh. "After you eat, we can do presents."

I nod, nibbling at the toast, relieved when my stomach doesn't immediately reject it. I take small sips of the juice, the tartness waking me up a little. When I'm done, I set the plate on the coffee table and stretch, rubbing my stomach absently.

Dad clears his throat. "You okay?"

I glance at him, debating whether or not to mention the jeans thing. Eventually, I just sigh. "My pants don't fit."

His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't look surprised. "Already?"

I huff, flopping against the couch cushions. "I know, right? I thought I had time before this started happening. But I tried buttoning my jeans yesterday, and it was like my stomach was personally offended. It's not even that big yet, but I swear, everything is just... shifting."

Dad sips his coffee, looking thoughtful. "Guess that means we'll need to go shopping soon."

I groan. "God, I don't even know what to buy. Do I just get bigger jeans? Do I go straight for maternity stuff? Is that weird? I don't want to walk into some store and have to admit to some overly cheerful cashier that I need stretchy waistband pants because I got knocked up by a demon."

Dad snorts into his coffee. "Well, when you put it like that."

I groan again, covering my face with my hands. "This is my life now."

He chuckles, setting his mug down. "C'mon, let's do presents before you spiral any further."

I lower my hands, perking up slightly. "Presents?"

He nods toward the tree. "Yours is outside."

I frown. "Outside?"

Dad smirks, standing and grabbing his coat from the chair. "Come on."

Curious, I grab my own jacket and follow him to the front door. The second he opens it, a blast of cold air hits me, making me shiver. But I barely notice, because parked in the driveway, covered in a giant red bow, is a Jeep.

A brand new Jeep.

My breath catches. "No way."

Dad grins, watching my reaction. "Merry Christmas, kid."

I stare at it, completely dumbfounded. "But—what? Dad, this is—"

He shrugs, looking a little smug. "The old Jeep was on its last legs. Figured it was time for an upgrade. Plus, you're gonna need something reliable, you know, with the baby coming and all."

Something in my chest tightens. I swallow hard, emotions hitting me all at once. "You bought me a car."

Dad chuckles. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This is a one-time thing."

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Probably both. "Holy shit," I whisper, stepping closer, running my hands over the hood. It's perfect—still a Jeep, still me, but newer, shinier, safer.

I turn back to Dad, and before I can second-guess myself, I throw my arms around him. He stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, hugging me back. "Thank you," I murmur.

"You're welcome, kid," he says gruffly, squeezing my shoulder.

When we step back inside, I grab his present from under the tree. He raises an eyebrow as I hand it to him. "What's this?"

"Open it and find out."

He tears off the wrapping paper, revealing the jacket and wallet I picked out for him. His eyes soften. "Stiles..."

I shift, suddenly shy. "I just thought you could use a new jacket. And the wallet—your old one is literally falling apart."

Dad smiles, shaking his head. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," I cut in. "You do so much for me, Dad. Just let me do something nice for you, okay?"

He exhales, then nods. "Okay."

We sit back down, the Christmas tree lights twinkling beside us. The presents are open, the morning quiet and peaceful. For the first time in weeks, I feel okay. Not just physically, but emotionally.

Maybe I can do this.

Maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be alright.

By the time afternoon rolls around, I'm still riding the emotional high of the morning. It's weird—I've spent weeks feeling like my life is spiraling out of control, but today, for the first time in a long time, I feel stable. Maybe it's the fact that it's Christmas. Maybe it's the new Jeep sitting in the driveway, solid proof that Dad believes in me, that he's not giving up on me even when I've spent so much time feeling like I'm drowning. Maybe it's just the sheer normalcy of exchanging gifts, of sitting in the living room with the Christmas tree glowing beside me, eating leftover toast and sipping orange juice while Dad flips through channels on the TV.

Either way, I feel lighter.

For the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I'm just trying to survive the day. I actually want to do something. I glance toward the hallway where my backpack sits against the wall, the wrapped beanie for Derek still tucked inside. I'd planned on giving it to him after Christmas, maybe when I saw him next at the clinic or if he stopped by unannounced like he sometimes does. But something about today makes me want to do it now.

I pull out my phone, hesitating for a second before opening my messages.

Me: Hey, are you busy?

I set the phone down, trying not to overthink it. Derek doesn't exactly do Christmas, at least not in the traditional sense. I don't even know if he has plans today, if he's holed up in the loft avoiding people or if he's been roped into some awkward Hale-family-Christmas with Peter. Either way, I won't know until he responds.

I turn my attention back to the TV, where Dad has landed on A Christmas Story. He smirks when he notices me watching.

"Still hate this movie?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, obviously. It's a cinematic nightmare."

Dad chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "You say that every year, and yet, here we are."

I huff dramatically, but I don't bother arguing. We do end up watching it every year, mostly because Dad likes it and partly because I enjoy having something to complain about. It's tradition at this point.

My phone buzzes against my thigh.

Derek: No. What's up?

I hesitate for half a second before replying.

Me: Can you come over? I have something for you.

It takes him a minute to respond.

Derek: Be there in 20.

I exhale, shoving my phone into my hoodie pocket. He didn't ask what it was, didn't question why I suddenly wanted him to come over on Christmas Day. Just be there in 20.

I press my hands against my stomach, feeling that now-familiar sense of fullness. I still haven't completely wrapped my head around the fact that I'm showing, that this tiny life inside me is already changing my body in ways I can't control. I should be freaking out about it, but right now, I just feel... steady. Like things are settling into place, even if it's just for today.

I glance at Dad. "Derek's coming over in a bit."

His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't comment on it. "Want me to make myself scarce?"

"Nah," I say, shaking my head. "It's just for a few minutes. I wanted to give him his present."

Dad hums in acknowledgment but doesn't say anything else. He knows by now that Derek and I have developed some weird kind of understanding, one that doesn't require explanation.

I grab Derek's gift from my backpack, running my fingers over the neatly wrapped paper. It's small, but I know he'll like it. Or at least, I hope he will.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear the familiar rumble of Derek's Camaro pulling into the driveway. My stomach does a weird little flip. Not nerves, exactly. Just... anticipation. I haven't seen him in a couple of days, and even though we texted after my ultrasound, part of me wants to talk to him in person.

I get up and head to the front door, opening it just as Derek steps onto the porch. He's dressed in his usual leather jacket, jeans, and boots, his hands shoved into his pockets against the cold. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and there's a dusting of snow on his shoulders from the short walk to the house.

I step aside, gesturing for him to come in. "Hey."

"Hey," he says, stepping inside and glancing around. His eyes flick to the Christmas tree, then to Dad, who's still sitting in his chair with his coffee.

"Afternoon, Derek," Dad says, nodding.

Derek gives a polite nod back. "Sheriff."

I motion toward the couch. "You can sit, you know. I don't bite."

He huffs a quiet laugh but does as I say, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. He looks tired, but not in the bone-deep, haunted way he used to. More like he's just worn out from existing. I get it.

I grab the wrapped gift from the coffee table and hand it to him. "Merry Christmas."

Derek stares at the package like I just handed him a live grenade.

He looks up at me, eyebrows furrowing. "You got me something?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, Derek. That's what people do on Christmas. They give each other gifts."

He hesitates, then carefully peels away the wrapping paper. His fingers brush over the soft knit fabric of the beanie, his expression unreadable. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stares at it like he's not sure what to do with it.

I shift awkwardly. "I figured, you know, you're always brooding around in that leather jacket, acting like you don't get cold, but you totally get cold, so I thought—"

"Thanks," he interrupts, his voice quieter than usual. He runs his thumb over the fabric, then meets my eyes. "Really."

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "It's not a big deal."

"It is," he says simply.

The sincerity in his voice throws me off. I clear my throat, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

"Well," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "You should try it on. You know, make sure it fits that massive werewolf head of yours."

He rolls his eyes but pulls the beanie on without argument. It fits snugly over his dark hair, covering his ears, and for the first time in maybe ever, Derek looks... cozy.

I bite back a grin. "Yep. Looks good. Very festive."

Derek shoots me a flat look. "It's black."

"Exactly."

Dad chuckles from his chair but wisely keeps his comments to himself.

Derek tugs the beanie down a little more, adjusting it like he's still not sure what to do with it. Then, almost too quietly for me to catch, he murmurs, "No one's given me a Christmas present in a long time."

My chest tightens. I don't know what to say to that.

Instead, I reach out and flick the edge of the beanie lightly. "Well, now you have one."

Derek looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slowly, he nods.

We don't make a big deal out of it. He stays for a little while, sitting with me and Dad, drinking a cup of coffee like it's just another day. But when he finally leaves, he's still wearing the beanie.

And somehow, that feels like a win.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

My chest tightens. I don't know what to say to that.

Instead, I reach out and flick the edge of the beanie lightly. "Well, now you have one."

Derek looks at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slowly, he nods.

And somehow, that feels like a win.

Stiles's Pov

December 29, 2011

I'm starting to get used to the Jeep. It's still weird, though—driving something that isn't Roscoe, feeling the slight differences in the steering, the way the engine hums smoother, newer. It's not like I'm ungrateful. Dad went out of his way to get me this thing, and it's amazing, better than anything I could have asked for. But every time I reach for a familiar worn spot on the steering wheel that isn't there or go to fiddle with the radio only to remember the knobs are different, I feel a little off balance.

Still, I can't deny how nice it is. The heater actually works, which means I don't have to bundle up like I'm trekking through the Arctic just to drive around Beacon Hills. The brakes respond immediately instead of taking a second to catch. And I don't have to hold my breath every time I turn the key, praying the engine won't cough and sputter before finally deciding to start.

It's a good Jeep. My Jeep.

I tell myself that again as I steer onto Main Street, trying to shake off the lingering feeling that I'm betraying Roscoe's memory or something. It's ridiculous. The old Jeep was on its last legs, and I'd be a complete idiot to turn my nose up at a brand-new vehicle just because I was sentimental.

But I am sentimental, so.

I drum my fingers on the wheel as I wait for the light to change, my other hand resting against my stomach. It's becoming a habit, one I'm not sure how to break. I don't think I even realized I was doing it at first, but now, every time I catch myself, I quickly drop my hand like I've been caught committing a crime.

The baby is still small—tiny, really. The size of a blueberry, if I remember right. Not that I've been obsessively checking pregnancy apps or anything. That would be insane.

(...It's totally something I've been doing.)

At seven weeks, the baby's brain is developing more, along with little arm and leg buds that'll eventually turn into actual limbs. There's still a tail, which, yeah, I try not to think about too much, given my track record with supernatural weirdness. I know it's normal, that all human embryos have tails at some point before they're absorbed into the body, but still. Considering how my life tends to go, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up giving birth to a tiny cryptid.

And then there's the heartbeat.

I swallow, remembering the way it sounded at my last appointment with Deaton. Fast, steady, proof that this is real. Not some lingering effect of the Nogitsune, not a hallucination or a mistake. There's a life inside me, and whether I'm ready for it or not, it's happening.

I shake my head, forcing my focus back on the road. Now is not the time to get lost in existential baby thoughts.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance down, catching the name Lydia flashing across the screen.

Crap.

I grab it, pressing the button to answer before putting her on speaker.

"Hey, Lydia," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Where are you?" she asks, her voice sharp. There's background noise—wind, the faint sound of cars passing, maybe a few distant voices.

I frown. "Uh, driving? Why?"

"Because I need you to get your ass to the gas station on Oakley now."

I grip the wheel a little tighter. "Okay, see, normally I wouldn't argue, because I respect you and I value my life, but you wanna tell me why I'm speeding to a gas station in the middle of nowhere?"

There's a pause. When Lydia speaks again, her voice is lower, tense. "Kira and I found a body."

My stomach lurches.

Not now. Not now.

I take a slow breath, pressing my lips together. "Okay," I say carefully. "Should I... be asking for details?"

Another pause. Then, in a clipped tone, Lydia says, "Just get here."

The call disconnects.

I curse under my breath, my foot pressing a little harder on the gas pedal as I make a sharp turn onto the road leading out of town. The gas station on Oakley is one of those isolated ones, the kind where you'd expect to find some horror movie killer lurking in the shadows. The fact that Lydia and Kira are out there alone makes my skin crawl.

I force myself to breathe evenly, but my nausea is already creeping up. It's been a little better today—manageable, at least—but stress is one of my biggest triggers. I know my body, and right now, it's already warning me that if I don't calm down, I'm gonna end up vomiting all over my brand-new car.

No. Not happening.

I pull in slow breaths through my nose, one hand going back to my stomach like I can physically will the nausea away. It helps, or at least, it doesn't make things worse.

When I pull into the gas station parking lot, I spot Lydia and Kira standing near the pumps, both of them tense, their faces pale. Lydia has her phone clutched in one hand, nails digging into the plastic, while Kira shifts her weight anxiously from foot to foot.

I park and climb out, shoving my keys into my pocket. The cold air smacks me in the face, sharp and biting.

Lydia turns to me immediately. "You took forever."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, pulling my hoodie tighter around myself. "Where's the body?"

Kira hesitates, then gestures toward the alley beside the station. "Back there. We weren't sure if we should move it."

I blink. "Uh, yeah, definitely don't move it. You do remember how crime scenes work, right?"

Lydia gives me a withering look, like I'm the stupidest person she's ever met. "Yes, Stiles. We remember. But this wasn't exactly a normal death."

That sends a shiver down my spine. I swallow, my stomach twisting. "Define not normal."

Lydia exhales sharply, then turns and starts walking toward the alley. "Just look."

I glance at Kira, who offers a small, apologetic shrug before following Lydia.

I steel myself and trail after them.

The smell hits me first.

Coppery. Thick. The scent of blood and something else, something I can't quite place. My stomach clenches violently, and I press my hand hard against my mouth, trying desperately to keep it together.

It's a struggle.

Kira shoots me a concerned look. "You okay?"

I give her a weak thumbs-up. "Yeah," I say, voice slightly strangled. "Just... fine. Totally fine."

Lydia doesn't even spare me a glance. "You're not going to be."

And then I see the body.

Or what's left of it.

The gas station attendant is slumped against the brick wall, his uniform soaked in blood. His throat is—Jesus. Jesus. It's not just cut. It's ripped out. Claw marks.

I stagger back, my stomach giving another violent twist.

Kira grimaces. "Kate," she says quietly.

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, willing my stomach to behave. Then I nod. "Yeah," I manage, my voice hoarse. "Definitely Kate."

Lydia crouches near the body, inspecting the wounds with her usual sharp-eyed focus. "It's fresh. She didn't do this long ago."

Kira glances around, scanning the area. "Then she could still be nearby."

I take another step back, sucking in a slow breath. My head is pounding, my stomach still rolling, but I can't throw up. Not here. Not in front of them.

"Do we call Scott?" Kira asks.

Lydia stands, wiping her hands on her coat. "We should. But we need to be careful about this. If the police get involved before we figure out what really happened—"

I hold up a hand, cutting her off. "Okay, yeah, but before we do anything, can we please move a few feet away from the dead guy? Because I would really like to get through this conversation without losing my breakfast all over his crime scene."

Lydia sighs. "Dramatic."

Kira nods sympathetically and steps back.

I follow immediately, inhaling deep gulps of fresh air. The nausea eases, but only slightly.

Lydia pulls out her phone, already dialing. I rub a hand over my face, trying to push down the exhausted frustration creeping in.

I knew this day was going too well.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. The nausea is still clawing at my throat, but at least I haven't thrown up yet. Small victories. I know I need to call Dad, but my stomach rolls at the thought. Not just because I feel like garbage, but because this is one of those situations where I know exactly how he's going to react. He's going to sigh. He's going to get that look on his face, the one that says, why is it always you? And then he's going to start asking questions that I don't have the energy to answer.

Lydia's still on the phone with Scott, pacing a few feet away from the body, her voice low but urgent. Kira is hovering nearby, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets, her expression drawn tight. Neither of them is paying attention to me right now, which is good, because I need a second to pull myself together.

I press a hand against my stomach, trying to ground myself. Deep breaths, Stiles. You can do this. Just call your dad, tell him what happened, and try not to sound like you're about to puke all over your brand-new Jeep.

Grimacing, I pull my phone from my pocket and hit Dad's number. It rings twice before he picks up.

"Stiles," he answers, already sounding tired. "Please don't tell me you're in trouble."

I huff out a laugh, even though there's nothing funny about this. "I mean, technically, no."

He sighs. "Technically?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Okay, look, before you get mad, just know that I'm not alone, I didn't do anything, and I am definitely not responsible for this. We just... found something."

Silence. Then, cautiously, "Define something."

I inhale through my nose, exhale slowly. "A body."

More silence. Then, "Where?"

I glance at Lydia, who's still murmuring into her phone, then at the bloodstained ground near the alley wall. "Gas station on Oakley. Me, Lydia, and Kira were here, and—"

"Why the hell were you at a gas station on Oakley?"

I wince. "Uh. That's not really important right now."

Dad mutters something under his breath that I don't quite catch. Probably a mix of swearing and why is my kid like this? I don't blame him.

"Are you hurt?" he asks after a second, voice sharper now, more alert.

"No," I say quickly. "None of us are. But the guy's dead, Dad. Really dead. Like, Kate Argent was here dead."

I hear the sharp inhale on the other end of the line. "You're sure?"

I glance at the body again, swallowing down a fresh wave of nausea. "Throat's ripped out. Looks like claws."

Dad mutters another curse. "Alright. Stay put. I'm sending Parrish."

I blink. "Parrish?"

"He's on patrol near your area," Dad says briskly. "And I need to finish dealing with the other crime scene I've been at all morning."

That catches my attention. "Wait—other crime scene? What happened?"

"Not your concern," he says, effectively shutting that down. "Just sit tight, don't touch anything, and for the love of God, Stiles, do not throw up on the crime scene."

I scowl at my phone. "I can be professional, you know."

Dad snorts. "I gotta go. Parrish will be there soon."

He hangs up before I can say anything else. I lower my phone and let out a slow breath. Okay. That's done. Now we just have to wait.

I look over at Lydia and Kira. Lydia's still talking to Scott, but she meets my eyes, one brow arched. "Your dad coming?"

I shake my head. "No, he's sending Parrish."

Lydia nods like that's acceptable. Kira, however, frowns. "Why isn't he coming himself?"

I hesitate. "He's dealing with another crime scene."

Kira's expression shifts into concern. "Another one?"

"Yeah." My stomach twists. "Guess Kate's been busy."

That thought makes me nauseous all over again, so I press my lips together and breathe through it. I can't afford to lose my composure right now.

Lydia snaps her phone shut and tucks it into her pocket. "Scott's on his way," she announces.

Great. A whole crowd of people to watch me struggle not to vomit.

I rub my hands over my face, trying to wake myself up a little more. I am awake, but my brain feels sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion and the ever-present nausea.

Lydia studies me, her sharp gaze cutting right through me. "Are you okay?"

I straighten immediately. "Fine."

Her eyes narrow.

I clear my throat. "Just, you know. Dead bodies aren't exactly my favorite thing."

She doesn't look convinced, but thankfully, she doesn't press the issue.

Kira shuffles her feet, glancing around. "Do you think she's still nearby?"

The thought makes my skin crawl. "God, I hope not."

Lydia hums, tilting her head slightly. "If she was, she'd probably be watching us."

I resist the urge to turn in a frantic circle. "Okay, not helpful."

Lydia smirks.

Before I can retaliate, a familiar black-and-white patrol car pulls into the parking lot, tires crunching over the gravel. Parrish steps out, adjusting his belt, his expression carefully neutral as he scans the area. His gaze lands on us, then shifts to the alley. His mouth tightens.

"Damn it," he mutters under his breath as he approaches. "Sheriff said you found a body?"

Lydia nods. "Back there. Male, early twenties, gas station attendant. Throat's torn out."

Parrish exhales through his nose, already pulling out his radio. "Did you see anything? Anyone suspicious?"

"No," Lydia answers.

Parrish nods, then keys his radio. "Dispatch, I've got a confirmed DOA at the Oakley gas station. Male, mid-twenties, apparent animal attack. Requesting backup and coroner."

A garbled response comes through. He acknowledges it, then looks at me. "You okay?"

Why does everyone keep asking me that?

"Fine," I say.

He gives me a dubious look but doesn't push it. "Alright," he says. "I need you guys to step back while I take a closer look."

We do as he says, moving further from the alley. Parrish disappears around the corner, and I let out a slow breath.

Lydia folds her arms. "Scott should be here soon."

I nod absently, but my mind is already spinning in a hundred different directions.

Kate's back. She's killing people. And my dad's dealing with another crime scene somewhere else in town.

Whatever's happening, it's getting worse.

And I have a very, very bad feeling that this is only the beginning. I hear Scott's bike before I see him. The low hum of the engine cuts through the cold air, a familiar sound that makes something tighten in my chest. It's been over a week since we last saw each other—since the coffee shop, since the awkward but necessary conversation where we started trying to patch things up. And now, of all places, of all times, we're about to have our first face-to-face interaction here, standing a few feet away from a dead body. Because that's just my life.

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, bracing myself. I really don't want to deal with anything personal right now. My stomach is still queasy, my nerves are shot, and I'm barely keeping myself together as it is. I don't need Scott looking at me with those concerned eyes and blurting out something about the baby. Because if Lydia or Kira finds out before I'm ready to tell them, I'll never hear the end of it.

Scott pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine. He swings his leg over the bike and jogs toward us, his expression tense, scanning the scene. His eyes go to Parrish first, then to the alley, and finally to me.

"Hey," he says, stopping just a few feet away. His gaze flicks over me, assessing. "You okay?"

I roll my eyes. "Oh my God, why does everyone keep asking me that?"

Scott blinks. "Uh, because you look like you're about to throw up?"

Damn it.

Lydia snorts, folding her arms. "He's been making that face since we got here."

I scowl at both of them. "I always make this face when I see a corpse, okay? It's called being a normal person."

Scott frowns, still staring at me, but thankfully he doesn't push it. Instead, he glances at Lydia and Kira. "What happened?"

Lydia gestures toward the alley. "Gas station attendant. Throat torn out. Kate."

Scott's whole body tenses. "You're sure?"

"Unless we have a new killer running around ripping people's throats out with claws?" Lydia tilts her head. "Then yes, we're sure."

Scott mutters a curse, rubbing his jaw. I can practically see his brain working through all the implications. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath before he looks back at me. "Did you call your dad?"

I nod. "He's busy with another crime scene. Sent Parrish instead."

Scott grimaces. "Another crime scene?"

"Yeah," I say, stomach twisting. "He didn't tell me what happened, just that it wasn't my concern."

Scott's brows knit together. "If there are two attacks in one day—"

"Then it's getting worse," I finish grimly.

Scott presses his lips together. His jaw tightens, his fists clenching and unclenching like he's barely resisting the urge to shift.

For a few seconds, none of us speak. The weight of the situation settles over us like a thick fog. I try to focus on that, on the fact that Kate Argent is actively murdering people again, because if I let my brain drift at all into personal territory, I might lose it.

But Scott is still looking at me, his brow furrowed.

I know that look. It means he wants to talk. It means he wants to check in. And it means he's probably debating whether or not to bring up the fact that I'm, you know, pregnant.

I shoot him a warning glance. Don't. Say. Anything.

His eyes widen slightly, like he just realized what he was about to do. His mouth snaps shut.

Good.

The last thing I need right now is for Lydia's supernatural bullshit detector to start pinging. She already knows something is up with me, even if she hasn't figured out what yet. And if she does figure it out before I'm ready to tell her, she will personally drag me through hell for keeping it from her.

I clear my throat, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "So, uh, what's the plan here?"

Scott shakes himself out of whatever spiral he was in and refocuses. "We need to find Kate."

"No shit," I mutter.

He ignores me. "If she's killing again, there has to be a reason. She didn't just come back to Beacon Hills for fun. She's looking for something. Or someone."

That makes my stomach twist even harder.

I have a very, very bad feeling about what—or who—she might be looking for.

Scott glances at Lydia. "Did you pick up anything?"

Lydia's mouth presses into a thin line. "No banshee premonitions this time. Just—" She hesitates, looking toward the alley. "It's just loud. The death here, I mean. It feels... unfinished."

Scott frowns. "Unfinished how?"

Lydia's jaw tightens. "Like she wanted something else. Like this wasn't just a kill. There was another purpose."

I exhale slowly. "So, what, she was looking for something on him? Or—" My breath catches. "Or she was waiting for someone to find him."

Scott's face darkens. "You think it was us?"

I lick my lips, suddenly dry. "If she knows we're back in town, if she knows we're still involved in pack stuff, then yeah. Why not leave a nice little murder scene as a calling card?"

Scott's fists clench again. "Then we need to move fast. Before she kills again."

A sharp laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Oh yeah, because we have such a great track record of stopping people before they go on a murder spree."

Scott shoots me a look. "Stiles."

I hold up my hands. "I'm just saying. It's Kate. She's not exactly known for being subtle. She's going to keep killing people, and we have no idea why or how to stop her."

Scott's jaw tightens. "We'll find a way."

I want to believe him. I really do. But I'm also so tired. My body is exhausted, my brain is running on fumes, and I don't have the energy to deal with yet another town-wide crisis while also growing a tiny human inside me.

Lydia steps closer, her sharp eyes locking onto mine. "Are you sure you're okay?"

I wave her off. "I'm fine. Let's just—" I gesture toward the alley. "Let Parrish do his thing, then figure out our next move."

Scott watches me carefully, but thankfully, he doesn't press the issue.

We stand in tense silence as Parrish finishes up with the body, talking quietly into his radio. The crime scene tape goes up. More officers arrive. The gas station owner comes outside, pale-faced and shaking, demanding answers that no one can give.

And through it all, I keep my hands in my pockets, pressing my fingers against my stomach, grounding myself.

I'm not ready for anyone else to know. Not yet.

Right now, the only thing that matters is stopping Kate before she makes things even worse.

By the time we finish giving our statements, the crime scene is a mess of flashing lights and police chatter. Parrish has things under control, but I can tell he's barely holding back a hundred questions about why we were here before law enforcement even showed up. Luckily, he seems to be filing it under weird supernatural shit that Stiles somehow gets involved in and doesn't push too hard.

Scott, however, is not done for the night.

"We need to talk to Peter," he says as soon as Parrish walks off to finish logging evidence.

I groan, tilting my head back to stare at the night sky like it might suddenly open up and smite me where I stand. "Oh my God, why?"

Scott's mouth tightens. "Because if anyone knows what Kate's planning, it's him."

I snort. "Right. Because Peter is so reliable when it comes to handing out useful information."

Scott shoots me a look. "Stiles."

"No," I say, crossing my arms. "I mean it. Peter doesn't do favors. If he gives us anything, it'll either be a lie, a half-truth, or some kind of twisted game where we end up owing him later. And I don't know about you, but I really don't feel like getting tangled up in more of his bullshit."

Kira shifts uncomfortably beside us. "He has helped before."

"Helped is a very generous word for what Peter does," I mutter.

Scott rubs his temple, like he's already exhausted by this conversation. "I'm not saying I trust him. I'm saying he might know something that we don't."

Lydia sighs. "Unfortunately, he has a point. Peter may be a conniving psychopath, but he's also annoyingly well-informed."

I groan again, letting my head drop forward this time. I hate when Lydia agrees with Scott. It makes it way harder to argue.

Scott turns back to me. "You coming?"

I shake my head immediately. "Nope."

Scott blinks. "What? Why not?"

"Because," I say, making a vague gesture toward my entire existence, "I have reached my daily limit of supernatural nonsense. I have now exceeded that limit, actually, and need to go home before I start screaming at people in public."

Scott frowns. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Oh my God, again with this?

"I'm fine," I snap. "I just need a break. A nap. Maybe some food that doesn't taste like sadness. You know, normal human things."

Scott hesitates, like he's debating whether or not to push the issue. For a second, I think he's actually going to call me out, but then he just sighs. "Alright. Let me know if you—"

"Yes, yes, I know, if I need anything, I'll call," I say, already walking away before he can turn this into a whole thing.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

I glance over my shoulder. "Police station. Gotta check in with my dad."

That seems to satisfy them. Scott gives me one last I'm still worried about you look before turning toward the parking lot. Lydia and Kira follow him, though Lydia pauses to glance back at me, her sharp eyes narrowed like she's trying to see whatever it is I'm hiding.

I don't give her the chance.

With one last deep breath to settle my nerves, I turn and head for the Jeep.

My new Jeep.

Even now, it still feels surreal. The first time I climbed into this thing, I almost cried. My old Jeep was practically a part of me, and losing it had felt like losing a limb. But Dad—Dad—had gone out and replaced it, found one almost exactly the same, because he knew. Because he knew how much it meant to me.

And maybe that shouldn't have surprised me, because Dad always comes through for me, but after everything we've been through, after everything I've put him through, it still hits me hard.

I slide into the driver's seat, exhaling slowly as I grip the wheel. The familiar feel of the leather under my hands, the slightly stiff way the gear shift moves, the faint smell of old upholstery and Jeep-ness—it's home.

With a twist of the key, the engine rumbles to life.

For a moment, I just sit there, letting the vibrations settle into my bones, grounding me.

Then I pull out of the gas station lot and head toward the station.

The drive is short, but the silence gives me too much time to think.

Kate Argent is back. She's killing people again. We don't know what she wants.

And I—I am pregnant.

And only a handful of people know.

Scott almost slipped tonight. He caught himself, but it was close. Too close.

It's only a matter of time before someone figures it out.

Lydia is already suspicious.

And once she knows, everyone will know.

I grip the wheel tighter. I just need to make it a few more weeks. If I can get through the first trimester, if I can make sure everything is okay, then maybe—maybe—I'll be ready to tell people.

But not yet.

Not now.

I roll into the station parking lot and kill the engine, resting my forehead against the steering wheel for a second before dragging myself out of the Jeep.

Inside, the station is its usual mess of ringing phones and shuffling paperwork. A few deputies nod at me as I pass, but no one stops me. Most of them are used to me being here by now.

Dad is at his desk, rubbing his temples like he has the worst headache of his life.

"Hey, old man," I say, dropping into the chair across from him.

He cracks an eye open, sighs, then leans back. "Tell me you're here to help and not to give me more bad news."

I wince. "Ehhhhhh..."

Dad groans. "Damn it, Stiles."

I hold up my hands. "Hey, I didn't kill anyone!"

Dad levels a tired glare at me. "That better not be the bar you're setting for yourself these days."

I shrug. "Look, I'm just saying, things could be worse."

"Could they?" Dad rubs his face. "I've got two bodies today, Stiles. Two."

My stomach clenches. "Yeah, about that..."

I fill him in on the gas station murder, on Kate, on everything we know so far.

Dad listens, his expression going from exhausted to grim in record time.

When I finish, he exhales slowly. "So she's hunting again."

I nod. "Looks that way."

Dad's jaw tightens. "And you're sure she didn't leave anything else at the scene? No messages? No clues?"

I shake my head. "Not that we could see."

Dad swears under his breath, then reaches for his radio. "I need to—"

His voice cuts off as he really looks at me.

I brace myself.

"...Are you sure you're okay?"

Oh my God.

I throw my hands in the air. "WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP ASKING ME THAT?"

Dad raises an eyebrow. "Because you look like hell."

"I always look like hell!"

Dad just gives me the Dad Stare—the one that means I am not buying your bullshit, son.

I groan, slumping forward. "I'm fine."

He doesn't look convinced.

I don't blame him.

But he doesn't push.

Instead, he sighs. "Go home, Stiles."

I blink. "What?"

"You heard me." He gestures toward the door. "You're dead on your feet. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll handle things here."

I hesitate. "But—"

"No buts," Dad says firmly. "You need rest."

I open my mouth to argue—then close it.

Because honestly? He's right.

I'm exhausted.

And I need to take care of myself.

And the baby.

"...Fine," I grumble. "But if anything happens—"

"I'll call you," Dad promises.

I nod, pushing myself up.

As I turn to leave, Dad's voice stops me.

"Stiles."

I glance back.

His eyes soften. "Be careful, alright?"

A lump rises in my throat.

"...Yeah," I say. "You too."

Then I head out into the night, my hands instinctively drifting to my stomach, to the tiny life I'm trying so hard to protect.

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

As I turn to leave, Dad's voice stops me.

"Stiles."

I glance back.

His eyes soften. "Be careful, alright?"

A lump rises in my throat.

"...Yeah," I say. "You too."

Then I head out into the night, my hands instinctively drifting to my stomach, to the tiny life I'm trying so hard to protect.

Scott's Pov

December 29, 2011

I pull up outside Derek's loft and cut the engine, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The conversation at the gas station is still playing in my head, looping over and over. Kate Argent. Murder. Peter. Turning someone with a scratch.

I exhale slowly, trying to push down the frustration and unease gnawing at my chest. This is Peter we're talking about—Beacon Hills' reigning champion of manipulation and half-truths. If he does know something, getting him to admit it will be another matter entirely.

The loft building looms over me, dark and silent except for the faintest hum of wind through the broken windows on the upper floors. The place has always had a certain vibe—not quite abandoned, but definitely not welcoming either. I step out of my car and make my way toward the entrance.

Before I even reach the door, I catch the faintest hint of another scent—familiar, earthy, edged with something sharp, wild.

I turn just as Malia steps out of the shadows, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, her expression casual but sharp-eyed.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, caught between surprise and exasperation.

Malia shrugs. "I heard you were coming to talk to Peter. And since Lydia tells me he's basically Satan in a v-neck, I figured you shouldn't be alone."

I let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "I can handle Peter."

"You can handle him better with me." She levels me with a look, her usual no-nonsense bluntness cutting straight through my argument before I can even make it.

I hesitate, then nod. She's not wrong.

We head inside, the heavy metal door groaning as I push it open. The loft is dim, lit only by the weak light filtering through the high windows. The smell of dust, old wood, and stale air fills my nose. A single lamp glows near the couch, and in its yellow light, Peter is lounging like he's expecting us, like he knew we were coming.

"Scott," he greets, sounding bored. His gaze flicks past me, landing on Malia. His lips twitch in amusement. "And company. What a surprise."

Malia crosses her arms. "What's wrong with you?" she asks, frowning at me.

"Nothing," I say automatically.

Her eyes narrow. "Your heart's pounding like crazy. Are you nervous?"

Peter, who had been half-ignoring our exchange, suddenly perks up, grinning like a cat that's just cornered a mouse. "He's just bad at introductions," he says absentmindedly.

I grit my teeth. "Peter... this is Malia."

Peter cocks his head, studying her with open curiosity. His gaze flickers over her face, sharp and assessing. Then he smiles. "Beautiful eyes," he muses. "Did you get them from your father?"

Malia's expression hardens. "Mother."

Peter's smile widens. "Interesting."

Malia rolls her eyes. "Let's skip the weird power trip and get to the part where you tell us something useful."

Peter leans back into the couch, arms draped over the cushions. "I'm sure they've told you plenty about me."

Malia doesn't miss a beat. "The homicidal killing spree came up!"

Peter chuckles. "Well, we're all works in progress."

Malia tilts her head. "When you progress to your next killing spree, why don't you try and make sure they all stay dead?"

Peter's amusement vanishes, and something dark flickers in his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

I step in before the conversation can derail into an argument. "We need information. What do you know about people being turned by a scratch?"

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Did you scratch someone, Scott?" His tone is mocking, but there's something else underneath—curiosity.

I shake my head. "That's not the point."

Peter waves a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it—the claws have to go pretty deep."

"But it's possible?" I press. "Like, if you clawed out someone's throat?"

Peter's grin widens. "Well, yeah, it's possible. It's also beyond rare. We're talking one in a..." His voice trails off, his expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful.

Then, almost too quiet to hear, he mutters, "Can't anyone in this town stay dead?"

Malia smirks. "I think they were hoping you would."

Peter's eyes flick toward her, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he straightens. "What color were his eyes?"

I frown. "Who?"

"Derek," Peter says impatiently. "When Kate turned him back into a teenager. What color were his eyes?"

"Blue."

Peter hums in thought. "After Paige. Which could mean around the time he first met Kate..."

That makes me pause. "Derek and Kate knew each other?"

Peter gives me a pointed look. "Biblically."

I stare at him. "What?"

Peter's grin turns razor-sharp. "That's right, Scott—you weren't the first wolf to climb into a Hunter's bed."

Malia makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Gross."

I shake my head, pushing that particular revelation aside. "Why would she want to kill a gas station attendant?"

Peter exhales, rubbing his chin. "I don't think she could help it. This was done in a frenzy. It's not a murder—it's a symptom."

I frown. "Of what?"

Peter tilts his head. "She can't control the shift."

Malia crosses her arms. "Derek said he had the same issue on the full moon. That he was still learning."

Peter nods. "Kate's still learning."

Malia raises an eyebrow. "So, she wants Derek to teach her?"

Peter shakes his head. "No. She wants the Triskelion."

That makes something cold settle in my gut.

Peter glances between us, then pushes himself off the couch. "Come on. I know where she's been."

Malia and I exchange looks, but we follow him.

Fifteen minutes later, we're standing outside Beacon Hills High School. The air is cold, the parking lot empty.

Malia sniffs the air, her expression going stiff.

I tense. "Did you catch a scent?"

She nods. "It's the same one... the same one from Mexico."

Peter frowns. "What is she talking about?"

I answer without taking my eyes off the school. "One of them came after us in the church ruins—"

Malia adds, "And one on the road. They couldn't have followed us here..."

Peter's face darkens.

"But they could've been brought," I realize, my stomach twisting. "By Kate."

And then—

A low, guttural roar rips through the air.

The sound is wrong.

It's deep and animalistic, but there's something off about it—something too heavy, too distorted.

Peter stiffens. "Ohhhh, I've heard that sound before."

I turn toward him sharply. "What was that?"

Peter doesn't answer right away. His face has gone pale.

Then he mutters, "Did it have an animal skull? A human wearing a skull over its face?"

Malia nods. "I think so..."

Peter lets out a slow breath. "Berserkers."

Malia scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"There's just one of them," I say.

Peter's expression doesn't change. "And that means we have a chance."

Malia narrows her eyes. "To beat him?"

Peter turns to her, his voice deadly serious. "To survive."

Before I can say anything else, Malia stiffens, her gaze flicking toward the darkness. Her breathing changes, her hands curling into fists.

She turns to me. "Scott... it's both of them. They're both here."

I feel my stomach drop. "Where the hell's Peter?"

Malia's face hardens. "I don't know. He just took off."

Of course he did.

Peter's Pov

The tunnels beneath Beacon Hills High School are exactly as I remember them—cold, damp, and thick with the scent of mildew and old stone. The weight of history presses down on me as I move deeper, my footsteps echoing in the silence. This place has always had a certain pull—not just because it belongs to my family, but because it's one of the few things in this godforsaken town that still holds power.

And power, as I've learned, is always worth protecting.

I descend the last flight of stairs, the dim glow of the vault entrance just visible ahead. My fingers brush against the cool stone walls, and a smirk tugs at my lips. It's almost amusing, really—how much effort Kate's put into this little endeavor. Mexico, temples, berserkers, turning Derek back into an impressionable teenager.

All this, for one useless piece of junk.

As I round the final corner, I hear voices—Kate's sharp, impatient tone cutting through the cavernous space, Derek's quieter, more controlled response.

"This is it? You're sure?" Kate demands, standing rigid with barely contained anticipation.

Derek's voice is flat. "Yeah."

Kate exhales, stepping closer. "It doesn't look like much..."

"That's because it isn't," I say smoothly, stepping into the vault. My voice carries, making her flinch slightly before she schools her expression into something more composed. Derek turns his head just enough to glance at me, his jaw tightening.

Kate narrows her eyes. "You're late."

I smile. "I had other pressing matters to attend to." Like not getting torn to pieces by a berserker. But she doesn't need to know that.

She turns back to the vault, her fingers twitching at her sides. The metal door stands open, the dim light flickering off the damp stone walls. Inside, resting on a small pedestal, is the object she's been hunting. The Triskelion.

Or at least, what she thinks it is.

"Quite the elaborate scheme you have here, Kate," I continue, stepping forward slowly, watching her carefully. "Two countries, Aztec temples, Derek returned to a teenager... All this complication, just to gain access to our vault. Just to get your hands on that little piece of junk."

Kate's eyes flicker with something dark. "It's not junk," she snaps.

I arch an eyebrow. "Turn it over. Go ahead."

Her fingers tighten around the pendant as she hesitates.

"There's a scrape on the back," I say, my voice rich with amusement, "where it used to say Made in China."

Kate's lips press into a thin line. "You're lying."

"Oh, Kate..." I let out a dramatic sigh, shaking my head. "I admit, I have a tendency to exaggerate things, occasionally. But in this case? The truth is so much more fun."

Her grip tightens on the pendant, and I can practically see the gears in her head turning. Derek is silent beside her, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. This was never about the Triskelion for him—he already knows the truth.

I lean casually against one of the stone pillars, crossing my arms. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetheart—that little pendant? It's just a physical object to focus on. Training wheels. Talia used it to teach Laura. I tried to use it to teach Derek."

Kate's face twitches with barely restrained fury. "You're lying."

I grin. "Am I? Think about it. You really think Talia Hale needed some cheap little pendant to control her shift? You really think a true Alpha, the woman who led our family, who controlled a pack of wolves with just a look, relied on something as mundane as that?"

Kate's breath comes faster now, frustration radiating off her in waves. "Then why did she have it? Why did she keep it?"

"For you."

Her head snaps toward me, eyes flashing.

"For people like you," I clarify, my voice dropping lower, more venomous. "People who think they can steal power. People who think they can cheat their way into control."

Her jaw clenches.

I push away from the pillar, stalking toward her, my voice smooth and deliberate. "Derek gave up on it back when he learned another way to control the shift... one I taught him."

Kate's eyes dart to Derek, then back to me.

Memories flicker through my mind.

I taught him to use emotion—to use anger—and to focus on it.

To feel every ounce of rage and hatred that he could summon.

It was the anger that taught him control.

Kate's grip on the pendant trembles.

"So," I continue, voice silky, "you want to control it? You want to get angry, Kate?"

I bare my teeth.

"Let's get angry."

Before she can react, I shift—claws extending, fangs bared, a guttural snarl ripping from my throat.

Kate screams, her own shift taking hold as her body contorts, her eyes burning yellow, her fangs elongating—

The growl that erupts from her is raw and wild, and for a split second, I see the fear in her eyes.

And then—

A deafening bang echoes through the vault.

Then another.

Then another.

Flashbangs.

The explosion of light and sound sends me reeling. My vision blurs, ears ringing, every nerve screaming in agony. The world tilts, my balance shattered. I stagger, barely managing to catch myself against the stone wall.

My body feels like it's on fire, my muscles locking up.

Through the haze, I hear Derek shouting, Kate screaming. I blink rapidly, trying to focus, trying to see through the blinding afterimages.

I reach out, gasping—

"Wait!"

I try to push myself upright, but my limbs are weak, shaking.

Another bang, another wave of white-hot pain flooding through me.

"Wait!!!"

And then—

Darkness.

Stiles's Pov

The tunnels reek of damp stone and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the stale scent of time itself. My stomach churns as I move carefully through the underground corridors, Lydia at my side, her heels clicking softly against the floor. I know I probably shouldn't be here. Because of the baby. Because I should be somewhere safe, maybe at home, curled up with a stupid book or mindlessly watching Christmas reruns.

But the pack needed help.

Scott had taken off after Peter. Malia was with him. And somehow, after the absolute insanity of tonight, Lydia and I had found ourselves back here—deep in the bowels of Beacon Hills High, staring down the entrance to the Hale Vault.

I hesitate at the threshold, my breath fogging in the cold air. Lydia barely breaks stride, moving forward like she was meant to be here, like she belongs. Maybe she does. Maybe I do too.

The heavy vault door is still open. The place is dimly lit, the pale glow from the overhead bulbs flickering like something out of a horror movie. I swallow hard, ignoring the way my stomach turns. My nerves are shot, my whole body exhausted from a night that just won't end.

And then I see him.

Peter Hale, slumped against the cold stone wall, looking for all the world like someone had just sucker-punched him in the gut and left him for dead. He's sitting on the floor, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, head lolling slightly as he mutters to himself.

I've seen Peter in a lot of conditions—smug, calculating, enraged, occasionally feral—but this? This is different.

Lydia's sharp gaze sweeps the room, cataloging details like she's already solving a crime scene in her head.

Peter doesn't look at us, doesn't acknowledge us at all, just keeps muttering under his breath, voice hoarse, unfocused.

"It was never... never... about the Triskelion," he mumbles, his head tipping back against the wall. "They took it. They took it while I was blind..."

Lydia and I exchange a look.

I take a cautious step closer, my boots scuffing against the stone. "Took what?"

Peter's eyes flick toward me, sharp even in his dazed state. He takes a shallow breath, then exhales like the weight of the world is sitting squarely on his chest.

"Bonds," he mutters. "Bearer bonds. And they took them all."

I blink. "Bearer bonds?"

Lydia tilts her head, intrigued now. "Bearer bonds are untraceable," she murmurs. "If you have them, you own them. No one can prove they weren't always yours."

A slow, crawling realization spreads through my gut.

I stare at Peter. "Hold on. Are you saying that you got robbed?"

Peter's lip curls, his usual irritation flickering beneath the exhaustion. "This was a heist," he growls, pushing a hand through his hair. "Somebody planned this!"

Lydia crosses her arms, unimpressed. "How much did they take?"

Peter exhales sharply, looking away for a moment. His fingers twitch like he wants to strangle something, or maybe just himself.

"One hundred and seventeen..." he starts, voice tight.

I raise an eyebrow. "Thousand?"

Peter slowly turns his head toward me, eyes dark with something unreadable. "Million," he corrects, voice flat.

A beat of silence.

And then—

I wheeze. My whole body locks up as I try to process what the hell I just heard. My stomach lurches, a sharp twist of nausea rolling through me.

"Million?" I sputter. "Million? Peter, are you telling me someone just waltzed in here and stole one hundred and seventeen million dollars?"

Peter glares at me, clearly not in the mood. "Yes, Stiles," he snaps, his voice as dry as the desert. "That is exactly what I'm telling you."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

I turn to Lydia. "One hundred and seventeen million dollars."

Lydia blinks, clearly recalculating the situation.

I whip back toward Peter. "In bearer bonds?"

"Yes."

"That were just sitting in the Hale Vault?"

"Yes, Stiles."

I suck in a breath, bracing my hands on my knees. "I need a minute."

My stomach churns, and I know if I don't sit down soon, I'm going to end up losing my breakfast all over centuries-old Hale family stonework. My blood pressure spikes, my head spins, and I swear to God, the baby is not helping.

Lydia—saint, angel, genius that she is—places a hand on my arm, grounding me before I can full-on keel over.

Peter watches me with mild irritation. "This is not about you," he says, voice clipped. "So if you're going to pass out, at least have the decency to do it after we solve this problem."

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and straighten. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you not just casually drop the fact that someone committed one of the biggest heists in Beacon Hills history and robbed you blind?" I suck in a breath, gesturing wildly. "One hundred and seventeen million dollars, Peter. That's not pocket change. That's buy-an-island money."

Peter rubs his temples like he has an actual migraine. "Yes, Stiles. I am painfully aware of how much I just lost."

I press my hands to my temples. "How did they even know the bonds were here?"

Peter's jaw clenches. "Because someone knew. And someone gave them the opportunity."

Lydia, ever the detective, folds her arms. "Who else knew about them?"

Peter exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "The only people who should have known are dead. Talia. Laura. And me."

I frown. "Except someone did know. And that someone just made off with enough money to fund a small militia."

Peter's eyes flick to the vault's empty pedestal. His fingers twitch like he wants to strangle someone. "And they knew exactly when to strike."

Something clicks into place in my brain.

"You said they took it when you were blind," I say slowly.

Peter tenses.

Lydia tilts her head. "From the flashbangs?"

Peter's expression darkens.

I narrow my eyes. "So this whole thing? The berserkers, the Triskelion, Kate, Derek turning into a hormonal teenager—it was all a distraction?"

Peter doesn't answer. But he doesn't deny it either.

Lydia exhales sharply, clearly connecting the dots.

I scrub a hand down my face. "Oh my God. This wasn't about power—it was about money."

Lydia murmurs, "And Kate played right into it."

Peter mutters something in Russian that I don't need translated to know it's deeply, deeply profane. A cold weight settles in my chest. This isn't over. Not even close.

By the time we make it out of the vault, my entire body is screaming at me.

I don't know if it's the stress, the exhaustion, or the fact that I spent the last fifteen minutes trying not to puke while processing the absolute insanity of what Peter just told us, but I'm barely keeping it together. Lydia strides ahead, her expression carefully blank, but I can tell she's still turning the numbers over in her head. One hundred and seventeen million dollars. I don't think any of us really know what to do with that kind of information yet.

Peter, of course, is sulking.

I don't blame him, honestly. If someone had just robbed me of a fortune that big, I'd probably be losing my mind too. Then again, I don't have a secret underground fortune, so that's more of a Peter problem than a Stiles problem.

When we step outside, the air is freezing. The sky's that weird, washed-out gray that only happens when you've been underground for too long, and I blink against the dull light. My pulse still hasn't settled. Every muscle in my body feels tense, strung tight like a wire that could snap at any moment.

And then I see them—Scott, Malia, Kira, and Derek—standing near the ruins of whatever fight they just had, and my stomach lurches.

Because Derek is back.

Not teenage Derek. Not the hormonal, too-young, weirdly lost version of him. Normal Derek.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

His stance is tense, his body still coiled from whatever the hell just happened here, and there's dried blood on his cheek, a dark smear across his jaw. He's wearing his usual leather jacket, his dark eyes scanning the area like he's still waiting for something else to go wrong.

My chest tightens.

He's back.

My fingers twitch at my sides, fighting the impulse to reach for him, to check, to make sure. I don't know why it hits me so hard—maybe because I've been waiting for this moment ever since the second he de-aged, maybe because it finally feels like something in this nightmare is going back to normal.

But then my eyes drop to Malia, who's leaning slightly to the side, favoring one leg.

She's hurt.

A fresh cut slices across her thigh, and even though it doesn't look deep, it still makes my stomach plummet. Kira is hovering beside her, brows furrowed in concern, and Scott—God, Scott—looks exhausted, like the weight of the whole world is pressing down on him.

I can't do this.

Not right now.

Not when my body is already done with today, when I can feel the exhaustion creeping up on me like a slow-building avalanche.

Scott glances up, sees me, and something flickers in his expression. Relief? Frustration? I can't tell.

"You okay?" he asks, voice rough.

I scoff. "I think that's my line, dude. You're the one who looks like you just went three rounds with a grizzly bear."

Scott huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Not far off."

Lydia crosses her arms. "The berserkers are gone?"

"For now," Kira confirms. "But that doesn't mean they won't come back."

Derek finally looks at me, and I feel it—like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.

"You alright?" he asks, voice low.

It's such a simple question, but for some reason, it nearly undoes me.

I nod, too quickly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. You're the one who just pulled a full-on Benjamin Button, so maybe let's focus on that."

Derek's eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn't quite believe me, but he lets it go.

For now.

Peter exhales sharply, clearly done with this whole situation. "Well, as fun as this has been, I think we should get the hell out of here before anything else goes wrong."

Scott nods. "Derek's loft?"

Derek hesitates, then sighs, clearly too tired to argue. "Fine."

It's not until we get to the cars that I realize I'm the only one who can drive Peter and Derek.

Scott's got Malia and Kira. Lydia drove separately. And me? I have two Hale men and a Jeep that barely has that new-car smell anymore.

This is fine.

This is totally fine.

I slide behind the wheel, gripping it a little too tightly as Peter and Derek climb in. The second I turn the key, the engine rumbles to life, purring beneath my hands, and for a second—just a second—the tension eases.

I love this Jeep.

Dad really outdid himself.

Peter is sprawled in the passenger seat like he owns the damn thing, while Derek settles stiffly in the back, like he's still adjusting to being in his normal body again.

The drive is quiet, tense, and I almost think we're going to make it the whole way without incident.

But of course, Peter can't keep his mouth shut.

Halfway to the loft, his gaze flicks down—just slightly—before his lips curl into that smug little smirk that makes me want to deck him in the face.

"You know your jeans are unbuttoned, right?"

Heat floods my face.

Derek shifts in the backseat.

I grip the wheel. "Yes, Peter, I am aware."

Peter hums, amused. "That's interesting."

I exhale sharply. "No, it's not."

"Oh, but it is," he muses, tapping a finger against his knee. "Tell me, Stiles—are we finally reaching that stage of pregnancy where your old clothes don't fit anymore?"

My whole body tenses.

Derek doesn't say anything, but I feel his stare burning into the back of my head.

I swallow hard. "Peter," I say, voice tight, "I swear to God—"

"Just an observation," Peter says innocently, clearly enjoying himself. "No need to get so defensive."

I grit my teeth.

I am not doing this right now.

Not when I'm this close to passing out from exhaustion. Not when I've barely eaten all day. Not when there are about a hundred bigger problems happening around us.

So I ignore him.

Peter chuckles, but he lets it drop, probably because even he can tell I'm seconds away from shoving him out of the moving vehicle.

By the time we reach the loft, my limbs feel heavy, my brain fuzzy around the edges. I park the Jeep, killing the engine, and take a second to just breathe.

Derek gets out first. Peter stretches, rolling his shoulders like this entire night hasn't been a complete disaster.

I move slower, gripping the doorframe for balance as I step onto solid ground. My stomach twists—not from nausea, not yet, but from sheer exhaustion.

I am so done.

And the night isn't even over yet. By the time we make it inside Derek's loft, I know I've reached my limit.

It's not dramatic, it's not sudden—I've been feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping up on me since the vault, since the ridiculous realization that someone pulled off a full-on heist while we were all too busy getting our asses kicked. Since I saw Malia bleeding. Since I saw Derek, whole again, looking at me like he knew something was off.

My body is done.

And I don't even have the energy to pretend otherwise.

The loft is cold, dimly lit, the familiar scent of old wood and lingering smoke curling around me the second I step inside. The exposed brick walls make the place feel even bigger than it already is, and the only real furniture—aside from the couches and that massive, intimidating table Derek probably never actually uses—is the bed shoved in the corner.

That's where I go.

I don't even hesitate.

I don't say anything, don't acknowledge the flicker of surprise in Derek's expression when he realizes I'm making a beeline for his bed like I own the damn thing. I just move, step by step, feeling every muscle in my body protest, every inch of me heavy with exhaustion.

The bed isn't made, but I don't care. The mattress dips under my weight as I collapse onto it, stretching out with a groan.

"Stiles—"

I wave a hand, cutting Derek off before he can even start. "I'm fine," I mumble. "Just need, like, five minutes where I'm not standing."

Nobody argues.

Maybe because I look like I'm about to pass out.

Or maybe because they're all too caught up in the absolute shitshow that's unraveling around us to waste time arguing with me.

Peter, of course, follows.

Because of course he does.

I feel the bed shift slightly as he perches on the edge, his usual mix of amusement and vague concern rolling off him in waves. I don't open my eyes, but I feel him watching me.

"You're awfully delicate tonight," he muses, voice smug.

I crack one eye open, glaring. "I swear to God, Peter—"

He smirks. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not about to start listing symptoms," he says. "But I will point out that you probably shouldn't be here."

I exhale sharply. "Yeah, well, too late now."

He hums like he's considering that. "Suppose so."

Before I can snap at him, the rest of the group files in.

Scott, Kira, Malia, Lydia.

Derek lingers near the door, still tense, arms crossed like he's waiting for something else to go wrong.

Lydia eyes me from across the room, one perfectly shaped brow arching. "You're giving up already?"

I groan. "I'm not giving up," I grumble, shifting slightly so I can peek over the blanket I've half-pulled over my head. "I'm resting."

Malia is limping slightly, but she seems mostly fine now, more irritated than anything else. She collapses onto one of the couches, stretching her injured leg out with a sigh.

"Alright," Scott says, stepping forward. "What the hell just happened?"

Peter sighs, dramatic as ever. "We got robbed, obviously."

Scott's jaw tightens. "Robbed of what?"

Peter leans back slightly, crossing one ankle over his knee. "A hundred and seventeen million dollars," he says casually, like that isn't the most insane thing any of us have heard all night.

Silence.

Then—

"Wait, what?"

Kira looks baffled. Malia is frowning. Lydia has the exact kind of look on her face that tells me she's already trying to work out who could have done this and how.

Scott looks like he's about to pass out.

I feel you, buddy.

"A heist," Peter continues. "One that someone—probably Kate—has been planning for a while."

Scott runs a hand down his face. "Jesus."

Derek hasn't said anything yet.

I peek over at him, watching the way his shoulders remain tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

It's weird—not seeing him react.

Like part of him already expected something like this to happen.

"You knew about the bonds," I say before I can stop myself.

Derek's eyes snap to mine.

He doesn't deny it.

I narrow my eyes. "Dude."

He sighs, shifting slightly. "I knew there was something in the vault," he admits. "Talia never talked about it much, but I figured—if it was something worth hiding, it had to be important."

Lydia crosses her arms. "And yet you never thought to mention it?"

Derek huffs a breath. "It wasn't relevant until now."

Lydia looks like she wants to murder him.

Scott shakes his head, trying to process. "Okay, so Kate pulls off a heist in the middle of all this chaos. Why? What does she want?"

Peter leans forward, steepling his fingers. "The triskelion was a distraction," he says. "She thought it would help her control the shift, but that was never the real goal. The real goal was money."

Kira frowns. "What money?"

"Old money," Peter says, tilting his head slightly. "Generations of it."

The conversation keeps going.

I try to keep listening.

I really do.

But my body has other plans.

The exhaustion is creeping up faster now, pulling at the edges of my mind, dragging me under.

My limbs feel heavy.

My stomach is settling into that weird middle ground between empty and too full, and my head is pounding.

I know I should stay awake.

I should be paying attention.

But for the first time in weeks, I feel safe.

The loft is warm.

Peter is still sitting at the edge of the bed, his presence oddly grounding.

Derek is back.

Scott is talking, still trying to sort through everything, and Lydia—Lydia is probably going to figure out the entire plan in less time than it takes for me to finish this thought.

I'm fine.

I'm—

I drift.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

Just slowly, steadily, the voices around me fading into a dull hum, my body sinking deeper into the mattress.

I don't know when I fully slip under.

But I do.

Peter's Pov

Stiles's heartbeat slows.

It's subtle at first, the steady thump-thump losing its frantic edge, settling into something softer, something steady. His breaths even out, his body going slack against the mattress, exhaustion finally winning out.

I knew it was coming.

I could see it from the moment we stepped into the loft—the way his hands trembled, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his skin looked too pale under the dim lighting. He had been running on fumes for hours, barely keeping himself upright, pushing himself past every limit his body had set.

And now, his body is finally calling it quits.

Derek doesn't notice immediately.

He's too wrapped up in the conversation, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, listening to Scott and Lydia throw theories back and forth. The stolen bonds, the vault, the heist.

None of them notice the way Stiles has already checked out.

But I do.

I always notice.

Because I know the sound of his heartbeat better than I should, better than anyone else in this room except for maybe Derek.

And I know when something changes.

Because as Stiles drifts off, his body surrendering to sleep, I hear something else.

Something quieter.

Something softer.

A second heartbeat.

It's faint.

So faint I almost miss it beneath the hum of conversation, beneath the overlapping heartbeats of everyone else in the room.

But it's there.

Quick. Unsteady. Alive.

The baby.

I keep my expression blank, fingers curling subtly against my knee.

The sound of it is strange—new, but familiar in a way I can't explain. It's too soon to tell anything, too soon to know, but something primal in me stirs at the confirmation.

Stiles's baby.

Still alive.

Still his.

And I care.

God help me, I care.

I settle my gaze on him, watching the way his lashes flutter slightly against his cheek, the way his fingers twitch faintly against the blanket. He's curled onto his side now, the line of his spine relaxed, his breathing deep and slow.

He looks young.

Too young to be carrying this kind of weight.

Too young to have this responsibility pressing down on him.

Derek notices a second later.

His eyes flick toward the bed, brow furrowing, realization dawning behind his gaze.

And I see it.

I see the exact moment he hears it too.

The baby's heartbeat.

His whole body tenses, his nostrils flare, his fingers tighten around his biceps where his arms are still crossed. His throat bobs in a silent swallow, his eyes lingering on Stiles's sleeping form.

Protective.

The same way I feel.

And that's interesting.

Derek has never been the type to let himself get attached so quickly. He guards his emotions like a fortress, keeps everyone at arm's length, and yet—yet here he is, staring at Stiles like he's already memorized every exhausted breath, every tiny shift of movement.

And I can't say I blame him.

Not when I feel the same way.

Not when I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if anyone threatens Stiles—or the baby—there will be hell to pay.

I glance at Derek again, our eyes meeting for half a second.

It's an unspoken understanding.

A silent agreement.

Neither of us says anything.

We don't need to.

Because in this, at least, we are on the same side.

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Peter's Pov

And I can't say I blame him.

Not when I feel the same way.

Not when I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if anyone threatens Stiles—or the baby—there will be hell to pay.

I glance at Derek again, our eyes meeting for half a second.

It's an unspoken understanding.

A silent agreement.

Neither of us says anything.

We don't need to.

Because in this, at least, we are on the same side.

Stiles's Pov

December 31, 2011-New Year's Eve

7 weeks and seven days pregnant

I stare down at the button of my jeans, which is currently mocking me.

It shouldn't be this hard to get them to close. These are my favorite jeans—soft, worn-in just right, the perfect fit for my usual level of chaotic movement. And yet, here I am, standing in front of my mirror, sucking in my stomach like I've just finished an all-you-can-eat buffet, trying—and failing—to make the button reach the hole.

This is bullshit.

I huff out a breath, glaring at my reflection. The baby is still the size of a blueberry. A blueberry. That's tiny. I shouldn't be struggling with my jeans yet. But my body seems to have decided that logic is for other people and has moved straight into betrayal mode.

With a defeated sigh, I let my stomach relax, watching as the waistband of my jeans gapes slightly where the button should be secured. I could use a hair tie trick, maybe grab one of those elastic bands pregnant people use to stretch their jeans for a few more weeks. But honestly? I think I'm past the point of hacks.

I need bigger pants.

The thought makes me groan out loud, dragging my hands down my face.

I do not want to go shopping for maternity jeans.

Like, yes, I knew this was coming. I'm pregnant. There's going to be growth. That's just basic science. But still, there's something about actually going to a store, actually buying bigger clothes, that makes this all feel... more real.

And I don't know if I'm ready for that level of real.

Too bad my jeans don't give a shit about my feelings.

I sigh and reach for my phone on the nightstand, mentally preparing myself to text Derek and ask if he wants to come with me. He's been the one checking in the most lately—aside from my dad, obviously. And, okay, maybe I kind of want his opinion, since his whole wardrobe is basically just well-fitted black jeans.

But before I can even open the messages, there's a knock at the front door.

I frown. Dad's at work, and I wasn't expecting anyone.

Suspicious, I grab my hoodie off the chair, pulling it over my head before making my way downstairs. The knocking comes again—more insistent this time.

Yeah, definitely suspicious.

Peering through the peephole, I freeze.

It's Peter.

Because of course it is.

Because my life is a never-ending circus of supernatural weirdness, and Peter Hale showing up unannounced on the morning of New Year's Eve is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me now.

Bracing myself, I open the door. "Peter," I say flatly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Peter tilts his head, eyes sweeping over me with way too much amusement. "You look flustered," he observes, lips curving into a smirk. "Trouble in paradise?"

I blink. "Paradise? What paradise? Do I look like I'm in paradise?"

His gaze drops right to my waistband.

My unbuttoned waistband.

A slow grin spreads across his face.

I scowl and cross my arms over my stomach, suddenly regretting every choice I've made in the last five minutes. "Don't," I warn.

"Don't what?" Peter says innocently.

"Whatever you're about to say," I mutter. "Don't."

Peter, of course, does not listen. "Ah," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he's so entertained by my suffering. "So you've reached that stage, have you?"

I groan. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," he says easily, brushing past me into the house without being invited, because Peter Hale has no concept of boundaries. "You're just grumpy because your human clothes are failing you. A tragic day, truly."

I shut the door and turn to glare at him. "Are you here for a reason, or are you just here to harass me?"

"A little of both," Peter says, inspecting his nails like this is all so casual. "I heard a certain someone needs new pants. And since I have nothing better to do today, I thought I'd offer my assistance."

I blink at him. "You want to come shopping with me?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

I squint. "What's in it for you?"

Peter smirks. "Oh, Stiles. Must I always have ulterior motives?"

"Yes," I say immediately.

Peter chuckles, clearly not offended. "Fine," he admits. "I'm bored. And Derek's been hovering over you like an anxious mother hen, which means he'll probably insist on going if you invite him. And frankly? I want to be the one to help you pick out your new wardrobe."

I gape at him. "You want to pick out my pants?"

"Of course," he says smoothly. "Someone has to make sure you don't end up in hideous dad jeans before you've even hit your second trimester."

I groan and press my hands to my temples. "You're the worst."

"And yet, you haven't kicked me out," Peter points out, looking far too smug.

I glare at him for a long moment, then exhale heavily. "Fine. Fine. You can come. But if you make one comment about baby weight, I swear to God—"

Peter raises a hand, palm out. "Scout's honor."

I roll my eyes, already regretting this decision. "Let me grab my shoes."

Peter grins. "Take your time."

And just like that, I'm going shopping for bigger pants.

With Peter Hale.

Because of course I am. The mall is packed, and I regret this decision immediately.

I don't know what I was expecting—it's New Year's Eve, people are probably out doing last-minute party shopping or taking advantage of post-Christmas sales. But still, the sheer amount of bodies moving around, crowding every store, makes my skin crawl. Peter, of course, looks completely unbothered. If anything, he seems mildly entertained by my suffering.

"You're acting like we've entered a war zone," he remarks, sidestepping a woman who nearly clips him with an oversized shopping bag.

"That's because we have," I mutter, stuffing my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. "Crowds are awful, Peter. Awful."

Peter smirks. "You've faced supernatural threats, been possessed by an ancient evil spirit, and this is what rattles you?"

"Yes," I say flatly. "This is hell."

Peter chuckles. "Come on, then. Let's get you sorted before you pass out from sheer introvert exhaustion."

I scowl but follow him deeper into the mall.

I still don't know why I agreed to this.

Maybe it was a mix of sheer exhaustion and knowing that, if I didn't go today, I'd just keep putting it off until my jeans actually cut off my circulation. But I could've asked Derek, or even just sucked it up and gone alone. Instead, I let Peter Hale be my shopping buddy. Which, honestly, is starting to feel like the worst decision of my life. Peter strolls ahead of me like he owns the place, looking effortlessly put-together despite the chaos around us. Meanwhile, I'm doing my best not to look like some poor overwhelmed teen dad-to-be who has no clue what he's doing.

Spoiler alert: I have no clue what I'm doing.

"Alright," Peter says, scanning the store directory like this is some sort of mission. "Where do they sell pants that will accommodate your... expansion?"

I glare at him. "I hate the way you said that."

Peter smirks. "And yet, it remains true."

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Look, I don't need, like, actual maternity pants or anything. I just need something with a little more room. Sweatpants. Joggers. Maybe some jeans with, I don't know, an elastic waistband or something."

Peter hums, looking me over like he's assessing me. "Ah. You want to maintain some semblance of your former dignity. Understandable."

"Gee, thanks."

He waves a hand. "Come, then. Let's find you something that won't make you look like you've given up on life entirely."

I follow him, because apparently, I've lost all control over my life.

Peter leads the way into a ridiculously overpriced store, the kind that sells jeans for, like, eighty bucks a pair.

I balk immediately. "Nope."

Peter lifts an eyebrow. "Nope?"

"Nope," I repeat. "Absolutely not. I am not spending that much money on pants I'm going to outgrow in, like, two months."

Peter sighs. "Stiles, the goal is to look good, not dress like you've been living in your Jeep."

"First of all, rude," I say. "Second of all, I have been living in my Jeep half the time lately, so double rude."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I refuse to let you waddle around in ill-fitting monstrosities. Compromise, Stiles."

I groan. "Fine. Let's find, like... reasonable jeans."

Peter smirks, clearly pleased. "Good boy."

I flip him off and stomp toward the nearest department store.

After what feels like an eternity, I find a section with jeans that don't make me want to cry. They're not labeled as maternity wear, but they've got stretchy waistbands, which is good enough for me.

I grab a few pairs in different sizes, not entirely sure what's going to fit. Peter, of course, insists on inspecting each pair like he's judging my entire existence.

"You could stand to go up another size," he muses, holding up a pair against me.

I snatch them from his hands. "I am not going up two sizes, Peter."

Peter smirks. "Denial is an ugly thing, Stiles."

I groan. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," he says smoothly.

I storm toward the dressing rooms before I can say something actually insulting.

Once inside, I try on the first pair. They're too tight. The next pair is better, but when I sit down, the waistband digs in uncomfortably.

By the time I find a pair that fits well enough, I'm ready to never put on pants again.

I exit the dressing room, tossing the winning pair into the cart Peter has somehow procured in the time I was gone.

"There," I mutter. "Pants acquired."

Peter hums. "You might as well grab a few more. Unless you want to be constantly washing the one pair that fits."

I open my mouth to argue, then snap it shut.

Damn it. He's right.

"Fine," I grumble, going back for another two pairs.

Peter watches me with a knowing smirk, but—for once—he doesn't say anything.

Which is good. Because if he had, I might've thrown a hanger at his head.

After pants, I grab a couple of oversized hoodies—because comfort—and some plain t-shirts that won't cling too much.

By the time we reach the checkout, my wallet is crying, but at least I have pants that don't feel like medieval torture devices.

"See?" Peter says as we leave the store. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I glare at him. "I hated every second of it."

Peter smirks. "And yet, you now have properly fitting clothes."

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Why do you enjoy being annoying?"

Peter chuckles. "Oh, Stiles. It's not annoying—it's guidance."

I snort. "Yeah, okay."

He glances at me. "Hungry?"

I blink. "Huh?"

"You need to eat," he says, like it's obvious. "Shopping is exhausting. You should refuel."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you offering to buy me food?"

Peter smirks. "Consider it my good deed for the day."

I do not trust this.

But my stomach rumbles, so I sigh and nod. "Fine. But if you make one single comment about my appetite, I will stab you with a fork."

Peter grins. "Noted."

And just like that, I somehow end up at the food court with Peter Hale.

Because my life is ridiculous. The food court is a nightmare.

People are everywhere—families wrangling screaming kids, couples sharing fries like they're in some terrible rom-com, packs of teenagers taking up entire tables like they own the place. The noise level is absurd, a never-ending mix of conversation, trays clattering, and the occasional sound of someone definitely dropping an entire drink on the floor.

I hate it.

Peter, of course, looks completely unbothered. If anything, he seems mildly amused at my discomfort.

"You look like you're considering a tactical retreat," he says, tilting his head.

I scowl. "I am considering a tactical retreat. This is awful."

Peter smirks, stepping ahead of me like he's leading this mission. "Pick something to eat, Stiles. Before you pass out from sheer outrage."

"I'm not going to pass out," I grumble, but my stomach does let out a small, traitorous growl.

Peter lifts an eyebrow, clearly pleased.

I hate him.

Dragging in a breath, I scan the food options. Everything smells way too strong—fried food, pizza grease, something way too garlicky—but my stomach isn't immediately revolting, so I guess that's a win.

I hesitate, debating whether I should play it safe or actually try to eat like a normal human being for once.

Peter taps his fingers against his arm. "I don't have all day, you know."

I ignore him and zero in on one of the burger places. Something bland sounds best—fries, maybe a plain burger with no weird sauces. Protein, carbs, salt. That should work, right?

"Burger place," I decide, nodding toward it.

Peter sighs. "Of course. The most pedestrian option."

"Shut up, Hale."

I march over to the counter, placing my order while Peter lingers beside me, probably silently judging every life decision I've ever made. I get a small burger, plain, and a side of fries, plus a water. Nothing too ambitious. Safe.

Peter orders something that sounds obnoxiously healthy—grilled chicken, a salad, some overpriced sparkling water.

I squint at him. "You do know it's okay to enjoy food, right?"

Peter smirks. "I enjoy many things, Stiles. I just prefer not to ingest unnecessary calories that will do nothing for me."

I roll my eyes. "God, you are exhausting."

Peter gestures to a nearby table. "Find us a seat. I'll bring the food."

I almost argue, but the thought of not having to stand in this crowd for another five minutes makes me shut my mouth. I scout the seating area, finding a small table near the edge of the food court, a little away from the worst of the chaos. I collapse into the chair, letting out a breath.

My body hates me today.

The shopping, the walking, the standing—it's all catching up to me. My muscles ache, my lower back twinges, and there's a dull, uncomfortable pressure in my stomach that isn't nausea but still isn't great.

I rest my hands over my hoodie, fingers tracing the fabric over my lower abdomen. Seven weeks and seven days. Tomorrow, I'll officially be eight weeks pregnant.

eight weeks.

I try to wrap my head around that number. It still doesn't feel real sometimes.

It definitely doesn't feel real when I'm sitting in a mall food court, surrounded by people who have no idea I'm currently growing an entire human being.

Peter returns, setting my tray in front of me before sliding into the seat across from me. I half expect him to make some snide comment about how pale I probably look right now, but he just unwraps his sandwich, watching me like he's waiting to see if I'm actually going to eat.

I am, obviously. I need to eat. I pick up a fry, nibbling at it carefully, waiting to see if my stomach will rebel.

So far, so good.

Peter takes a sip of his water. "You're thinking very hard about that fry."

"Shut up," I mutter.

Peter smirks but doesn't push.

I move on to the burger, taking a small bite. The bread is soft, the meat a little dry, but it's fine. Normal. Completely edible.

Peter watches me like a hawk.

I pause mid-chew, glaring at him. "Are you seriously going to stare at me the whole time?"

Peter lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Just making sure you don't keel over in your fries."

I roll my eyes. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Peter says easily, biting into his sandwich.

I mutter something unflattering under my breath and take another bite of my burger.

Silence stretches between us—well, as much silence as you can get in a food court.

A few minutes pass, and my stomach still isn't angry. I almost start to relax.

Until Peter casually says, "Your pants are still unbuttoned, by the way."

I choke on my fry.

Peter grins.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

I cough, reaching for my water. "Can you not bring that up while I'm eating?"

Peter snickers. "I'm merely observing, Stiles. You clearly needed new pants."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "I know. That's why we went shopping, remember?"

Peter chuckles, annoyingly smug. "Yes, but it's still adorable how you're trying to pretend like this isn't happening."

I glare. "I am not adorable."

Peter tilts his head. "Debatable."

I groan again, shoving a fry in my mouth just so I don't have to respond.

Peter takes another sip of his water, his expression shifting from amused to something more... calculating. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

I hesitate, poking at my burger.

I could lie. Say I'm fine. That's my default. But Peter is weirdly perceptive when he wants to be, and I doubt he'd let it slide.

I sigh. "Tired. Everything aches. Shopping sucked. I hate people." I gesture vaguely at the surrounding mall chaos. "This was too much."

Peter nods, surprisingly understanding. "You overdid it."

I shrug. "I had to."

"Not necessarily," Peter counters. "You could've delegated."

I raise an eyebrow. "To who? Derek? Scott?"

Peter smirks. "Well, I would have done it, obviously."

I snort. "Yeah, right. You hate errands. I forced you into this, remember?"

Peter leans back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Yes, and it was entertaining."

I groan, finishing the last of my burger.

Peter watches me finish my fries, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he says, "You should let people help you, Stiles."

Something about the way he says it—low, serious—makes my stomach twist.

I swallow hard. "I do let people help."

Peter lifts an eyebrow.

I scowl. "I do."

Peter just hums, clearly unconvinced.

I stab at the last fry, stuffing it into my mouth.

Peter waits a beat, then says, "You should eat more."

I narrow my eyes. "You just said I finished all my food."

Peter shrugs. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't eat more. You are eating for two."

My stomach clenches.

I know that. Obviously. But hearing it out loud makes my throat go tight.

I look away, fiddling with my water bottle.

Peter exhales, almost gentle for once. "You're doing well, Stiles. Just... try to take care of yourself, too."

I don't know what to say to that.

So I just nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Peter watches me for another second, then pushes back his chair. "Come on," he says. "Let's get out of this hellhole."

I let out a breath. "Thank God."

I follow him out, my stomach weirdly full but my chest a little lighter.

Peter Hale, of all people, has no right to be that perceptive.

Peter's Pov

As we step out of the food court, I savor the crisp winter air filtering in from the mall's main entrance. It's a relief after the suffocating mix of grease, sugar, and far too many bodies pressed into one space. Stiles looks similarly relieved, though he's slouching more than usual, hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie. He's tired. I can hear it in his breathing, see it in the way his steps lag just a fraction behind mine.

I slow my pace slightly, making it seem like I'm just adjusting my jacket. No need for him to get too aware that I'm paying attention.

We weave through the crowd, moving past window displays of post-holiday clearance signs and overpriced perfume sets. Stiles is muttering about never coming to the mall again when something to our right makes him stop abruptly.

I nearly collide into him.

"What—?" I start, but then I see it.

A baby store.

Of course.

Past the glass window, it's a nauseating blur of pastel colors—tiny clothes, cribs, strollers, stuffed animals stacked in pyramids. There's a sale sign in bright pink lettering, as if they're advertising infants at half-price.

Stiles freezes.

I watch the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl around the edge of his sleeve. His throat bobs as he swallows, and I can hear his heart stutter in his chest. His scent shifts, not quite fear but something close.

Interesting.

I tilt my head, studying him. "Something catching your eye?"

He flinches like he forgot I was standing there.

"No," he blurts, too fast. "I mean—yes. I mean—shut up."

I smirk. "Very articulate."

Stiles scowls, finally tearing his gaze away from the window. "It's just—I wasn't expecting—" He makes a vague, panicked gesture toward the store. "It's a lot."

I glance back at the display. Tiny socks. Tiny shirts. A crib that costs more than a used car.

"Yes," I agree, voice dry. "It's horrifying."

Stiles snorts, but it's half-hearted. His eyes flick back toward the glass, and for a moment, his expression shifts into something almost... soft. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch something but doesn't quite dare.

Fascinating.

I hum. "You could go in, you know."

Stiles whips his head toward me. "What? No."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why not?"

He splutters. "Because—because I don't need to. I don't—" His hands flail. "I'm barely even showing! It's way too early for—" He cuts himself off, suddenly looking guilty for even saying it out loud.

I cross my arms, waiting.

He shifts uncomfortably. "I just... I'm not ready to—" He waves at the store again, expression twisting. "It makes it feel real."

I blink.

"Stiles," I say, amused, "you do realize it's already real, don't you?"

He glares. "You know what I mean."

I do.

It's one thing to know something in your head. Another thing entirely to see it, to face it in physical form. To see the proof of what's coming.

He's not ready to touch that proof yet.

But I am.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I take a step forward and push open the glass door.

Behind me, Stiles makes a strangled noise.

"What the hell—?"

I don't wait.

The store is offensively bright, the walls lined with neatly arranged sections—infant clothes on one side, nursery furniture on another, a stroller display in the center that makes my skin crawl. Everything is soft edges and pastel colors, like the entire place is deliberately designed to be non-threatening.

It makes me want to knock something over.

A cheerful employee, a woman in her mid-40s, approaches with a plastic smile. "Can I help you find something today?"

I flash a pleasant smirk. "Just browsing."

Stiles finally stumbles in behind me, looking like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

"Oh my God, why," he hisses. "Why are you like this?"

"Because I enjoy making you uncomfortable," I say smoothly.

Stiles glares, but he's still hovering by the door like he's afraid to step further inside.

I roll my eyes and wander toward the nearest display—a table stacked with an assortment of baby clothes. Some are plain, some have cartoon animals on them, and a few have truly atrocious slogans like Mommy's Little Monster and Tiny But Mighty.

I pick up a onesie and hold it up. "What do you think?"

Stiles squints at it, then grimaces.

"Too much?" I ask.

"Way too much," he mutters, looking vaguely horrified.

I set it down and skim through the pile again. Eventually, I pluck out a simple gray onesie with a small wolf printed on the front.

Fitting.

I glance at Stiles. "Better?"

His eyes flick to the onesie. His expression softens just a fraction.

"It's... not bad," he admits reluctantly.

I smirk, rolling it between my fingers. "I'm getting it."

Stiles blinks. "Wait, what?"

I'm already moving toward the checkout counter.

Stiles makes an undignified squawk. "Peter, no—"

I slap the onesie down on the counter. The cashier rings it up.

Stiles groans. "You can't be serious."

I hand over a twenty-dollar bill.

Stiles gapes.

The cashier bags it up, completely unbothered by whatever weird energy we're radiating.

I take the bag, turn to Stiles, and grin. "Too late."

He stares at me like I just personally offended his entire family.

"I hate you," he breathes.

"No, you don't," I say, smirk widening.

He glares. Then glares at the bag. Then glares at me again.

Finally, he throws his hands up. "Fine. Whatever. Keep it. You bought it, it's yours now."

I hum, amused. "Oh, I fully intend to keep it." I twirl the bag around my fingers. "I'll hold onto it until you're ready."

Stiles crosses his arms. "That's never happening."

I just smirk. "We'll see."

I head for the exit.

Stiles grumbles the entire way out of the store, but I don't miss the way his eyes flick just once toward the bag in my hand.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Stiles's Pov

The gray onesie feels heavier in my mind than it does in Peter's bag. A stupidly small piece of fabric, soft as anything, with a tiny wolf printed on the chest. The moment Peter plucked it from the rack, I felt something in my chest twist—something I wasn't ready for, something I didn't have a name for yet.

I glance at him as we walk toward the Jeep, the crisp night air biting at my cheeks. Peter carries the bag casually, like he didn't just buy something that makes my reality a thousand times more tangible. I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, trying to ground myself.

"Didn't peg you for the type to go baby clothes shopping," I mutter, mostly to break the silence.

Peter smirks, eyes flicking to me. "I contain multitudes, Stiles." He swings the bag slightly, making sure I see it again. "Besides, if you weren't going to do it, someone had to."

I huff, kicking at a loose piece of gravel. "I didn't say I wasn't going to. Just... not yet."

Peter hums, unreadable. "And when, exactly, were you planning to? When you're in the hospital and they tell you the kid needs something to wear home?"

A twinge of guilt shoots through me. Because yeah, I have thought about it—I've thought about it a lot, actually—but every time I get close to doing something about it, I freeze. It's like acknowledging it outside of doctor's visits makes it more real. More inevitable.

"I just wasn't expecting it today," I admit, rubbing a hand over my face. "I came here for pants, Peter. Not—" I gesture vaguely at the bag. "—not life-altering baby moments."

Peter chuckles. "Life is full of surprises, kid." He stops beside the Jeep, tossing the bag into the passenger seat before turning to face me fully. "And you handled it better than you think."

I scoff. "Yeah, if 'handling it' means staring at a onesie like it held the secrets of the universe."

Peter's smirk softens slightly, something thoughtful creeping into his expression. "It's not a bad thing to be overwhelmed, Stiles. It means you care."

I swallow hard, looking away. The parking lot is mostly empty now, the holiday rush dying down as people head home to celebrate the new year. My mind feels cluttered, like a thousand different emotions are fighting for space.

Peter nudges my shoulder, just lightly. "Come on, let's get you home before you spiral too hard."

I nod, exhaling as I climb into the driver's seat. Peter settles beside me, relaxed in a way I'll never understand. The onesie sits in its bag between us, a quiet presence I can't ignore.

As I turn the key in the ignition, the Jeep rumbles to life beneath my hands. I tighten my grip on the wheel, letting out one last shaky breath.

Maybe Peter's right. Maybe I handled today better than I think.

Or maybe I'm just finally realizing that no matter how much I try to stall, this is happening.

And the tiny gray onesie in Peter's bag is proof. The house was quiet when we walked in, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones after a long day. The heater hummed softly, and the Christmas tree still blinked lazily in the corner, its lights casting faint shadows across the living room. Peter stepped in first, moving with that effortless grace he always had, and set the shopping bag on the kitchen table. He didn't say anything about it—he just placed it there, like it was any other ordinary bag from any other ordinary trip to the mall. But it wasn't ordinary. Nothing about today had been ordinary.

I shut the door behind me, toeing off my boots with a tired sigh. My body ached, a slow, deep exhaustion settling into my limbs. It wasn't just the weight of the day—it was the pregnancy. I was only six weeks and seven days in, but every little thing felt heavier now. The trip to the mall had drained me more than I wanted to admit, and the food court stop had helped, but only a little. And then, of course, there was the onesie.

The stupid, adorable, completely unnecessary onesie.

Peter hadn't even hesitated when he bought it. He saw it, made some dry remark about how it was "fitting," and then just... bought it. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like it didn't make my chest feel tight in a way I wasn't ready to deal with.

I watched as Peter grabbed his coat from where he'd draped it over the chair. He glanced at me, eyes sharp, reading me the way he always did. "Try to rest," he said simply.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

His lips curled into something that was almost a smirk, but not quite. It lacked the usual cruelty, the sharp edge he usually wielded like a weapon. This one was... softer. Amused, maybe. "Good," he said, slipping on his coat. "I'll see you later, Stiles."

He didn't wait for a response. He just stepped out the door, shutting it behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of my kitchen with that damn bag sitting on the table like it was waiting for me.

I stared at it.

It stared back.

Okay, maybe I was losing my mind, but it really did feel like the bag was taunting me.

With a sigh, I shuffled forward, my sore feet dragging a little. I pulled the bag toward me, my fingers gripping the handles a little too tight. My stomach fluttered, and I told myself it was just the lingering nausea, nothing else. Definitely not some weird emotional reaction to a stupid piece of fabric.

I hesitated for a second, then finally reached in and pulled the onesie out.

It was small. So small. Soft gray fabric, with a tiny printed wolf on the front. Not a cartoonish wolf—something more realistic, detailed, but still gentle. The kind of thing you'd see on a nature reserve poster. The kind of thing that made your chest ache in ways you didn't expect.

My fingers ran over the fabric, the coolness of it slowly warming from my touch. I swallowed hard, something thick settling in my throat.

I wasn't even showing yet. I wasn't even two months in. And yet, here I was, standing in my kitchen, holding something that my kid—my kid—would wear someday.

The reality of it crashed over me all at once. The weight of everything. The heartbeat I'd heard days ago. The slow, steady growth happening inside me. The fact that, in a few months, there'd be a whole human in my arms, wearing something this tiny. Depending on me.

A shaky breath escaped me, and I blinked hard, pushing back the sudden rush of emotions.

"This is insane," I muttered to myself.

I glanced around the empty house, as if someone would be there to respond. But it was just me. Just me and the quiet and the tiny onesie in my hands.

I pressed the fabric between my fingers, then—before I could overthink it—I carefully folded it back up and placed it in the bag again.

Not ready. Not yet.

I wasn't sure what I was waiting for. Maybe for this whole thing to feel more real. Maybe for the fear to fade. Maybe just for time to slow down so I could catch my breath.

I left the bag on the table and rubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. By the time I finished folding the last of my new clothes, my back was aching, and my feet were sore from standing too long. I hadn't planned to spend my entire day doing chores, but after coming home from shopping with Peter, I needed something to keep my mind busy. The alternative was letting myself spiral over the fact that I now owned a tiny gray onesie with a wolf on the front. A onesie that Peter Hale had bought. For my baby. Yeah. That was dangerous thinking territory.

So, I did what I always did when my brain refused to shut up—I cleaned.

I started with my laundry, throwing all the new pants and shirts into the washer with a little extra detergent. Then I stripped my bed, tossing my old sheets into the next load. While the machine rumbled, I tackled the kitchen, scrubbing the counters and sweeping the floor until it looked like I was trying to erase all evidence that anyone had ever lived here. The fridge got wiped down. The bathroom sink got an unnecessary deep cleaning. I even vacuumed, which was probably a bad idea because pushing that thing around made my lower back throb, but I didn't stop. I needed the distraction.

By the time the sun had started dipping behind the trees outside, my body was exhausted, but my mind was still racing. It had been a weird day. A weird week. Hell, a weird month. And soon, I'd be eight weeks pregnant. Almost to the second trimester. Almost at the point where I had to start telling people. The idea of that made my stomach churn, and I wasn't sure if it was nerves or just the baby punishing me for moving around too much.

When the dryer buzzed, I sighed and forced myself up from the couch. The living room was dark except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree, which I hadn't taken down yet. I wasn't sure why. Maybe because it made things feel normal. I could pretend that this was just any other New Year's Eve, that I wasn't sitting on my couch thinking about maternity pants and baby clothes.

I carried my fresh laundry upstairs and put everything away, making sure to shove the onesie into the back of my dresser where I wouldn't have to look at it. It was just a piece of fabric, but it felt heavier than it should. Like it held too much meaning. I didn't know why Peter had bought it. I didn't know what he expected from me, or if he even expected anything at all. And that scared me a little.

The sound of the front door opening made me jump. I checked my phone—10:07 PM. Right on time.

"Stiles?" Dad's voice carried through the house, the usual exhaustion thick in his tone. "You still up?"

"Yeah," I called, heading downstairs. "Did you really think I'd be asleep before midnight?"

Dad snorted as he shrugged out of his jacket, shaking a little from the cold. His cheeks were red from the winter air, and he smelled faintly like coffee and cheap station donuts. "No, but I was hoping you'd at least be resting."

I rolled my eyes. "I rested. And then I did laundry. And cleaned. And vacuumed."

Dad frowned, glancing around like he could see the evidence of my overexertion. "You know you don't have to do all that, right?"

"I know," I said, brushing past him into the kitchen. "But it keeps me from losing my mind."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before following me. "Did you eat?"

"Yeah." I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, avoiding his knowing stare. "Peter and I grabbed something at the food court."

Dad paused in the doorway. "You spent the day with Peter?"

I winced. I probably should've left that part out. "Not the whole day. He just... showed up while I was shopping."

Dad made a noise that was somewhere between disbelief and concern. "And what, he decided to be your personal stylist?"

I snorted into my glass. "More like an annoying shopping buddy. But yeah, he helped."

Dad didn't look thrilled about that, but he let it go, stepping further into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. "And you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "Tired, but okay."

"Good." He cracked open the bottle and took a sip, watching me closely. "You're not pushing yourself too hard, right?"

I waved him off. "No, Dad. I'm fine."

He gave me a long look, like he didn't quite believe me, but he didn't push it. Instead, he nodded toward the living room. "You still wanna stay up for the ball drop?"

"Obviously."

We settled onto the couch, the TV flickering in front of us with all the usual New Year's Eve coverage. Crowds packed Times Square, people wearing ridiculous hats and blowing party horns, the hosts making small talk about resolutions and countdowns. It was the same every year, and yet, this time, it felt different. I wasn't just counting down to a new year. I was counting down to a new life.

Dad must've sensed my thoughts drifting because he nudged my shoulder gently. "You okay, kid?"

I blinked, snapping out of it. "Yeah. Just thinking."

He hummed. "Anything you wanna talk about?"

I hesitated, then shook my head. "Not yet."

Dad didn't push, which I appreciated. He just nodded, resting an arm on the back of the couch as the countdown began.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

My hand drifted absentmindedly to my stomach. Eight weeks. Almost two months. Almost out of the first trimester.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

I thought about the onesie tucked away upstairs. About Peter buying it without hesitation. About Derek quietly looking out for me. About Scott offering to take a paternity test.

Four.

Three.

Two.

I thought about everything that had happened in 2011. The Nogitsune. Allison. The chaos, the loss, the pain. And now, this. A baby. A future I never expected.

One.

Happy New Year!

The TV erupted with cheers, fireworks bursting across the screen. Dad raised his beer, and I lifted my water in response.

"To a better year," he said, voice soft but firm.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and forced a small smile. "Yeah. A better year."

And God, I hoped it would be.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I thought about everything that had happened in 2011. The Nogitsune. Allison. The chaos, the loss, the pain. And now, this. A baby. A future I never expected.

One.

Happy New Year!

The TV erupted with cheers, fireworks bursting across the screen. Dad raised his beer, and I lifted my water in response.

"To a better year," he said, voice soft but firm.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and forced a small smile. "Yeah. A better year."

And God, I hoped it would be.

Stiles's Pov

January 1, 2012

Eight weeks pregnant

I woke up to the sound of rain against my window, a soft, rhythmic patter that made me want to burrow deeper under the covers and forget the world existed for a little while longer. But my bladder had other plans. With a groan, I forced myself upright, feeling the familiar pull of stiffness in my lower back. Eight weeks pregnant today. Two months down, seven to go.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I rubbed a hand over my stomach, feeling the faintest curve beneath my palm. The bump was still tiny, more of a softness than anything truly noticeable, but it was there. My jeans had been getting progressively harder to button, and yesterday's shopping trip with Peter had been a reluctant admission that I needed looser waistbands.

The baby was about the size of a raspberry now, according to the pregnancy app Deaton had convinced me to download. Less than an inch long, but already developing fingers and toes. The cartilage was hardening into tiny bones, and the heart had fully divided into four chambers, beating strong and fast beneath my skin. Little webbed hands and feet were growing more distinct, the facial features becoming clearer. It was still too early to feel anything, but I liked knowing what was happening in there, even if the reality of it all still felt overwhelming.

I heaved myself up and shuffled to the bathroom, peeing for what felt like the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours. The increased blood flow and expanding uterus meant constant bathroom trips, and I was already sick of it. At least the morning sickness seemed to be leveling out. It still hit in waves, especially if I went too long without eating, but I'd managed to keep food down more consistently over the past few days.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I padded downstairs in my sweats, feeling groggy but slightly more human. Dad's shift had ended late last night, and we'd stayed up to watch the ball drop together, ringing in the new year with leftover takeout and half-hearted commentary about resolutions neither of us planned to keep. He was still asleep, which was good—he needed the rest.

I made my way to the kitchen, deciding on something light for breakfast. Toast with peanut butter and banana seemed safe enough. My appetite was still weird, fluctuating between ravenous and completely uninterested, but today I actually felt like eating. That was a win.

As I ate, my thoughts drifted to school. Classes started back up in two days, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. Part of me wanted the distraction, the return to normalcy. The other part dreaded the exhaustion, the nausea, and the constant need to act like everything was fine when, in reality, everything had changed. I wasn't sure how I was going to navigate it.

Then there was lacrosse. Tryouts were supposed to be happening this week, and Coach had probably already assumed I'd be there. But I wasn't sure I could handle it. The physical strain, the risk of getting hit, the pure exhaustion that already clung to me like a second skin—it all made playing seem like a terrible idea. But quitting? That was another thing entirely. I wasn't sure I was ready to give up something that had been such a huge part of my life.

I stared at my plate, appetite fading as the weight of the decision pressed down on me. Maybe I could talk to Deaton, see what he thought. Or maybe I should just rip the band-aid off and tell Coach I wouldn't be playing this season. The idea of that conversation made my stomach churn.

With a sigh, I pushed the plate away and leaned back in my chair, resting a hand over my stomach again. "What do you think, kid?" I muttered. "Am I being stupid for even considering playing?"

The baby didn't answer, obviously, but I could almost hear Derek's voice in my head, telling me to stop being reckless and focus on staying healthy. Peter would probably laugh in my face if I even mentioned it. Scott would try to be supportive, but he'd definitely push for me to sit this one out. And my dad? He'd probably have a heart attack at the thought of me on the field, dodging flying balls and colliding with other players while carrying his future grandchild.

Yeah. Lacrosse was looking less and less like an option.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulled me from my thoughts. Dad emerged from the hallway, hair mussed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're up early," he noted, voice still thick with sleep.

"Blame the pregnancy bladder," I said, grabbing my plate and standing to put it in the sink.

He gave me a tired smile. "One of the many joys of expecting, huh?"

"Yeah, it's a blast," I muttered.

Dad poured himself a cup of coffee, glancing at me over the rim of his mug. "You okay? You look like you're thinking too hard about something."

I sighed, leaning against the counter. "School starts in two days."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "And you're worried about that?"

"I mean... yeah. A little." I hesitated. "And there's also lacrosse. Tryouts are this week."

Dad frowned, setting his mug down. "Stiles, you know I support whatever decision you make, but are you really considering playing?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I don't know. I love lacrosse, Dad. And I don't want to just... give it up."

His gaze softened, but there was worry there too. "I get that. But you have to think about what's best for you and the baby. Is playing worth the risk?"

I sighed. "Probably not."

"You've got a lot on your plate already," he pointed out gently. "No one's gonna blame you for stepping back this season."

I nodded, feeling the weight of reality settle in my chest. "Yeah. I know."

Dad squeezed my shoulder, offering a small smile. "You'll figure it out, kid. You always do."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, nodding again. "Yeah."

I wasn't sure if that was true, but I appreciated the faith he had in me.

The rest of the morning passed quietly. I tried to distract myself by cleaning up around the house, doing laundry, and catching up on some reading, but the thought of school loomed in the back of my mind. The baby. Lacrosse. Keeping everything a secret until I was out of the first trimester. It was a lot.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was exhausted again, another lovely side effect of pregnancy. I stretched out on the couch, pulling a blanket over myself, and let my eyes drift shut. Just a quick nap, I told myself. Just enough to recharge.

The last thing I thought before sleep pulled me under was that, ready or not, the new year was here. And everything was about to change. I woke up from my nap groggy, disoriented, and mildly pissed off at the universe for existing. My body felt heavy, like I was sinking into the couch, and for a solid minute, I debated just staying there and letting life happen around me.

Unfortunately, life doesn't wait, and neither does the tiny human inside me.

I shifted, rubbing a hand over my stomach absentmindedly. Eight weeks today.

Which meant one thing: I could finally do the damn paternity test.

Deaton had said we had to wait until this week for it to work. Something about fetal DNA floating around in my bloodstream now, making it possible to match against potential fathers. Science, magic, whatever—it was happening.

I just needed to get the DNA samples.

And that? That was going to be awkward as hell.

Because my list of potential fathers wasn't exactly short or convenient:

Scott (already agreed, no problem)

Derek (would probably just stare at me like I was an idiot and then give me the sample

Peter (was absolutely going to make this weird and unbearable)

Isaac (currently in France, living his best beret-wearing life)

Chris Argent (also in France, probably armed and unaware)

Ethan (left town months ago, and I had no idea where he even was)

Aiden (...dead. So that was a no-go.)

I sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Best-case scenario? One of the three guys still in Beacon Hills was the father, and I wouldn't have to track down Chris or Isaac. Worst-case scenario? I had to figure out how to get DNA from a Frenchman and a Hunter without making things even more complicated.

But first things first.

I needed to get Scott, Derek, and Peter to cough up samples—without letting them know exactly how nerve-wracking this whole thing was for me.

Easy, right?

Step One: Scott

Scott was the easy part.

After forcing myself off the couch and shoving on a hoodie, I shot him a quick text:

Me: Hey, you home? Need to talk.
Scott: Yeah, come over. Everything okay?
Me: Yep. Just some pack business.

Technically not a lie.

A few minutes later, I pulled up to Scott's house. His mom's car was gone, which was good—I wasn't in the mood to explain to Melissa McCall why I needed her son's DNA.

Scott answered the door still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up like he'd been napping, too.

"What's up?" he asked, stepping aside to let me in.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "So, you know how you said you'd do the paternity test?"

Scott blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. Are we doing it today?"

"Yep," I said. "And I need a DNA sample. Like, now."

Scott didn't even hesitate. "Okay. What do you need?"

I pulled a plastic swab kit out of my hoodie pocket—courtesy of a quick detour to the pharmacy on my way over. "This. Just swab the inside of your cheek."

Scott took the kit, opened it, and swiped it along the inside of his mouth like he'd done this a thousand times before. "So, who else are you testing?" he asked, sealing the swab in the little sterile tube.

I hesitated. "Derek. And Peter."

Scott's face did not hide his feelings about that.

"...You're testing Peter?" he asked, like I'd just told him I was considering selling my soul.

I sighed. "I have to. I don't think it's him, but—"

Scott made a face. "I hate that this is a possibility."

"Me too, buddy," I muttered, stuffing the swab into my hoodie pocket. "But better to know than wonder forever."

Scott nodded, still looking vaguely pained. "Do you want me to go with you to ask Derek and Peter?"

I shook my head. "Nah. I got it."

Scott's eyes narrowed slightly. "You sure? Peter's—well, Peter."

"Oh, trust me," I said, already dreading that conversation. "I'm very, very aware."

Step Two: Derek

Derek was always harder to track down, but thankfully, he was actually at the loft when I showed up.

The heavy metal door groaned as I pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit space. Derek was standing near the table, flipping through an old book, looking about ten percent less broody than usual.

He barely glanced up as I walked in. "What do you want?"

"Nice to see you, too," I said, closing the door behind me. "I need a favor."

Derek sighed, closing the book and giving me his full attention. "What kind of favor?"

I pulled out another swab kit. "DNA sample."

Derek blinked.

I didn't elaborate. Just held up the kit, letting him work through whatever internal WTF reaction he was having.

Finally, he crossed his arms. "Why?"

I took a deep breath. "Because I'm eight weeks today, which means I can do the paternity test. And you're a potential father."

Silence.

Derek stared at me, his expression unreadable.

Then, without a word, he took the swab from my hand, unwrapped it, and ran it along the inside of his cheek.

No questions. No protests. Just acceptance.

He sealed the swab, handed it back to me, and finally said, "When will you know?"

"Deaton said it could take a couple of days," I admitted, pocketing the sample. "But hopefully soon."

Derek nodded once. "Alright."

I hesitated. "So... you're okay with this?"

Derek gave me a long, steady look. "I said I'd take responsibility if it's mine."

And that? That made my chest feel too tight.

I swallowed hard. "Okay. Thanks, dude."

Derek grunted in acknowledgment, then turned back to his book.

And that was that.

Step Three: Peter

This was the one I was dreading.

I found Peter at the mall, of all places, sitting in a ridiculously expensive-looking café with a black coffee in front of him, scrolling through his phone like he was waiting for someone.

His eyes flicked up as I dropped into the chair across from him.

"Stiles," he greeted smoothly. "What an unexpected delight. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I pulled out the last swab kit and slid it across the table.

Peter stared at it. Then at me. Then back at it.

Slowly, his lips curled into a smirk.

"Oh," he purred. "This is interesting."

I resisted the urge to throw myself into traffic. "I need a DNA sample for the paternity test."

Peter picked up the swab kit, turning it between his fingers. "And you suspect me?"

"I suspect everyone," I muttered. "It's called being thorough."

Peter chuckled, clearly thrilled by this entire thing. "How very responsible of you."

I scowled. "Just do the test, Peter."

He grinned, popped the swab into his mouth, ran it along his cheek, then sealed it up like it was nothing.

And then, because he's Peter, he leaned forward, smirk widening.

"You know," he said, voice annoyingly smug, "if it's mine, I expect full parental rights."

I gagged. "We are NOT discussing that until we have results."

Peter just laughed, handing me the sample.

I stuffed it into my pocket, done with this conversation. "You are the worst."

"And yet," Peter mused, sipping his coffee, "you still came to me."

I groaned, got up, and left before he could say anything else.

Now, all I had to do was drop the samples off with Deaton.

And then?

I had to wait. By the time I pulled into the parking lot of Beacon Hills Animal Clinic, my nerves were shot.

The entire drive over, my brain had been running in circles, flipping between worst-case scenarios like it was trying to set a new anxiety record.

What if none of them were the father?
What if it was someone I hadn't even considered?
What if the test was inconclusive?
What if I passed out when Deaton took my blood and smacked my head on the floor, dying tragically in the middle of a vet clinic?

Okay. Maybe that last one was a stretch. But still. Not impossible.

I took a deep breath and rubbed a hand over my stomach, feeling the faintest curve that hadn't been there a month ago. "Alright, kid," I muttered. "Let's do this."

I grabbed the envelope with the three DNA swabs—Scott, Derek, and Peter—and climbed out of the Jeep, bracing myself against the crisp January air before heading inside.

The clinic was quiet. The lights were dimmed, the Closed sign flipped on the front door. If I didn't already know that Deaton lived for these secret supernatural appointments, I might've felt bad about showing up on New Year's Day.

Instead, I knocked once and walked right in.

Deaton barely looked up from the counter where he was organizing a row of glass vials. "Stiles," he greeted, ever-calm. "You're right on time."

"Yeah, well," I said, dropping the envelope on the counter, "figured I should start the year off with some life-changing medical procedures."

Deaton's lips twitched in mild amusement as he picked up the envelope and opened it, inspecting the samples. "Scott, Derek, and Peter?"

I nodded, shifting from foot to foot. "Figured I'd start with the ones who are actually in town before I go full FBI on Isaac and Chris."

Deaton hummed in approval, setting the samples aside before gesturing toward the back room. "Come with me. We'll need to take your blood sample."

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. "Yeah. Cool. Totally fine."

Deaton gave me a knowing look. "You don't like needles, do you?"

"I don't like the concept of my blood leaving my body," I muttered, following him. "It belongs inside me, Deaton. Where it's safe."

Deaton didn't bother responding to that, which was fair.

The back room smelled like antiseptic and something vaguely herbal, like dried sage. A tray was already prepped with a syringe, a vial, and an alcohol wipe, and seeing it all laid out made my skin crawl.

"You'll only need a small amount," Deaton assured me, gesturing for me to sit on the exam table. "This test isolates the fetal DNA in your bloodstream, then compares it to the provided samples. The results should be ready within a few days."

I sat, rubbing my palms over my sweatpants. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool. So, uh, what happens if none of them match?"

Deaton turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Then we keep looking."

Right. Okay. That was not reassuring.

I exhaled sharply and held out my left arm, rolling up my hoodie sleeve. "Let's just get this over with."

Deaton took my wrist gently, his fingers weirdly warm as he turned my arm over and pressed his thumb against my inner elbow, finding the vein with zero effort.

I did not like how easy that was for him.

"This might sting," he warned.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I muttered, bracing myself.

A sharp pinch.

A deep ache.

The weird, unpleasant sensation of blood leaving my body.

I clenched my jaw and stared hard at the ceiling, focusing on a crack in the paint. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. Not thinking—

And then it was over.

Deaton withdrew the needle smoothly, pressing gauze to the spot before wrapping it up with a bandage. "All done."

I exhaled, shoulders slumping in relief. "Thank God."

Deaton turned away, labeling the vial and setting it in a rack alongside the other samples. "I'll process everything today and run the test. You should have your answer soon."

I nodded slowly, staring down at the flesh-colored bandage on my arm.

This was it.

This was actually happening.

By the end of the week, I would know who the father was.

And then... I'd have to figure out what the hell to do next.

A weird sense of finality settled in my chest. For the past few weeks, everything had felt like it was hanging in limbo, like I was stuck in some bizarre in-between stage where I could pretend I had time to prepare. But once those results came in?

There'd be no more what-ifs.

No more delaying the inevitable.

No more pretending this wasn't real.

Deaton must've sensed my spiral because he turned back to me, voice calm but firm. "You're handling this well, Stiles."

I let out a weak laugh. "If by 'well,' you mean internally panicking at all times, then yeah, I'm nailing it."

Deaton smiled faintly. "You're doing better than you think."

I wanted to believe that.

I really did.

But as I hopped down from the table, tugging my sleeve back over my arm, I wasn't so sure.

"Call me when you have the results," I said, already heading for the door.

Deaton nodded. "I will."

I left the clinic feeling lighter and heavier all at once.

Nothing to do now but wait.

Tuesday, January 3

8 weeks and 3 days pregnant

The alarm goes off with its usual shrill tone, dragging me from a sleep that was anything but restful. I squint at the blinking numbers, the cold morning light seeping in through the blinds, and groan. The day after a break, especially one as long as winter break, always feels like a personal attack. But today? It's worse. Not only am I dealing with the typical "back-to-school" anxiety, but there's also the added bonus of, well, everything else.

Pregnancy. School. Lacrosse. The fact that I can't even button my jeans properly anymore. If there's a prize for worst timing, I'd be the winner, hands down. The entire universe seems to be conspiring against me, and today is no exception.

I reach over, slapping the snooze button with as much force as I can muster, letting out a groan as I let myself fall back into the bed for a moment of peace before I face the real world.

But that never lasts long. I blink and sit up, rubbing my eyes as I stretch my arms above my head. The weight of the situation still sits like a heavy stone in my chest. It's the first day back to school after winter break, and the reality of being pregnant is starting to sink in. Eight weeks and three days pregnant. Two months down, seven to go.

I shuffle to the bathroom, trying not to think too hard about the fact that I'm still unsure of what I'm supposed to be doing or how this is supposed to look. The only thing I know for sure is that it's all happening, whether I'm ready or not. And I'm definitely not ready.

The bathroom light flickers on and I look at myself in the mirror, hating how tired I look. Dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess, and the distinct feeling of never being fully awake anymore. My body feels like it's running a marathon even when I'm just sitting still. It's exhausting. Not to mention the other fun side effects of pregnancy—nausea, the constant need to pee, and, of course, my expanding waistline.

Speaking of which, I look down at my stomach. There's a little softness there. Nothing drastic, nothing anyone would notice unless they knew what to look for. But I know. I feel it. I've had to pull out the stretchy pants I bought with Peter the other day at the mall. The thought of that whole shopping trip still makes me cringe, but in retrospect, the pants are actually a godsend. They're loose around the waistband, no buttons digging into my stomach, and for the first time in a week, I don't feel like I'm suffocating myself just trying to fit into my old clothes.

With a sigh, I grab the pants, slipping them on without too much of a struggle. The waistband is comforting, snug in all the right ways, like a hug for my body. I glance at myself in the mirror again and adjust my hoodie before heading downstairs to the kitchen. The jeans I tried to wear this morning? They're a lost cause. I don't even want to think about them right now.

When I make it to the kitchen, I see Dad already up, sipping his coffee like he's been awake for hours. His hair is a little disheveled, and there's a tired look in his eyes that mirrors how I feel. We both slept like crap last night, though he probably didn't have a tiny human growing inside him, making every night feel like a battle for comfort. But, you know, minor details.

"Morning, kid," he greets me, his voice a little rough but with the warmth that always makes me feel at home.

I grumble in response, opening the fridge and pulling out the orange juice.

"You ready for today?" he asks, his voice gentle, but there's an undercurrent of concern there. He's been watching me carefully the last few days, and I know why. There's been a lot going on, a lot I'm still trying to process, and he can tell I'm not quite myself.

I open the juice, pour myself a glass, and then lean against the counter, avoiding his gaze. "As ready as I'll ever be," I mutter.

Dad doesn't push. He just takes another sip of his coffee, and we lapse into a comfortable silence. We both know today's a big deal, even if I'm not sure how to face it. School's always been a lot, but now? It feels like I'm juggling a hundred things I'm not ready for. The last thing I want is for people to start noticing that I'm not just... normal anymore.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I can do this. I've faced worse, right? Being pregnant should be the least of my concerns compared to some of the other things I've survived. I can at least make it through a few hours of school.

I grab my backpack and head out the door with Dad. The drive to school feels longer than usual. Maybe it's the rain outside or the fact that I'm trying to keep everything under wraps. I'm only telling the people I need to know for now, and that's fine. But every time I see my reflection in the car window, my brain kicks into overdrive. What if someone notices? What if someone can tell? What if someone asks the wrong question at the wrong time?

By the time we get to school, I'm already exhausted. It hasn't even started yet, and I'm already wishing for the day to end.

I park in my usual spot, a little closer to the entrance than I'd like but far enough that I can slip out without being noticed. I hesitate for a second, looking at the school building looming in front of me. It's the same school I've walked into for the past few years, but now it feels different. Heavier. Like it's the starting line for something I'm not ready for.

"Well, here we go," I mutter to myself, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

I walk through the school halls, doing my best to keep a low profile. The place is packed with kids returning from winter break, the chatter of classmates filling the air as everyone catches up with each other. The typical high school buzz. People laughing, gossiping, catching up. But as I walk through the crowded hallway, it feels like I'm moving in slow motion, everyone else's noise a distant hum while I focus on not breaking. Not yet. Not until I figure this out.

I make it to my first class and slip into the seat at the back of the room, pulling out my notebook and pretending to focus on the lesson plan on the board. For a few minutes, it's just the teacher talking about syllabus changes and the upcoming assignments. Normal. Routine.

But then the bell rings, and the next round of students come pouring into the classroom, some of them familiar faces, some of them new. And that's when it hits me. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep all of this a secret. I feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for someone to notice. I don't know how much longer I can fake being fine when I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.

I feel a hand tap my shoulder, and I turn to find Scott standing behind me, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"You good?" he asks quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.

I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just... you know. First day back."

Scott doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he pulls up a chair next to me, settling in for the lesson like everything's normal.

The day passes in a blur. Each class feels like it lasts forever, and I can't focus. My mind keeps drifting back to everything that's going on—school, pregnancy, lacrosse, my never-ending list of worries. I can't seem to shake the feeling that, no matter what I do, things are always just a little off.

By the time lunch rolls around, I'm already completely drained. I walk to the cafeteria, dragging my feet with every step. The cafeteria is packed, loud, the usual chaos of kids trying to get their food and find a table. I don't even really want to eat, but I'm supposed to. For the baby.

I find a table with Scott and the others, though it feels more like a formality than anything else. Everyone's talking about the break—vacations, what they did, what they got for Christmas—and I sit there, nodding along, not really taking anything in. It's all noise. All background chatter. All I want is for this to be over, for the day to end, so I can go home and crawl into bed and forget about the world for a while.

But I can't. I have to keep pretending like everything's normal, even when it's anything but.

And when I look down at the plastic tray in front of me, at the sandwich I barely touched, I realize something else, too: I'm not sure how long I can keep doing this.

Pretending everything's fine. Pretending like I'm still just a normal high school kid.

Because the truth is... I'm not. I haven't been for weeks now.

And no matter how much I try to ignore it, the weight of that truth is getting harder to carry. The rest of the school day drags on like molasses. Every class feels like an eternity, and I can barely focus, my mind constantly drifting back to what I have to do. Lacrosse. The team. Tryouts. It's all circling in my head like a tornado, and I can't seem to escape it.

I knew this day was going to suck, but I didn't expect to feel so... out of place. Like I'm not entirely sure who I am anymore. One part of me is still the guy who would have jumped at the chance to be on the field, dominating a game of lacrosse. But another part of me? The part with the tiny human growing inside me? That part is terrified of the physical toll it would take.

Lacrosse is brutal. It's aggressive. Fast. And while I love it, I know I can't risk my health or the baby just to get back on the field. The idea of running around, getting hit, and pushing my body to its limits seems downright irresponsible now, but quitting? That feels just as bad. It's part of who I am, and I don't know if I'm ready to step away from that.

The bell rings, and I can barely muster the energy to drag myself to my next class. It's the last class of the day—thank God. The idea of sitting through any more lectures at this point makes me want to crawl under the desk and nap. But there's one more thing I have to do before I can call it quits for the day.

I need to talk to Coach Finstock.

My stomach flips at the thought. Coach isn't the easiest person to talk to at the best of times. He's loud, opinionated, and he's been on my case for the past few years about how important lacrosse is. But I know he has a soft spot for me. Or, at least, he respects my work ethic, even if he hides it behind a ton of gruffness. That doesn't mean he's going to understand why I can't be out on the field with the team this season.

I have to explain it to him.

I've been putting this off for as long as I can. But there's no getting around it anymore. Tryouts are on Thursday. If I'm not going to play, I need to figure out how to tell him without disappointing the team. Without making him question my commitment to the sport I've been playing since I was five.

I pack up my stuff after the final bell rings, my hands moving automatically as I gather my books. I can't sit still, not when this is looming over me. Scott's already out the door before I even have a chance to talk to him, probably heading to the field to do something lacrosse-related. It's strange seeing him so focused on practice when I know I won't be there to help him with the drills. I'm not sure if he's noticed how much I'm struggling with this decision yet, but I know I can't avoid it for much longer.

I make my way to Coach's office, my heart hammering in my chest the closer I get. The hallways are quieter than usual, the buzz of voices and laughter dimming as I step into the locker room, the place where the team usually gathers before practice. I can hear Coach Finstock's voice through the thin walls of his office—loud, booming, a perfect example of his "tough love" style.

I knock lightly on the doorframe before I step inside. The room is cluttered, as always—papers and random equipment scattered all over his desk. His oversized lacrosse bag is shoved into the corner of the room, next to a few empty Gatorade bottles, as though the office is just a place for him to dump his stuff before heading to practice.

Coach looks up when he hears me, his expression unreadable.

"Stiles," he says, his voice a little softer than I expected. "What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I close the door behind me, feeling the familiar weight of his attention pressing on me. "Yeah, I've got a little... situation. Thought we should talk."

He leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head as he stares at me, waiting. "You know I'm always here for a talk, Stiles. But let me guess—this is about the tryouts, right?"

I nod, trying not to show just how much this is eating at me. "Yeah, about that. I... I'm not sure I can play this season." I swallow hard, feeling the words hang in the air like a heavy weight. "Lacrosse is... physical. And I can't risk it, you know?"

He raises an eyebrow, clearly confused. "What do you mean you can't risk it? You've been playing since forever. You know the drills, you know the game. You're a damn good player, Stiles."

I inhale slowly, my chest tightening. This is it—the moment when everything comes out. I don't want to say it out loud, but I know I have to. "I... I can't play, Coach. I'm, uh... I'm pregnant. I'm eight weeks along. And I'm not willing to risk my health or the baby by being out there on the field."

For a moment, Coach doesn't say anything. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in what I've said. I can't read him, not in the way I'd like to. He's silent, his hands still resting on the back of his head as he processes the news.

Finally, he exhales and leans forward in his chair, his elbows on the desk. "Pregnant," he repeats slowly, like he's trying to make sense of it.

"Yeah." I nod, trying to keep it together. "And I don't want to quit the team. I love lacrosse. But it's just... it's too risky. I can't afford to take that kind of physical hit, not with everything that's going on."

Coach looks at me for another long moment, his eyes studying me like he's weighing all the pros and cons of this situation. Finally, he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Okay, kid, I get it. That's... that's a lot to take in. But listen, we've got tryouts on Thursday, and you're a big part of this team. Even if you're not playing, I need you there."

I blink, surprised by his response. "What?"

Coach Finstock leans forward, his voice serious. "You're not getting out of this, Stiles. I want you at tryouts. I need you to help me run the drills. You've been with this team longer than anyone. You know the plays. You know how to coach them, even if you can't physically be out there. We need you to show the new recruits how we do things, how we play the game. They'll listen to you, Stiles. You've got that kind of influence."

I stare at him, speechless. He's not asking me to quit the team. He's not even suggesting it. He's asking me to help with the tryouts, to show the new recruits what it means to be part of the team, even if I'm not on the field myself.

"I need you there," Coach repeats, his tone softer now. "It's not the same without you."

I blink again, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. "Okay," I say, my voice quieter than I expect. "I'll be there. I can help run the tryouts."

Coach nods approvingly. "Good. That's what I like to hear. We'll figure out a way to make this work, Stiles. You just take care of yourself and that kid of yours, alright?"

I nod, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."

"Good," Coach says. "And if you need anything, you let me know. I've got your back, kid."

I nod again, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders. I'm not quitting the team. I'm still part of it, even if I can't physically play. And that's enough for me, for now.

"Thanks, Coach," I mutter as I turn to leave the office.

"You got it, Stiles," Coach replies, and I hear the hint of a smile in his voice.

I close the door behind me and head back out into the hallway, my chest lighter than it was when I walked in. I can't play this season, but at least I'm not being pushed out. I'm still part of the team, and that's something I can hold onto.

As I walk down the hallway, heading back to my locker to grab my stuff, I can't help but feel a little more at peace. There's still so much to figure out—school, pregnancy, everything—but for the first time today, I feel like I've taken one thing off my plate.

And that's a win.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I nod, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."

"Good," Coach says. "And if you need anything, you let me know. I've got your back, kid."

I nod again, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders. I'm not quitting the team. I'm still part of it, even if I can't physically play. And that's enough for me, for now.

"Thanks, Coach," I mutter as I turn to leave the office.

"You got it, Stiles," Coach replies, and I hear the hint of a smile in his voice.

And that's a win.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stiles's Pov

Tuesday, January 3.

By the time I finally get home from school, my head is buzzing with everything I still need to figure out. Tryouts. Lacrosse. The baby. My future. It's all crashing together in some chaotic, jumbled mess that I can't seem to get a handle on. I'm relieved to have told Coach about not being able to play, but that doesn't mean the pressure is gone. It's just shifted to a different part of my brain, another knot in the web I'm trying to untangle.

I pull into the driveway, the familiar comfort of home greeting me like an old friend. The house is quieter than usual—Dad's still at work, no surprise there. He'll be home later, probably after dinner, and maybe then I'll have a chance to sit down and talk to him more about this whole pregnancy thing. He's been great about it so far, offering support, but I haven't really told him everything. I mean, how do you even start a conversation like that?

I take a deep breath, running my hands over my face as I get out of the Jeep. It's cold out, the winter chill settling over everything, but I'm too mentally exhausted to care. I lock the car and head toward the front door, the sound of my sneakers crunching against the gravel echoing in the quiet.

Inside, it's warm and smells faintly of whatever Dad made for breakfast this morning. The house is comfortably familiar, nothing too fancy, just the way I like it. I throw my bag on the couch, strip off my jacket, and head straight to the kitchen. Maybe I can scrounge up some leftovers or make a snack, anything to distract myself for a few minutes.

As I open the fridge, the familiar hum of the refrigerator fills the room, but my mind is far from the mundane task of rummaging through leftovers. My hand hovers over the shelf where Dad usually keeps the takeout containers, but then it stills. With a groan, I shut the fridge door and lean back against it, taking a moment to collect myself. It's still too early to really feel like a father. Hell, I'm still trying to figure out how to manage school and lacrosse, let alone a baby. I never thought I'd be in this position, never even entertained the idea of it, but here I am.

I reach for my phone, scrolling through messages absentmindedly. There's one from Scott, asking if I'm doing okay. I text back a quick "Yeah, just tired," which is technically true. My head is full of a million different things, and I can't seem to focus on any one of them.

That's when I hear the front door open. Dad's home. I hear the sound of him kicking off his boots, followed by the faint clink of keys on the hallway table.

"Stiles?" his voice calls out. It's warm, a little tired, but it always carries that sense of familiarity.

"Yeah, I'm in the kitchen," I call back, forcing myself to push off from the fridge and straighten up.

Dad steps into the kitchen a few moments later, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. He's got that familiar worn-out look on his face, the one that comes from hours of paperwork and dealing with people. I've seen it before a million times, and yet, it never seems to get easier.

"You still awake, kid?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he grabs a mug from the cabinet and fills it with coffee. He doesn't sit down, but there's something in the way he looks at me that tells me he's waiting for me to say something. To share something.

"Yeah," I say, clearing my throat. "Just thinking."

He raises his mug to his lips, taking a sip. "You've been doing a lot of that lately. What's going on?"

I glance at him, unsure how to answer. I'm not lying when I say I've been thinking, but it's a hell of a lot more complicated than that. The pregnancy. Lacrosse. The paternity test. How to tell him that his kid is about to become a dad.

"I... I need to talk to you about something," I finally say, trying to keep my voice steady, even though the anxiety is building up again in my chest. "Something important."

Dad's eyes narrow slightly, sensing the gravity in my tone. He sets his mug down and walks over to me, his face softening. "What's going on, Stiles?"

I hesitate. There's so much I want to say, so much I need to explain, but it feels impossible to find the right words. "I've been thinking about lacrosse, and school, and... everything," I start. "And I'm not sure I can keep doing it."

Dad doesn't interrupt me, but I can see the concern building in his eyes as he steps closer.

"I'm not sure I can keep playing, Dad. Not with everything that's going on." My voice cracks a little, and I quickly swallow, trying to push the tears back down. "I'm pregnant, and it's too risky to keep playing lacrosse, and—" I pause, wiping my face. "I don't want to quit the team. But I can't... I can't put the baby at risk. It just doesn't feel right."

The words feel heavier than they should, like they're weighing down my chest with each passing second.

Dad's expression changes as I speak, his brow furrowing as he takes in what I'm saying. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He just looks at me with that steady gaze he always gives when he's processing something.

Finally, he sighs and walks over to where I'm standing, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. "Stiles, you don't have to play lacrosse. I get that. But you don't have to give up on everything either. You're still part of that team. And I'm proud of you for knowing what you need. It's not about giving up, it's about being smart."

I feel a tight knot in my throat, but I manage to nod. "I don't know what to do, Dad. I feel like I'm failing everyone. Like I'm not... I'm not enough."

Dad gives me a small smile. "You're more than enough, Stiles. More than anyone could ever ask for. You've got a lot on your plate, but that doesn't mean you can't do this. You're strong, and you'll figure it out. I believe in you."

I swallow thickly, trying to blink back the tears that threaten to fall. "Thanks, Dad. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He pats my shoulder and ruffles my hair like he used to when I was a kid, the familiar gesture grounding me in the moment. "You're welcome, kid. Always here for you."

I glance at the clock on the microwave, knowing that this is the calm before the storm. Lacrosse. The baby. School. The paternity test. There's still so much I have to deal with, but somehow, with Dad's words in my head, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I can do it.

I just have to take it one step at a time.

"I'll figure it out, Dad. I promise."

He nods, giving me that look he always gives when he's proud of me, even if he doesn't say it out loud.

"Good," he says simply. "Now, how about some dinner? You're looking like you could use a meal."

I nod, feeling my stomach rumble in agreement. "Yeah, I could eat."

Dad heads to the fridge to figure something out, and I lean back against the counter, letting out a slow breath. For a moment, it feels like maybe things aren't so overwhelming after all. Maybe I don't have to have it all figured out right this second.

I can take my time.

And with that thought in mind, I start to feel just a little bit lighter.

Thursday, January 5

8 weeks and 5 days pregnant

The thing about high school is that, no matter how much supernatural bullshit you're dealing with, the mundane stuff still manages to sneak up on you. And right now, that mundane thing is lacrosse.

I never thought I'd see the day where I would voluntarily give up playing, but between the baby and the fact that one wrong hit could literally mess up my entire future, I really don't have a choice. Not that it makes me feel any better about it. And now, instead of running drills and actually playing, I get to help Coach with tryouts.

Because apparently, I wasn't miserable enough already.

Scott and I are walking toward the field, and I can already feel my stomach turning—not from morning sickness, but from sheer second-hand stress. Scott looks tense, his jaw set, and I know this is about more than just lacrosse. It's about the fact that, as much as we want to pretend we have normal teenage lives, we don't. Not really.

"You sure about this?" Scott asks, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets.

"Not really," I admit. "But it's happening. Besides, I talked to Coach. I told him I can't play this season."

Scott looks at me, surprised. "You actually told him?"

I sigh. "Yeah. Look, I couldn't exactly keep it a secret forever, right? Running around with a stick while a bunch of dudes with questionable anger issues try to knock me into next week? Not exactly ideal for pregnancy."

Scott frowns but nods. "And he's okay with that?"

"Well, define okay," I mutter. "He wants me to help run tryouts, so, you know. I'm still in hell. Just from a different perspective."

Scott huffs a laugh, but it's short-lived. His eyes flick toward the field, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. He still doesn't know if he's actually back on the team.

"Of course you're still the team captain," I say, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You got your grades up, just like Coach told you to, right?"

"Yeah, but he never told me I was back on the team," Scott says, rubbing the back of his neck. "He just told me to show up at tryouts today."

I squint at him. "So, wait—what if he's just messing with you? Like, what if you're out here for no reason?"

Scott grimaces. "I... didn't think about that."

I shake my head. "We got bigger things to deal with, anyway. Did you tell Argent yet?"

Scott hesitates, suddenly looking very interested in his sneakers.

I narrow my eyes. "Scott."

"I texted him," he mumbles.

I stop walking. "You texted him?"

Scott stops, too, looking guilty. "He didn't get back to me!"

"You told him his sister Kate came back from the dead over a text?"

Scott shrugs, sheepish. "I didn't have the money to call France."

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable."

"Look, it's fine," Scott says quickly. "Argent will see it eventually."

"Oh, yeah, sure," I say, throwing up my hands. "He'll just be casually scrolling through his messages and be like, 'Oh hey, by the way, my dead sister is alive.' That's totally normal."

Scott winces. "It sounded better in my head."

I sigh. "Now, what the hell are we doing here, anyway? We got like, one hundred and seventeen million problems, and worrying about our status on the lacrosse team is not one of them."

Scott's eyes drift past me, toward the field. His brows furrow, his body going still.

"...It is now."

I blink, then turn to follow his gaze.

There's a kid standing in the goal, moving with ridiculous precision. He's fast. Too fast for a high school freshman, that's for sure.

I feel my stomach sink.

"Who the hell is that?"

A voice from the field answers.

"Nice, Liam! You might just be our first-ever freshman captain!"

Scott and I exchange a look.

"Oh, hell no," I mutter.

We watch as Liam, whoever the hell he is, effortlessly deflects shot after shot. He's got good instincts, quick reflexes, and way too much natural talent for a kid who just showed up.

I look at Scott, whose expression is somewhere between horrified and offended.

"Okay," I say. "Maybe you should just... practice a little bit."

Scott nods absently, eyes still locked on Liam. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I will."

I step back, letting Scott head toward the field while I stay behind, arms crossed. Watching.

I don't know who this Liam kid is, but one thing is clear—

Scott might be the team captain, but this season?

It's about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Scott and I find Liam in the locker room after practice. He's just finishing up, tossing his helmet onto a bench as he adjusts his gear, still looking like he's effortlessly untouchable. It's obnoxious, really. Especially when I think back to how hard we both had to work to get to where we are, and then this kid—this freshman—comes in and makes everything look easy.

I'm still trying to make sense of what I saw out there. Every shot. Every single one of them. Caught. Not a single one even came close to getting past him. No mistakes. Like he was a brick wall.

So, naturally, I can't let this go.

I walk up to him, crossing my arms. "Hey, Liam..." I call out, voice smooth but firm. "You want to explain what that was out there?"

He looks up, looking more confused than anything else. "What do you mean?"

"That little display," I press, taking a step closer, "your little circus act."

Liam's brow furrows, but his face is still as unreadable as ever. "What circus act?"

I can't help it—I roll my eyes. "You caught every shot."

He shrugs nonchalantly, as if it's nothing. "I was in goal."

I take a step forward, pointing at him like I've found the smoking gun. "Yeah, but nothing. Not a single shot got past you."

He looks at me for a moment, like I've suddenly grown another head. "Yeah, I was the goalie. You guys played this game before?"

I grit my teeth, but Scott, thankfully, steps in before I go any further. "You're a freshman, right?"

Liam nods, clearly not understanding where this conversation is heading. "Yeah..."

"But you weren't here last semester." I pause for effect. "Where'd you come from?"

Liam shifts uncomfortably. "I transferred from Devenford Prep."

Scott exchanges a look with me, his frown deepening. "You transferred?"

"Yeah," Liam answers flatly, his shoulders tensing.

Scott doesn't buy it. Not for a second. "No... You got kicked out, didn't you?"

Liam's eyes narrow, the defensiveness creeping into his posture. "All right, look—kicked out or transferred, what do you guys care?" He looks between us with growing frustration. "I came here to play lacrosse. The team could use a few good players, right?"

I scoff, crossing my arms tighter. "No. No, we don't need any more good players."

Scott tilts his head, looking thoughtful for a second. "Actually, we could sort of use a couple..."

I shoot Scott a pointed look. "Are you serious?"

Scott shrugs, almost sheepishly. "What? We kinda do."

I shake my head, refusing to let this go. "Okay, how'd you get this good?" I ask, feeling a small wave of suspicion gnawing at me. "Have you always been this good? Or did it suddenly happen just once overnight?"

Liam shifts again, a slight irritation brewing under his calm exterior. "What, you think I'm some freak? Some prodigy who just woke up one day knowing how to catch every shot? Nah, man. I learned from my stepdad, all right? He made team captain when he was a sophomore. Just like you." He steps forward slightly, getting in my face now, his chest puffing up with pride. "And yeah... I guess I'm just that good."

For a second, I stand there, watching him. His chest rising and falling with every word. The raw, unfiltered confidence. He doesn't back down, doesn't seem afraid to face us.

But there's something in his eyes—something that doesn't quite add up.

Scott's brow furrows, and I can see the familiar tension in his body. But he doesn't push it further. Instead, he shrugs, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "He wasn't lying that time."

I glance at Scott, still trying to process everything. "Yeah, maybe not. But I still don't trust this kid. He's too good, too fast, and there's something off about him."

Scott watches Liam for a beat, before finally nodding. "Yeah, I get it." He crosses his arms, scanning Liam once more. "But, for now, we'll let him prove himself. We need all the help we can get."

I roll my eyes, letting out a long breath. "Great. Just what we need—more competition. Like we don't have enough weirdness in our lives already."

Liam's smirk widens, and he shrugs again. "You're welcome." He grabs his bag off the bench, clearly done with the conversation. "Tryouts are tomorrow, right? See you out there."

He walks past us, heading toward the locker room door, leaving me to stew in the confusion and the feeling that there's something more to him than he's letting on. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

I turn to Scott, whose expression mirrors my own.

"We have to keep an eye on him," I mutter, glancing back toward the door Liam just walked through.

Scott nods, his jaw clenched. "You think he's connected to all this... supernatural stuff?"

"I don't know. But something's off. I can feel it."

Scott glances toward the field, eyes narrowing as he watches Liam disappear into the locker room. "We'll figure it out," he says, voice firm.

I stare at the door one more time, feeling a little sick to my stomach. "Yeah. But for now, we have bigger problems."

Scott sighs. "Like Argent?"

"Yeah. Like Argent."

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know, Scott. We might be looking at a bigger mess than we thought."

He gives me a long, steady look. "Yeah. We're going to need more than just lacrosse skills to survive this one."

And for the first time, I start to think he might be right.

I watch Malia as she strides into class, and then, as her eyes land on the whiteboard, her face instantly falls. She halts in her tracks, staring at the board like it's some kind of personal affront. I can practically see her brain short-circuiting.

"Math?" Malia mutters under her breath, already backing up toward the door.

I rush over to her, catching her by the arm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. No. You're not getting out of here that easily."

She shoots me an unamused look. "Why should I have to suffer through this? It's pointless."

I sigh dramatically. "Malia, school is important. You need to learn stuff."

"Yeah, like what?" she retorts.

"Math is essential," I insist, pointing a finger at her for emphasis. "Knowing how much to tip at restaurants for one."

She rolls her eyes, a half-grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Really? That's your best example?"

Before I can answer, Lydia, who's sitting next to us, gives me a look that could freeze water. "And other, less important things like, you know, medicine, economics, engineering..."

"Still tipping is the most important," I mutter under my breath. Lydia just sighs dramatically and shakes her head.

Malia, clearly not entertained by either of us, glances at the board again and lets out a frustrated growl. "Why do we need this? It's stupid," she mutters, hands on her hips.

"Because, my dear Malia, one day you'll need it," I say, guiding her back to her seat as the class starts.

Ms. Fleming, our math teacher, stands at the front and claps her hands, immediately catching everyone's attention. "Alright, volunteers to the board, please!"

Lydia's hand shoots up first, followed by Diego, but then she calls, "Malia..."

Malia shoots me a look that could melt a person's face off. "I didn't volunteer."

"You did now," Ms. Fleming says, completely unfazed. "To the board!"

Malia growls, a noise that could have come straight from a werewolf movie. "This is so stupid," she mutters, but she doesn't have much choice now. She heads up to the board, trying to look casual about it, but I can tell she's dying inside.

I sit back, crossing my arms and giving her two enthusiastic thumbs up, silently cheering her on.

She shoots me a glare over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing. "You're enjoying this way too much," she grumbles.

I raise an eyebrow, looking mildly cowed for the first time all day. "Nope. No, I'm not," I whisper, practically hunched in on myself. Malia's growl made me instinctively backpedal.

At the board, she freezes, staring at the problem on the board like it's some kind of evil conspiracy. It's basic algebra—nothing too complicated, just a simple equation that should've been easy for anyone who'd actually gone over the notes.

Lydia, of course, is watching all of this unfold with a mixture of boredom and mild annoyance. Finally, she leans toward Malia, low enough that only she can hear. "Did you go over the notes I gave you last night?"

Malia looks at her, eyes wide. "I didn't understand them."

Lydia exhales sharply, then glances around the room to make sure Ms. Fleming is still busy with the other students. "X equals twenty-five," she whispers.

I blink at Lydia in surprise, but Malia's response is even better. She turns to look at Lydia with a slight panic in her eyes. "What? Twenty-five?"

Lydia nods firmly. "Yep. Twenty-five."

Malia starts scribbling down the numbers, but then stops, her eyes flicking to her hands. Her fingers twitch for a second, like she's about to do something else entirely, then her gaze turns back to the equation, her face twisting in confusion.

"Sweetheart," Lydia says, cutting through the tension like a pro. "Put away the claws."

Malia's eyes widen, and she looks down at her hands. A surprised breath leaves her lips as she quickly clenches her fists, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "Oops," she mutters, completely flustered now.

Malia finishes writing the number, but I can tell she's still not sure what just happened. As she walks back to her seat, I can't help but give her another thumbs up.

Ms. Fleming, who has apparently noticed the chaos from the front of the room, smiles at Malia. "Nice job," she says. "Who would've thought math would be your thing?"

Malia's cheeks flush, and she shrugs, clearly trying to play it cool, but it's a half-hearted attempt.

Lydia, with a satisfied look on her face, leans toward me, whispering. "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd say she just needed a little push to realize how much she already knows."

I nod, a smirk tugging at my lips. "You know, I'm starting to think that maybe—just maybe—you could teach her something."

Lydia just raises an eyebrow. "Don't push it, Stiles."

The bell rings and the class empties out into the hallway, but my thoughts are far from the usual post-class chatter. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out instinctively, already knowing something's off. The message is brief, unsettling.

There's a family-murdering axe-murderer in town.

The blood in my veins goes cold. It's from an unknown number. The message is simple, to the point, and incredibly ominous. I glance around the hallway, trying to figure out who would send me something like this. My dad was going to keep me out of the case—hell, he probably already had. But this message? It feels too personal, too immediate. I shove my phone back into my pocket, my heartbeat hammering in my chest.

"An axe-murderer?" Kira asks, looking at me with a furrowed brow.

I nod, my mind racing. "A family-murdering axe-murderer!" I almost can't believe the words coming out of my mouth. It sounds like something out of a twisted horror movie.

Scott, who had been walking beside us, suddenly stops. "I already heard about it," he says, casually, like we're talking about the weather.

My stomach tightens. "Wait, what? You did? How?"

"My mom called me. She knew we'd see it on the news," Scott answers, sounding strangely calm.

Perfect. Just perfect. This whole town feels like it's caught in some kind of endless horror loop, and now it's finally spilled over into real life. "Perfect! Let's go!" I say, already moving toward the exit. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can figure out what the hell is going on.

Scott stops me. "Whoa, whoa— we've got Econ in five minutes..."

I stop in my tracks, staring at him, incredulous. "All right, did you forget the part about the family-murdering axe-murderer???"

He looks uncomfortable, but the words fall out of him before I can even blink. "Did you forget your dad's the sheriff? They want us to stay out of it."

Are you kidding me? "Are you guys kidding me?" I almost shout, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

"There's a family-murdering axe-murderer, and we're not going to do anything about it?" I ask, completely dumbfounded. How can anyone just let this slide?

Kira, who's been unusually quiet up to this point, speaks up, her tone measured. "Maybe we should just let the adults handle it..."

I stare at her in disbelief, like she's just told me to ignore my own instincts. "So, the two of you just wanna stay here, go to class? School?" I shake my head, trying to process their apathy. "Never heard anything so irresponsible in my life!"

I can't do it. I can't sit still while there's a potential killer out there, while people are in danger. I turn on my heel, determined to take action, but as I start walking away, Scott's voice catches me.

"See you at tryouts?" he calls after me, his voice holding that familiar note of concern.

I'm already feeling the pull of the situation. There's no way I can just ignore this, no matter how much school or tryouts might matter right now. "Yeah, yeah," I call back, not stopping my pace. But my focus is elsewhere.

There's a killer on the loose. People's lives are at risk, and school can wait. My instincts are screaming at me to do something.

But before I can get too far, a sudden wave of discomfort hits me—my bladder, once again, reminding me of its existence. "Gotta hit the bathroom first," I mutter under my breath, pushing my way through the school hallway. I turn the corner, head down, and make a beeline for the nearest bathroom, knowing full well that the next few hours are going to be a juggling act of trying to figure out what's going on in town while also dealing with the chaos that is my life.

I pause before entering the bathroom, taking one last glance down the hallway. I can hear Scott's voice in the distance, but right now? I need a minute. A few minutes of solitude to figure out how the hell I'm going to handle everything piling up around me.

And then I'll deal with the axe murderer. And then? I'll deal with the baby. And maybe—just maybe—I'll also be able to make it to tryouts. If I can even make it through the day without completely losing my mind. The remainder of the day passes in a blur of half-focused thoughts and repetitive routines. School feels like a blur of noise, with my mind more preoccupied with the looming axe-murderer than anything remotely related to calculus or history. I can barely concentrate, even though I know I should be. I just can't push the thought of the danger we could be facing out of my head.

By the time Econ comes around, my head's spinning. Scott and Kira are both looking at me like I'm losing it. But I can't help it. A killer is out there, and we're just expected to sit quietly, pay attention to class, and pretend like we're not in the middle of something bigger.

But no. Not me. I'm not the one who can sit still when there's danger and chaos threatening the town.

When the bell rings, I have to remind myself that I still have to get through the rest of the day, even if it's just for the sake of school being an illusion of normality in a world that no longer feels quite as safe.

And that's when Coach Finstock catches me in the hallway after class.

"Stiles," he calls as I start heading toward the locker room, dodging a few straggling students. "I need to talk to you."

I turn, giving him a tired but expectant look. "What's up, Coach?"

He gives me one of those looks—half skeptical, half concerned—as if he's trying to gauge my state of mind. "You planning on showing up to the tryouts today?"

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Is that a question? Or are you testing me?"

"I'm just making sure," Coach says, stepping closer with that too-calm tone he gets when he's about to drop some vague bomb on me. "You're helping me out with the tryouts, right?"

I nod, though I can already feel the nerves itching at the back of my neck. The idea of being involved, being active in something physical like this—it makes me feel strangely torn. I'm pregnant. The baby needs me to be careful. But I also don't want to back out, especially since the team could use the help. Coach, for all his gruffness, had been asking for me to step in as a sort of assistant for tryouts, given my experience with the game.

"Yeah," I say, "I can help. I'm not... exactly planning to run full drills or anything. But I can still stand and pass some balls into the goal."

Coach raises an eyebrow, like he wasn't expecting me to give that kind of response. "You sure about that? You're looking a little, uh... distracted there, kid. How much can you really help?"

I chew my lip, the question suddenly a bit more complicated than it needs to be. I can't risk straining myself too much, especially now, so I have to keep it simple.

"I can run... but no suicide drills," I say, trying to be as clear as possible. "I can pass, help set up the drills, and shoot balls in the goal. But I'm not gonna be sprinting up and down the field."

Coach doesn't seem disappointed, just thoughtful, as he processes my words. "Alright, that works. I can work with that." His face softens just slightly, but it's a subtle thing, a flicker of understanding. "I don't expect you to go full throttle, Stiles. But just be careful. We don't want you doing anything you can't handle."

I give him a small, tight smile. "Don't worry. I know my limits."

He eyes me for a second longer before nodding, seeming satisfied for now. "Alright then. I'll see you out there. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, keeping the sarcasm out of my voice for once.

I turn to head to the locker room, but Coach stops me with one last piece of advice. "And Stiles? Don't push yourself too hard today. Got a feeling you might be more useful as a coach than a player for a while."

I give him a short nod before walking away, mentally preparing myself for what's next. I'm glad I'm not in the middle of a full-speed practice. I'm also relieved I don't have to lie about not being able to fully participate. But I know my role today, and it's going to be about helping with the drills, shooting some balls, and not over-exerting myself.

As I step into the locker room and pull on my gear, it feels a little bit like stepping into two worlds. One foot in this physical reality where I'm trying to be part of the team, and the other is in my head, constantly reminding me that things are changing. Not just for me, but for everyone. But right now, this—this moment—is about the team, about doing what I can, and making sure I don't hurt myself or the baby in the process.

Time to focus.

I can feel my nerves tingling as I walk into the locker room. Changing is always a little bit of a hassle, but today it feels even more so. The baby bump, tiny as it is, is starting to show. Nothing major, but enough for me to be acutely aware of it as I strip out of my jeans and slide into the black sweatpants.

The gray shirt fits comfortably enough, but I still feel that familiar anxiety knot in my stomach as I pull it on. It's not the usual worry over looking good or fitting in—no, this time it's the growing baby I'm thinking about. I can't even begin to explain why the idea of changing in front of everyone feels different now. But there it is, that tightness in my chest as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I try to push the feeling away. It's not like anyone is going to notice yet, right? It's barely there. Just a slight curve that only someone like me would notice. I shake my head and try to concentrate on the task at hand. Focus. Get through the tryouts. Help the team. The baby's fine. Everything will be fine.

Scott walks into the locker room a minute later, and I immediately start adjusting my gear, trying to avoid any more of these intrusive thoughts.

"Hey," Scott says, his voice a little uncertain. "I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something."

I look over at him, raising an eyebrow. "What's up?"

He starts fiddling with the straps on his gloves, looking around like he's trying to find the right words. "When I kissed Kira in the hall... it was the first kiss since our real first kiss."

I blink. "That's good! You kissed her, right?"

Scott sighs, his face shifting to one of panic. "Yeah... but I didn't..."

I give him a confused look. "What do you mean, you didn't?"

"It was like how you kiss your grandma when you're five," Scott explains, clearly freaking out.

I stare at him for a second, processing what he just said. "Oh! Chaste," I say with realization. "You gave her a chaste kiss."

Scott looks at me like I'm speaking in riddles. "Yeah, exactly! And now it's all weird. It's completely weird, and I don't know what to do. Maybe I should text her."

"No. Just no with the texts," I say, cutting him off before his brain can spiral any further.

Scott looks at me like I've just told him the secret to the universe. "But I don't know how to make it not weird!"

I roll my eyes. "It's a kiss, dude. Just relax. You can't control it. You'll figure it out. No need to send text after text making it even more awkward."

I can see the slight tension in Scott's posture ease, just a little. It's like he needed to hear it from someone who wasn't flipping out over his own awkward relationship life. And who better than me? I mean, I may not have a girlfriend at the moment, but I've seen Scott go through worse than a little "chaste" kiss.

Coach's voice cuts through the locker room, drawing my attention. "Alright, everyone, just a reminder that it's an open tryout today. All positions are available. This is a rebuilding season, people! Jackson's gone, Lahey's gone... Greenburg, the one guy I actually wanted gone, was held back... again."

The mention of Jackson makes me pause for a second, but then I shake it off. Focus. Focus on now. Not the past. Not the strange absence of familiar faces.

Scott, however, isn't letting it go. He steps up to Coach, all hesitant like he's about to ask something he really doesn't want to hear.

"Hey, Coach? I just wanted to ask if... I was still... if I'm... you know..."

Coach looks over at him, smirking a little. "You're on the team, McCall."

Scott's brows furrow. "But... but am I... everything that I was on the team before?" he asks, and I can hear the uncertainty creeping in.

Coach chuckles, like it's not even a question. "All positions are available, McCall. Everyone's gotta earn their spot."

Scott looks almost deflated, but there's something about it that makes me want to reach out and smack some sense into him. There's a long pause before he finally nods, like he's processing the information.

"Alright, cool," Scott mutters, turning back to me with a look that says he's still thinking about it.

I'm not entirely sure what he's so worried about, but I'm also not in the mood to dive back into it. Honestly, we've got a bigger issue to deal with—like the axe-murderer in town, for instance. But Coach's announcement that the positions are wide open? That seems like a bigger deal to Scott. That's for sure.

Before we even step outside onto the field, I'm feeling that familiar tension creeping back into my shoulders. I mean, it's not like I really have much of a choice—Coach has made it clear I'm here to help, so that's what I'm going to do. Just focus on making sure nothing goes wrong today.

But even as I walk toward the field with Scott, there's still that nervous energy running through me. And as I look out at the group of players, some of whom are new, I can't help but wonder just how much things are going to change this season.

Who's going to make the cut? Who's going to stand out? And where do I fit into all this?

I don't know yet. All I can do is show up, help out, and keep my head above water.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

Who's going to make the cut? Who's going to stand out? And where do I fit into all this?

I don't know yet. All I can do is show up, help out, and keep my head above water.

Stiles's Pov

The sound of Coach's whistle cuts through the crisp January air, and the players on the field—Scott among them—finish their last suicide run. I wince at the noise, mentally counting the number of times Scott's legs must be screaming at him after that drill.

"Terrible. Horrifying. Pathetic. Unbelievably pathetic!" Coach yells, waving his hands dramatically in the air. "You think you're here for a picnic? This is lacrosse, people. Work like you mean it!"

I snort to myself, standing at the edge of the field with my arms folded across my chest. I'm not supposed to be running suicides —thank God—so I just get to watch this whole spectacle unfold. My legs are still sore from last night's cleaning frenzy at home, and the added weight of carrying the baby definitely makes me rethink any form of strenuous exercise.

Scott's face flushes, and I can see him pushing himself harder, even though I know he's barely hanging on. The others are barely keeping up, but they're trying, and that's all Coach cares about. At least, it seems that way.

Then, as if in slow motion, Liam comes into view—his stride long, confident, and effortless. He's clearly outpaced the rest of the team and crosses the finish line first. As soon as his feet hit the mark, Coach barks out an order, and Liam immediately drops to the ground, doing push-ups like it's nothing.

"What is he? Like a were-cheetah? Does that even exist? Is that a thing?" I ask, watching in disbelief as Liam powers through the push-ups, his muscles rippling with each movement.

Scott glances over, still winded. "I think he's just that good."

I scoff. "Great. We have a human mutant on the team."

Liam finishes his set, stands up, and jogs over to the group, looking like he didn't just push his body to the brink of exhaustion. He's barely even breathing hard, and the guy is built like a tank. I hate him. I hate that he's perfect at everything.

Meanwhile, I move over to join the rest of the team, grabbing a stick from the equipment bag. Coach is having everyone line up to throw balls into the net, and I can't help but feel a sense of amusement. Throwing balls? Yeah, I can do that.

Lining up with the rest of the guys, I take my position and cradle the lacrosse ball in the net of my stick. The first throw is almost instinctual, like I've been doing this forever. I flick my wrist, and the ball sails through the air, landing perfectly in the goalie's net.

There's a pause, and then I hear the laughter behind me. The team's eyes are wide, clearly impressed. "Did that just happen?" one of the guys mutters. Another guy chuckles. "Nice shot, Stiles."

I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. "What can I say? I'm good."

Liam steps up next, and I glance at Scott. I try to comfort him by suggesting, "Maybe he's only good as a goalie. You know, totally useless on the rest of the field."

Scott gives me a skeptical look, but I see the doubt in his eyes. "No way," he says. "He's good at everything."

Liam winds up and throws the ball with the kind of precision I've only seen from pros. The ball sails through the air and hits the target dead center.

I can't help it. I glare at him. "Okay, maybe he's perfect at everything. I hate him."

Scott gives me a confused look. "You don't have to hate him, Stiles. We need new players. Maybe he's a good addition."

"Yeah, but it's not just about needing players," I mutter, not taking my eyes off Liam. "What about a new team captain?"

Scott immediately looks concerned, his brow furrowing as he stares at me. "What are you talking about?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm just saying. You know, with all the changes—Jackson and Isaac gone, Greenberg being held back again..." I trail off, not wanting to push it too far, but the thought of losing Scott's leadership position makes me uneasy.

Scott looks at me like I've just given him a bad piece of news. "Don't joke about that. You're not seriously considering that, are you?"

Before I can answer, Scott walks up to the goal to take his shot. He picks up the ball, winds up, and takes his swing. The ball heads straight for the net... but bounces off the edge. The shot misses by a mile.

I can't help but grin. "See? Maybe you're not as ready for Captain McCall as you think."

Scott shakes his head and laughs, brushing off the failure with a lighthearted shrug. "Alright, alright. Let's see you do better."

I watch as the rest of the team gets in position, trying to follow suit. They look more like they're playing dodgeball than lacrosse, but at least the enthusiasm is there. I stand back, folding my arms, watching with a mix of amusement and that familiar worry in my chest.

Liam's smooth performance, his effortless athleticism—it's all too perfect. And I can't help but wonder what this means for the team, for Scott, and for everything I thought I knew about how this season was going to go.

"Alright," Coach calls out from the sidelines, "Let's get these shots in, people! No more slacking!"

I look at Scott, who's staring at the field with a determined expression. I just hope he's not going to let Liam's obvious skill derail his confidence.

And me? I'm just here for the ride. As long as I'm not expected to run, everything will be fine. The sound of the lacrosse ball bouncing off the goalpost again is starting to make my head spin.

Scott, as usual, looks like he's giving it his all—he's focusing, aiming, and yet every time he throws, he misses. Hard. His shots are off-center, sending the ball careening in odd directions, and each time it happens, I can't help but cringe.

I can feel the tension in the air, the pressure from Coach's loud grumbles, and I just want to curl up somewhere where I can't see Scott struggling like this. It's painful. He's better than this. He has to be.

I can't hold back anymore. I walk up to him, arms folded, trying not to wince every time his shot misses.

"Dude, what is going on with you?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light. The frustration in my chest is obvious, but I'm not going to add more stress to the situation. I have enough to worry about with the pregnancy, lacrosse, and Liam stealing all the damn attention.

Scott's face is a mess of concentration and growing irritation. He stares down at the ball like he's trying to will it to go in.

"I don't know, man. I'm just... having a really off-day." His voice is tight with frustration, like he's trying not to explode.

"Off-day?" I repeat, incredulously. "You were dying out there! I feel actual physical pain watching you. You—you are the Alpha."

He looks at me, shaking his head. "Not on the field, Stiles. I'm just a human on the field."

I let out a harsh breath. Human. Yeah, I get that. But seeing him struggle in front of the whole team, while Liam's over there scoring point after point like it's nothing—it's killing me.

"Well, human-you is kind of sucking at the moment," I mutter, trying not to sound too harsh. "So, do you think there is any way you can use just, like, a little tiny bit of wolf power? I mean, just a little?"

Scott's eyes widen, and he immediately pulls back, shaking his head. "It's cheating."

"I know it is!" I snap, frustrated. "But I hate seeing this little freshman come in and steal all your glory after you worked your tushie off! I hate it!" The words come out before I can stop them. It's more than just the game—it's that Scott's always had this leadership role, always been the one everyone looks up to. And seeing Liam, with his perfect form and effortless skill, take all the attention is just... wrong.

Scott's brow furrows. "He's not going to steal all the glory." He sounds uncertain, though, and the way the rest of the team cheers each time Liam scores, it's hard to deny the mounting tension.

I can practically feel the heat rising from Scott as he watches the freshman effortlessly score another point, the team erupting into celebration. My heart sinks.

Scott lets out a long breath, his eyes flashing slightly. For a second, the familiar red glow flickers in his gaze.

It's like the moment the power gets out, everything shifts. He's suddenly standing straighter, his jaw tightening. For just a moment, I see the Alpha that he's trying so hard to hold back.

"Okay," he says, his voice quiet but resolute. "Fine."

I smirk, relieved but still anxious. "Thanks, man."

Liam, of course, scores yet again, and I can see Scott finally letting some of that inner wolf out. The crowd's cheering, but it's not just because of Liam anymore. The entire atmosphere shifts as Scott starts to move differently, faster, more precisely.

"Yes!" Coach Finstock bellows, his voice booming across the field. "Hot damn! Yeah! Hustle!"

Scott's eyes burn with a new intensity as he stands tall, his gaze now locked onto the goal. I can tell—he's no longer just trying to play. He's back. The Alpha is back.

Liam, for the first time, looks a little less untouchable, his expression now one of slight concern. He can probably feel the difference in the air.

I glance over at Scott, my heart pounding with relief. "That's more like it," I mutter under my breath. I don't even realize I've been holding my breath until I let it out in one sharp exhale.

Scott's confidence is coming back. Maybe it's not too late to turn this around. The next drill is two-on-ones, a game that's all about teamwork and putting a lot of physical pressure on both the attacker and defender. Coach Finstock's voice barks commands as the players get in position.

I'm stuck on the sidelines, of course. Not because I don't want to help, but because I physically can't. I feel like the world's being turned on its head with this whole "pregnancy" thing, and I'm too nervous to push myself too hard. The physicality of this drill means I'm sitting it out. Just too risky.

Scott's eyes flicker toward me as he jogs to his spot. I give him a thumbs up, but it doesn't do much to ease the nerves curling in my gut.

Scott is paired up with another player, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. This is it—the moment where Scott can either prove himself or let someone else steal his spotlight.

I chew the inside of my cheek, feeling more than a little bitter. I want to be in this game. I should be, but my body keeps reminding me that I have a different priority right now. That stupid little blueberry-sized baby growing inside me that has more control over my body than I'd like to admit.

As the players shuffle into position, I lean against the goalpost, trying to focus on anything other than the growing sense of unease. Scott's been doing a lot better since he let a little bit of that werewolf power slip. I can feel the air shift around him. It's like the field knows, and now the others can sense it too.

"Hey, Scott," I mutter under my breath, shifting my stance as I cross my arms. "We still don't know if Liam is a Werewolf. And if he is, well, he's just cheating. So we'd just be cheating the cheater."

Scott, who's focusing on the field, just shakes his head. "But he's not a Werewolf. I'd know. I'd be able to catch a scent or something. It's like... built-in instinct, Stiles."

I can't argue with that. I know Scott has this supernatural sensitivity to it all, and if Liam were a Werewolf, Scott would be the first to catch it. Still, the idea of someone getting by so effortlessly makes my stomach churn. I just want to see Scott get the upper hand here. He deserves it after all this hard work.

The whistle blows, and I watch as the players rush into action. Scott's opponent is fast, aggressive, and clearly no stranger to the game, but Scott has that Alpha edge now. He's fierce and focused.

And then, there's Liam. Damn it, Liam.

He's running circles around everyone, and when the two-on-one drill starts, it becomes painfully obvious that Scott and his teammate are struggling. Liam is just too good. Too fast. It's like he's reading their every move.

"Come on," I mutter, biting my lip as I watch Scott try to move in on Liam. He's doing everything he can, but it's not enough.

I feel a flicker of hope as Scott manages to get close, but Liam's moves are fluid, like he's been playing this game for years. He dodges Scott's defensive maneuver, and just like that, he's past both of them and charging straight for the net. The ball sails through the air with terrifying accuracy, and before anyone can stop him, it's in the goal.

The team erupts in cheers. Everyone's clapping, praising Liam like he's some kind of prodigy, and I can see the look of frustration on Scott's face. It's hard to watch—harder than I thought it would be. This is his territory, his game, his moment. But Liam's stealing it all away.

Before I can even process what's happening, I hear Malia stand up from the sidelines. "Do-over!" she calls out loudly, cutting through the chatter. I wince. Malia's not exactly subtle. She bets Coach $10 that Liam won't score again.

"Malia, please," I mutter to myself, rubbing my forehead. I've known Malia for long enough to know that when she's set on something, there's no stopping her. This is one of those times I wish she'd just stay quiet.

Coach Finstock groans, clearly irritated but still amused by Malia's antics. He waves his hand dismissively. "Fine, whatever," he grumbles.

Scott glances at me, his brow furrowed. "What the hell's she doing?"

I just shake my head. "Don't ask."

The game resumes, and this time, Scott is laser-focused. He's got something to prove. He rushes forward, ignoring all the exhaustion and frustration gnawing at him.

Liam's on the attack again. And this time? This time Scott's not letting him go.

I watch in slow motion as Scott rushes Liam, grabs him, and throws him into the air, sending him tumbling to the ground. The sound of Liam landing is anything but graceful—there's a sickening crack as he hits the turf, and I immediately feel my heart drop into my stomach.

"No!" I shout, rushing forward without thinking.

Scott looks horrified as he kneels beside Liam, who's clutching his ankle. "Oh my God, Liam," Scott mutters, completely panicked.

The rest of the team gathers around, and the realization hits: Liam's hurt. His ankle's definitely either sprained or broken. It's obvious from the way he's wincing, trying to move it but failing miserably.

Scott glances at me. "Stiles, I think we need to get him to the nurse."

"Yeah," I agree quickly, feeling the weight of the situation. "Let's get him off the field."

We make our way toward the sidelines, trying to keep Liam stable as we help him stand. The whole situation feels like a bad dream—like I'm stuck in some twisted version of a sports movie, only without the cheesy montages.

The team is silent, watching as we move Liam off the field. I can tell Scott's beating himself up over it. It was an accident, but I can see the guilt already creeping in.

We get Liam to the nurse's office as quickly as we can, Scott helping him walk with me trailing behind, my mind racing with the possibilities. We can't let Liam being hurt screw with the rest of the season. But that's going to have to wait.

For now, I just need to focus on getting him some help.

As we step into the nurse's office, I glance back at Scott, giving him a tight smile. "Next time, no tossing players like they're rag dolls, okay?"

Scott looks sheepish. "I... didn't mean for it to go like that."

I just roll my eyes, because honestly, the last thing I need to do is make him feel worse.

For now, though, all I can do is wait and hope that this wasn't the end of the season before it even started. The ride to the hospital feels like it takes forever. The Jeep's engine hums steadily as Scott drives, his grip tight on the wheel, eyes focused on the road but far away. Liam is in the back, his injured ankle propped up on the seat, clearly in pain but trying his best not to show it. I can't blame him for that. If I were in his shoes, I'd probably be trying to play it cool too, but it's hard when you know you've just caused your own downfall.

I glance at Liam through the rearview mirror, silently weighing whether he's putting on a brave face or if it really isn't that bad. He doesn't look like he's faking it, but then again, the kid's probably learned to push through worse over the years. I just hope it's a sprain and not something worse.

We pull into the parking lot of the hospital, and as we all shuffle out, I notice a familiar figure exiting one of the rooms. It's Melissa McCall, looking all businesslike, her expression unreadable as she walks past the hallway. She notices us standing there and does a double-take.

"Oh, Scott! Stiles! What's going on?" she asks, her voice immediately switching to concern when she spots Liam, leaning heavily against Scott for support.

"Liam's hurt," Scott says, his voice tight. "We need to get him checked out."

Melissa, being the efficient woman she is, doesn't miss a beat. She quickly reaches out, her motherly instinct kicking in, and helps Liam into a nearby wheelchair. "Come on, Liam. I'll take it from here," she says gently.

Liam offers her a pained smile but doesn't protest, letting her wheel him toward the room. She glances back at us and raises an eyebrow at Scott and me. "You two stay here. Let me get him settled first."

I look at Scott, who's watching the scene unfold with a furrowed brow. "Hey, man," I start, trying to distract him, "I'm heading out. Malia's waiting for me at my place to study, so..."

Scott just nods absently, like his mind is still on the situation with Liam. "Yeah, I'll be fine. You go ahead."

But before I can turn to leave, I stop myself and walk back to Scott. I've gotta say something. He needs to hear this.

"Hey," I say, a little quieter. "Liam's getting hurt? It's not your fault, you know that, right?"

Scott looks up at me with a conflicted expression. "But if I'd just used some wolf power, maybe he wouldn't have gotten hurt."

I shake my head. "No. If you'd used your wolf powers, that kid wouldn't be limping. He'd be crawling back to the other half of his body." I cross my arms over my chest. "You're thinking too much. You're thinking too much about being captain, about what you've lost. But this whole thing with Liam?" I shrug, trying to offer him some reassurance. "It's a game. It's not worth risking yourself over."

Scott rubs the back of his neck, looking frustrated. "I just... I'm worried. I don't want to let anyone down, especially now. I'm so used to everything being perfect. What if this messes things up?"

I place a hand on his shoulder, trying to be firm but understanding. "It's okay to want something for yourself every once in a while, Scott. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And right now, we need to focus on the bigger things, not just this one mistake."

Scott nods slowly, the weight of what I said settling in, but still clearly feeling the pressure of it all.

"Yeah, okay," he finally murmurs, his voice steady. "Thanks, Stiles."

I smile at him, then give him a nod. "Alright, I'm gonna go meet Malia. Let me know what happens with Liam, okay?"

"Will do," Scott says, giving me a faint smile.

When I get back to my house, I can already see Malia waiting for me by the door. She's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, staring off into the distance like she's got a million things on her mind. As soon as I step up onto the porch, she turns toward me.

"You ready to do this?" she asks, voice a little sharper than usual.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I say, smiling a little, trying to push aside the weird tension that's been hanging over me all day.

We head inside and settle into my room, the familiar clutter of textbooks, random piles of papers, and old junk taking over the space as usual. Malia pulls out a bunch of highlighters from her bag, and I can't help but stare at her for a second.

"What's with all the highlighters?" I ask.

She shrugs, flipping through the pages of her math book. "Green is for the things I understand. Yellow is for 'I'm working on it,' and red means I have no clue."

I look down at the book and then back at her. "So, how's it going?"

"Mostly red," she mutters, scribbling something in the margin.

I chuckle, the sound feeling surprisingly light compared to everything else weighing on my shoulders. "Yeah, I get that."

I glance over at my own caseboard, where I've got things scribbled down, pinned up with red string crisscrossing between suspects, clues, and random theories about the heist. The way she organizes things with colors... it's eerily similar to how I do it. I guess it shouldn't be surprising since we're both a little obsessive when it comes to details.

I sit down next to her, leaning back against the headboard of my bed. "Okay, so, you said math is impossible for you... What exactly is the issue? Like, why is it easier for everyone else?"

Malia sighs heavily, looking at the pages with a deep frown. "I just don't get it. Like, everyone else seems to understand it. They all get Lydia's notes..."

I blink. "Wait, Lydia gave you notes?"

"Yeah. But I don't get any of it," she says, shaking her head. "I need someone to give me notes on Lydia's notes. Because whatever she wrote... it's not math."

I glance at her notebook and leaf through it. I quickly realize she's right. Lydia's notes aren't math at all. It's a jumbled mess of symbols, diagrams, and some weird formulas that don't seem to relate to anything in the math textbook.

"Uh, Malia..." I start, my voice faltering a bit. "These aren't math notes. They're... they're like..." I flip through more pages. "...Some kind of code."

Malia glances at me, clearly confused. "What?"

I look up at her, swallowing hard. "Yeah, this isn't math. These are... something else entirely."

Malia looks back at the notes, her eyes scanning them. She seems frustrated at first but then lets out a soft exhale. "Great. More things to not understand."

I nod, suddenly feeling like I'm no closer to finding the answers I need. "Well, maybe we should go talk to Lydia about this. She's the only one who knows what the hell she wrote."

Malia tilts her head. "Yeah. Good idea. But first, can we finish this... this 'math' stuff?"

I laugh, a little bitterly. "Sure, we'll get to that. After we crack the code that's Lydia's notes."

I glance back at the caseboard for a second before pulling my attention back to Malia. My mind is buzzing with the realization that things are getting more complicated than I thought.

But I don't have time for any of that right now. The baby inside me, my studies, the ongoing case... everything is piling up. And for the first time in a while, I'm not sure how I'm going to make sense of any of it.

The day drags on, even after Malia leaves. The house feels quieter somehow, emptier. Not that I expect anything else, really—it's just me here most of the time.

I sit in my room for a while, staring at the caseboard and the tangled mess of theories and clues I've been obsessively compiling about the heist. I add a few more connections, things that make sense at the moment, and try to think through the mess with more clarity. But all I can really focus on is how tired I am.

My whole body aches from the constant stress. Physically, it's the pregnancy—there's no denying that it's draining me—but it's the emotional weight that makes everything heavier. There's this constant low hum of anxiety in the background of my thoughts, something nagging at me constantly, reminding me that there's still so much unknown. And on top of it all, there's the lacrosse stuff with Scott, Liam getting hurt, and the whole mess of what's going on with the team.

The weight of everything is too much to bear in one sitting. It all keeps piling on, like I'm sinking under a pile of bricks, and the more I try to push it all away, the heavier it gets.

Finally, after a few more minutes, I push myself up and glance at the clock. It's late. The kind of late where you've been up for too long, and the thought of sleep feels both appealing and impossible. But the day's been long enough, and my body's demanding rest.

I head to the bathroom to wash my face, my reflection still looking worn and exhausted. I trace the faintest curve of my stomach through my shirt, my fingers lingering there for a moment longer than usual. It's a small bump right now, just enough for me to notice, but that's enough. I can feel it—the reality of it.

With a sigh, I turn off the lights and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up around me. The mattress sinks under my weight, and for a few seconds, all I can do is just lie there, staring at the ceiling.

The day's noise fades into silence, the familiar weight of exhaustion pulling me deeper into the mattress. But there's something else, something heavier, tugging at my chest.

I'm not sure what tomorrow will bring, but right now, all I want is to forget about everything. The world outside can wait. The baby, the case, the team... it's all too much for one day.

So, I close my eyes and let the quiet wash over me. I take a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill my lungs. My mind races for a few more moments, but the exhaustion finally catches up. The weight of it all is too much to fight off anymore.

As I drift off to sleep, I wonder how much longer I'll be able to keep up this charade of pretending everything's okay. For now, though, all I can do is sleep. And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be a little easier.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

The day's noise fades into silence, the familiar weight of exhaustion pulling me deeper into the mattress. But there's something else, something heavier, tugging at my chest.

I'm not sure what tomorrow will bring, but right now, all I want is to forget about everything. The world outside can wait. The baby, the case, the team... it's all too much for one day.

Stiles's Pov

Friday, January 6th

I'm asleep when my phone starts ringing. At first, I try to ignore it. I roll over, pulling the blanket over my head and willing whoever it is to disappear into the void of "not my problem." But my phone keeps vibrating, the sound echoing through the quiet of my room like a damn alarm.

I crack one eye open and squint at my alarm clock. 12:15 AM.

What the hell?

I groan, shoving myself upright and fumbling for my phone on the nightstand. The name flashing across the screen makes my stomach twist. Scott.

Something's wrong.

I swipe to answer, my voice still heavy with sleep. "Dude, do you have any idea what time it is?"

Scott's voice is tight, urgent. "Stiles, I need you to come over. Now."

That wakes me up fast.

I sit up fully, already swinging my legs out of bed. "Okay... why? What's going on?"

Scott hesitates, which is never a good sign. "I'll tell you when you get here."

I freeze for half a second. "Scott—"

"Just get here, Stiles."

Then he hangs up.

I stare at my phone for a second, my heart thudding too hard against my ribs. My brain is still catching up, still trying to piece together why Scott sounds like he's on the edge of completely losing his mind.

Whatever it is, it's bad.

I push myself off the bed, grabbing the closest hoodie and pulling it on over my t-shirt. My movements feel sluggish, my body still protesting the sudden shift from sleep to fight-or-flight mode, but I push through. By the time I shove my feet into my sneakers, my hands are already shaking from the spike of adrenaline.

On my way out, I glance at my phone again, catching sight of another notification. A text from my dad.

Dad (11:52 PM): Something happened at the hospital. Stay put. We're handling it.

My stomach churns.

Scott's call. My dad's text. The hospital.

Something really bad happened tonight.

I don't bother responding. Instead, I grab my keys and slip out the front door, the freezing night air hitting me like a slap in the face. It doesn't matter. I have to get to Scott's. By the time I pull into Scott's driveway, my hands are tight on the steering wheel. My mind has been running in circles the whole drive over, but I still don't have a clue what I'm about to walk into.

I barely have the Jeep in park before Scott's front door swings open, and he's standing there, wide-eyed and tense, like he's about to vibrate out of his own skin.

I don't even make it up the porch steps before I start grilling him.

"Alright, what the hell is going on? Because my dad texted me about something happening at the hospital, and you just pulled me out of bed like it's the end of the world."

Scott doesn't answer right away. Instead, he moves aside, motioning for me to come in.

That's when I really see him.

Scott looks wrecked. Not like he's just tired, but like something inside him is breaking. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark with something between guilt and panic.

I step inside and shut the door behind me. "Scott," I say, softer this time. "Talk to me."

Scott drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply before finally looking at me. "Sean is dead."

The words hit me like a brick to the chest.

I blink. "Sean Walcott? The kid from the hospital?"

Scott nods, his whole body stiff. "He was murdered. By the axe-murderer."

My stomach plummets.

"Are you—are you serious? The axe-murderer?" I ask, my voice sharp with disbelief.

Scott just nods. "Yeah. And Stiles—" His voice catches for half a second. "He didn't have a mouth."

That stops me cold.

I stare at him, searching for any sign that he's messing with me. But Scott doesn't joke about stuff like this.

"...Come again?" I say, because I honestly have no idea how to process that.

Scott swallows hard. "The guy—whoever he was—he had no mouth, Stiles. Just... nothing. But that's not even the worst part."

My heart is pounding now. "Dude, how does it get worse than a literal mouthless axe-murderer?"

Scott shifts, his expression tightening. He looks like he doesn't want to say it.

Then—

"I bit Liam."

The words slam into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs.

I freeze, my brain short-circuiting. "...What?"

Scott swallows hard. "On the roof. It happened so fast, I—I didn't mean to, Stiles. But Sean was dead, and Liam was just there, and I didn't think—I just reacted."

I press a hand to my forehead, trying to get my thoughts in order. Liam. Bitten.

Scott turned Liam.

I drag in a shaky breath, my hands going to my hips. "Okay. Alright. Just... just walk me through this, step by step."

Scott starts pacing. "Sean—he wasn't just some kid, Stiles. He was a wendigo."

What.

I reel back. "A wendigo? The kid was a literal cannibal?"

Scott nods, his face grim. "Yeah. And he was hungry. He was gonna kill Liam, and I had to stop him. But then the axe-murderer showed up, and he killed Sean. And then Liam—he was panicking, and I grabbed him, and he—he fell, Stiles. He was gonna fall off the roof."

Scott stops pacing and looks at me, his voice quieter now. "I bit him to save him."

I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my hair. "Holy shit."

Scott nods, his whole body still radiating tension. "Yeah."

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

There's too much to process. Sean being a wendigo. The axe-murderer without a mouth. And Liam—

Liam is gonna turn.

Unless his body rejects the bite, but given his freakishly good athletic abilities and the fact that Scott's an Alpha...

Liam's probably not gonna reject it.

I finally move, crossing the room and sinking down onto the couch. "Okay," I say, rubbing my temples. "We need a plan."

Scott exhales, dropping onto the couch beside me. "I know."

"We need to keep him under control," I say, my brain already kicking into damage control mode. "He has no idea what's coming. We have no idea how he's going to handle this. And we also have to keep him from, you know, murdering people."

Scott nods, jaw clenched. "Yeah. I know."

I glance at him. "And we also need to figure out what the hell is going on with this mouthless freak. Because Sean's dead. Which means the guy's still out there."

Scott looks away, his hands tightening into fists. "I know."

Silence stretches between us.

It's overwhelming. All of it.

I press my hand to my stomach, barely even aware that I'm doing it.

Scott notices. "You okay?"

I glance at him, then at my hand, before quickly dropping it. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Scott doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push.

"So... what did you do with him?"

Scott glances toward the stairs, looking sheepish. "He's upstairs. Laying down."

I stare at him. "Okay. Good. That's... not terrible."

Scott hesitates.

I narrow my eyes. "Scott. Where is he laying down?"

Scott rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. "Uh... bathtub?"

I blink. Then blink again.

Nope. Still doesn't make sense.

"You duct-taped a fifteen-year-old freshman and put him in a bathtub?"

Scott nods like he doesn't hear the absolute insanity in that statement.

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "I swear to God, Scott, this is why I do the planning. Your plans suck."

Scott sighs, already heading up the stairs. "I panicked."

"No kidding."

I follow him, already preparing myself for whatever fresh disaster is waiting for us.

When we reach the bathroom, Scott hesitates, then pulls back the shower curtain.

I recoil.

Liam is sitting there, bound in layers of duct tape, looking like a hostage from a bad action movie. His arms are pinned to his sides, his legs wrapped together. He whimpers when he sees us.

I slam the shower curtain closed again. "Nope. I hate it. I hate everything about this."

Scott sighs. "Stiles—"

I spin on him, pointing aggressively. "You bit him."

Scott nods. "Yeah."

"And then you kidnapped him."

Another nod.

"And then you decided the bathtub was the best place to stash him?"

Scott grimaces. "It was the easiest place to keep him contained."

I let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Are we about to end up in the middle of the desert, digging a hole, and burying pieces of his body?"

Liam lets out another whimper, louder this time.

Scott glares. "Stiles!"

I hold up my hands. "I'm just saying, this is why I do the thinking. You're the action guy. I'm the brains. When you try to do both, we end up with a kid in a bathtub wrapped in duct tape."

Scott sighs. "Fine. You're right. What do we do?"

I exhale sharply, turning back toward the bathtub. "Well, for starters, we take him out of there before he starts developing Stockholm Syndrome."

Scott and I each grab an end of Liam and carefully lift him out of the tub. We set him down in a chair in Scott's room, making sure he doesn't tip over like a poorly wrapped burrito.

I kneel down to his level. "Okay, Liam, here's the deal. I'm going to take the tape off your mouth, but if you scream, it's going right back on. Capiche?"

Liam nods frantically.

I glance at Scott. "Do you want to do it?"

Scott doesn't move.

I roll my eyes and rip the tape off in one swift motion.

Liam lets out a strangled noise, squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

Scott winces. "You could've done that a little more gently."

I snort. "Right. I'll remember that next time we kidnap a teenager and tape his face shut."

Liam's breathing is quick and shaky, his eyes darting between us. "What... what the hell is happening?!"

I sigh, crouching in front of him. "Okay, so. You saw a lot of weird stuff tonight. And more weird stuff is going to keep happening because of the weird stuff you already saw."

Liam stares. "What?"

I look at Scott. "Dude, tell him."

Scott steps forward, voice careful. "Liam, what happened to you... what I did to you, which I had to do to save you... it's going to change you."

I nod solemnly. "Unless it kills you."

Liam's eyes widen.

Scott glares at me.

I immediately regret my words. "Okay, that was not the best way to put it—"

Liam's lip wobbles.

Oh, God. He's going to cry.

Scott and I both crouch down, trying to stop the waterworks before they start.

Scott grips Liam's shoulder. "You're not going to die."

I hesitate. "Yeah. Probably not."

Scott glares at me again.

I clear my throat. "I mean—definitely not! No one has ever died from a bite. Except for, you know, the ones who did. But that's, like, a small number compared to the ones who survived!"

Liam lets out a full-on sob.

Scott turns to me. "You are terrible at this."

"I panicked!"

Scott sighs and straightens up. "Okay, I think we should untie him."

I squint at him. "Are we sure that's a good idea?"

Scott gives me a look.

Fine. Whatever.

Scott reaches down and starts peeling the duct tape away. The second Liam is loose, he stumbles to his feet, rubbing his arms. "You guys are crazy!"

Scott steps forward. "Liam, just listen—"

Liam grabs the chair he was sitting in and smashes it over Scott's back.

Scott face-plants into the floor.

I barely have time to react before Liam spins and punches me square in the face.

Pain explodes through my nose, and I stumble back, clutching my face.

"SON OF A—"

By the time I regain my balance, Liam is booking it down the stairs.

Scott groans from the floor. "Liam, wait!"

Liam does not wait.

Scott tries to follow but ends up tumbling down the stairs.

I watch from the top, still holding my nose, as Scott lands in a heap at the bottom.

Liam is gone.

I blink slowly.

Scott groans.

I sigh and shake my head.

"Yeah. I'm going back to bed."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, my alarm is blaring in my ear, and it feels like my skull is vibrating. I groan, slapping at my nightstand until I find my phone and silence the damn thing. The screen reads 6:30 AM.

I got home around two, which means I managed a solid four and a half hours of sleep, give or take the time I spent staring at my ceiling, trying to process the absolute train wreck of the night before. I probably should have just stayed at Scott's house since we're dealing with a newly bitten freshman with a potential rage problem, but I had already hit my limit on weird for the day. Also, Liam punched me in the face, and honestly? That kid hits like a truck.

I groan and roll onto my side, pressing my face into my pillow. Just five more minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe I'll just skip today altogether.

Yeah, right.

With another groan, I drag myself upright, rubbing my hands over my face. My nose still aches from Liam's right hook, but it doesn't feel broken. That's something, at least. I haven't checked the mirror yet, but I can already tell there's going to be bruising. Great.

I push my blanket off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pausing for a second when I catch sight of myself in the dim morning light.

Still too skinny.

I should be gaining weight by now. Deaton said it would take time for my body to recover from everything—the Nogitsune, the malnourishment, the fact that I essentially burned through all my reserves and then some. I know I'm eating more, but my ribs are still too visible, my collarbones too sharp. The only place I feel like I'm actually growing is my stomach, but even that's barely noticeable under clothes.

I press a hand to my abdomen. Eight weeks and six days. Almost two months.

There's a heartbeat in there. I heard it.

I swallow hard and shake the thought away before it can dig in too deep.

Shoving myself to my feet, I stretch, wincing as my joints protest the movement. My body is still stiff from last night's impromptu scuffle, and my lower back is aching in a way that's starting to become frustratingly familiar. I rub at it absentmindedly as I shuffle toward my dresser, grabbing clothes for the day.

When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I pause.

The Lichtenberg figures on my neck are still there. The faint branching scars, a constant reminder of what the Nogitsune did to me. What it was. What it left behind.

I run my fingers over them, tracing the lightning-like marks as a familiar unease crawls up my spine. They aren't raised, aren't painful. Just... there. A part of me now. Like everything else.

I shake it off and pull my shirt over my head, swapping it for a fresh one. Then I grab a pair of my new sweatpants—the ones I bought at the mall with Peter, because of course Peter was involved in my maternity shopping experience.

The stretchy waistband is more comfortable than my usual jeans, and I don't have to deal with the constant struggle of buttoning them up. I know I should probably get used to the idea of actual maternity clothes at some point, but today is not that day.

Once I'm dressed, I head for the bathroom, flicking on the light and squinting against the brightness. My face looks about as wrecked as I feel—dark circles under my eyes, a faint bruise already forming on my cheekbone from Liam's punch.

I sigh, pressing a cold washcloth to it. "Yeah, I definitely should've stayed in bed."

After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I head downstairs. Dad left for work hours ago, but there's a sticky note on the counter with his messy handwriting.

Try to eat something.

I snort, shaking my head. He's been way more involved lately, always checking in, always watching me like he's waiting for something bad to happen. Not that I blame him. After everything I put him through last year, I'd probably be hovering, too.

I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and a bottle of water from the fridge, not really in the mood for anything more. My stomach has been weird in the mornings—not quite nausea, but not exactly hungry, either.

The clock on the stove reads 6:52 AM.

Tonight is the full moon.

My grip tightens around the granola bar as I take a slow breath.

I don't know if I have the energy to deal with Malia at Lydia's lake house. Not with everything else happening. Not with Liam. Not with the fact that we're probably going to have to figure out if he's going to turn tonight or if he's one of the unlucky ones who doesn't survive the bite.

God, I hate waiting.

I finish my water, toss the bottle in the recycling, and grab my keys from the counter.

Time to go to school. Time to pretend I'm not dealing with a hundred different crises at once.

This is fine.

Everything is fine. I pulled into the school parking lot, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. The sky was still overcast from the night before, casting everything in that dull, grey light that made mornings even more miserable. My Jeep's engine rumbled to a stop, and I sat there for a second, fingers tapping against the wheel.

I could go back home. Crawl into bed. Ignore today.

I mean, I won't, obviously, but the thought is nice.

With a sigh, I shove the door open, grab my backpack, and hop out, stretching my arms over my head. My lower back is still stiff, my entire body feels like I got run over by a semi, and—oh, yeah—I'm still pregnant.

Eight weeks and six days. Almost two months.

I push the thought down as I spot Scott waiting near the entrance, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, shifting awkwardly on his feet. Next to him, Lydia, Kira, and Malia are deep in conversation about something, but Lydia is the first to notice me. Her sharp green eyes flick up, locking onto my face, and immediately narrowing.

Oh boy.

I barely make it two steps toward them before she tilts her head and says, "What happened to your face?"

Kira and Malia snap their heads up at that, their gazes locking onto the forming bruise on my cheek.

I don't say anything. Instead, I point directly at Scott.

"Ask him."

Scott groans. "Stiles—"

I'm already walking past them, heading for my locker.

"You can explain it, McCall. I am so done reliving last night," I call over my shoulder.

I hear Lydia let out a frustrated sigh, but I don't stick around to hear the interrogation.

Instead, I focus on maneuvering through the crowded hall, squeezing past students lingering by their lockers, and making my way to my own.

The school day hasn't even started yet, and I'm already exhausted.

Perfect.

I reach my locker and spin the dial, trying to focus on something normal—something mundane—like school. Like getting through the next few hours without passing out. Like making sure I don't accidentally reveal that I'm pregnant in the middle of third-period Econ.

It's fine. I've been keeping it a secret this long.

I can do this.

As I grab my books, my mind drifts back to this morning—to Scott, to Liam, to the fact that everything is an absolute mess right now. I mean, what the hell are we supposed to do with a newly-bitten werewolf who probably hates both of us now? We don't even know if he's going to survive the bite, and tonight is a full moon.

And on top of that, I still have to deal with Malia, who is definitely going to go full feral coyote mode if we don't handle things carefully.

God. I should've stayed in bed.

The metal locker slams shut louder than I intended, and I flinch at the sound, suddenly aware of how on edge I am.

Deep breath. In. Out.

It's just another school day. Just act normal.

I adjust my backpack, roll my shoulders, and turn, only to nearly crash into Malia.

I jump slightly, heart lurching in my chest, but Malia barely seems to notice, her sharp blue eyes locked onto my face with that same intense, no-nonsense stare she always has.

"You got hit," she states.

Not a question. A fact.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Yes, thank you for that stunning observation, Malia."

She tilts her head. "Why?"

I glance over my shoulder. "Did Scott seriously not explain yet?"

She shrugs. "I left before he could."

Of course.

I sigh again. "It was Liam."

Her brows raise slightly. "The freshman?"

"The very same."

Malia frowns. "Should I hit him back?"

Oh my God.

"No," I say quickly. "Absolutely not."

She looks vaguely disappointed, but thankfully, doesn't press the issue.

Instead, she eyes me up and down as if assessing me, and I suddenly feel very aware of the slightly baggy hoodie I'm wearing and the way my sweatpants sit just a little looser around my waist.

I tense slightly, waiting for her to say something, but after a second, she just huffs and turns away. "Alright. Let me know if you change your mind about hitting him."

I won't, but I don't argue. Malia heads down the hall, disappearing into the crowd, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Lydia and Kira still don't know. Malia doesn't know.

I'm still good. I can get through this day.

I have to.

Scott pulls me away from Lydia, Kira, and Malia with a determined grip on my wrist, practically dragging me down the hallway before I can protest. Not that I would—I already know where we're going. Liam. We need to find Liam before the full moon tonight turns him into a werewolf smoothie.

We push through the flood of students, heading outside near the buses. The cool morning air stings my face, and I pull my hoodie tighter around me, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists—not from nausea this time, but from the sheer stress of everything happening all at once.

Liam is standing near the curb, talking to some kid I don't recognize—dark curls, expressive face, a little shorter than Liam. Must be Mason, I realize. The best friend. Every werewolf gets one, apparently. Mason seems pretty animated about whatever he's saying, but then his eyes flick down to Liam's leg, and his expression shifts into surprise.

"Dude," Mason says, "if you're walking, your leg must be fine, right?"

Liam stiffens slightly, his shoulders tensing, but he forces a smile. "Uh, yeah. Guess so."

Mason nods, but then his gaze catches on something else—Liam's arm. The bandage just visible beneath his sleeve. "Wait—what happened there?"

Scott and I slow our steps, watching the interaction unfold. Liam follows Mason's gaze and swallows, his breath hitching just slightly. His heartbeat jumps too—I can tell because Scott's head tilts in that weirdly specific way that I've come to associate with him being a full-blown creeper with his wolf senses.

Liam must feel it too because his head snaps up, locking onto Scott like he can sense the scrutiny. His breathing grows heavier, his pupils dilating, his skin paling just a fraction.

Then he does exactly what I expect—he bolts.

"Liam, wait!" Scott calls, but Liam doesn't slow down. He mutters something quickly to Mason—probably some excuse about class—and then he's gone, slipping into the hallways before we can stop him.

Scott and I exchange a look before rushing after him.

We manage to corner him near the lockers, blocking him in before he can disappear again. He looks from me to Scott, his jaw tight, his muscles tense like he's ready to fight his way out if necessary.

Scott, bless his heart, takes a step forward and says, "Liam... we're brothers now."

I physically cringe.

Liam stares at him like he just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I roll my eyes so hard I might actually see my own brain. "Scott, what the hell was that?"

Scott frowns at me but turns back to Liam. "The bite—it's a gift."

Oh my God.

I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling sharply. "Scott, stop. Please stop."

Liam shifts his weight, his gaze darting between us warily. "What are you talking about? We just met, and you bit me."

Scott opens his mouth to try again, but I cut him off with a sharp look. "Liam, listen, we're trying to help you."

Liam lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, yeah? By kidnapping me?"

"Okay, just to clarify, Scott kidnapped you," I say, raising my hands. "I just... aided and abetted."

Scott shoots me a betrayed look, but I ignore it.

Liam shakes his head. "I don't need help. Nothing is happening to me."

Scott takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "Something is happening to you, Liam. Something big."

Liam clenches his jaw. "No. It's not."

And then, to prove his point, he rips the bandage off his arm.

We all go silent.

Because the wound?

It's gone.

Not even a scar. Not a single trace of Scott's bite.

Liam stares at his arm, his eyes widening. His breathing turns shallow, and for the first time since we cornered him, I see it—the realization. The fear.

Scott and I exchange another glance, both thinking the same thing.

He knows.

And no matter how much he tries to deny it, things are only going to get worse from here. I take a deep breath and run a hand down my face, exhaling through my nose. The wound on Liam's arm is completely healed, and judging by the way his hands are starting to shake, the reality of it is finally hitting him.

Scott takes a cautious step forward, but I put a hand on his arm. Not here. Not in the middle of the hallway with dozens of people passing by, pretending not to eavesdrop. We'll deal with Liam later. Preferably somewhere private and far away from the possibility of him losing control in the middle of school.

Liam looks like he's about to bolt again, so I give him a firm nod. "Go to class," I say, voice even. "For now, just... go to class."

His wide, frantic eyes meet mine, and for a second, I think he's going to protest. Then he swallows hard, turns on his heel, and disappears into the crowd, leaving Scott and me standing in the hallway.

Scott runs a hand through his hair, looking conflicted. "We should—"

"No," I interrupt. "Not here. He needs time to freak out on his own before we corner him again. If we push too hard, he's just going to run."

Scott lets out a slow breath and nods, but I can tell he's itching to chase after him. I get it. I do. But we have a full moon tonight, and if Liam is going to shift for the first time, he's going to need us to keep him from tearing through half the town. He just doesn't know it yet.

I check the time and sigh. "We need to get to class."

Scott blinks at me like I just suggested we walk into a fire for fun. "You actually want to go to class right now?"

"Yes, Scott," I say, rubbing my temples. "I still want to graduate next year. Preferably on time. Preferably without summer school or dropping out or—God forbid—getting my GED like some cautionary teen parent statistic."

Scott's face softens. "Stiles—"

"Nope," I cut him off before he can try to comfort me. "Not today, buddy. We are going to class. We are going to pretend, for at least the next fifty minutes, that we are normal students who do normal student things like take notes and pretend we understand Econ."

Scott huffs a small laugh but doesn't argue.

We head toward class, weaving through the flood of students, and my stomach twists—not from morning sickness, thank God, but from the sheer weight of everything.

Liam. The full moon. The pregnancy. The secret feels like an iron weight strapped to my chest, and every day I don't say something, it just gets heavier.

But today isn't the day. Not yet.

Today, I just have to get through school. Get through the full moon.

Then maybe—maybe—I'll figure out what the hell I'm doing next. During the break, we gather by the buses, which has kind of become our default spot for secret pack meetings when we don't want to be overheard by literally everyone.

Malia crosses her arms, already looking pissed. "I'm not sharing my basement with Liam."

Lydia sighs and tilts her head. "My basement. And my mother already noticed how much damage you did last time, so that's a no."

Malia shrugs. "Fine. But I'm still not dealing with him."

Scott, ever the problem-solver, rubs his chin. "We could use the boathouse."

That gets everyone's attention.

"The boathouse?" Kira asks.

Scott nods. "It's isolated. There's a strong support beam in the middle. We could chain him there, make sure he doesn't get out."

Lydia frowns. "How exactly do you plan on getting him to the boathouse? He barely trusts you, and I'm willing to bet he doesn't want to spend his Friday night chained up in the woods."

Kira makes a fair point. Liam is already freaked out. There's no way we're getting him to just willingly walk into his own supernatural containment cell.

Which is why I say the only logical thing.

"We chloroform him and throw him in the lake."

Scott and Lydia both turn to look at me like I just suggested actual murder.

Malia, though?

Malia nods approvingly. "That works."

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. "We are not chloroforming him."

"We could knock him out another way," Malia suggests. "One punch to the head. Quick. Effective."

Scott groans. "We are also not knocking him out."

I sigh dramatically. "Scott, if it keeps him from murdering people, I think a little light kidnapping is a fair trade-off."

"No kidnapping!" Scott insists.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Fine. We lie to him."

Kira frowns. "Lie to him how?"

"We tell him there's a party," Lydia says simply. "And we invite him."

The pack processes this.

I blink. "That's actually... not a bad idea."

Scott hesitates. "You really think he's going to believe us?"

Lydia tilts her head. "With the right person inviting him, yes."

Kira shifts uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"

Lydia smiles. "You're going to invite him."

Kira's eyes widen. "Me?! Why me?"

"Because he's a fifteen-year-old boy," Lydia says like it's obvious. "And you're you."

Scott looks vaguely uncomfortable. I, however, fully support this plan.

"Come on, Kira," I say, grinning. "All you have to do is be your naturally charming self. A little hair flip, a little sparkle in the eyes, and boom—he's following you wherever you want him to go."

Kira groans. "I don't know how to do that!"

"Sure you do," Lydia says. "Just... be a vixen."

Kira gapes. "A vixen?"

Malia nods. "Like a fox."

Kira still doesn't look convinced, but eventually, we get her to agree.

Now, all we have to do is put the plan into motion.

When the break ends, Kira positions herself near the front steps of the school, timing it just right so that she crosses paths with Liam as he and Mason leave class.

Everything starts off great.

Her hair does flutter in an unseen wind, which, honestly, I think is just natural Kira magic. Liam notices her. He looks intrigued. We're so close to this working.

And then—

Halfway down the steps, Kira misses a step and faceplants onto the concrete.

It is, without a doubt, the least vixen-like thing she could have possibly done.

From our vantage point, Scott groans, Lydia sighs, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.

Liam, to his credit, immediately rushes over to check on her. "Are you okay?"

Kira, ever the trooper, smiles up at him from the ground like this was all part of the plan. "Hey! So... there's a party tonight. Wanna come?"

After school, I head home, kicking off my shoes as soon as I step inside. My body aches—probably a mix of exhaustion, stress, and, you know, the whole growing another human thing. I rub a hand over my stomach as I head toward my room, flopping down onto my bed with a heavy sigh.

I have a few hours before I have to head to the lake house. Enough time to do what I do best—dig up dirt.

Liam's a wild card. A kid who suddenly appears at Beacon Hills High, too good at lacrosse, too fast on the field, and just so happens to get himself bitten by Scott on his first night in town. That's a lot of suspicious coincidences stacked on top of each other. So I start making calls, texting a few people I know who used to go to Devonford Prep, seeing if anyone has any useful information.

It doesn't take long to get an answer.

Liam Dunbar isn't just some innocent transfer student.

He has anger issues.

And not just the normal teenage boy with an attitude problem kind of issues. The kind that gets you kicked out of school.

Apparently, he had a problem with one of his teachers. A big problem. A problem that ended with him taking a crowbar to the guy's car—not just smashing the windows or denting the doors, but full-on wrecking the thing.

And, just for that extra touch of psychotic flair, he carved the words THIS IS YOUR FAULT into the side of the car.

Yeah. That's definitely normal behavior.

And then there's his lacrosse record.

Benched for an entire season because of red cards.

Which, in case you're not a sports person, means he couldn't stop breaking the rules long enough to stay on the field. And when the coach finally had enough and took him off the roster for the season, Liam retaliated by trashing his car.

Sensing a theme yet?

I lean back against my pillows, phone still in my hand, brain racing with possibilities.

Liam has rage issues. That much is obvious. And now he's a freshly bitten werewolf with no clue what's happening to him.

Which means tonight?

Could go really, really bad.

I should tell Scott.

But I also know Scott.

He's going to think we can talk Liam through it, that we can coach him into control, that everything will be fine if we just play nice.

I, on the other hand, know better.

We need backup plans. Restraints. Contingencies for if he completely loses it.

Because something tells me Liam Dunbar is not going to go down easy.

By the time Scott pulls up to Lydia's lake house, the sun has nearly set, casting everything in an eerie, golden glow. The place is isolated, surrounded by trees and the dark stretch of water behind it, making it the perfect place to lock up a freshly bitten, highly unstable werewolf for the night.

Scott kills the engine on his bike, stepping off and immediately glancing toward me, like he can sense the tension in the air. He doesn't even let me get a word out before he jumps in.

"Kira said the plan is going fine," he assures me.

"That's not what I want to talk about," I say, shaking my head. "We have a big problem—bigger than we already knew."

Scott's brows furrow as he steps closer, looking between me, Lydia, and Malia, who are both standing nearby. Lydia is composed as ever, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, listening. Malia looks impatient, shifting on her feet like she'd rather be anywhere but waiting around for the newest baby werewolf to show up.

"What is it?" Scott asks.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself. "I did some digging," I say. "Asked around about Liam's last school. And, uh, turns out, our little lacrosse prodigy has anger issues."

Scott frowns. "What kind of anger issues?"

"The kind that got him kicked out of Devonford Prep," I say, watching his reaction. "He had a problem with one of his teachers. A big problem. As in, he destroyed the guy's car with a crowbar and then carved 'THIS IS YOUR FAULT' into the side."

Lydia's eyebrows shoot up slightly. Even Malia looks vaguely impressed.

Scott, on the other hand, looks horrified. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," I say. "And it gets worse. He was benched for an entire season because of too many red cards. And when the coach took him out for the rest of the year? He trashed his car, too."

Malia snorts. "Sounds like someone I'd get along with."

Scott shoots her a look. "Malia."

"What?" She shrugs. "I'm just saying, I get it."

Scott ignores her, turning back to me. "And you just found this out now?"

"I didn't exactly have 'investigate Liam Dunbar's criminal record' on my to-do list before today," I snap. "But, yeah, I found out, and now I'm telling you."

Scott presses a hand to his forehead, clearly rethinking all his life choices. "Okay," he says after a moment, voice slow, measured. "Okay. We can handle this."

I gesture wildly at him. "Can we? Because I feel like we're about to lock a rage-filled, emotionally unstable, newly bitten werewolf in a boathouse during a full moon and just hope for the best."

Scott sighs. "We'll make sure he's secured."

"Secured?" I repeat. "Scott, I don't think you understand. If this kid had that much trouble keeping his temper in check as a human, what do you think is going to happen tonight when the full moon hits and all that anger turns into actual, unstoppable violence?"

Scott doesn't answer right away, but I can see the doubt creeping into his face. He knows I'm right. He just doesn't want to admit it.

Lydia steps in then, her voice cool and logical. "We don't have a choice," she says. "We already agreed to this plan, and Kira's on her way with Liam now. We'll do whatever we can to keep him contained. But freaking out about it isn't going to help."

I huff out a breath, frustrated but knowing she's right.

Scott runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. "We'll handle it," he repeats, like if he says it enough times, it'll actually be true.

"Yeah, well," I mutter, rubbing at my temple, "I hope you've got a Plan B. Because I have a feeling we're gonna need it."

Malia perks up. "If Plan B is knocking him out and chaining him to a tree, I'm in."

I shoot her a look. "We are not knocking him out."

Malia rolls her eyes. "Fine. Plan C then."

Before I can argue with her, Lydia's phone buzzes. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and sighs. "Kira's almost here," she says. "We should go inside and get everything ready."

Scott nods, visibly forcing himself into alpha mode. "Alright. Let's go."

I follow them into the lake house, my stomach twisting with anxiety.

I have a bad feeling about tonight.

And I hate when I'm right.

The moment Liam steps through the door, his entire posture changes. He takes one look at me and Scott and immediately knows something is up. His eyes dart around the room, taking in Malia, Lydia, Kira— all standing in what can only be described as a very suspicious formation.

His jaw tightens. "What is this?"

Kira, standing closest to the door, casually closes it behind him and leans against it, blocking the exit.

Liam's entire body tenses.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he mutters, taking a step back.

I hold up my hands, trying to look harmless, which is a little difficult considering I'm, you know, me.

"Think of it like an intervention," I say. "Because you have a problem."

Liam scoffs. "What problem?"

"We're the only ones that can help," Scott adds.

Liam laughs. It's not a normal laugh—it's the kind of disbelieving, what-the-actual-hell-is-happening laugh that people let out when they realize they've somehow walked into a horror movie plotline.

"Okay, no," he says, shaking his head. "No, I don't have a problem. You people have a problem. A psychotic problem. Let me out."

He turns toward the door, but Kira doesn't move.

His eyes narrow. "Kira."

She winces. "Sorry," she says, not sounding that sorry.

Liam whips back around to face us, his eyes darting between all of us. "What is this?" he demands again. "What is wrong with you people?"

Scott sighs. "It's... a lot," he admits. "But we're going to explain."

Liam folds his arms across his chest, looking completely unimpressed. "Oh, this should be good."

Scott and I exchange a look before Scott takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. "Here's the deal. We're—uh, not exactly normal."

Liam snorts. "Yeah, no kidding."

"We're supernatural," Lydia corrects. "All of us."

Liam blinks. "What?"

"Werewolf," Scott says, motioning to himself.

"Werecoyote," Malia adds.

"Banshee," Lydia supplies.

Liam's eyes flick to Kira, and he raises an eyebrow.

She straightens. "Kitsune."

Liam looks totally lost. "A what?"

"A fox spirit," she clarifies.

He stares. "Oh, yeah, no, totally. That makes complete sense."

Then his gaze shifts to me, and I know exactly what's coming.

Liam squints. "And you? What the hell are you?"

I pause. "I, uh... for a little while, I was possessed by an evil spirit."

Liam's face does not shift into any sort of understanding. If anything, he looks even more alarmed.

"What?" he says flatly.

I shrug. "Yeah. It was a thing. A bad thing. But, uh, I'm better now."

Liam's eyebrows raise. "You're better? That's your answer?"

I grin, not even a little convincingly. "Yep."

Liam looks at Scott. "Dude."

Scott rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, it was a whole thing."

Liam takes another step back, eyeing us like we're all clinically insane. "This is a joke, right? Some messed-up hazing ritual? A prank? Please tell me this is a prank."

I shake my head. "Not a prank."

Liam glances around the room again, and this time, his eyes land on the chains and shackles bolted to the support beams.

His face goes pale.

"Are those for me?" he asks.

Malia shrugs. "They're for me."

Before he can respond, her eyes flash bright blue.

Liam jumps back. "How did you—what the hell?!"

Scott holds up his hands in what he clearly thinks is a calming gesture. "You'll learn how to do it too."

Liam's mouth drops open. "What?"

"You just need to get through tonight first," Scott tells him.

Liam shakes his head violently. "No. No, no, no. You're all insane. I don't need to 'get through' anything because nothing is happening to me. I feel fine."

Scott tilts his head slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Liam snaps. "I feel—"

Then, abruptly, his face changes. His breath hitches, his expression twists, and his entire body shudders.

Scott takes a slow step forward. "Liam... are you starting to feel something?"

Liam's fingers twitch at his sides. His breathing turns uneven. He winces, like there's a sudden pressure in his head, a dull pain in his bones.

"I feel like I'm surrounded by a bunch of psychotic nutjobs," he growls.

Then, all at once, he screams.

The sound is loud, guttural, raw. He grips his head, his entire body shaking. He stumbles backward, knees buckling, and then he collapses.

The moment he hits the floor, a high-pitched ringing fills the room.

It's not normal.

It's not human.

It's something else.

And it's coming from Liam.

Scott and I both jump forward at the same time.

"Liam!" Scott yells.

But he doesn't respond. He's on the ground, his hands still gripping his head, his body trembling violently.

His heart is racing. His breaths come in rapid, panicked bursts.

Malia steps forward, her brow furrowing. "What is that sound?"

Lydia's face goes blank. Her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted.

"It's—" she starts, but then—

Liam's body jerks. His back arches.

And his eyes snap open.

They glow gold.

Outside, the sound of multiple car engines pulling up makes me tense. I trade a look with Scott, who is still crouched near Liam, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder. Lydia turns sharply toward the window, already looking suspicious.

"Who did you tell?" she asks, her voice sharp.

Liam, still breathing heavily, swallows and shrinks back slightly. "I... I might've told Mason."

Scott and I both stare.

"Who the hell is Mason?" I demand.

"My best friend," Liam says quickly, flinching as his fingers dig deeper into the hardwood floor, his nails already starting to shift. "Kira told me there was a party, so I told him, and—"

"And Mason invited everyone," Lydia finishes dryly, already looking annoyed as hell.

A chorus of voices outside confirms it.

Through the window, headlights flash, illuminating a dozen or more teenagers already climbing out of their cars, some carrying backpacks, others laughing and pulling out their phones like they're about to livestream the best party of the semester.

Lydia turns to us, arms folded tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowing. "What exactly am I supposed to do with them?"

Liam groans loudly, his body shuddering. His nails rake against the floor again, leaving deep scratches in the wood.

Lydia lets out a high-pitched noise of distress. "Somebody get him off the floors before he ruins them!"

Scott and Kira react immediately, hauling Liam up between them.

Malia, standing nearby, grits her teeth as she digs her fingers into her arms. Her posture has stiffened, her entire body rigid with tension.

I don't need to be a werewolf to recognize the signs—she's losing control.

I step toward her just as she lets out a low, guttural growl.

"Okay—nope!" I say quickly, grabbing her arm. "Basement. Now."

Her eyes flash blue as she glares at me, but she lets me pull her along.

Meanwhile, Lydia is still staring at me expectantly, arms crossed.

I sigh, already knowing what's coming.

"Lydia," I say, as I lead Malia toward the basement door, "who throws the best parties in Beacon Hills?"

Lydia blinks at me. "What?"

I give her a pointed look. "Come on."

She rolls her eyes. "Me, obviously."

I gesture to the door. "Okay. Then throw a party."

Lydia's nostrils flare. She is not amused. "You owe me for this."

"Oh, I already regret it," I mutter, dragging Malia down the stairs.

In the basement, I hurry to the heavy-duty chains we left set up earlier. Malia stands stiffly, breathing hard, her hands clenched at her sides.

Her entire body is tense.

Her jaw tightens.

Her fingernails have already sharpened into claws.

"Okay, okay," I say, keeping my voice steady as I pull the restraints toward her. "Let's just—get you secured before you go full coyote in the middle of Lydia's lake house."

She growls. "I won't."

I pause. "You sure?"

She huffs. "No."

"Yeah, I thought so."

I move to fasten the restraints around her wrists. "Too tight?"

She shakes her head. "Tighter."

I pull them snug, locking the bolts securely.

Malia tests them, tugging hard, her muscles straining as she fights against the pull of the chains. They hold.

She takes a deep breath and leans her head back against the wall, her breathing ragged.

After a beat, she mutters, "You can leave."

I snort. "Yeah, that's not happening."

She narrows her eyes at me. "I don't need you here."

"Well, I need to be here," I say, crossing my arms. "To be honest, I'm probably safer down here than I am upstairs at a party with fifty freshmen and a very pissed off Lydia."

Malia lets out a rough chuckle, and for a second, she almost looks relaxed. Almost.

Then she shifts slightly, her breath hitching, and I know that the real fight is only beginning.

I stay put.

Because she's not going through this alone.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

She narrows her eyes at me. "I don't need you here."

"Well, I need to be here," I say, crossing my arms. "To be honest, I'm probably safer down here than I am upstairs at a party with fifty freshmen and a very pissed off Lydia."

Malia lets out a rough chuckle, and for a second, she almost looks relaxed. Almost.

Then she shifts slightly, her breath hitching, and I know that the real fight is only beginning.

I stay put.

Because she's not going through this alone.

Stiles's Pov

Malia's breathing is heavy, her muscles flexing as she struggles against the pull of the chains. Her head tilts slightly, and her nostrils flare like she's picking up on something in the air. Her blue eyes narrow at me, her brows pulling together.

My stomach twists. I know that look.

"Your heart," she mutters.

I blink. "What about it?"

Her eyes flick down, focusing somewhere around my stomach. The room is quiet except for the steady sound of our breathing and the faint murmur of voices from the party upstairs. I shift under her gaze, suddenly feeling exposed.

Malia tilts her head again, and then—her expression sharpens.

"There's another heartbeat."

My stomach drops.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Malia's eyes flash blue, not from the full moon but from pure, unfiltered shock. She jerks against the chains, suddenly straining forward. "Stiles," she says, voice lower, more dangerous. "What the hell is going on?"

I drag a hand over my face. Shit.

This is not how I wanted this to go.

I should have told her. I meant to tell her. But everything's been so chaotic, and I've barely been able to wrap my own head around it, let alone sit down and have a heart-to-heart with Malia about it. And now—now she's picking up on it herself, and it's too late to control how this conversation happens.

She tugs hard against the chains, her breathing erratic.

"Stiles," she growls.

I exhale slowly, bracing myself. "Okay, listen."

"No," she snaps, eyes wild. "What is inside of you?"

I wince. "Okay, maybe let's not phrase it like that."

Malia's chest rises and falls quickly, and I can tell she's fighting the shift, but right now, she's more focused on me than the full moon. That's not a good thing.

Her fingers flex, claws glinting under the dim basement light. "Stiles. Explain. Now."

I swallow hard. "I'm pregnant."

The words hang in the air between us, heavier than I expected.

Malia's whole body goes still.

Her eyes blink rapidly as if she's trying to process what she just heard.

I shift uncomfortably, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, uh. Surprise?"

She just stares.

Like really stares.

Not blinking. Not breathing. Not moving.

Then, suddenly, her eyes flick down again, to my stomach, to the barely-there bump beneath my sweatshirt.

"I knew you smelled different," she mutters. "I just—I didn't think—"

Her mouth clamps shut. Her gaze lifts back to mine, and for the first time since I've known Malia, she looks uncertain.

"Who else knows?" she asks, her voice lower now.

I shift on my feet. "Scott. My dad. Deaton. Derek. And, uh..." I hesitate. "Peter."

Malia's nostrils flare again. "Peter?"

I grimace. "Yeah, long story. Not really relevant right now."

She's still staring at me, but it's different now. Like she's seeing me for the first time. Her shoulders, which had been tense and ready to fight, lower slightly.

"You should've told me," she says finally.

I exhale. "I know."

"Why didn't you?"

I look away for a second, pressing my lips together. "It's... complicated."

Malia is quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she lets out a breath and leans back against the wall.

"I don't like secrets," she mutters.

"I know," I say again.

Her eyes flick down once more, her head tilting.

"You're gonna have a baby," she says, like she's only just now really processing it.

I let out a nervous chuckle. "Yeah. That's kinda how pregnancy works."

She's still watching me, but now there's something new in her expression. Something softer.

After a long pause, she shifts slightly, pressing her back more firmly against the wall. "Okay."

I blink. "Okay?"

She nods once, like she's made a decision. "Yeah. Okay."

I exhale. "That's it? No yelling? No threats? No throwing things at me?"

Malia shrugs. "You should've told me. But... I get it."

I blink at her, honestly surprised. "You do?"

She nods again. "Yeah. You didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how I'd react. But you still should've told me."

I shift on my feet. "I wanted to. I just—there's been a lot going on."

Malia hums in acknowledgment, then tilts her head toward my stomach again.

"You're really having a baby."

I let out a small laugh. "Yeah. Terrifying, right?"

She grins slightly, a sharp glint of teeth. "A little."

She studies me for another second, then leans her head back against the wall.

"I'll help you," she says suddenly.

I freeze. "What?"

She shrugs. "You're gonna need help. I'll help."

I stare at her, my heart skipping in my chest. Malia isn't someone who offers things lightly. If she says something, she means it. A lump forms in my throat.

I clear it quickly, forcing a weak smirk. "What, you gonna be my pregnancy bodyguard or something?"

Malia grins. "If you want."

I laugh softly, shaking my head. "You are so weird."

She smirks. "So are you."

The tension between us finally eases. The full moon is still there, still pressing against her, but for now, she's holding herself together.

And somehow, despite the fact that my secret is out, despite everything that's happened tonight. I shift uncomfortably, my fingers twitching as I try to find the right words. Malia is still watching me, eyes sharp, posture relaxed but alert, like she's trying to piece together everything she's just learned.

I exhale. "I didn't tell you, Lydia, or Kira yet because I wanted to make it out of the first trimester first. That's when I'd be out of the danger zone for a miscarriage."

Malia's expression flickers, something briefly unreadable passing over her face.

"Miscarriage?" she asks, her voice quieter than before.

I nod, rubbing a hand over my stomach. "Yeah. First twelve weeks are the riskiest. A lot of pregnancies don't make it past that point. And I just... I didn't want to tell everyone and then have something happen."

Malia doesn't say anything right away, just studies me like she's trying to figure out what to do with the information. She isn't exactly the best with emotions, but she's trying, and I can tell.

After a moment, she shifts in her restraints, settling more comfortably against the basement wall.

"You made it to eight weeks," she points out.

I huff out a laugh. "Yeah."

She tilts her head. "How does it feel?"

I blink at her. "The pregnancy?"

Malia nods. "Yeah. I mean, you don't look pregnant."

I let out a breath, considering how to answer. "It's... weird. I don't know. Some days it doesn't feel real. Other days it's the only thing I can think about. My body feels different. Not just physically, but—like, I don't feel like myself half the time. It's exhausting."

Malia hums thoughtfully, her eyes flicking to my stomach again. "And the baby? It's... normal?"

I nod. "Yeah. That was the other thing I wanted to wait on. Deaton ran some tests, and he told me that the baby is completely human. No supernatural anything."

Malia frowns slightly. "But you said the Nogitsune—"

I swallow hard, feeling the familiar nausea coil in my stomach. Not from the pregnancy this time, but from the sheer weight of the memory.

"The Nogitsune created it," I say quietly. "With its magic. It—when it possessed me, it changed my body somehow. Made this happen. But Deaton said there's no part of the Nogitsune left. It's gone. The baby is just... a baby."

Malia watches me for a long moment, and I wonder if she's going to ask the same thing I've been asking myself since I found out. If I'll ever really believe it's that simple.

Instead, she just asks, "And the father?"

I hesitate. "I don't know yet. Deaton's running the test. I should know soon."

Malia's eyes narrow slightly. "Who are you testing?"

I sigh, shifting my weight. "Scott. Derek. Peter."

Her expression darkens at Peter's name. "Why him?"

I press my lips together. "Because it's possible."

She doesn't look thrilled, but she doesn't push it. Instead, she tilts her head, something clicking in her expression. "Wait. Who else knows?"

I exhale. "Scott. My dad. Deaton. Derek figured it out in Mexico when he noticed my scent had changed. And Peter... he heard the heartbeat before we even left for Mexico, but he didn't say anything."

Malia's brows lift slightly. "Peter knew? And didn't say anything?"

I nod. "Yeah. Which is kind of terrifying, honestly."

Malia grunts, looking unimpressed. "That's weird."

I snort. "Yeah, welcome to my life."

She leans back, still watching me, but the sharp edge of her expression has softened slightly. "Are you scared?"

The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth, then close it again, trying to find the right answer.

Finally, I settle on, "Yeah. A little."

Malia nods, as if that's the only answer that makes sense. "Yeah. Me too."

I blink. "You?"

She shrugs. "You're my friend. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Something tightens in my chest.

For all of Malia's bluntness, her lack of tact, she always manages to say things that hit harder than I expect.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and offer her a small smile. "Thanks."

She nods, and for a moment, we just sit there in silence, the distant sounds of the party upstairs filling the gaps between our words.

Eventually, she tilts her head again, her lips curling slightly. "You're really gonna be a dad."

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah. I guess I am."

Malia smirks. "That's kinda terrifying."

I snort. "You're telling me."

She lets out a small laugh, the tension between us easing slightly.

And somehow, despite everything, despite the fear and uncertainty, the weight of what's coming. I feel like maybe, just maybe, I won't have to handle this alone.

Saturday, January 7

The basement was cold, the cement floor hard beneath me as I shifted against the wall, stretching out my sore legs. Malia sat across from me, still restrained but looking far calmer than she had earlier in the night. The full moon had taken its toll, but she had managed to hold herself together better than before. Progress.

The same couldn't be said for Liam.

My phone buzzed in my hand, the screen lighting up with a message from Kira.

Kira: Liam broke the chains. He's on the run. Scott's going after him. Stay put.

I blinked at the message, rereading it twice before groaning and rubbing a hand over my face.

"Great. Fantastic. Our brand-new beta is out running wild under the full moon. No way that goes badly."

Malia lifted an eyebrow at me. "Did he kill anyone?"

I sighed. "Not yet."

Malia considered that for a second, then shrugged. "Then it's fine."

I stared at her, incredulous. "Malia, it is the middle of the night, and there is a newly turned, emotionally unstable, teen werewolf running around Beacon Hills with zero control over his instincts. That is the opposite of fine."

She rolled her eyes. "Scott will find him."

I huffed. "Yeah, that's what I'm counting on."

My phone buzzed again, another text from Kira.

Kira: He ran into the woods. Scott is tracking him. Don't do anything stupid.

I snorted. "Kira says not to do anything stupid."

Malia smirked. "She doesn't know you very well, does she?"

I glared. "Hey, I take offense to that. I'm—okay, yeah, I do a lot of stupid things, but they're always necessary stupid things."

Malia leaned her head back against the wall, watching me with amusement. "So, what's your plan, oh wise one?"

I exhaled, staring at my phone. "Right now? Nothing. We wait. Scott said to stay put, and as much as I hate it, I'm too exhausted to go running through the woods chasing after baby wolves."

She smirked. "Wow. Actual restraint from you?"

I shot her a look. "Let's just say growing a tiny human takes a lot out of you."

Her gaze flickered down to my stomach, thoughtful. "So... when are you gonna tell the others?"

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "After the first trimester. Maybe sooner if things get complicated. But I just—I need to get through the first twelve weeks first."

Malia nodded, seemingly satisfied with that. "Okay."

Silence settled between us, the only sounds coming from the muffled music upstairs and the occasional noise of partygoers moving around. It felt surreal to be sitting here, in the basement, discussing my unborn child while outside, my best friend was hunting down a rogue werewolf. Malia growled low in her throat, her amber eyes gleaming in the dim light of the basement. The chain securing her wrist to the wall groaned under the pressure she was putting on it, and then, with a sharp snap, the metal fractured.

I jumped back, my heart slamming into my ribs as the broken restraint clattered to the floor.

Not good. Not good at all.

Her breathing was ragged, her claws flexing against her palm, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something cold slip down my spine. Fear.

I knew Malia. Knew her temper, knew her struggles with control. But she had never—never—been this close to the edge with me before.

She was fighting it. I could see the conflict in her shifting eyes, the tension in her trembling hands. She didn't want to hurt me.

That didn't mean she wouldn't.

I swallowed and forced my voice to stay steady. "Malia, listen to me."

Her head snapped toward me, her nostrils flaring as she took in my scent. Something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe—but it was brief, lost beneath the rising tide of instinct.

"Listen to mine," she growled, her voice thick and feral. "Run!"

I clenched my jaw. "No."

Her lip curled, but there was something desperate about it. A warning, not a threat.

"I'm not going to run," I told her, keeping my hands loose at my sides, non-threatening. "Because I don't think you're going to hurt me."

Her claws dug into the cement floor. "You don't know that."

I took a slow step forward. "I do. And I think maybe you're so afraid of hurting me because of what you did to your family."

That got her attention.

Her whole body tensed, her breathing sharp and uneven. She didn't look at me, her gaze fixed on a spot just past my shoulder, but I could tell she was listening.

I swallowed hard. "I know what it's like, Malia," I said softly. "To lose yourself. To become something—someone—you don't recognize."

She flinched.

"I remember being the Nogitsune." My voice cracked, but I pushed through. "And the worst part? I remember liking it."

Her eyes finally met mine, flickering between blue and brown.

"Because I felt powerful," I admitted. "I felt fearless. And most of all? I felt in control."

Malia's breathing hitched.

"But when I came through it, when I really came through it, I learned something else." I hesitated, then exhaled, forcing out the truth.

"Control is overrated."

She let out a shaky breath, her shoulders trembling.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached down and unlocked the remaining restraint on her wrist.

For a moment, everything went still.

And then she lunged.

I barely had time to flinch before she stopped, her hands gripping the front of my hoodie, her forehead pressing into my shoulder. Her whole body was shaking.

And just like that—her claws retracted, her breathing evened out, and her heartbeat slowed.

She had shifted back.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and brushed her hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger for just a second. "You did it."

She let out a shuddering exhale and sagged against me.

I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us shaking, both of us relieved.

Malia had won her battle tonight.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had, too.

The party was still in full swing downstairs, music thumping through the floors, bass vibrating in my ribs. But up here, in this eerie, sterile white room, everything felt... wrong.

Lydia stood in front of the wall, her back to us, her posture rigid. Her fingers twitched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. The record on the player behind her was nearly done, the static crackle of the needle reaching its end filling the silence.

I exchanged a glance with Kira and Malia before stepping forward cautiously. "Lydia?" My voice was softer than I intended, but there was something about the atmosphere in the room that made me feel like I shouldn't be too loud. "What do you hear?"

She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just kept staring.

"The key," she finally murmured, voice distant. "The key to break the code."

Kira frowned. "What code?"

Lydia let out a sharp exhale, like she was trying to focus, trying to pull herself out of whatever trance she had fallen into. Her lips parted, but no words came.

Malia shifted impatiently beside me, her fingers twitching. "This place is giving me a bad feeling," she muttered under her breath.

I couldn't disagree. The air was charged, like static electricity right before a storm. My stomach twisted—not from morning sickness this time, but from something deeper. Something instinctual.

Lydia finally turned, her eyes unfocused but filled with purpose. "We need to clear the house."

I didn't even hesitate. I turned to Malia. "Go downstairs and get rid of everyone."

Malia arched a brow at me. "How exactly do you want me to do that? Politely ask them to leave?"

"Not really your style, anyway," I muttered, then waved my hand toward the stairs. "Just... handle it."

She grinned, and I instantly regretted my wording.

With a last glance at Lydia, Malia turned and strode out of the room, cracking her knuckles. A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable sound of furniture scraping against the floor and some poor freshman yelping.

Kira shot me a concerned look. "Should I go supervise?"

"Nah, let her have her fun," I sighed. "We've got bigger things to deal with."

Lydia was already back to staring at the wall, her fingers moving like she was tracing something invisible. I took a step closer, trying to see what she saw, but all I could make out was faded wallpaper and the shadow of our reflections in the dim light.

"The key," she repeated, softer this time. "It's right here."

I swallowed hard. Whatever was about to happen, I had a feeling it was going to change everything. The silence in the room felt heavier than before, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Lydia sat at her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard with a kind of urgency I'd rarely seen from her. The glow of the screen reflected in her eyes, her expression tight with concentration. Kira and I stood behind her, waiting, watching as she pulled up what looked like a complex encryption.

I shifted my weight, arms crossed. "So, what are we looking at?"

Lydia didn't answer right away. She scrolled through the garbled text, the letters shifting and rearranging with every keystroke. Then, she stopped. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing one simple word.

Allison.

The moment she hit enter, the screen flickered, the coded text breaking apart and reforming into something terrifyingly readable.

A list.

Names. Dozens of them.

My stomach turned as I read through them, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Scott McCall.
Derek Hale.
Lydia Martin.
Kira Yukimura.
Sean Walcott.
The entire Walcott family.

I felt my breath catch. The longer I stared at it, the more names appeared, some of them I recognized instantly, some I didn't. But they all had one thing in common.

They were supernatural.

Lydia's voice was quiet, but firm. "It's a list."

I swallowed hard. "Yeah, I can see that. A list of who, exactly?"

She turned to look at me, her gaze steady despite the clear unease in her eyes. "A list of supernatural beings in Beacon Hills."

Kira's voice was barely above a whisper. "Why would someone make a list like this?"

Lydia's fingers hovered over the keys again, scrolling down, her face paling. She took a shaky breath and turned back to us.

"It's not just a list," she said. "It's a hit list."

I felt my pulse skyrocket.

"A what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I just didn't want to believe it.

Lydia pressed her lips together, her jaw tight. "It's a Deadpool. Someone is hunting supernaturals."

Kira inhaled sharply, her eyes darting back to the screen. "And we're all on it."

My mouth went dry. Scott. Derek. Lydia. Kira. Even the Walcotts, who were already dead. How long had this been going on? How many names on this list had already been crossed out?

A chill crawled up my spine. This wasn't just some random collection of information. It was deliberate. Targeted.

"Who the hell made this?" I demanded.

Lydia shook her head. "I don't know yet. But whoever they are, they know exactly what they're doing."

My stomach twisted violently, a mix of nausea and panic washing over me. Because if this list existed, if someone had gone through all the trouble of making it...

That meant someone had already started killing. And I had no doubt that they weren't done yet. By the time my phone buzzed in my pocket, I was barely holding myself together. My brain was fried from everything—Malia shifting, the party, the Deadpool, Lydia's cryptic discovery. My body felt like it had been running on fumes for hours, and my exhaustion was catching up fast.

I pulled my phone out, squinting against the brightness of the screen. It was a text from Scott.

Scott: Found Liam. Argent helped.

I blinked at the message, my tired brain taking a second to process the words. Argent?

Chris Argent was back in town? That was...unexpected.

I hesitated before typing back.

Me: Wait—Argent? He's back?
Scott: Yeah. He showed up after I texted him. I think he's staying.

That was even more unexpected. The last time we'd heard from Chris, he was still in France, dealing with God-knows-what after Allison...after everything. Now, suddenly, he was here, and he was already back in the middle of our supernatural mess.

Me: Huh. Okay. Is Liam alive?
Scott: Yeah. Freaked out, but alive.

Good. That was good.

Me: Okay, cool. I'm heading home. I'm done with today.

Scott didn't argue.

Scott: See you tomorrow.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and sighed heavily.

I was done.

Between Malia almost breaking free, Liam going full rage-monster, and the actual hit list we'd just discovered, my nerves were shot. I just wanted my bed, my pillows, and several uninterrupted hours of sleep before we had to deal with whatever fresh hell tomorrow had in store for us.

The lake house was still buzzing with people from the party, but I was past caring. I slipped through the front door, dodging drunk freshmen and Lydia, who was in full social queen mode, making sure nothing in her house was completely destroyed. She caught my eye for a second but didn't say anything. She just gave me a look—one of those you okay? expressions.

I gave a small nod and kept moving.

Malia was nowhere to be seen, probably still recovering from her full moon night, and Scott was still out with Liam, which meant I could make my escape without anyone asking me more questions.

The cold air hit me as I stepped outside, and I sucked in a deep breath. The sky was dark, scattered with stars, the moon just past full but still bright. My Jeep sat at the edge of the long driveway, waiting like a loyal dog, and I wasted no time climbing in.

I started the engine, letting the familiar rumble settle my nerves. My hands rested on the wheel for a second before I finally exhaled, rolling my shoulders.

I was so over today.

Everything in my body ached, a mix of exhaustion and pregnancy fatigue, and all I wanted was to get home, crawl under the covers, and pretend the world didn't exist for a few hours.

I pulled out of the driveway and onto the quiet road leading back into town, the glow of my headlights cutting through the night. The drive home was quiet, nothing but the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights passing by.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, my limbs felt like lead.

Dad's cruiser was parked outside, which meant he was home—not that I was up for a long conversation. I slipped inside the house as quietly as I could, locking the door behind me.

The house was dark except for the faint glow from the living room TV, the sound of some late-night news broadcast drifting through the air. Dad was asleep in his recliner, an empty coffee mug on the table beside him.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching him.

It had been a long time since things had felt normal. Since life had been just life. No supernatural hit lists, no insane murder sprees, no constant danger lurking around every corner. But here, in this quiet moment, things almost felt...peaceful.

I grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over Dad before heading upstairs, my feet dragging with every step.

My room was exactly how I left it—messy, but my kind of messy. Clothes tossed on the chair, notebooks piled on my desk, my lacrosse stick leaning against the wall even though I wasn't playing this season.

I barely made it to my bed before collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

Lying on my back, I pressed a hand over my stomach. Eight weeks and seven days pregnant. Almost nine weeks. Almost out of the first trimester.

The baby was the size of a cherry now.

A cherry.

It still didn't feel real sometimes.

With everything else going on—Liam, the Deadpool, the constant chaos—I barely had time to even think about the fact that my life was changing in ways I couldn't fully comprehend yet.

But in moments like this, alone in the dark, I could feel it.

The exhaustion. The weight of responsibility. The fear of what came next.

I let out a slow breath and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, we'd have to figure out who the hell was behind the Deadpool.

Tomorrow, I'd have to deal with whatever insanity Liam was about to bring into our lives.

Tomorrow, I'd have to keep pretending that everything was normal, even though it was so far from normal it wasn't even funny.

But right now?

Right now, I was going to sleep.

And for the next few hours, the rest of the world could wait.

I was in the middle of a dream I didn't understand. Something about me running through a hedge maze that looked suspiciously like the one from The Shining, only instead of an axe murderer chasing me, it was Peter holding up a baby onesie and asking me if I wanted it in wolf gray or fox red. I'd just shouted that he was insane and should never be allowed near baby fashion ever again when my phone started vibrating against the nightstand.

I groaned, twisting in bed and blindly swiping until my hand found the phone and yanked it up to my face.

The screen glared back at me: Deaton. 6:03 a.m.

Why was it always Deaton at ungodly hours of the morning?

I thumbed the green button and slurred into the receiver, "If this is about a dying kitten, I swear to God I'm moving to a new state."

There was a pause on the other end, and then Deaton's ever-calm, ever-gentle voice replied, "No kittens this time. But I do need you to come to the clinic."

I rolled onto my back, one hand immediately going to my stomach. I wasn't showing-showing yet, not really, but the soft little curve was there. Growing. Always growing. "Can it wait? Because I was really hoping to finish at least one sleep cycle before the world tried to kill me again."

"I wouldn't have called if it could wait," Deaton said simply. "And bring someone with you. Someone you trust."

I blinked. That got my attention. "Is this a supernatural someone-you-trust thing or a I-might-fall-over-and-need-help-standing kind of thing?"

"Both," Deaton said. "Come as soon as you can."

He hung up before I could argue.

I lay there for a long second, staring at the ceiling while my brain tried to untangle the hundred possibilities of what Deaton might want from me at six a.m. on a Saturday. Something serious. Something weird. That was kind of his brand.

I sighed, then flopped out of bed with all the grace of a dying seal. My body ached in that dull, low-level pregnancy way that was just enough to remind me that I wasn't really in control of my own existence anymore. My back popped. My ribs twinged. I tried not to think about how little sleep I'd gotten.

It was still dark outside when I got dressed. I went for layers—soft hoodie, stretchy black pants, the same ones from lacrosse tryouts because honestly, they were the most comfortable thing I owned right now. My shirt was one of Dad's old Beacon Hills Sheriff Department t-shirts. Slightly oversized, soft, and comforting.

I brushed my teeth, splashed cold water on my face, and tried not to look directly at myself in the mirror for too long.

I looked tired. Pale. The Lichtenberg figures on my neck from the Nogitsune possession were still there—like faint lightning scars just beneath the skin. I wasn't sure if they'd ever fade completely.

And now I was a teenaged, possessed-by-an-evil-spirit parent-to-be, whose doctor/veterinarian/guide-to-the-weird had just summoned him before sunrise.

God, my life was so far from normal it wasn't even on the map anymore.

I pulled out my phone and hovered over Scott's name, debating whether to wake him up. But if Deaton wanted me to bring someone I trusted, there really wasn't another option. Derek would probably scowl at me the whole time, Peter was a hard no for obvious reasons, and Lydia and Kira still didn't know I was pregnant. Not yet. Not until I made it to week twelve.

I hit call.

It rang four times before Scott answered, his voice hoarse with sleep. "Stiles?"

"Hey," I said, already wincing. "I need you."

There was a pause. "Is it the baby?"

"No. I mean—no, they're fine. I think." I shifted awkwardly. "It's Deaton. He called. Said I need to come to the clinic and to bring someone with me."

Another pause. Then I heard rustling on the other end—Scott already moving. "I'll be there in five."

I hung up and grabbed my coat. My body was still moving on autopilot as I headed downstairs, trying not to wake Dad, who was still out cold on the couch. The news was playing softly in the background, showing footage of the hospital from last night. I didn't look too closely. I'd seen enough of that place in the last twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime.

Outside, it was freezing. My breath came in little white clouds, and the sky was just beginning to lighten with the promise of morning. Scott's bike rumbled up the street exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds later. Of course it did. The boy could never just walk like a normal person.

He pulled up beside me, still zipping his jacket. "You good?"

I shrugged. "Define 'good.' I got four hours of sleep, my body feels like a construction zone, and I'm about to walk into a supernatural mystery before sunrise."

Scott offered me a tired, sympathetic smile. "So... Tuesday?"

I snorted and climbed into the Jeep. Scott got in the passenger side, and together, we drove in silence toward the clinic.

I didn't say it out loud, but my stomach was twisting. Something about this felt big. Heavy. I didn't know if it was just instinct or anxiety, but the longer we drove, the more sure I was that whatever Deaton had called me for wasn't going to be easy.

And whatever it was, it wasn't just about me.

It was about all of us. The clinic was quiet when we got there. Not the sterile, eerie kind of quiet, but the kind of hush that made you feel like you were about to walk into something you couldn't come back from. The overhead lights in the main room were off, but there was a faint glow seeping through the cracked exam room door.

Deaton always did like his dramatic lighting.

Scott walked in ahead of me, pushing the door open with a familiar ease that came from years of weirdness. I followed, hands shoved in my hoodie pocket, the weight of something I couldn't quite name pressing down on my chest.

Deaton looked up from the table, where three vials were lined up next to a manila envelope and a small, neatly stacked report. His face was unreadable—which, you know, was deeply unhelpful when you were expecting something that could possibly change the course of your entire life.

"Stiles," he said with that usual calm, like we were discussing overdue library books and not, you know, the fate of my child.

I nodded tightly. "You said you had the results."

He motioned to the chair across from him, the same one I'd sat in when he told me I was pregnant. I hesitated, then slowly sank into the seat, my legs already aching from standing too long. Scott hovered beside me, tense.

Deaton slid the envelope toward me but didn't let go of it just yet. "Are you sure you want to know now?"

"No," I said. "But I'm here. So... yeah."

He let go.

My hands shook slightly as I opened it, tugging the flap open with more force than necessary. The report inside was simple—clinical. Cold. It didn't have any dramatic music or red circles or a flashing neon sign saying you're screwed, but it might as well have.

I scanned the words slowly, reading them twice to be sure.

Then a third time.

And a fourth.

Because no matter how many times I read the same goddamn sentence, it didn't change:

The biological father is Peter Hale.

Peter. Peter.

Of course it was him.

Of course.

I didn't say anything. For a long minute, I couldn't. My brain was trying to put together a coherent thought and just... failing.

Scott leaned over, eyes narrowing at the paper. "Is that..."

"Yeah," I croaked.

Silence fell over the room like a brick wall.

Peter Hale. My brain kept circling back to it like a dog sniffing around a locked door. I couldn't stop the thought, the question that had been lurking in the back of my mind since the first time Deaton brought up paternity testing—

Where the hell did the Nogitsune get Peter's DNA?

I hadn't... slept with him. I hadn't done anything with him. Not like that. Not even under possession. I would have remembered. Right?

The Nogitsune had twisted me, controlled me, turned my body into a weapon. But this? This felt like something else. Something deliberate.

I rubbed at my face, the paper crumpling slightly in my other hand. "Okay," I said slowly. "Okay. So. Hypothetical. Just... wildly hypothetical here. Is there any chance the Nogitsune could've gotten Peter's DNA through something that wasn't sex?"

Scott gave me a look. "Like what? A handshake and a blood pact?"

"I don't know!" I snapped. "I was possessed by an evil fox spirit. Forgive me if I don't remember every single horrifying moment with crystal clarity!"

Deaton, mercifully, didn't look surprised or judgey. He just folded his hands in front of him and said, "It's possible that the Nogitsune used a form of sympathetic magic. If Peter bled near you, if there was a transfer of cells—scratched skin, maybe even saliva..."

"Ew."

"...then the magic might've used that to anchor the creation of life."

I blinked at him. "Anchor the creation of life," I repeated, like maybe if I said it in a deadpan enough tone it would make less sense.

Scott looked between us. "Wait, so... Peter didn't actually—?"

Deaton shook his head. "Not necessarily. Remember what I told you—this wasn't a normal conception. It was a magical creation, sparked by dark energy and the Nogitsune's control over Stiles's body. But it still used biological material."

"Meaning Peter's DNA was just... available," I muttered.

Deaton nodded.

"And the Nogitsune chose him," I said, more to myself than anyone else.

Scott finally sat down beside me, still looking stunned. "Why Peter?"

That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?

Why Peter?

I'd asked that before—back when we were narrowing down the potential fathers. And sure, the list was weird and complicated and filled with regrets and mysteries, but Peter had always felt like the wildcard.

And now he wasn't a wildcard. He was the card. The only card.

Maybe it was because he was powerful. The Nogitsune would've known that. Felt it. Peter wasn't just a werewolf—he was a Hale. He had the spark of something ancient in his blood. Maybe the magic had latched onto that like a leech.

Or maybe—and this was the thought that made my stomach twist—maybe the Nogitsune had picked him because it thought it would hurt the most.

Because it would complicate everything.

Because it was cruel.

I set the report down on the table with a soft thud. My fingers were still shaking. I didn't feel relief. I didn't even feel anger. I just felt... cold.

Scott was watching me, like he was trying to figure out if I was about to break apart or implode.

"I'm okay," I said, even though I probably wasn't.

Scott nodded slowly. "So... what now?"

I let out a slow breath. "Now? Now we don't tell anyone. Not yet."

"Not even Peter?"

"Especially not Peter."

Scott raised a brow. "You don't think he has a right to know?"

I hesitated. "He does. I guess. But I'm still trying to process the fact that I'm having a baby at seventeen, Scott. I'm barely keeping it together as it is. Telling Peter Hale he's going to be a father? That's not a conversation I'm ready to have."

He didn't argue. Just nodded again.

I stood up slowly, feeling the ache in my lower back pulse with the movement. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Always."

I looked at Deaton, who gave me the faintest nod. "If you need anything," he said gently, "you know where to find me."

Yeah. I knew.

And I had a feeling I was going to need all the help I could get. Because if I thought life was complicated before? It was about to become a hell of a lot worse.

Peter Hale was the father of my child.

And he had no idea.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I stood up slowly, feeling the ache in my lower back pulse with the movement. "Thanks for coming with me."

"Always."

I looked at Deaton, who gave me the faintest nod. "If you need anything," he said gently, "you know where to find me."

Yeah. I knew.

And I had a feeling I was going to need all the help I could get. Because if I thought life was complicated before? It was about to become a hell of a lot worse.

Peter Hale was the father of my child.

And he had no idea.

Stiles's Pov

Sunday, January 8

9 weeks pregnant

By the time the sun rose on January 8th, I was officially nine weeks pregnant.

Nine weeks.

Two whole months plus one week.

It didn't sound like much if you said it out loud—nine weeks, a handful of days—but living it? Feeling it every second of every day, stitched into every breath, every heartbeat, every damn ache in my body? It felt like forever.

I lay in bed for a long time that morning, curled on my side with one hand resting over my still mostly-flat stomach. You couldn't really see anything yet unless you knew what you were looking for—a slight softness, a little more roundness just below my navel—but I could feel it. I could feel the changes blooming under my skin, deeper than anything I could touch.

Nine weeks meant the baby was about the size of a grape now. Or maybe a cherry, depending on which pregnancy app you believed. About an inch long, but busy as hell.

The tiny heart, which I'd heard during that first surreal appointment with Deaton, was beating even faster now—like a little hummingbird trapped inside me. Somewhere between 150 and 170 beats per minute. Faster than my own heart, like it was trying to keep up with the chaos of its existence.

Bones were starting to form now, tiny slivers of cartilage hardening into something real, something solid. Fingers and toes, no longer webbed, were separating. Little eyelids, fused shut, were forming over what would someday be real, blinking eyes. The tail—because, yes, apparently there was a tail at one point—was gone now, absorbed back into the tiny spine.

Teeth buds were there too. Not actual teeth yet, but the very beginnings of them, lurking beneath the gums. Gums that would someday give way to gummy smiles and maybe, if I was lucky, soft baby laughs.

The brain? Already forming complex neural pathways. The heart? Divided into four chambers, pumping blood with terrifying efficiency. The muscles and nerves were beginning to connect, meaning the baby could move now—although it was still too small for me to feel it. Somewhere inside me, there was a flurry of motion that I wouldn't even know about until weeks from now.

It was overwhelming, thinking about it all. Thinking about how much was happening without me even trying. Without me even noticing.

Meanwhile, I was falling apart.

The morning sickness, which had started easing up a little around week seven, had decided to make a triumphant return. It wasn't every second of every day anymore, but it was enough that I had developed a kind of sixth sense about what would set it off. Too much movement after eating? Vomit. Smelling bacon? Immediate regret. Brushing my teeth too vigorously? Disaster.

The exhaustion was probably the worst part, though.

It wasn't just tiredness—it was like my bones were heavy, like my entire body was operating on half the battery it usually did. I could sleep for ten hours and still feel like I hadn't slept at all. Even standing too long made my feet ache and my lower back throb.

There was the bloating, too. I felt like a balloon someone had half-heartedly inflated. Jeans? Forget it. I was living in sweatpants and hoodies like it was a lifestyle choice now. The stretchy black sweatpants I bought with Peter had basically become my second skin. And honestly? I wasn't even sorry about it.

And then there were the mood swings.

God, the mood swings.

It was like flipping a light switch between normal-level sarcasm and catastrophic despair. One minute I'd be fine, the next I'd be near tears because I dropped my keys on the floor. Or laughing at something that wasn't actually funny. Or wanting to punch a hole through the wall because my hoodie sleeves bunched up wrong.

And the dreams.

I was having the weirdest, most vivid dreams. Half the time I woke up disoriented, heart pounding, convinced I had just lived through some bizarre alternate universe where I was being chased by talking wolves or my baby came out already able to drive a car.

Basically, pregnancy was kicking my ass.

But despite everything—the nausea, the exhaustion, the back pain, the bloating, the dreams—I couldn't ignore the low thrum of something bigger. Something quieter, but stronger.

Hope.

Terror, sure. Constant, unrelenting terror. But hope too.

Because somehow, against every odd and in defiance of everything I thought I knew about my life, something good had come out of the nightmare of last year.

Something that was mine.

Something that was real.

And yeah, it scared the crap out of me. Of course it did. I didn't know the first thing about being a parent. I still had to remind myself to eat at normal intervals and occasionally did laundry only because I had run out of clean socks.

But when I thought about that little heartbeat, thundering away inside me? When I thought about tiny fingers and tiny toes and tiny little hiccups I hadn't even felt yet?

I knew I couldn't give up. No matter how terrified I was. No matter how messy everything still was.

I had to figure it out. I had to be better.

Because this kid was counting on me.

I finally pushed myself out of bed, wincing as the ache in my lower back made itself known. I shuffled over to the mirror, pulling up my hoodie to get a look.

Still small.

Still manageable.

But the faintest curve was there now—something soft and round where before there had been nothing but bone and skin.

I pressed my palm against it gently, like maybe I could communicate something through touch alone.

"We made it to nine weeks," I whispered.

And somehow, that felt like a miracle all on its own. It didn't matter how many times I tried to distract myself — breakfast, mindless scrolling on my phone, half-watching whatever crap daytime TV was airing — my mind kept circling back to Peter Hale.

Specifically, the horrifying revelation from Deaton yesterday.

Peter was the father.

I sat on the couch, a blanket thrown over my lap, hands resting absently on my stomach. Outside, the January sky was overcast, the kind of dull gray that made everything feel heavy. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something bad to happen.

Honestly, it fit my mood.

Peter Hale.

I mean, of all people. Out of everyone the Nogitsune could've... used, it had to be him? It couldn't have been someone normal, someone easy to deal with, someone not literally a former homicidal maniac with a smirk that could curdle milk. No, it had to be Peter — the guy who once clawed his way back from death just to wreak havoc on all our lives.

I dragged a hand down my face, groaning.

Because now I was stuck with him. Forever, probably. Tethered together by blood and biology and a baby that he didn't even know about yet.

And wasn't that a whole new kind of nightmare?

I didn't even know how to tell him. Hell, I didn't know if I should tell him. Peter wasn't exactly known for being responsible or stable or emotionally available. I had no clue how he'd react to the news. Would he be angry? Would he laugh? Would he just... disappear?

A small part of me thought he might actually be excited.

And that was the scariest thought of all.

Because Peter wasn't safe. Not really. Sure, he wasn't actively murdering people these days, but that didn't mean he was trustworthy. He was a wildcard, unpredictable at the best of times. Letting him get close to this kid — to my kid — felt like dangling a lit match over a pile of dynamite.

But another, quieter part of me — the one that still remembered how Peter bought the stupid onesie at the mall without even blinking, how he'd kept the secret of my pregnancy without once using it against me — whispered that maybe he wasn't entirely terrible.

Maybe there was something good in him. Deep, deep down.

Maybe.

I hated that I couldn't just write him off.

I hated that part of me still wanted to believe that he could be better. For the baby. For me.

I shifted on the couch, wincing as a sharp twinge of nausea rolled through my stomach. I breathed through it, pressing the heel of my hand lightly against my middle.

"You're going to have the weirdest family," I muttered under my breath.

Me. A semi-functioning human disaster zone.

Peter Hale. Questionable at best.

The Sheriff. World's most stressed-out future grandpa.

Scott and the others. An entire pack of supernatural misfits.

And this tiny little human, growing quietly inside me, who hadn't asked for any of it.

I rubbed my thumb over the faint curve of my belly, trying to push away the knot of guilt forming in my chest.

I was going to love this kid. I already did.

But would that be enough?

Would love be enough to balance out the chaos of this life I was dragging them into? Would it be enough to protect them from people like Peter? Or the hunters that still lurked in the shadows? Or the endless supernatural disasters that seemed magnetically attracted to Beacon Hills?

I didn't know.

And the not knowing was eating me alive.

I sat there for a long time, lost in my own head, until the sky outside started to darken into a deeper, heavier gray. I didn't move. I barely blinked. My thoughts kept looping, faster and faster, until they blurred together.

Peter's smirk. Peter's voice. Peter's hand on my shoulder that day at the mall. The look in his eyes — not sharp, not cruel, just... curious.

And the way he'd said, without a hint of sarcasm, You're doing well, Stiles.

God.

Why couldn't he just be terrible?

Why did he have to be complicated?

A knock at the door startled me out of my spiral. I jerked upright, heart racing.

Dad wasn't supposed to be home until later. And no one else ever knocked. Not really.

For a second, irrational panic clawed up my throat. I imagined hunters, assassins, Peter himself standing on the other side with that damn smirk and a glint in his eye like he already knew.

I forced myself up off the couch, pulling my hoodie down over my stomach like that would somehow hide the truth, and crossed the room.

I hesitated with my hand on the knob.

Breathed in.

Opened the door.

It wasn't Peter.

It was Scott, looking way too serious for a Sunday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "Can I come in?"

I nodded, stepping aside, my heart still hammering against my ribs.

Scott stepped in, looking around like he was checking for threats. He frowned when he noticed the blanket still rumpled on the couch.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Peachy," I said, voice flat.

He didn't buy it, obviously. He never did.

"You were thinking about him," he said, not even phrasing it like a question.

I flopped back onto the couch, dragging the blanket over my lap again. "Thinking, panicking, spiraling... take your pick."

Scott sat down next to me, slouching low, hands hanging loose between his knees.

"You're not alone in this," he said quietly. "You know that, right?"

I closed my eyes, the words hitting harder than I wanted them to.

"I know," I whispered.

Scott bumped his shoulder against mine. "We'll figure it out. Together."

And for the first time all day, the knot of fear in my chest loosened just a little.

Not much.

But enough.

Enough to remind me that no matter how complicated things got, no matter how terrifying the future looked, I wasn't facing it alone.

And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough. Scott didn't give me long to wallow after that.

"We need to go to the station," he said, sitting forward, hands fidgeting nervously in his lap.

I blinked at him, brain slow to catch up. "What, right now?"

He nodded. "We have to tell your dad. About the Deadpool."

For a second, all I could do was stare. The Deadpool. The list of every supernatural in town. Our names. Our friends. Probably half the people we didn't even know about yet. Bounties hanging over their heads like giant neon targets.

And it was all real. It wasn't just some sick cosmic joke. It wasn't some maybe-they-won't-follow-through kind of threat. It was real. And it was happening now.

"Right," I croaked out, hauling myself up off the couch even though my body protested with every stiff, aching muscle. "Yeah. We should do that."

Scott waited until I grabbed my hoodie and shoes before he opened the front door, glancing around like he half-expected assassins to come crawling out of the bushes. I didn't blame him. It felt like the kind of day where anything could happen — and probably would. By the time Scott and I pulled up in front of the sheriff's station, the sun was already setting behind the trees, painting the town in soft, bruised colors. I sat for a second in the passenger seat, staring at the familiar brick building and feeling a creeping sense of dread in my gut.

Telling my dad things was never fun. Telling him this? That we had a hit list floating around town with his kid and all his kid's friends on it? Yeah. Not exactly my idea of a good time.

Scott shifted beside me, glancing over. "You ready?"

"No," I said honestly, dragging a hand through my hair. "But when has that ever stopped me?"

We got out of the Jeep, our footsteps echoing slightly in the empty parking lot. Most of the squad cars were still out, and the station itself was quiet except for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint buzz of a radio behind the front desk.

Deputy Parrish waved at us from his desk, and I gave him a tight nod in return. We headed straight for Dad's office, not bothering to knock. He looked up the second we pushed the door open.

He took one look at our faces and immediately set down the paperwork he'd been pretending to focus on. "What happened?"

"We need to talk," Scott said.

Dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Should I be sitting down for this?"

"You already are," I pointed out.

He gave me a look that promised suffering if I didn't get to the point.

Scott glanced at me like he was waiting for permission, and I sighed. "Okay, so, remember how Lydia's been getting those banshee feelings?"

Dad's jaw tightened, but he nodded.

"Turns out, she wasn't just feeling random death vibes. She was picking up pieces of something bigger. A list."

"A hit list," Scott added quietly. "A dead pool."

Dad frowned. "A list of dead people?"

"Not yet dead," I said. "Just... targeted."

Scott pulled out his phone and brought up the decrypted list. He handed it to my dad, who squinted at the screen, scanning the names.

Scott, Derek, Lydia, Kira, Peter... hell, even Malia.

But not me.

Not a single mention of Stiles Stilinski anywhere on the list.

Dad's face darkened the further he scrolled. "All supernaturals."

"Yeah," I said, voice low. "Beacon Hills is basically open season."

"And this is only one part of the list," Scott said. "Lydia cracked a third of it. The rest is still locked."

Dad set the phone down carefully, like he was afraid it might explode. "And how exactly did she get this?"

"Her banshee powers," I said. "She heard it. Or something. Honestly, it's a little vague. But she transcribed it all, and then she figured out that the keyword to decrypt it was... Allison."

Dad flinched.

I didn't blame him. Hearing her name out loud still felt like being sucker punched.

"We think whoever made the list knew about her," Scott said softly. "Maybe knew what she meant to us. Used her name as a way to... I don't know. Make it personal."

Dad scrubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted in a way that made my chest ache.

"So, let me get this straight," he said finally. "Someone out there made a kill list of every supernatural creature in town. They encrypted it using the name of a dead teenage girl. And now you're telling me there's two-thirds of this list still locked up, and we have no idea who's on it or who's coming after you?"

"That about sums it up," I said.

Dad let out a long, slow breath, like he was trying to breathe out the weight of it all.

"And you're not on it?" he asked, glancing at me sharply.

I hesitated, then shook my head. "Nope. Guess being plain old human has its perks."

Dad didn't look comforted. Not even a little.

"We'll figure it out," Scott said. "We're working on it. But we thought you should know. In case more people start getting hurt."

Dad nodded slowly. "You did the right thing, telling me."

I felt something loosen in my chest at those words, even if it didn't erase the tension crawling under my skin.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

I swallowed thickly.

Yeah, Dad. By the way, I'm pregnant with a baby fathered by Peter Hale thanks to an ancient evil spirit.

"Nothing that can't wait," I said instead.

Dad studied me for a long second, like he could see the lie sitting heavy in my bones, but he let it go. For now.

"We'll keep an eye out," he said, picking up Scott's phone again and making a few quick notes. "And if anything else comes up... anything at all... you come to me. Immediately."

"Got it," I said, feeling about ten years older than I had when I walked in.

Scott nodded, serious. "We will."

Dad's mouth tightened into a thin line. "Be careful. Both of you."

We slipped out of the office after that, the heavy weight of everything pressing down harder with every step.

In the hallway, Scott glanced sideways at me. "You okay?"

I barked out a laugh. "Define 'okay.'"

Scott offered a small smile. "We'll figure it out."

I didn't answer.

I wasn't sure I believed him.

But as we stepped back into the cold evening air, I realized something else—something even more terrifying.

We didn't have a choice.

We had to figure it out.

Whether we were ready or not, the clock was already ticking.

And the next move? It was coming for us. We didn't say much on the way back to my house.

Scott rode his bike behind the Jeep, and I watched his headlight bounce in the rearview mirror like some weird heartbeat, pulsing down the dark road. It was cold again—colder than it had any right to be in California—and my breath fogged up the windshield in faint ghosts every time I exhaled. I had the heat cranked up, mostly for the baby's sake, but also because my bones were tired. Like... deep-tired. Like soul tired.

The Deadpool. The paternity test. The supernatural high school freshman we now had to babysit. It was all piling up.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, Scott was already killing the engine on his bike. He followed me inside without a word. The house was quiet. Dad was still at the station, probably combing over the list, connecting red strings and thumbtacks in his own way. I kind of hoped he wouldn't come home yet—not because I didn't want to see him, but because I didn't want to add this to the long list of things I had to lie to him about.

We dropped onto the couch like we'd both just finished a war. For a second, the silence felt almost holy. Then Scott broke it with a whisper.

"You really okay?"

That question again.

I wanted to lie. God, I wanted to lie. But I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of hiding.

"No," I said, and let my head fall back against the cushion. "Not even a little."

Scott didn't press me, just nodded. He stared down at his hands for a second, fingers laced, thumbs twitching like he was still keyed up from all of it. "I can't stop thinking about Allison."

My heart clenched.

"Her name being the cipher..." he shook his head, jaw tight. "They used her name like a password. Like it was just—just some key to open a file."

"She was more than that," I said quietly. "To both of us."

"To all of us," he corrected, and I nodded.

We sat there a while longer, the weight of everything hanging between us. Eventually, Scott glanced over at me, his eyes softening. "You've got more on your plate than any of us, and somehow you're still the one keeping it together."

I huffed out a laugh. "That's a lie and you know it."

"No, I mean it," he said. "You're pregnant, Stiles. You should be worrying about, like, vitamins and baby names. Not... Deadpools and ax murderers."

"Well, I am worried about vitamins," I muttered. "And heartbeats. And nausea. And not having a werewolf-related panic attack in the middle of second period."

Scott smiled faintly, then asked, "Do you want me to come with you when you tell Lydia and Kira?"

I blinked. "Tell them what?"

"That you're pregnant," he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I hesitated.

"Yeah," I said eventually. "Yeah, maybe."

The truth was, I didn't know how to tell them. Lydia, for all her logic and strength and genius, had always been something of a mystery box when it came to emotions. Kira was sweet and intuitive, but I hadn't spent enough time with her to know how she'd react. Malia was the wildcard, and now she knew, but Lydia and Kira? That felt like the last step before this whole thing became real on every level. And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

Scott leaned back again. "Do you want to talk about Peter?"

I groaned and threw an arm over my face.

"Not really," I mumbled through the sleeve of my hoodie.

But of course he didn't let it go.

"He doesn't know yet, does he?"

"No," I admitted. "And I don't think I want to be the one to tell him."

"Stiles..."

"I know," I snapped, then took a breath. "I know. I'm going to have to eventually. But not now. Not tonight. Tonight I want to... I don't know, breathe."

Scott nodded slowly, accepting that. "You're not alone, you know. With the Deadpool. With the baby. With any of this."

I looked at him and saw the same kid I met in kindergarten, the one who wore Velcro shoes way too long and cried when his fish died. Except now he was a werewolf. And the Alpha. And somehow still the most emotionally grounded of all of us.

"I know," I said again. "Thanks."

He clapped me on the shoulder once, then got up. "I'm gonna head home. But call me if you need anything. Seriously. Anything."

I nodded. "Same to you."

The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone again.

I didn't go to bed right away. I wandered into the kitchen, drank some water, stared out the window for a while like the trees might offer me answers. My hand found my stomach without thinking, palm pressing lightly over the curve that was still more psychological than physical.

Nine weeks.

The baby was the size of a cherry now. Fingers and toes were formed, eyelids fused shut, little knees and elbows starting to bend. A heartbeat stronger than mine thumped somewhere beneath my skin. A new life. A new chance. A future I hadn't planned for but couldn't ignore.

And Peter Hale—Peter freaking Hale—was the biological father.

The question kept gnawing at me: how?

How did the Nogitsune use Peter's DNA? Did it happen when Peter clawed me in that basement? Was there some lingering supernatural signature? Or did the spirit just take what it wanted while I was possessed?

I didn't know.

And I wasn't sure Deaton had the answers either.

But I would find out.

Because now this wasn't just my life.

This was our life.

And that meant no more running.

I didn't sleep. Not really.

I dozed, maybe—somewhere between half-aware dreams and sharp flashes of thought that I couldn't hold onto for more than a second before they slipped through my fingers like fog. When I opened my eyes again, it was nearly midnight, the house dark and silent except for the slow hum of the refrigerator and the low ticking of the clock in the hallway.

My hand was on my stomach.

It always ended up there now.

Not because I felt anything—nothing had moved, not yet. But I was starting to believe the connection was real. Tangible. Like I needed to touch this small, growing life to remind myself it wasn't just some hallucination, some cruel cosmic prank. Something had changed. My body knew it, even if my brain was still scrambling to catch up.

I rolled off the couch, bones stiff and joints protesting, and shuffled into the kitchen barefoot. The linoleum was cold under my feet. I opened the fridge out of habit and stared into it without really seeing anything. Half a bottle of orange juice, a Tupperware container of something unidentifiable, and a whole shelf of sliced turkey that I could already feel my stomach rejecting just by looking at it.

I closed the door. Leaned against it. Pressed my forehead to the cool exterior and breathed.

And then—because clearly, I've never been great at resisting my worse impulses—I grabbed my phone off the counter and scrolled to a contact I hadn't touched in days.

Peter Hale.

I hovered for a second. My thumb twitched.

I should wait. I should sleep. I should maybe not contact a known sociopath in the middle of the night while pregnant and emotionally unstable.

But instead, I typed:

Are you awake?

Less than ten seconds passed before my screen lit up.

I always am.

Of course he was. That was the most Peter answer I could've imagined. Equal parts cryptic and unsettling.

And then another message.

Come outside.

I froze.

Then slowly, with more than a little reluctance, I walked to the front window and pulled the curtain aside.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the porch, half-shadowed by the streetlight, his hands tucked into the pockets of a long, black coat. He didn't wave. Didn't smirk. Didn't move. He just... waited.

I opened the door and stepped out into the freezing air, pulling my hoodie tight around my body. It bit through the fabric anyway, sharp and dry and winter-clean, but the cold was oddly grounding.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

Peter's expression was unreadable. "You called."

"Texted," I corrected.

He inclined his head, as if to say: same thing.

We stood there for a moment, silence stretching awkwardly between us, before I finally exhaled and leaned against the porch railing.

"You knew."

Peter looked at me.

"You knew it was yours," I said.

"Yes."

My throat tightened. "How long?"

"A while," he admitted. "Before Mexico. Before the mall. Before you ever asked Deaton for a test."

I turned to stare at him, something sharp and hot unfurling in my chest. "And you didn't say anything."

He shrugged. "Would you have believed me if I had?"

I didn't answer, because the truth was—I wouldn't have. I would've laughed in his face. Maybe thrown something at him. Definitely panicked.

"You still should've told me."

"I wanted to," Peter said. "But I also knew it wasn't my choice."

The quiet that followed wasn't comfortable. It was brittle, fragile, like if either of us said the wrong word, it would shatter.

Eventually, I muttered, "This doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

I gestured vaguely at myself. "This. All of it. I'm not supposed to be pregnant. You're not supposed to be a father. We're not supposed to be standing here at midnight having this conversation like it's normal."

Peter's voice was low, calm. "Nothing about your life has ever been normal, Stiles."

I barked out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. No kidding."

The wind picked up. I crossed my arms and watched it stir the bare trees, heard the creak of the swing set in the backyard shifting on its rusted chains. The silence felt heavier now. Not dangerous—just real.

Finally, I looked back at him. "What do you want from this?"

Peter didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was softer than I expected.

"I want to try."

I blinked. "Try?"

"I don't know how to be a father," he said. "God knows I never had a good example. But if there's even a chance that something good can come from all of this..." He met my eyes. "Then I want to try."

It was the last thing I expected him to say.

And maybe that's why it landed so hard.

I looked away quickly, afraid that if I kept staring, I might actually believe him.

"I don't know if I can trust you," I said honestly.

"I don't blame you."

"And I don't know if I want you near them."

Peter nodded. "Then tell me what you do want."

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

I didn't know.

I hadn't let myself think that far ahead.

"I want them to be safe," I said finally. "I want them to be happy. I want them to not grow up terrified of the world, or haunted by it."

Peter nodded. "Then I'll follow your lead."

He turned to go, and I didn't stop him.

Didn't say goodbye. Didn't say thank you. Didn't say anything.

I just watched him disappear into the darkness, like a shadow folding back into the night.

And for a long time, I stood there, shivering in the cold, wondering if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Or maybe the most important choice I'd ever make.

Monday, January 9

9 weeks and 1 day

I woke up to my phone vibrating aggressively beneath my pillow. It took me a second to even remember where I was—my bed, thank God—and a few more seconds after that to decide if I was alive enough to actually care.

Spoiler: I wasn't.

My body felt like it had been steamrolled. Twice. Once by life, and once by my own traitorous hormones. My stomach twisted like it was trying to flip inside out, and my mouth tasted like I'd been chewing on static. I groaned, rolled over, and fished out the phone with one sluggish hand, squinting at the too-bright screen.

Peter Hale: I'd like to see you today.

I blinked at the message, still half-asleep. For a second, I thought I'd dreamed it. Then I saw the time: 6:03 a.m. Because of course Peter was a predatory insomniac who texted people at an hour only masochists and garbage trucks considered reasonable.

I flopped back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Of all the things I thought I'd wake up to today—a pregnancy craving, maybe, or another anxiety spiral about the Deadpool—I hadn't expected... this. Not a text from Peter. Not the ghost of last night curling around me like smoke I couldn't get out of my clothes.

We'd spoken. Actually spoken. And not in the usual way, where I asked him to stop being creepy and he ignored me for the fun of it. It was... real. Calm. Vulnerable, even.

He said he wanted to try.

Try what, exactly? Try to be decent? Try to be in the baby's life? Try not to manipulate me into a coma like he had literally everyone else in his orbit?

Still, the words wouldn't leave me.

I want to try.

I didn't reply right away. I needed time. Space. Maybe a full-body reset via lightning strike. But the thing about life in Beacon Hills is that it rarely waits for anyone to be ready.

I stared at the message until my eyes watered, then forced myself out of bed.

The nausea came fast—worse today than yesterday. I made it to the bathroom just in time to kneel over the toilet and dry-heave until my ribs ached. My entire body shook with it, and I clutched the rim like it was the only thing anchoring me to reality. The floor was cold beneath my knees. My hoodie clung to my back like it had fused to my skin in the night.

When I was done, I sat back on the floor and pressed my forehead to my knees.

"Awesome," I muttered. "Totally crushing it at life right now."

I dragged myself upright, brushed my teeth for way too long, and forced down a few sips of ginger tea that tasted like regret. Then I pulled on my softest sweatpants and the Beacon Hills hoodie that now lived permanently on my body like a second skin. My body felt like a stranger. My skin didn't fit right. My center of gravity was off. Even my walk was different now, slower, more measured, like I was subconsciously bracing for some invisible blow.

By the time I got back to my phone, I still hadn't answered Peter.

I read his text again. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A request dressed as a decision, perfectly Peter. But he hadn't pushed. He hadn't sent anything else. He was waiting.

I typed out a reply, deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

Then finally:

Me: When and where?

The response was immediate.

Peter Hale: Your place. After school. I'll wait outside.

I didn't know what to make of that. He could have just shown up. Hell, normally, he would have. Peter Hale didn't ask for permission. He didn't wait. But he was offering me control. Or the illusion of it, at least.

And I hated that part of me wanted to let him in. I didn't tell anyone about the text. At school, I kept my head down. No one seemed to notice how stiff I moved, or how quiet I was. Lydia was absorbed in decoding the rest of the Deadpool. Kira had three classes with Liam and was already halfway to adopting him as her emotional support beta. Malia threw a pencil at my head in history, but that was just her way of saying good morning.

Scott gave me a few lingering looks, but he didn't push.

God bless him for that.

At lunch, I pushed food around my tray and barely touched a thing. The cafeteria smelled like sweat and chicken nuggets and impending doom. I picked at a granola bar instead and counted down the minutes until I could leave.

Every time the bell rang, it felt like a gunshot in my chest.

I kept seeing Peter's face.

Not the smirking one. Not the sarcastic monster of the past. Just the version from last night—quiet, steady, maybe even a little... unsure. Which was terrifying in its own way. If Peter Hale was uncertain, then clearly the universe was unraveling at the seams.

By the time the final bell rang, I felt like I'd lived a week inside a single day.

When I got home, the house was empty. Dad was working a double at the station, covering for someone. I had a few hours of blessed silence to myself. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, the door closed behind me, keys still in my hand, backpack slumped against the wall.

He wasn't here yet.

Or maybe he was and just hadn't come up to the door.

I didn't check.

Instead, I dropped my stuff, kicked off my shoes, and padded upstairs to change. I threw on something cleaner—still soft, still oversized, but less like I'd just crawled out of a hole. I washed my face, brushed my teeth again, and stared at my reflection for way too long.

I looked pale. Gaunt. Like I was slowly becoming the ghost of someone I used to be.

The small swell in my stomach felt more obvious now, even if no one else could see it.

I pressed a hand to it, exhaled.

"You can handle this," I whispered to my reflection.

Then I turned away and went back downstairs.

Peter was waiting outside when I opened the door.

Not lurking. Not leaning like some cliché villain. Just... standing. Still. Like he'd been carved out of the wind and shadow.

He raised an eyebrow. "May I?"

I nodded. Wordlessly.

He stepped inside like he belonged there. Which, objectively, he didn't, but I was too tired to argue.

I motioned toward the kitchen. "Want something to drink?"

He tilted his head, curious. "Are you offering out of politeness or anxiety?"

"Little bit of both."

"No, thank you, then."

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

The silence stretched.

Peter was the one who broke it.

"How are you feeling?"

The question startled me more than it should have. I blinked at him. "You mean physically or emotionally?"

"Both."

I rubbed at my temple. "Like I've been dragged through a supernatural garbage disposal. Twice. Emotionally? Same, but with more crying and spontaneous rage."

Peter didn't flinch. Didn't comment.

Just nodded.

"I read a lot last night," he said. "About pregnancy. Human gestation. Risks. Hormonal shifts."

"Let me guess—you read five medical journals and a psychology dissertation."

"Four," he corrected. "And two obstetrics manuals. There's a lot I don't know. But I'd like to."

I leaned back in my chair. "Are you... planning to be involved?"

Peter folded his hands together. "Only if you allow me to be."

The honesty caught me off guard. Again.

"I don't want to disrupt your life," he said. "I don't want to make anything harder. But this child... it's real. And I'd like to be more than a footnote."

I swallowed hard. My throat felt like sandpaper.

"You're not exactly... known for being good with kids."

Peter's smile was faint. "True. I was barely good with myself for most of my life. But I've changed. Maybe not enough. Maybe not in the ways that matter. But I've learned from what I've lost."

He looked at me then—really looked at me. And it wasn't predatory. It wasn't calculating.

It was... hopeful.

God help me, it was genuine.

"I don't know what I want from you," I admitted. "Half the time I don't even know what I want from myself."

"That's okay," he said. "We'll figure it out."

I stared at him.

"You're being very un-Peter-like," I said suspiciously.

"I'm evolving," he said dryly. "Like a Pokémon."

I snorted.

And just like that, something cracked—something small, something brittle. The weight in my chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. Became a little easier to hold.

"I can't promise anything," I said. "I can't promise I'll want you around. I can't promise I'll forgive what you've done. But... if you're really serious about this, then I guess we'll see."

Peter nodded.

He stood to go. "I'll give you space."

He was almost to the door when I spoke again.

"Hey."

He turned.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For not forcing your way in."

Peter's expression softened—just a flicker.

"Thank you," he said. "For opening the door."

And then he was gone.

And I was alone again.

But maybe... maybe not for long.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

Peter nodded.

He stood to go. "I'll give you space."

He was almost to the door when I spoke again.

"Hey."

He turned.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For not forcing your way in."

Peter's expression softened—just a flicker.

"Thank you," he said. "For opening the door."

And then he was gone.

And I was alone again.

But maybe... maybe not for long.

Stiles's Pov

Wednesday, January 11

9 weeks and 3 days pregnant

I dreamed of fire again.

Not the burning kind. Not the kind that rages and devours and leaves nothing behind but ash. No, this one was quieter. Slower. A fire that glowed like coals under skin. A heartbeat that didn't belong to me. The kind of warmth that wasn't comfort, but warning.

I woke up with my hands curled protectively around my stomach, heart racing like I'd run for miles.

It was still dark out. Too early for anyone in Beacon Hills to be awake, except maybe the dead and the damned—and I had a direct line to both, apparently. My room felt like a tomb, thick with silence and a chill that clung to the walls. I didn't move for a long time. Just lay there, breathing in the stillness and trying to convince myself that it was fine. That the dream didn't mean anything. That it wasn't a sign.

But I wasn't a good liar, especially to myself.

Eventually, the soft creak of the house settling reminded me I was supposed to function today. Supposed to be a student, a friend, a son, a not-exactly-single parent to a supernatural baby incubating under my ribs.

I groaned, rolled over, and muttered, "Five more minutes."

The universe didn't listen.

I made it to school, barely. Third day in a row I'd had to force myself through the front doors like it was a battlefield. And maybe it was. Every hallway felt like a landmine lately—someone watching too closely, someone asking the wrong question, someone noticing the way my hoodie fit different or the way I paused too long between breaths.

I was running out of excuses.

Scott knew it. He didn't say anything when he caught up to me by my locker, but his eyes lingered on the shadows under mine, on the way I winced when I bent down to grab my history textbook. He hovered like a second conscience—always nearby, never pushing. It helped. A little.

But the longer I stayed silent, the heavier the silence got.

And then there was Lydia.

God, Lydia.

She didn't say anything directly. But the way she looked at me in Chemistry was borderline invasive. Clinical. Banshee-mode was engaged, and I knew—I knew—that she could feel the wrongness. Hear it in the ether or whatever her sixth sense picked up on. My guess? My kid had a supernatural echo already, and Lydia was hearing it.

It was only a matter of time.

She cornered me after class, catching my elbow just as I tried to slip out the door.

"Stiles."

I flinched. "Hey, Lyds. Fancy seeing you here. In a hallway. Like we don't both go to this school."

"Don't," she said. Just one word, clipped. Commanding.

She pulled me into the nearest empty classroom, shut the door behind us, and turned to face me with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed like a microscope.

"You've been hiding something."

I considered lying. Thought about it for a whole two seconds.

"I'm not ready to talk about it," I said instead.

Her eyes narrowed even further, which I didn't think was possible.

"Does Scott know?"

I hesitated. That was answer enough.

Her expression didn't change, but something in her shoulders shifted.

"And Deaton?"

I sighed. "Lydia—"

"Is it dangerous?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. "It's... complicated."

"So yes."

"No! I mean—it's not not dangerous, but that's not—God, just—can we not do this here? Please?"

She studied me for a second longer, then nodded. Not agreement—more like a mental checkmark on a list.

"Fine," she said. "But I'm not letting this go."

I exhaled slowly. "I know."

And then she did the most Lydia thing possible.

She stepped forward, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "When you're ready, I'll be here."

Just that.

No threats. No tricks.

Just the offer.

And it hit me harder than anything else had that week.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

I barely heard anything the teachers said. My head throbbed behind my eyes, and I was half-convinced I'd sprained something internal just by existing. The pregnancy fatigue was hitting like a truck, and all I wanted was to crawl into bed and not move for twenty-four hours.

By the time the last bell rang, I was already halfway to the parking lot, phone in hand. I had a text from Deaton—short, clinical, vaguely ominous.

"Blood pressure low. You need more salt. Come by after school."

Because apparently, my body was waging a war against me and was determined to win on every front.

I texted Scott to cover for me and drove straight to the clinic, ignoring the way my hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel.

When I got there, Deaton was already waiting.

"You look pale," he said by way of greeting.

"Thank you, as always, for your radiant optimism."

He led me into the back room without another word, helped me up onto the exam table like I hadn't already been here a dozen times, and started checking vitals.

"You're dehydrated," he said after a minute. "And your blood sugar is low."

"Yeah, well. Food makes me want to die, and water tastes like betrayal right now, so."

He gave me that Deaton look—the one that was equal parts disappointment and concern, but filtered through a weird Zen calm that made it impossible to argue with.

"You need to eat. Even if it's just a few bites at a time."

"Noted."

He paused, then added, "And you need to tell the others. All of them."

I looked away.

"You can't do this alone," he said, voice softer now. "Even with support, this is going to get harder before it gets easier."

"I know," I whispered.

"Then start trusting people."

It wasn't a demand. It was a reminder. A lifeline.

I nodded.

By the time I left the clinic, the sun was starting to sink low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the road. My phone buzzed again as I got into the Jeep.

This time, it was Peter.

"We need to talk. Tonight."

No emoji. Of course.

I stared at the screen for a long second, then replied:

"Fine. Your place or mine?"

His answer came fast.

"Mine. 8 p.m."

That gave me just enough time to go home, lie to my dad about studying, pretend I wasn't spiraling, and shower for the second time in twelve hours because the hot water was the only thing that soothed the knots in my back.

When I finally pulled up outside Peter's temporary apartment—an impersonal but expensive rental on the edge of the preserve—I felt like I was walking into a lion's den. Which, let's be honest, wasn't that far off.

Peter opened the door before I could knock.

He looked tired.

Which was weird, because I didn't think Peter Hale did tired. But there were shadows under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth that hadn't been there before.

"Come in," he said.

I did.

The place was clean. Cold. Impersonal. Like a hotel room pretending to be a home. No pictures. No personal touches. Just sleek furniture and sharp angles.

"How domestic," I muttered.

Peter ignored the comment and motioned toward the couch.

I sat. Slowly. Carefully. Like a person who had learned not to trust anything underfoot.

He sat across from me, watching. Always watching.

"You haven't told them," he said. Not a question.

I didn't deny it.

"It's hard," I said instead.

Peter nodded once. "Yes. It is."

We sat in silence for a minute. Just long enough to make me think I should've stayed home.

Then he said something I wasn't ready for.

"I spoke to Derek."

I blinked. "About...?"

"You. The baby. Us."

"Jesus, Peter—what the hell did you say?"

"Nothing untrue."

I groaned. "That could mean literally anything."

He didn't look ashamed. Or even smug. Just... steady.

"He's worried about you."

"That's nothing new."

"He wants to help."

"Also nothing new."

Peter tilted his head. "So let him."

I stared at him. "What are you doing?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This," I said, gesturing around vaguely. "The calm, rational, semi-supportive act. It's weird. It's you—but it's weird."

Peter was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, "Because it matters."

"What does?"

"You," he said simply. "And the child. You both matter."

And just like that, I couldn't breathe.

Because he meant it.

Because he meant it.

And I wasn't ready for that.

Thursday, January 12

9 weeks and 4 days pregnant

The morning started with a craving so violent it startled me awake before my alarm even had a chance to go off.

Pickles.

Pickles and something sweet.

Pickles and peanut butter?

I gagged at the thought and then... didn't. Which was worse.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, stomach twisting, and stared at the open fridge like it held the secrets of the universe. It didn't, obviously—just a lonely jar of pickles floating in brine like little green corpses and half a jar of my dad's natural peanut butter, which might've been older than the Declaration of Independence.

I stared at both items for a solid thirty seconds before whispering, "Nope," and slamming the fridge shut with a groan.

This was getting ridiculous.

The rest of my morning was a blur of brushing my teeth too hard and almost puking (again), pulling on my loosest hoodie, and squinting at my reflection like I could will the growing curve of my stomach into hiding. It was still small—still barely more than a soft swell—but I saw it. And I couldn't stop seeing it.

It was like a secret I couldn't un-know, one that hung off me in invisible threads, pulling tighter every day.

And today? Today was going to make it worse.

Because I had to tell Lydia.

And for some reason, that scared me more than telling my dad, more than the paternity test, more than facing Peter again. Telling Lydia meant making it real in a whole new way.

Because Lydia didn't just listen. She understood.

And if she looked at me with pity or disappointment or—God forbid—fear... I didn't know if I could handle that.

I got to school early, mostly out of sheer nervous energy, and ended up sitting in the Jeep in the parking lot with my forehead pressed to the steering wheel like maybe the metal would leech the anxiety out of my skull.

It didn't.

"Okay," I muttered to myself. "You just have to say it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. A Band-Aid soaked in acid. And shame."

The first bell rang.

I still hadn't moved.

I caught her after second period. Calculus. Because if I didn't tell her now, I was going to chicken out, and if I chickened out again, she was going to hunt me down and demand the truth. And I'd rather do it on my own terms.

I waited until the hallway cleared out, then stepped in front of her just as she started heading toward the stairs.

"Lydia."

She turned, raising one perfect eyebrow. "Stiles."

"Do you—uh." I coughed. "Do you have a minute?"

Her expression didn't shift, but she gave a small nod and followed me into an empty science lab down the hall. We'd hidden in here before, back when everything was about kanimas and alphas and people with claws who weren't supposed to be real. Now I was hiding for an entirely different reason.

Once the door was shut, Lydia leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms.

"I'm listening."

I sat on one of the stools and immediately regretted it. My back protested. My stomach fluttered.

"I've been avoiding this," I said.

She didn't answer, just waited.

"You've noticed, right? Something's... different."

Her gaze sharpened, but she didn't speak.

I swallowed hard.

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

Not the kind you see in TV shows—the kind that's immediately followed by dramatic music or someone yelling. This was quieter. Heavier.

Lydia's face didn't change. Not right away.

Then she blinked.

Once. Slowly.

"I'm sorry," she said carefully. "Could you repeat that?"

"I'm pregnant," I said again, voice steadier this time. "As in—baby on the way, supernatural medical anomaly, whole deal. Nine weeks and four days."

She stared at me.

Then, after a moment that stretched way too long, she asked, "Is this a joke?"

"I wish."

"Are you dying?"

"Not that I know of."

"Possessed?"

"Not currently."

"On drugs?"

"Lydia."

"Because unless I've suddenly slipped into some alternate reality, male pregnancy isn't exactly a recognized biological process."

"Yeah, well, welcome to Beacon Hills," I muttered. "We have mountain ash, banshees, kanimas, and now apparently—surprise!—magical wombs. Courtesy of our old friend, the Nogitsune."

Lydia's lips parted. "Wait."

I nodded. "Yeah."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It was him, wasn't it?"

I nodded again, slower this time. "Not... in the normal way. I think. Deaton said the residual magic twisted something. Took something from someone else and... left me with this."

She narrowed her eyes. "Someone else?"

I took a breath and let it out, tasting the weight of the next words before I said them.

"Peter."

Her jaw clenched.

I couldn't blame her.

"I didn't know until recently. Deaton confirmed it with a test. Peter knows now, too. So do Scott, my dad, Malia, Derek..."

"And me," she added softly.

I looked down. "Yeah. Now you."

The silence came back. This one wasn't quite as sharp, but it still cut.

Then, softly, Lydia said, "You're keeping it."

It wasn't a question.

I nodded. "Yeah. I am."

There was a long pause.

Then Lydia crossed the room and, to my complete shock, pulled me into a hug.

She didn't say anything. Just wrapped her arms around me and held on.

For a second, I didn't breathe. I didn't even move.

Then I felt my chest shake—just once—and I realized I was crying.

Not a lot. Not loud. Just a quiet kind of crying. The kind that happens when someone sees you—really sees you—and doesn't flinch.

"Jesus," I whispered. "I didn't think—I didn't know if—"

"You're my best friend," she said, voice low and fierce against my shoulder. "Nothing changes that."

I squeezed my eyes shut. "It changes everything."

"No," she said. "It just makes everything matter more."

We stayed in the lab longer than we should have, talking in hushed tones about symptoms and cravings and my absolute inability to stomach cafeteria pizza anymore. Lydia asked questions like a scientist—clinical, curious, and deeply invested. It helped. Her curiosity gave me a structure to lean on, something logical in the middle of this supernatural mess.

And when I told her about Peter—about the way he'd said "you both matter," the way he was trying—she didn't roll her eyes. She didn't mock.

She just nodded and said, "That's terrifying."

"Right?"

"But... not impossible."

And somehow, that made me feel lighter.

When the bell rang, she fixed her lipstick like nothing happened and gave me a look on our way out.

"We're telling Kira next," she said.

I groaned.

"Don't worry," she added. "She's not going to freak out."

"She's going to offer to do a protection spell and cry."

"Probably. But she'll love you anyway."

That part, I believed.

And as I walked beside Lydia through the crowded hallway, I realized something else:

I wasn't just surviving anymore.

I was starting to build something.

A circle.

A future.

Maybe even a family.

And despite the terror, despite the chaos, despite everything—I was still here.

Still fighting.

Still me.

By the time the final bell rang, I was running on fumes and half a granola bar. The emotional high from my conversation with Lydia had faded into something quieter, heavier. Like I'd been holding up a dam all day and now the cracks were finally starting to show.

I didn't tell anyone about the exhaustion gnawing at me. Not Scott, not Lydia. Definitely not my dad. They were all watching me too closely already, tiptoeing around the fact that I wasn't just another teenager anymore—I was a literal science fiction miracle with too much sarcasm and not enough self-preservation.

I made it home without crashing the Jeep. Small victories.

Dad wasn't home, which I was grateful for. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I dumped my backpack by the front door and beelined to the kitchen, thinking maybe food would help the light-headedness clinging to the edges of my vision. But the moment I opened the fridge, the smell of deli meat hit me like a punch to the face.

I gagged. Slammed the door shut.

Okay. Food was canceled.

I shuffled down the hallway like a zombie, one hand on my lower back, hoodie bunched up around my hips, sweatpants riding low. I looked like every meme about college finals week had come to life.

The bed called to me like some siren made of pillows and escape.

I collapsed face-first onto the mattress and didn't even bother taking off my shoes.

I thought I'd rest for ten minutes. Maybe twenty.

But then I blinked, and the sun had already started to dip low behind the blinds, throwing long shadows across my bedroom walls.

My mouth was dry. My brain was foggy. And my stomach—

I sat up fast.

Something was wrong.

At first, it was just the cramping. Low and dull, but unmistakable—something coiling in my gut like a fist slowly closing. It wasn't unfamiliar. I'd had cramps before, here and there, especially with the bloating and growing and all the other fun body horror pregnancy had introduced into my life. But this felt different. Deeper. Sharper.

Like something was pulling.

I shifted on the bed, wincing as the pain flared hotter, and that's when I felt it. Wetness.

A chill ran down my spine. I scrambled to my feet, heart thudding against my ribs like a warning bell, and hurried to the bathroom. My hands were shaking as I tugged at the waistband of my sweatpants and peeled them down, half-expecting to see something catastrophic.

There wasn't a lot of blood.

But there was blood.

Red smeared across my underwear, staining the fabric in a way that sent a cold, electric fear up through my chest.

"No, no, no, no," I whispered, clutching the sink as another wave of cramping twisted through me.

My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed and too still.

My brain was already spiraling, jumping to every worst-case scenario it could conjure. Miscarriage. Internal bleeding. Something going wrong with the spell the Nogitsune left behind, something unraveling from the inside out. Something wrong with me.

I didn't even realize I was dialing until the phone was already ringing in my ear.

Deaton picked up on the second ring.

"Stiles?"

"I—" My voice cracked. "There's blood. Cramping. I—I don't know if it's normal. It doesn't feel normal."

There was a pause, and then his voice shifted into that calm, clinical tone I usually found mildly annoying but now clung to like a life raft.

"How much blood?"

"Not a lot. Just... enough to freak me out. It's red. Not dark, not clotted."

"That's good," he said quickly. "Is the cramping constant or coming in waves?"

"Waves," I said, my voice a whisper. "Strong ones."

"Any fever? Dizziness?"

"No fever. I—maybe a little dizzy, but I just woke up."

"Okay. You need to come in. Now. I'll meet you at the clinic. Bring someone to drive you if you can."

I nodded before I remembered he couldn't see me. "Yeah. Okay."

I hung up and stared at my phone for a beat before pulling up my recent contacts.

Not Scott. Not right now. Not my dad either.

I called Peter.

He answered on the first ring. Of course.

"I need a ride," I said without preamble. "Deaton. Now."

There was silence on the line for half a second. Then, "I'm already on my way."

I sat on the edge of the porch, bundled in a hoodie and coat, hands tucked under my thighs to keep them from shaking. My backpack sat at my feet, stuffed with the only things I could think to grab—my phone charger, a bottle of water, the prenatal vitamins I hadn't taken yet today.

The cramps hadn't gotten worse, but they hadn't stopped either. They were sharp now. Not debilitating, but enough to make me curl my toes and grind my jaw every few minutes. The blood hadn't increased, at least not that I could tell. That had to be good, right?

Peter's car pulled into the driveway five minutes later. He was out of it and up the porch steps in less than ten seconds, his eyes scanning me head to toe with that unreadable look he always wore when something was wrong.

"I'm not dying," I said, standing on shaky legs. "Yet."

"You're pale," he said.

"Thanks."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Cramping. Bleeding. Sheer, unfiltered panic."

"Good. You're still sarcastic. That's a healthy sign."

He didn't wait for me to say anything else—just took the bag off my shoulder and steered me toward the car. Deaton was already waiting when we arrived. The clinic was dark except for the lights in the back, casting the sterile room in a soft yellow glow that felt more dreamlike than real.

Peter stayed silent beside me in the waiting area, one knee bouncing, his fingers twitching like they wanted something to claw into.

Deaton didn't make us wait.

He led me into the back exam room and had me change into one of those awful gowns that never fit right. I felt stupid, sitting on the table with my legs swinging like a nervous kindergartener, but I followed every instruction without arguing. I needed answers more than I needed dignity.

"Your blood pressure's a little low," Deaton said, glancing at the monitor. "But not dangerously so. Let's take a look."

He was quiet for a long time.

Too long.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe evenly while cold gel slicked over my lower belly. The probe pressed in gently. The monitor came to life in shades of gray.

And then—

"There," Deaton said softly.

I looked.

And saw it.

A flicker.

Rapid. Steady.

"Heartbeat is strong. No signs of placental separation. The uterus is stable."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My whole body sagged.

"So... what happened?"

"Some light spotting can be normal," he said. "Especially in supernatural pregnancies. Your body's dealing with more than a typical human pregnancy would—there's residual magic in your system still, and the bond between you and the child is... unique. But everything looks healthy."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "I'm sure. You should take it easy for a few days. No school tomorrow. No stress."

I laughed once. Bitter and hollow. "Yeah, let me just cross that off my schedule."

Deaton gave me a look.

"I'll try," I muttered.

Peter was waiting just outside the door when I came out, face unreadable.

"Well?"

"Everything's fine," I said. "The baby's fine."

His shoulders relaxed, but only slightly.

"Good," he said. Then, softer, "Do you want me to stay tonight?"

I blinked.

"I can sleep on the couch," he added quickly. "Just... in case something happens."

I thought about the cold fear that had gripped me in the bathroom. The way my hands had shaken dialing the phone. The way I didn't want to be alone when that kind of fear hit again.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, that'd be... good."

We didn't talk much on the drive back. The city was quiet, the streets empty except for a few flickers of headlights. The world felt muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on everything but the sound of my pulse.

When we got home, Peter didn't hover. He helped me upstairs, waited while I changed, then made himself a bed on the couch without another word.

I lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, one hand on my belly.

The cramps had faded to nothing. The bleeding had stopped completely. But I knew it could happen again.

I knew this road wasn't going to get easier.

But for now... we were still here.

Still fighting.

Still breathing.

Still together.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

It was 1:35 a.m. when I woke up, heart hammering in my chest like I'd just run a marathon in my sleep.

I didn't move at first. Just lay there, eyes wide open in the dark, blanket tangled around my legs and hoodie pulled halfway up my stomach like I'd been clawing at it in my dreams. My mouth was dry. My skin clammy. For a moment, I didn't know what had woken me—until I realized I was listening.

Listening for that heartbeat.

The one I'd seen earlier on Deaton's monitor. That tiny, flickering pulse on the screen that had sent a flood of relief through my body like nothing else ever had. But now, in the dark and silence of my bedroom, it wasn't enough. I couldn't hear it. Couldn't see it. And my brain, being the absolute bastard that it is, kept whispering: What if something changed? What if you lost the baby after all? What if you were too late?

I sat up slowly, groaning as a leftover cramp tugged at the edge of my abdomen. It wasn't sharp, not like earlier. Just a phantom reminder of the fear I'd been carrying all night.

My hand settled instinctively on the curve of my belly. Still small. Still soft. Still mine. But the connection didn't soothe me the way it usually did. It just reminded me how fragile this all still was. How one wrong move, one slip, one surge of leftover Nogitsune darkness in my blood could ruin everything.

I glanced toward the bedroom door.

Peter was downstairs. Sleeping, probably. Or at least pretending to.

He'd been quiet since we got back. Not cold. Not distant. Just... still. Like he knew I needed space, and for once in his chaotic life, he was actually giving it.

But now? Now I didn't want space.

I wanted him.

God help me.

I reached for my phone without thinking, fingers numb and fumbling.

Me (1:36 a.m.):
You awake?

The reply came before I'd even set the phone down.

Peter (1:36 a.m.):
Always.

I swallowed. My thumb hovered over the screen. Then I typed:

Me (1:37 a.m.):
Can you come up?

I didn't send anything else. Didn't explain. Didn't ask again. I just left the phone on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling, my heart still pounding.

The silence stretched.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Then I heard the stairs creak.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway. The door eased open without a sound, and Peter stepped inside, his silhouette backlit by the faint glow from the hallway. He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, watching me with that unreadable look of his—like he was trying to take me apart piece by piece and figure out what had broken.

"Can't sleep?" he asked softly.

I shook my head.

He didn't wait for permission. He just crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he belonged there.

I didn't stop him.

I couldn't.

"I keep thinking," I said, my voice rough and too loud in the quiet, "what if it hadn't stopped? The bleeding. The cramps. What if it was just... the start?"

Peter didn't answer right away. He looked at me—really looked—and then reached out, his hand resting gently over mine where it was still curled protectively over my belly.

"It wasn't," he said. "But I know why you're scared."

"You do?"

"I was halfway across town when you called," he said. "The way your voice sounded... I've heard that kind of fear before. On battlefields. From people who knew they were about to lose something they couldn't replace."

I stared down at our joined hands. "I've lost so much already. I don't think I could survive this."

"You won't have to," he said simply. "Because you're not going to lose the baby."

I wanted to believe him. God, I did.

But I'd spent so long waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the curse to rear its head again and remind me that I didn't get to have nice things.

"What if something goes wrong?" I whispered. "What if my body can't do this? What if the magic gets unstable again or the Nogitsune left behind something worse and we didn't even notice?"

Peter was quiet for a long moment. Then he shifted closer, until our knees touched, until the warmth of his palm against my belly wasn't just comforting—it was grounding.

"I won't lie to you, Stiles," he said. "This isn't going to be easy. We're not exactly in a position to have a normal pregnancy. But what I can promise is that I'll be here. Every day. Every damn step of the way."

My throat tightened. "You don't even like me."

Peter's smile was small and tired and maybe a little sad. "No, I don't," he said. "I like you too much, which is the problem."

I blinked. That was not the response I expected.

He looked away, suddenly interested in the shadow of the dresser against the wall. "I didn't plan for this. I didn't want this. But now that it's happening... now that there's something inside you that's half mine and already so stubbornly alive—I don't know how to not want it."

I felt the tears sting my eyes before I even realized they were coming.

"I thought I was going to lose the baby," I said, voice cracking.

Peter looked at me again, and this time there was no mockery, no smug superiority. Just something raw and real in his eyes. Something that almost looked like grief.

"But you didn't," he said. "And you won't. Not while I'm here."

I nodded, just once, because I couldn't speak anymore.

He shifted again, slower this time, easing onto the bed beside me. Not too close. Not crowding. Just enough that I could feel him there. A steady presence in the dark.

I leaned back into the pillows, hand still resting on my stomach.

And Peter?

He stayed.

He didn't try to touch me again. Didn't push.

He just sat there with me, awake and watching, like a silent sentinel between me and the darkness outside the window.

And for the first time since the bleeding started, I felt like maybe I wasn't falling apart after all.

Maybe I was just beginning.

Peter's Pov

The phone rang once before I picked it up.

Stiles never called. He texted, usually in bursts of sarcasm or thinly veiled panic. If he was calling me—me of all people—at nearly midnight, it meant something was wrong. I already knew that before I answered.

What I didn't expect was the sound of his voice.

"I need a ride," Stiles said, breathless and tight, no room for preamble. "Deaton. Now."

There was silence on the line for half a second. Long enough for my instincts to light up like flares.

"I'm already on my way," I said, and I was.

My phone hit the passenger seat. My keys were already in the ignition. The engine roared to life as I peeled out of the Hale house driveway, tires protesting, gravel crunching under speeding rubber. I didn't ask what happened. I didn't need to. I could hear it in his voice—the edge of fear, sharp and cracking around the vowels, like he couldn't quite keep it contained.

He was afraid.

That alone would've been enough to make me drive through fire.

But I knew what that fear meant. Knew what it had to mean.

I didn't bother with traffic laws. Didn't give a single thought to stop signs or speed limits or any other human construct meant to slow me down. I was in front of his house in less than five minutes, and he was already waiting. Huddled on the porch, arms around himself like that alone could hold the weight of what he was carrying.

He stood slowly, and I saw it then—how pale he looked. How the shadows under his eyes seemed deeper. The way his free hand clutched his stomach, like it hurt just to stand.

I kept my tone flat. "You're pale."

"Thanks," he muttered.

"Any other symptoms?"

"Cramping. Bleeding. Sheer, unfiltered panic."

"Good. You're still sarcastic. That's a healthy sign."

He didn't argue. That, more than anything, told me how bad it had been.

I took the bag from him—he'd packed one, I noticed, practical and messy and Stiles. Vitamins. Charger. Water. I filed that away.

I didn't touch him.

Not yet.

But I stayed close.

The clinic was dark when we arrived. Deaton had already prepared. I caught the glint of sterilized metal, the hush of warm lighting, the chemical chill of antiseptic in the air.

I stayed out of the exam room. Not because I didn't want to be there—because I knew he didn't want me watching him come apart if something went wrong. He had that streak in him. That Stilinski pride. That don't-watch-me-break instinct.

But it didn't mean I couldn't hear.

The too-long silence between Deaton's gentle instructions. The shuffle of Stiles adjusting on the table. The cold slick of gel. The soft hum of machinery.

And then—

"There."

A flicker.

A heartbeat.

And my own lungs remembered how to work again.

The door opened ten minutes later. Stiles stepped out in his hoodie again, face tight but his color better. More blood in his cheeks. Less white around the edges. Still shaken, but standing.

"Well?" I asked.

"Everything's fine," he said. "The baby's fine."

Something in my chest cracked open, quietly. Like a fault line deep underground.

"Good," I said. Then, softer, because I didn't trust my voice, "Do you want me to stay tonight?"

His eyes widened.

"I can sleep on the couch," I added quickly. "Just... in case something happens."

He nodded. "Yeah. That'd be... good."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. We didn't talk much on the drive. It was the kind of silence that settled after a crisis. Not empty. Not awkward. Just full of everything we weren't saying yet.

When we got back, I made the couch my temporary territory and didn't linger in his space. He needed time. Quiet. Safety.

I didn't sleep.

I never truly do. Rest, yes. Silence, stillness, meditation—all things I've trained myself to endure when my mind won't let go. But real sleep? The kind that lets you dream without consequence?

That kind of peace hasn't belonged to me in years.

Still, I'd closed my eyes on Stiles's worn-out couch, listening to the creak of the house settle around me, cataloging the details I could no longer ignore.

The faint buzz of the heater, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the restless shifting of fabric from the second floor—small sounds. Subtle. But I counted every one.

Until I heard the one that mattered most.

A single vibration. Barely a pause between alert and response.

Stiles (1:36 a.m.): You awake?

I replied before the thought had even fully formed.

Always.

And it was the truth.

Even before he reached out, I was already listening for him. Waiting.

Stiles (1:37 a.m.): Can you come up?

No explanation. No pretext. Just need, raw and simple.

I was on my feet before the message finished sending.

The stairs groaned beneath my weight, but I took them slowly, deliberately. He hadn't locked the door. I pushed it open with a steady hand.

There he was—sitting up, hoodie rumpled, hair a chaotic mess of stress and sleep. Pale beneath the soft light spilling in from the hall. Jaw tight. Eyes wide.

Fear lingered there.

Still thick in the air. Still coiled beneath the skin like smoke under glass.

He didn't say anything at first. He didn't have to.

I could feel it.

That same thrum of anxiety that had rushed through his voice when he'd called me hours earlier. That same helpless edge I recognized too well.

His scent was different now—richer, layered with adrenaline, faint blood trace, and beneath that, the unique chemistry of pregnancy. His. Ours.

A child.

Our child.

And he was terrified.

I crossed the room, sat at the edge of the bed. Didn't ask if I could. Didn't need to. We'd passed that threshold already.

His voice was rough, low and strained. "I keep thinking... what if it hadn't stopped?"

I placed my hand over his, gently.

The connection between us was too new to define. Not yet trust. But not suspicion, either. Something rawer. More honest.

"It wasn't," I said. "But I know why you're scared."

And I did. More than he could know.

He looked at me like he was trying not to fall apart.

"I've lost so much already. I don't think I could survive this."

There was no room in me for lies tonight.

"You won't have to," I said. "Because you're not going to lose the baby."

But he didn't believe me. Not completely. I saw it in the way his eyes darted toward the window, like he was bracing for something else to crash through it. Like he couldn't believe the quiet would last.

"What if something goes wrong?" he whispered. "What if my body can't do this? What if the magic gets unstable again or the Nogitsune left behind something worse and we didn't even notice?"

I didn't flinch at the name. But it stirred something cold and ancient in me. Something territorial.

"Then we deal with it," I said. "Together."

It wasn't a promise made lightly. Not from me.

Especially not from me.

He looked so breakable in that moment. And yet he wasn't. He never really had been.

Even when possessed, even when carved apart by grief, Stiles Stilinski had never shattered the way I expected him to. He bent. He twisted. But he did not break.

And now he was here, terrified out of his mind, holding life inside him like some divine contradiction.

I hadn't meant to care.

That had never been part of the plan.

But I cared anyway.

Enough to sit still in his room. Enough to press my hand to his belly like it mattered. Like he mattered.

"You don't even like me," he whispered.

I huffed, the barest shake of my head.

"No," I said quietly. "I like you too much, which is the problem."

His breath caught.

I didn't elaborate. Didn't explain. He didn't ask me to.

There were some truths that didn't need more than that.

I turned away, watching the movement of shadows on the floor. Letting my voice come slower now. Stripped down.

"I didn't want this. I didn't want you. Not at first. You were chaos. A liability. A threat. But now?"

I glanced back, saw the tears forming in his eyes.

Now he was something else.

A force I couldn't define. And a future I hadn't known I wanted until I was holding it in the palm of my hand.

I shifted, sitting closer—not to take, not to crowd, but to stay. To be there.

He said he thought he was going to lose it.

And I believed him.

But he didn't.

And he wouldn't.

Because I'd burn the world to prevent it.

We stayed there, quiet.

Breathing together.

And eventually, I leaned against the headboard beside him. Not touching. Not demanding.

Just present.

Just here.

The moonlight carved soft edges on his face. The lines of tension hadn't fully faded, but his heartbeat was steadier now. I could hear it, subtle beneath the rush of blood. And behind it, smaller, faster—that heartbeat. The one that changed everything.

My hand hovered near his, not touching this time, but close enough to feel the heat.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow."

He didn't answer with words. Just closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.

And that was enough.

For now.

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Peter's Pov

My hand hovered near his, not touching this time, but close enough to feel the heat.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow."

He didn't answer with words. Just closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.

And that was enough.

For now.

Stiles's Pov

Thursday, January 12

9 weeks and 4 days pregnant

I woke up slowly, like surfacing from the bottom of a too-deep lake. Every muscle in my body ached, heavy and sore like I'd run a marathon in my sleep—or maybe like I'd spent the night tensed for something awful to happen and only now realized I'd survived it. My eyes blinked open to dim gray light, the soft, colorless kind of morning that hadn't decided yet whether it wanted to be hopeful or miserable.

The first thing I noticed was that I wasn't alone.

Peter was still there.

He lay on his side, back turned to me, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting loosely across the blankets between us. His breathing was slow and even, and there was a rare stillness to him—no tightly wound tension, no restless energy. Just sleep. Honest-to-God, vulnerable, unconscious sleep.

I couldn't remember ever seeing him like that before. Even when I'd caught glimpses of him half-dozing in the loft, or watching the world with that smug predator's patience, there was always awareness beneath it. Coiled readiness.

But now? He looked... human.

Not soft, not harmless—never that—but real. Tired. Present.

My eyes drifted to the hand resting between us. I remembered how it had felt just hours ago, pressed over mine, steady and warm on my stomach. The pressure of it. The weight of the promise that came with it. I didn't know what to make of that. Of him. Of any of this.

I turned my gaze toward the ceiling, blinking slowly. The room was quiet. No distant lawnmowers or traffic or morning birdsong. Just the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the house as it adjusted to the early hour.

My body ached in a new way this morning. Not just tiredness or soreness, but something quieter. Deeper. Like I'd been rung out emotionally and now I was lying in the echo.

I shifted carefully under the blankets. The cramping had faded entirely overnight. No bleeding either. My stomach felt normal—well, as normal as it got these days. Tender, yes. Heavy in a way that still freaked me out a little if I thought about it too hard. But safe. Secure.

Still here.

I reached down and brushed my hand over the soft swell of my abdomen, just beneath the hem of my hoodie. Still small. Still barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But undeniably there.

Nine weeks and four days.

Nearly a quarter of the way through.

I lay there for a while, counting breaths, listening to the soft rhythm of Peter's exhale. I probably should've moved. Gotten up. Texted Scott or Deaton. Made tea or toast or something else vaguely resembling a responsible morning. But I didn't. I stayed where I was, half in shadow, half in warmth, waiting for the courage to start the day.

Eventually, Peter stirred.

His breathing changed first—deeper, then shallow for a moment. A small hitch. A blink. And then he turned slightly, eyes opening just enough to find mine in the low light.

"Morning," I murmured.

He blinked again. "You're still here."

"Yeah," I said. "So are you."

A pause. Then, softer, "How are you feeling?"

I hesitated. Took mental stock. "Okay," I said. "Tired. Sore. Still kind of emotionally wrung out. But... okay."

He nodded, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloging the answer.

"No bleeding?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Not since last night."

Peter pushed himself upright slowly, leaning back against the headboard. His hair was a mess, flattened on one side from the pillow. He didn't look smug or perfect or composed—he looked real. And weirdly, that made it easier to breathe.

"You scared the hell out of me last night," he said without accusation. Just fact.

I stared down at my hands. "Yeah. Me too."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, side by side. It wasn't awkward. Just quiet.

Eventually, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching with a groan. My lower back twinged, but nothing sharp. Just the usual protest. I wandered over to the window and pulled the curtain back slightly.

The yard was still wet from last night's rain, but the sky was clearing in streaks of gold and pale blue. One of those mornings that could go either way.

I turned back toward the bed. "My dad's probably downstairs. I should... tell him."

Peter nodded. "I'll give you space."

He stood and started smoothing out the blankets, straightening the edge of the comforter where it had bunched up under his weight. I hesitated at the door.

"Hey," I said.

He looked up.

"Thanks for staying."

He didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened.

"Thanks for asking."

I nodded once, then slipped out into the hallway.

The stairs creaked under my weight as I made my way down, slow and careful. My body wasn't built for speed these days, and honestly, the thought of moving faster than a crawl made my spine protest in advance.

I found Dad in the kitchen, still in his undershirt and sweats, sipping coffee like it was his last link to the mortal plane. The smell hit me hard—warm and bitter, familiar and slightly nauseating all at once. My stomach twisted in protest, but I ignored it.

"Morning," I said quietly.

He looked up and smiled, though it faded quickly when he saw my face.

"Hey, kid," he said. "You okay?"

I nodded and pulled out a chair, dropping into it with a long, heavy sigh.

"Not dying," I said. "Deaton says that's a good start."

His expression tightened. "That doesn't sound like the beginning of a reassuring sentence."

I looked at the table for a moment, tracing the faint pattern in the woodgrain with my thumb.

"There was some bleeding last night," I said. "And cramps. It freaked me out. I called Deaton. He had me come in."

My dad's mug hit the table harder than necessary. "Jesus, Stiles—"

"I'm okay," I cut in quickly. "The baby's okay. Deaton did an ultrasound. Everything looked good. Strong heartbeat. No complications."

He ran a hand down his face. "And you didn't wake me up?"

"You weren't home," I reminded him gently. "You had a night shift, remember?"

He looked like he was trying to decide whether to feel guilty or furious.

I kept going, before he could spiral.

"I called Peter. He drove me. Stayed overnight."

That got me a sharp look.

"He slept on the couch," I added. "Eventually."

Dad sighed again, leaning back in his chair. He looked exhausted in a way I hadn't noticed before—deeper than the usual work fatigue. Like this whole thing had settled into his bones and started pulling him apart from the inside.

I didn't blame him. I felt the same.

"You should've called me at the station," he said finally.

"I know," I said. "But it all happened really fast. I panicked. I didn't... I didn't want to scare you if it turned out to be nothing."

"But it wasn't nothing," he said quietly.

"No," I agreed. "But it wasn't the worst-case scenario, either. And that's... that's progress."

He gave me a long look. "You scared me, Stiles."

"I scared myself."

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant hum of the fridge.

Eventually, Dad cleared his throat. "So... Deaton said everything's okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "But he doesn't want me going to school today. Wants me to rest. Hydrate. Eat something that won't try to murder me on the way down."

Dad nodded slowly. "I'll call the school. Let them know you're out sick."

"Thanks."

He stood and poured me a glass of water, setting it in front of me with a quiet clink. I sipped it carefully. My stomach didn't rebel, which was a nice change.

Dad leaned against the counter, watching me for a minute.

"You sure you're okay?"

I looked up at him. "I'm tired. My back hurts. My insides feel like they're trying to redecorate themselves. But yeah. I'm okay."

He nodded once, then crossed the room and squeezed my shoulder gently.

"Good," he said. "Let's keep it that way."

We didn't talk much after that. He made toast. I picked at a banana. We watched the sun come up through the kitchen window like it might have answers we didn't. And for a little while, it was just the two of us again—father and son, quiet and braced for the next storm.

Because in Beacon Hills, the next storm was never far off.

But for now?

We were breathing.

And that was enough.

Back in my room, the silence felt different.

Not heavy like last night, not sharp like the kind that follows a fight, but tense in that quiet, uncertain way that only exists when two people are orbiting something too big to name. Peter was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed now, lacing up a dark pair of boots like he had places to be but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd actually leave.

He didn't look at me when I stepped in. He didn't have to. He always seemed to know when I was near—some sixth sense or wolf thing or just an overdeveloped predatory instinct. But I felt his focus shift, like his attention had turned toward me before his eyes even followed.

I stood in the doorway a second longer than necessary, watching him tie that last lace with precise, slow fingers.

"You don't have to leave," I said.

He looked up. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean..." I scratched the back of my neck, stepping inside and nudging the door shut with my foot. "I'd like to talk. Before things get weird."

Peter's brows lifted in quiet amusement. "Define 'before.'"

I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted a little—an anxious knot I hadn't worked through yet. I crossed the room slowly, easing myself down onto the bed beside him, not quite close enough to touch. There was space between us. Space I needed.

He didn't speak, which was very un-Peter of him, but also exactly what I needed right now. He just waited, hands folded in his lap, posture loose but alert. I could feel the hum of tension underneath that stillness, like a coil wound too tight but pretending not to be.

I cleared my throat. "So... last night was a lot."

Peter gave a slow nod. "Agreed."

I looked down at my hands. My fingers were fidgeting again, restless in a way I couldn't seem to turn off lately. Too much energy, too little control.

"And I've been thinking," I said. "About us. About this... whole thing."

His body didn't move, but his attention sharpened. I could feel it like a static charge against my skin.

"I know you've said you want to be involved," I continued. "And I appreciate that. More than I thought I would, honestly. You were there last night when I needed you, and that... that meant something."

Peter tilted his head, still quiet.

"But I need to set some rules. For my own sanity. And maybe yours."

He didn't laugh, didn't scoff. He just waited.

I exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"First," I said, "this is still my pregnancy. My body. My choice. That means if I say I need space, you give it to me. If I say I need help, you don't argue—you just show up. And if I change my mind about anything, you respect that."

"Understood," Peter said. No hesitation. No edge.

It threw me off a little. I blinked, then kept going.

"Second... I don't know what we are. I don't even know if I want to know. Things between us have been... complicated from the start. This isn't some fairy tale where we accidentally fall into each other's arms and have a white-picket-fence ending. I don't want you thinking this baby means we're supposed to be something we're not."

"I don't," Peter said, voice quiet. "I'm not here to play house."

"Good," I said, maybe too quickly. "Because I can't— I won't—get trapped in a fantasy. This thing between us... if it becomes something more, that's something we figure out later. Carefully. But right now, I need to keep us separate. I need to keep my head clear."

Peter nodded once. "So we don't play pretend."

"Exactly."

Another silence stretched between us. Not empty—just full of all the unspoken things neither of us were brave enough to name yet.

I looked at him, really looked. His expression was calm, but not distant. Focused. Thoughtful. And weirdly... patient.

That was the part that unsettled me the most.

Because Peter Hale had never been patient a day in his life. Not until now. Not with me.

"And third," I said. "I need you to be honest with me. No games. No manipulation. No secrets unless keeping them would literally keep me alive. I've had enough lies in my life to last a lifetime."

His eyes met mine, steady and serious. "I don't lie to you."

"You don't answer, sometimes," I shot back. "That's not the same thing, but it still counts."

That earned a faint smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'll try," he said. "It's not in my nature, but I'll try."

That felt honest. Not a promise he couldn't keep—just a reality check wrapped in reluctant effort. And somehow, that made it easier to believe.

"I'm not trying to push you away," I said after a moment. "I just... I need control. Over something. Anything. Because the rest of this? My body, my mind, my life—it doesn't feel like mine anymore. Everything's changing so fast, and I'm scared I'm going to look up one day and not recognize myself. I need boundaries so I can breathe."

Peter didn't flinch. Didn't argue.

"I understand," he said.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Okay."

We sat in silence for a while. The soft creak of the house, the buzz of the heater, the faint drone of birdsong through the glass. Normal sounds. Grounding.

Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together loosely.

"You said this isn't a fairy tale," he said, voice low. "And you're right. It's not. But that doesn't mean it has to be a tragedy."

I blinked. "Is that your version of hope?"

"It's my version of possibility."

I stared at him, trying to decide what to make of that. I still didn't have an answer when he stood.

"I'll give you some space," he said. "But call me if anything changes."

"Yeah," I said. "I will."

He crossed the room and paused at the door.

"And Stiles?"

I looked up.

"I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."

The door clicked shut behind him, and I sat there in the quiet, alone again.

But somehow, it didn't feel as lonely.

Not anymore.

Not completely.

I pulled my knees up and rested my chin on them, one hand absently brushing over my stomach again. The silence stayed, but it wasn't empty. It was full of everything we hadn't figured out yet—and that, somehow, was better than pretending we already had.

I didn't know what was coming next.

But I knew where I stood.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough. I thought he'd left. Thought I'd hear the front door click shut, the low thrum of his engine, and then—just quiet. The kind of quiet that used to mean peace and now just made me feel like I'd misplaced something.

But I could still hear him. Not walking. Not pacing. Just... lingering. That stillness he carried like a second skin. I didn't realize how much I'd come to recognize it until now, how I could feel Peter Hale in a room even when he wasn't moving.

I got up slowly from the bed, crossed to the door, and opened it. He was halfway down the hall, not quite to the stairs yet. Like he'd been waiting for me to stop him. Or like he hadn't fully decided if he wanted to go in the first place.

"Hey," I said.

He turned. Eyebrow lifted, polite, almost amused.

"You still here?"

"Obviously."

"I thought you were leaving."

"I was."

I nodded slowly. "But?"

"But I had two rules I wanted to add," he said. "Since you're in a boundary-setting mood."

That made me hesitate. Not because I didn't want to hear them, but because I wasn't sure I was ready for whatever weird, vaguely threatening terms Peter Hale might consider reasonable.

Still, I stepped back from the doorway. "You want to come back in, or should we do this like a parent-teacher conference in the hallway?"

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched in that way that usually meant something dangerous was about to follow. Instead, he just stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him. I sat down on the bed, cross-legged, and watched as he crossed the room with his usual slow confidence, standing in the same spot he had earlier.

He didn't sit this time.

"Okay," I said. "Hit me."

"No," Peter said, "that's the opposite of what I'm about to ask."

I blinked. "What?"

He folded his arms. "Rule number one: if something happens—anything—you tell me. You don't wait until it gets bad. You don't try to handle it on your own. If you're bleeding, if you're hurting, if the baby so much as kicks sideways and it feels wrong, I want to know. Immediately."

I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it again.

He had a point. And he wasn't wrong.

"Okay," I said quietly. "Yeah. That's fair."

Peter nodded once, like he'd expected pushback and was mildly surprised he didn't get it.

"And rule two," he said, voice dropping a little. "You don't put yourself in the line of fire for anyone. Not anymore. Not like before."

I stiffened. "Peter—"

"I'm not saying don't get involved," he added quickly. "I'm not an idiot. I know who you are. I know how you are. You're not going to sit back and let other people handle things while you hide. But I need you to stop throwing yourself into every crisis like you're immune to consequence."

I frowned. "I've never thought I was immune."

"You act like it," he said. "You always have. And that was reckless enough when it was just your life. But now it's not just yours."

I looked away, jaw tightening.

"I'm not asking you to change who you are," Peter said, quieter now. "But I am asking you to remember that who you are affects someone else now. Someone who doesn't have a voice yet. Someone who's counting on you to keep breathing."

That hit harder than I wanted it to.

I stared down at my hands, fidgeting with the sleeve of my hoodie. My stomach was warm under the fabric. Quiet. Still.

"You really think I don't know that?" I asked.

"I think you forget," he said. "Especially when someone else is in danger. Especially when you think it's your fault."

I didn't have a good answer to that, because he wasn't wrong.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then walked to the edge of the bed and sat down beside me. This time, he didn't reach out. He didn't push. He just waited, letting the air settle between us.

I exhaled. "I'm not good at this."

"No one is," he said. "Not at first."

I looked over at him. "You've done this before?"

"Not this," he said. "Not... pregnancy. But caring about someone I can't control? Yes. It's exhausting."

That got a laugh out of me. A short, sharp one, but real.

Peter leaned back slightly, bracing his palms on the mattress behind him.

"So?" he asked. "Do we have a deal?"

I rolled my eyes, but nodded. "Fine. Two rules. I tell you if something's wrong, and I try not to get myself killed."

"That's the spirit."

I paused for a beat, then said, "You should stay."

Peter looked at me. "I was going to leave. Give you space."

"I know," I said. "But I don't want space. Not today."

I wasn't sure if I was surprised by the words or not. They felt honest, and maybe that was enough.

"I'm tired," I added. "And I know I said I needed boundaries—and I do—but I also need... not to be alone right now."

Peter didn't argue. He didn't even hesitate.

"I'll stay."

He said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like staying was his default setting.

I moved to lie back against the pillows, stretching out slowly, trying not to wince as my back gave a soft twinge. Peter adjusted beside me, not touching, just close enough to be there. I felt the mattress shift as he settled, the faint brush of warmth from his side of the bed.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The room filled with the soft ambient hum of early morning: the groan of pipes through the walls, the occasional chirp from outside, the lazy thump of a branch tapping against the window.

I stared at the ceiling and let my mind drift.

Deadpool.

I hadn't thought about it since last night. Since the cramping started. But now that the immediate panic had passed, the weight of everything else started creeping back in.

Lydia was still digging into it. Scott was still trying to cross-reference names with past incidents. And we were no closer to figuring out who made the list or how they had access to such detailed knowledge about Beacon Hills's supernatural population.

And somewhere in that mess, there was still the ticking time bomb of my own involvement.

I could feel Peter watching me.

"You're thinking about it," he said.

"Can't help it."

He didn't argue. "I know."

"You're not gonna tell me to stay out of it?"

He let out a quiet sigh. "What would be the point?"

I turned my head to look at him.

"I know better than to think I can stop you," he said. "You'll be in the middle of it no matter what I say. That's who you are."

I frowned. "Is that your subtle way of saying I'm reckless again?"

"It's my not-so-subtle way of saying you care too much."

I let out a breath and returned my gaze to the ceiling. "I hate not knowing what's coming."

"We rarely do," Peter said. "But when it hits, we survive it."

"Yeah," I said softly. "We do."

I didn't sleep, but I let my eyes close. Just for a while. Just to rest.

And with Peter nearby, for once, the quiet didn't feel like a threat.

It felt like a beginning.

The quiet stretched long.

Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Full of things I wasn't sure how to say.

Peter didn't move. He was still lying beside me, a careful distance away, arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling like he was reading a language only he understood. His breathing was slow. Steady. Not asleep. Just... still.

And I kept thinking I should be doing something. Saying something. Making use of the rare quiet between disasters. But my brain wouldn't latch onto anything useful. Every time I tried to focus, it slipped sideways—into memory, into noise, into that cold black space I'd been keeping at bay for too long.

Eventually, I spoke.

I didn't plan to. I didn't even know what I was going to say until the words were already on their way out of my mouth.

"I think I'm depressed."

Peter's head turned slightly toward me, though he didn't say anything right away.

I stared up at the ceiling, not blinking. I couldn't look at him. Not yet.

"I don't know when it started," I said. "I mean... maybe it was always there. That low-level fog. The kind of sadness that just settles behind your ribs and waits. But it got worse. After the Nogitsune."

Still no response. Just quiet. But I could feel his attention sharpen, like he was listening harder than usual.

"I thought it would go away," I said, voice softer now. "After we trapped it. After it stopped wearing my face. I thought, maybe, once it was over, I'd get better. Go back to who I was before."

My throat tightened.

"But I didn't."

I shifted slightly, curling one hand around my stomach, like I could anchor myself there. Like this thing growing inside me was the only proof I had that I was still real. Still here.

"I'd look in the mirror, and it was still me—but not really. Just... a version. The quieter one. The one who couldn't sleep without every light on. The one who'd start crying in the shower for no reason and then feel stupid about it. The one who couldn't focus in class, who couldn't remember things he used to love, who kept having panic attacks during perfectly normal conversations because someone raised their voice or looked at him wrong."

I closed my eyes.

"It was like I was still possessed, but there was no one to exorcise."

Peter didn't interrupt. He didn't offer comfort. He didn't say, that's understandable, or you're not alone, or any of the phrases people usually throw around like bandaids when they don't know how to fix something broken.

And maybe that's why I kept going.

"Even now," I said. "Even with the baby. Even with you here. There are days when I wake up and it's like I'm underwater. Like everything's muffled. Like I'm watching my life from the outside, and I'm not sure I want to get back in."

I laughed, bitter and low. "And then I feel guilty. Because I should want to be here, right? I'm growing an actual person. I have people who care. I have reasons."

Peter spoke then. Quiet. Measured.

"But it doesn't feel like enough."

I nodded.

"I know that," he said. "That feeling."

I turned my head slowly. His eyes were already on me. Steady. Unblinking.

"It doesn't matter how much logic you throw at it," he said. "You can list every reason why you should feel better. Every reason why you shouldn't be drowning. But none of it reaches the part of you that's sinking."

His voice wasn't kind. It wasn't gentle. But it was real.

And I needed real.

"I'm tired of pretending I'm okay," I admitted. "But I don't know how to be not okay without everyone freaking out. Scott looks at me like I'm glass. Lydia treats me like a puzzle. My dad's one emotional breakdown away from calling in a therapist with a tranquilizer gun. And you..."

I trailed off.

Peter didn't blink. "Say it."

I swallowed. "You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm broken."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "because I know what broken looks like. And you're not there yet."

"Yet?"

"You're still here," he said. "You're still talking. That's not nothing."

I felt my throat tighten again. I wasn't used to this version of Peter—the one who said things like that. Who listened without twisting it into something cruel. Who sat beside me, calm and unmoving, while I unraveled.

"You scare me sometimes," I admitted.

"Good."

I blinked at him. "That's your response?"

"If I scare you," he said, "then you're still capable of fear. Which means the numbness hasn't taken everything."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Not really. But part of me understood what he meant. In his own twisted way, Peter wasn't trying to comfort me.

He was trying to keep me tethered.

To keep me angry. Afraid. Present.

And yeah. That was something.

"I used to think if I admitted I was depressed, it meant the Nogitsune won," I said. "Like it left something behind I couldn't scrub out. A stain or a crack or whatever metaphor you want. But now..."

I looked down at my stomach again, at the faint curve just starting to show beneath my hoodie.

"Now I think the only thing that would mean it won is if I gave up."

Peter nodded once. "Exactly."

We were quiet again for a few minutes. The air in the room felt lighter, somehow, even if the weight in my chest hadn't really gone anywhere. At least now it had a shape. A name.

"I don't want to lose myself," I said.

"Then don't," Peter said. "Fight for yourself the way you fight for everyone else."

"I don't know how."

"Then let me help."

That stopped me cold.

Because he meant it.

Not as an offer of salvation. Not a cure. But a promise. Quiet. Sharp. Steady.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I said, "If I get worse—if it gets dark again—I need you to tell me. I need you to call me out."

"I will."

"No games."

I exhaled and leaned back against the pillows again, staring up at the ceiling like it might give me something to hold onto.

The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was the kind you earned after truth. A silence made of honesty, not absence.

Peter stayed. Not because I asked him to again. Not because he thought I needed protecting.

He stayed because he saw me.

And that was more than I'd let anyone do in a long, long time.

So I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was drifting.

I felt anchored. Still scared. Still tired.

But anchored.

And for now... that was enough.

Sunday, January 15
10 weeks pregnant

I woke up with a foot in my ribs.

Metaphorically. Probably.

It felt like something was kicking from the inside out, even though Deaton swore the baby was too small for actual movement to register yet. Still, there was a dull pressure just under my ribcage—like my insides were politely rearranging themselves to make room for the new tenant.

"Morning," I muttered to the ceiling, one hand drifting to my lower stomach.

It was no longer just soft bloat or the residual puff of too many stress-snacks. The curve was real now. Not obvious to anyone else—not through hoodies or jackets—but under my shirt, in the mirror, it was undeniable. Subtle. But different.

Peter called it progress.

I called it weird.

I sighed and rolled onto my side, wincing as the usual symphony of nausea, backache, and pelvic tension settled into place like an overture. Everything was louder in the mornings—sharper. The fatigue, the pressure in my hips, the god-awful thirst. My mouth felt like I'd licked a desert and then insulted its mother. I sat up slowly, dragging a bottle of lukewarm water from my nightstand and chugging it like it owed me money.

Ten weeks. Double digits.

According to Deaton, that meant the baby was about the size of a prune, which was equal parts adorable and horrifying. Bones were forming. Fingernails. Tooth buds. There was a spine in there now. A tiny heart beating strong. The tail was gone—which I was very grateful for, no offense to our evolutionary ancestors—and the facial features were taking shape. Eyes, ears, a mouth. An actual human, forming like some kind of magical science project inside me.

It still didn't feel real most of the time.

But it was. It was so real, especially in the mornings when my whole body protested the existence of this new little life like I'd swallowed a pocket dimension and expected no consequences.

I shuffled to the bathroom on autopilot, brushing my teeth with the slow caution of someone who'd already thrown up once this week from an aggressive mint toothpaste. Then came the usual mental inventory: Was I bleeding? Cramping? Dizzy? Seeing shadows? Hearing dead foxes whisper sweet nothings into my ear?

No? Okay. We were off to a good start.

I didn't have plans today—not unless you counted hiding from the world and continuing my slow, existential meltdown as an actual calendar event. Peter had texted me late last night—Let me know if you need anything tomorrow. No demand. No expectations. Just a quiet offer in the dark.

I hadn't answered yet.

I padded downstairs and found the house mostly empty. Dad was at the station, probably working a double shift again now that Beacon Hills had decided to act like a pressure cooker full of unregistered supernatural drama. Lydia had called the night before to say she'd made progress with the encryption on the third list entry—something about blood types and banshee frequencies—and Scott was on patrol with Kira. Malia had stopped by the clinic to check on the injured coyote pack. Everyone was busy.

Everyone except me.

I made toast. Burnt the first slice. Tried again.

Eventually, I sat at the kitchen table with one hand wrapped around a chipped mug of ginger tea and the other resting low on my abdomen, just below the curve where skin met elastic waistband. I could feel a shift there now—not movement, but weight. A difference. Like my center of gravity was quietly being renegotiated.

"You're really in there, huh?" I whispered.

I wasn't expecting a response.

Didn't get one.

But there was something grounding about saying it out loud. A way to make the surreal feel less like a story I'd imagined in a fever dream and more like something unfolding in real time. With teeth. With consequences.

I was tired. Not just sleepy-tired, but soul-tired. The kind of tired that clings behind your eyes and makes even blinking feel like an effort. I'd slept more in the past two weeks than I had in most of high school, but it never felt like enough. My body was building an entire organ—the placenta—and apparently that was equivalent to running a marathon every day with a backpack full of bricks and hormones.

I was bloated. I was constipated. I had heartburn from drinking water too fast. Everything made me cry lately—sad commercials, off-key music, my reflection in the mirror when I looked particularly sleep-deprived. I'd burst into tears two nights ago when Peter handed me a perfectly folded blanket, and I still didn't understand why.

Hormones, Deaton had said. Like a polite diagnosis for losing your mind.

I rubbed at my face with both hands and leaned back in the chair, breathing through the fog.

Then, without really thinking about it, I reached for my phone and typed:

Me: Hey. You up?

Peter: Always.

Me: Wanna come over?

Peter: I'm already on my way.

Of course he was.

He arrived ten minutes later with a paper bag that smelled like heaven and death—bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant, with a side of some kind of fancy herbal smoothie that looked like swamp water but probably had more nutrients than my entire diet combined.

"You look like hell," he said as I opened the door.

"You flatter me."

"You've got raccoon eyes and hobbit hair."

"Okay, now I feel sexy."

He handed me the bag and walked past me into the kitchen like he lived here. He didn't. But he moved like he belonged here, which was worse. Or better. Or both.

I followed him in and sat at the table again, unwrapping the sandwich like it was a precious artifact. The smell alone made my stomach rumble, which was saying something, considering I'd barely managed a saltine last night.

"You eating?" I asked between bites.

Peter leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I already did."

"Of course you did. Probably raw venison or the souls of your enemies."

He didn't deny it.

We were quiet for a while—me eating, him watching. Not in a creepy way. Just... observant. Always. I was used to it now, but sometimes it still made my skin itch, how thoroughly he noticed things. Like he was cataloguing me. Tracking changes. Shifts.

"You're growing," he said eventually.

"Wow. Thanks. Did you learn that from a parenting blog?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Your scent's changed."

That made me pause. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It means your body's adjusting. It smells... stable."

I blinked. "That's a weird way to say 'not dying.'"

"I thought you liked accuracy."

I sighed and pushed the wrapper aside. The sandwich was gone, and my stomach felt—surprisingly—okay. Full, not queasy. For once.

I rested both hands on my belly and looked down.

"Ten weeks," I said quietly. "That's double digits. We're past the danger zone now, right?"

Peter didn't answer right away.

"There's always danger," he said eventually. "But yes. Statistically, things get more predictable from here."

"Statistically."

I rubbed slow circles over my abdomen with my thumbs, grounding myself.

"You ever think about what they'll look like?" I asked.

Peter tilted his head. "All the time."

"Really?"

"I'm a Hale. We obsess."

I laughed, but there was a lump in my throat. I couldn't quite explain why.

"Sometimes I think they'll look just like me," I said. "Big eyes. Awkward limbs. Just... weird. But good-weird. You know?"

Peter didn't say anything, but something in his expression softened. Just a flicker.

"Other times," I continued, "I think they'll look like you. Sharp eyes. Too smart. Probably brooding at birth. Bite the doctor."

"Strong survival instinct."

I smiled faintly. "Yeah."

The moment stretched.

Then Peter said, quietly, "I hope they get your heart."

That stopped me cold.

I looked up.

He was watching me, still calm, but there was something fragile in the way he said it—like he meant it more than he wanted me to realize.

"Your loyalty," he said. "Your defiance. Your idiotic refusal to quit even when everything's falling apart."

I didn't have words for that.

Not yet.

So I just nodded and looked away, blinking fast.

We spent the rest of the morning mostly in silence. But it wasn't empty. It wasn't tense. It was the kind of silence that felt lived-in, like a house that didn't need to speak to be full.

And for once, the ache in my body didn't feel like a warning.

It felt like life.

Growing. Stretching.

Becoming.

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Stiles's Pov

I didn't have words for that.

Not yet.

So I just nodded and looked away, blinking fast.

We spent the rest of the morning mostly in silence. But it wasn't empty. It wasn't tense. It was the kind of silence that felt lived-in, like a house that didn't need to speak to be full.

And for once, the ache in my body didn't feel like a warning.

It felt like life.

Growing. Stretching.

Becoming.

Stiles's Pov

Monday, January 16

10 weeks and 2 day pregnant

I knew the day was going to be a disaster the second I opened my eyes and realized my hoodie no longer covered my stomach.

Not entirely.

The fabric had ridden up sometime during the night, and now it clung uncomfortably above the curve that had become more pronounced over the weekend. It wasn't huge, not yet—but it was there. There and real and undeniable. A soft swell that pushed out from beneath my ribs and made itself known whenever I moved, stretched, breathed too hard.

I lay there for a minute, blinking up at the ceiling, one hand resting over the small mound beneath my shirt, and tried to decide whether I was ready to face today or not.

Spoiler alert: I wasn't.

But pretending otherwise was kind of my brand.

With a groan, I rolled onto my side and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The moment I sat up, a jolt of nausea hit me like a slap to the face. Not enough to send me running for the bathroom—but enough to make me pause, close my eyes, and breathe like I was trying to psychically force my body to behave.

"Come on," I muttered. "Let's just make it through the morning. That's it. One morning."

I wasn't convincing anyone. Least of all myself.

After a few seconds, I managed to stand. My lower back immediately reminded me that pregnancy was a full-body experience, and not one it particularly enjoyed.

The bathroom mirror wasn't kind.

I looked... tired. Puffy under the eyes, a little pale, my hair somewhere between mad scientist and abandoned scarecrow. I turned sideways and lifted my shirt slowly, trying to be objective.

There it was.

The bump.

Still small, still soft, but no longer passable as a food baby. My waist was fading, the definition around my hips blurring. My belly button was already starting to flatten a little. Nothing dramatic—but enough. Enough to make clothes fit weird. Enough to make me second-guess every outfit I owned.

I stepped back from the mirror and muttered, "I'm gonna have to come out to my wardrobe next, aren't I?"

Back in my room, I rifled through my drawers with increasing frustration. Jeans were officially a no-go. Even the softest pair refused to button without an aggressive wrestling match, and I was not about to start my day with a self-induced hernia. My go-to sweatpants looked... wrong. Not because they didn't fit, but because they drew attention to the swell I was trying to hide. Every hoodie I owned suddenly felt suspiciously tight across the front. My backup plan—oversized flannel and baggy T-shirt—only made me look like I'd fallen out of a donation bin behind the Salvation Army.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, pulse fluttering in my throat. This was stupid. Objectively stupid. But that didn't stop the panic from creeping in. I couldn't go to school like this. Couldn't walk into a building full of teenagers with eyes like searchlights and mouths like weapons. Couldn't sit through class knowing that every shift of fabric, every bump against a desk, every too-long stare might unravel everything.

The room started to spin slightly.

Not fast. Just enough.

My fingers trembled as I picked up my phone from the nightstand. I didn't even think about it this time. I just dialed.

Peter picked up on the first ring. Always did.

"Problem?" he said, voice low and immediately alert.

"I can't do it," I said. "I can't go to school like this."

There was a pause. Not silence, just a breath held on the other end of the line.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened," I snapped, then immediately regretted it. I closed my eyes and exhaled. "Sorry. I just... I can't find anything to wear. Nothing fits. Everything makes it obvious. I'm not even showing that much, but I feel like I am, and I swear I'm going to scream if I have to walk into that building and pretend I'm still normal when I'm not. I'm not."

Another pause.

Then, softer: "You're not supposed to be normal."

"That's not helpful, Peter."

"No. But it's true."

I didn't have the energy to argue.

He must've heard the defeat in my silence, because his voice shifted again—quieter, less sharp.

"Do you want me to come get you?"

I hesitated. The idea of Peter showing up right now, taking control of the mess I'd made of my morning, was both comforting and mortifying.

"Yeah," I said finally. "I think I do."

"I'll be there in fifteen."

The line went dead.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror across the room and tried to breathe. Fifteen minutes. I could hold it together for that long, right?

I curled back up on the edge of the bed, hoodie bunched around my stomach, and rested my hands there, gently.

Ten weeks and two days.

I didn't know how I was going to do this.

But I was trying.

And for now... that had to be enough. Peter showed up twelve minutes later, because of course he did. The man was never late. Never early. Just precise in the way that made time feel more like an inconvenience he tolerated than a rule he followed.

I heard the familiar purr of his engine outside—sleek and dark and completely unnecessary for residential streets—and then the soft knock at the front door. Not impatient. Just a signal. Like, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere until you open this.

I forced myself to my feet, hoodie still loose over a shirt that barely concealed anything anymore, and padded down the hall with bare feet and tired limbs. My stomach gave a dull lurch—nerves, not nausea—and I opened the door.

Peter looked like he always did: crisp, composed, more put-together at eight in the morning than anyone had a right to be. His eyes swept over me once, from head to toe, and I braced for the inevitable commentary. But it didn't come.

He didn't say, You look tired. He didn't ask, Are you okay?

Instead, he held up a paper bag and said, "I brought muffins."

I blinked. "What kind of muffins?"

"The kind you'll actually keep down."

I stepped aside, and he walked in like he owned the place—which, to be fair, I'd kind of invited. I shut the door behind him and trailed into the kitchen while he set the bag on the counter and pulled out two still-warm muffins from a small bakery box. Blueberry for me, banana walnut for him, because of course he remembered.

I sat at the table, still feeling like I was made of glass.

Peter didn't push. He slid the muffin toward me, unwrapped his own, and leaned against the counter, perfectly calm. Perfectly patient. It was almost annoying how unbothered he looked.

After a minute, I said, "I don't think I can do it today."

"I assumed as much," he replied.

I picked at the muffin, tearing the top off first, because that was the only part worth eating when you felt like garbage.

"I tried," I said. "I got up, I brushed my teeth, I even found something to wear. Kind of. I mean, it barely fit, and I looked like a busted can of biscuits, but I tried."

"You don't have to explain."

"No, I do. Because if I don't go today, I'll have to answer questions tomorrow. And if I don't have good answers, someone's going to—"

"Stiles."

I stopped. Looked up.

Peter's expression didn't change. Still calm. Still steady.

"You're allowed to have off days," he said. "You're allowed to feel overwhelmed. You're not being dramatic. You're not failing."

I swallowed around a knot in my throat.

"I can't go today," I said finally. "I'll panic. I'll mess something up. I'll say something and someone will know."

"Then don't go."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

Peter nodded. "You're not obligated to destroy yourself for appearances. If today isn't the day, then we wait for another."

"Yeah, but my dad—"

"I'll talk to him."

That gave me pause.

"You'd do that?"

"I'd do worse."

A beat passed.

Then I said, "Okay."

It felt like the air shifted then—like something inside me unclenched. The pressure that had been pressing behind my ribs all morning, threatening to crack something open, eased just slightly.

"I hate this," I muttered after a while, pushing the muffin around my plate. "I hate that I can't do normal things anymore. Like, I used to joke about hating school, but I'd still go. I'd still push through. But now everything feels so... loud. People. Lights. My own heartbeat. It's like my brain is dialed to eleven and everything's screaming."

Peter came to sit across from me. Not close enough to crowd me, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. His presence was magnetic in that quiet, unnerving way, like a wolf waiting for something to move.

"You're carrying a life," he said. "You've become a beacon to every supernatural sense in a fifty-mile radius. Your body is adjusting to hormones it was never meant to manage, and your instincts are screaming that you're vulnerable. Of course everything feels loud."

I exhaled slowly. "Thanks for the pep talk, Biology with a side of Existential Dread."

Peter shrugged. "I'm not here to sugarcoat. I'm here to make sure you survive."

"Yeah, well. You're not doing a terrible job."

He tilted his head, like he was trying to decide if that counted as a compliment.

I rubbed a hand over my stomach, pressing gently just below the curve. It was firmer today. Not a rock, but no longer just bloat and hope. There was weight there now. Presence.

"You think I should just stay home all week?" I asked.

"I think you should listen to your body," Peter said. "And if that body says rest, then you rest. You don't owe this town your stability. Not after everything it's taken from you."

My eyes stung unexpectedly.

"Careful," I said. "You're almost sounding like you care."

Peter met my gaze, dead serious.

"I do care."

It wasn't said softly. Wasn't said with gentleness or warmth.

It was said like a statement of fact.

And that, more than anything, made it feel real.

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I just nodded.

He stayed for a while after that. Didn't ask questions. Didn't prod. Just made tea, took a phone call in the other room—probably my dad, because he came back ten minutes later and said, "You're excused for the day. Your father didn't ask questions"—and sat on the couch with me in silence while I lay back against a nest of blankets and tried not to drown in everything I was feeling.

And slowly, piece by piece, the day stopped feeling impossible.

Still heavy. Still strange.

But survivable.

Because I wasn't doing it alone.

Peter's Pov

The quiet settled around us like fog—dense, unmoving, but not unwelcome. The kind of silence that filled a space when there was nothing left to say but everything still left to feel.

Stiles was curled into the corner of the couch, half-slumped against a pillow, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like fabric softener and nerves. His eyes had drifted shut somewhere between his third cup of tea and my second passive-aggressive comment about the local school board's lack of medical accommodations. I hadn't expected him to fall asleep. But he had. Fast. Hard.

Which was good. He needed the rest.

What I hadn't expected—what I hadn't prepared for—was what came next.

His scent shifted.

At first, it was subtle. Barely noticeable under the warm hum of stale anxiety and leftover nausea. But then it deepened—like a chord struck lower, fuller. Richer. Something more primal, layered beneath the usual cocktail of teenage exhaustion and hormonal disarray.

I inhaled slowly, carefully. Not out of rudeness. Not even out of curiosity.

Instinct.

And the second the scent truly hit me, my body locked up.

Something was different.

Not wrong. Not dangerous.

Just... changing.

The baby. The baby was changing him.

I leaned in just a fraction, quiet enough not to wake him, and drew in another breath.

There it was again. That new edge to his scent. Softer than fear, warmer than stress. It curled at the edges of his skin like smoke, tangling with the air in a way that made something old in me rise up from where I kept it buried.

Possessive.

Protective.

Mine.

The thought came unbidden, raw and hot, pressing up behind my ribs like it had been waiting there all along. I shut my eyes for a moment, exhaling through my nose, jaw tight. My wolf—the part of me that operated beneath reason, beneath words—stirred with a low thrum of awareness.

Not for Stiles. Not just.

For both of them.

The boy curled up on the couch, and the growing life beneath his skin.

They both smelled like me now.

Not obviously. Not to a human. But to me—to my wolf—it was clear. The baby's DNA had begun the slow, strange process of altering the chemical makeup of Stiles's body from the inside out. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous. Just the barest edge of something new taking root.

And I felt it.

I felt it everywhere.

I shifted slightly, resting one arm along the back of the couch, keeping my body language relaxed even though every muscle felt taut with the need to do something. I didn't know what. Wrap myself around them like a barrier? Snarl at the thought of anyone else getting too close? Tear down the walls and build a fortress? Yes. All of it.

The wolf didn't understand subtlety. It only understood possession.

And right now, it wanted Stiles as far from the world as possible.

Because the world was sharp. And cruel. And full of threats it couldn't begin to comprehend.

And Stiles... he was glowing with vulnerability in a way that made my teeth itch.

I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead before I could stop myself. His skin was warm. His breath steady. The frown he'd been wearing for days was finally gone, smoothed out in sleep. I let my fingers linger for just a moment.

And that was when it happened.

The whine.

Low. Instinctive. Embarrassing.

It slipped out of my throat before I could stop it—quiet, almost imperceptible, but still real.

My wolf was whining.

I jerked back slightly, startled, throat tight. It wasn't a sound I'd made in years. Not even in private. It was the kind of sound wolves made when they needed—when they missed, when they mourned, when they begged.

But I wasn't begging. Not exactly.

I was just feeling too much.

Too fast.

Too close.

And I didn't know what to do with it.

So I stayed still. Perfectly still. One hand braced against the cushions, the other curled into a loose fist in my lap. Stiles murmured something in his sleep—too soft to make out—and shifted slightly, turning into the blanket, one hand coming to rest over his belly in a movement that was unconscious and heartbreakingly instinctual.

He didn't even know he was protecting it.

But he was.

And I...

I was gone.

This wasn't about obsession anymore. Wasn't about curiosity or some twisted sense of responsibility. This was deeper. Older.

I didn't just want to keep him safe.

I needed to.

Because no one else could. Not the way I could.

Not the way I would.

I leaned back slowly, letting my spine press into the cushion, my body angled toward his without meaning to be. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, the delicate curl of his fingers, the faint twitch of a dream flickering behind his closed eyes.

And I let myself feel it.

The bond.

It wasn't official. Not marked. Not declared.

But it was there.

Quiet. Steady.

Growing, just like the life inside him.

And I would kill for it.

I already had.

I didn't know how to explain that to him yet. Maybe I never would.

But as I sat in the dim, still quiet of the Stilinski living room, surrounded by the smell of blueberry muffins and the subtle shift of skin and blood and warmth—

I knew one thing for certain:

He didn't have to ask for my protection.

He already had it.

And he always would.
---

My phone buzzed quietly against my thigh.

I glanced down. The screen lit up with a single name that immediately put me on edge.

Scott McCall.

Of course.

I hesitated before opening it, my thumb hovering just long enough to acknowledge the internal shift—like something bristled just under the surface of my skin. Not anger. Not quite. Just the steady pulse of something territorial, irritated at being disturbed while guarding something fragile.

The message read:

Scott (8:41 a.m.):

> Why isn't Stiles at school?

Straightforward. No frills. No assumptions.

That didn't make it less annoying.

I stared at the words for a few seconds. Then I looked back at Stiles—still curled on the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting protectively over the growing swell of his stomach. His hoodie had twisted a bit, and I could see the edge of his shirt stretched across skin that hadn't been smooth there even a week ago.

He looked peaceful now. It wouldn't last. It never did. But right now, in this exact moment, he was sleeping without flinching. And I wasn't about to ruin that because Scott decided to play surrogate older brother after weeks of avoidance.

I typed back.

Me (8:44 a.m.):

> He wasn't up for it.

A beat passed.

Then:

Scott (8:45 a.m.):

> Is he okay?

I didn't answer right away. I watched the ellipses flicker on and off a few times—Scott starting to type, then stopping. Starting again. Then nothing.

I tapped my thumb against the edge of the phone, thinking.

Technically, Stiles wasn't okay. He was stressed. Exhausted. Struggling under the weight of a reality no one should have to carry, let alone a seventeen-year-old boy who'd already been possessed by something ancient and cruel enough to tear worlds apart. But okay was relative, wasn't it?

He was still here. Still breathing.

Still fighting.

That had to count for something.

Me (8:48 a.m.):

> He's resting. That's what he needs today.

Another pause.

Scott didn't reply again, and I didn't push it. He wasn't my concern right now.

I slid the phone onto the coffee table, next to the half-drunk tea. Then I leaned back into the corner of the couch, arms folded across my chest, one foot on the floor, the other tucked beneath me.

I kept my senses open—ears tuned to the house, the street beyond, the subtle changes in Stiles's breathing.

Every once in a while, he twitched in his sleep. Small movements. Dream echoes. His fingers tightened against the fabric of his hoodie once, a reflexive grip. I could hear his heart flutter in response to something in his mind, some memory or fear or both. It quickened for a few seconds, then settled again.

I didn't intervene.

Not yet.

This was his house. His safe place. It wasn't mine to invade unless he needed it.

But I didn't take my eyes off him.

Not when the wind shifted outside and carried the smell of wet asphalt through the cracked window. Not when a neighbor's dog barked three houses down. Not when a car idled at the end of the street just a little too long before moving on.

Because something in me had settled, sharply and without apology.

He was mine to protect.

Not in the way that made promises I couldn't keep. Not in the fantasy sense of bonds and soulmates and other ridiculous romanticized ideas that young wolves clung to when they didn't know any better.

This was simpler.

Older.

He carried my child. He trusted me enough to fall asleep within arm's reach. He'd let me hear the fear in his voice this morning and hadn't tried to hide it behind a wall of sarcasm. That wasn't affection. That was instinct. Recognition.

And my wolf... my wolf had answered.

So I sat there and waited.

Waited while the morning sun shifted through the windows and spilled soft light across his hair. Waited while my phone stayed mercifully quiet. Waited while the world outside kept turning, because for now, this—this—was all that mattered.

The pulse of two heartbeats.

The scent of change.

And the understanding that if anyone, Scott included, decided to make things harder for him?

They'd have to go through me. The sound of Stiles's stomach rumbling was audible, even without my enhanced hearing.

He made a face, half-grimace, half-exasperation, like his body had betrayed him. Again.

"I'm hungry," he muttered, as if that were some kind of defeat.

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't we just agree that your body knows what it needs better than you do?"

"Yeah, well, my body also thinks peanut butter and pickles are a good idea, so forgive me if I'm skeptical."

I didn't bother arguing. Instead, I stood, stretching the stiffness from my spine as I moved toward the kitchen. Stiles flopped sideways on the couch, dramatically throwing one arm over his eyes like some overworked Victorian noble.

"You're really gonna cook?" he called out, voice muffled by the crook of his arm.

"You think I'm incapable?"

"I think your culinary experience starts and ends with blood, fire, and the cries of the innocent."

I let that hang in the air a moment, purely out of spite, before replying.

"I made you tea earlier."

"Microwaving water doesn't count."

I smirked to myself and opened the fridge. The pickings were as limited as expected. Sheriff Stilinski had a bad habit of stocking the essentials—black coffee, condiments, leftovers he never got around to eating—but not much in the way of actual food. I found eggs, half a block of cheddar, two lonely strips of bacon wrapped in wax paper, and a carton of milk that was, miraculously, still fresh.

It would do.

I pulled the ingredients onto the counter with methodical efficiency, then moved to the cabinets until I found a frying pan and a spatula that hadn't seen action in weeks. The stove clicked on with that familiar, almost nostalgic tick-tick-FOOM of the gas catching, and I let the heat settle while cracking the eggs into a bowl.

Behind me, I could hear the couch creak as Stiles shifted. The quiet sound of him adjusting the blanket, clearing his throat, trying not to sound like he was checking on me without checking on me.

I didn't say anything. I knew he'd ask if he wanted to know.

The bacon sizzled first—just enough fat to fill the air with something rich and sharp, the kind of scent that would rouse even the most reluctant appetite. Stiles made a low, appreciative sound from the other room.

"Are you actually cooking bacon?" he asked, voice somewhere between suspicion and wonder.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Coming from you? Yes."

"You're aware I had a life before this, right? One with kitchens and stoves and knives that didn't always end up in someone's chest?"

"Hard to imagine."

I flipped the bacon with a smirk. "You don't get abs like mine eating takeout every day."

There was a choked cough from the living room, followed by a low mutter I couldn't quite catch. Something about egos and frying pans and don't talk about your abs while I'm craving carbs.

I added the eggs next, scrambling them just enough to keep them soft. Then a quick grating of cheddar, a splash of milk, and a slow fold of heat until the whole thing was golden and just slightly runny. The kind of food you could actually taste, not just tolerate.

When the eggs were done, I plated them beside the bacon and carried it all back to the couch. Stiles sat up slowly, blinking at the sight like I'd handed him a treasure map written in gold leaf.

"You really cooked," he said, staring at the plate like it might vanish.

"You doubted me."

"I always doubt you."

I handed him the plate and watched as he took the first bite—cautious, like he expected it to taste like ash or broken dreams. But the moment it hit his tongue, I saw the shift. His whole face softened, and a small sound of approval slipped out before he could stop it.

"Oh my god," he said, mouth full. "This is actually edible."

"High praise."

"I mean it. If this is a trap, it's working."

"No trap," I said, settling back beside him. "Just eggs."

He devoured half the plate in record time, then slowed, eating the rest with more control. One hand drifted to his stomach again, as if checking in. The baby had quieted, no movement I could sense, just that fast, steady heartbeat tucked beneath skin and muscle and magic.

"You should eat more often," I said quietly.

"I know," he muttered. "It's just—some days, I wake up and everything smells like metal and rot. Other days, all I want is mashed potatoes and sugar."

"I'll stock your kitchen," I said before I could think better of it.

He froze, fork midair. "Wait, seriously?"

"Don't look so shocked."

"I just—I didn't think you were the grocery store type."

"I'm not. But I am the type to prepare. And if your body wants specific things, then it should have them."

His eyes were wide, uncertain. "Thanks."

I nodded once. Didn't add anything else.

He finished the rest of the food in silence, and when the plate was empty, he leaned back with a sigh that sounded equal parts satisfaction and disbelief.

"You're full," I said.

"I'm so full."

"You'll be hungry again in two hours."

"Shhh, don't ruin it."

I smirked and took the plate from him, walking it back to the kitchen.

When I returned, he was stretched out again, hoodie half-zipped, the edges of his undershirt just barely peeking above the waistband of his sweatpants. His stomach looked more noticeable in that moment—not big, not obvious to anyone else, but enough that I could see the strain in the fabric. The curve was small, but undeniable.

He caught me staring.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't nothing me."

I shrugged. "It's just... you're changing."

He looked down at himself, then at me. "That's either ominous or really weirdly sweet."

"I meant it as an observation."

He smiled faintly. "Well. You were right."

"I usually am."

And for a little while, neither of us said anything more.

We just sat together, in the quiet, while sunlight slanted across the living room floor and the world outside went on turning.

But inside this house—inside this moment—there was stillness. Safety.

And something else we weren't ready to name yet.

Stiles's Pov

There's a moment after eating where everything feels almost normal.

I was full—for the first time in what felt like weeks—and warm, curled up in the corner of the couch like I belonged there. The food was still sitting comfortably in my stomach, and more importantly, it had stayed there. No nausea. No gagging. No desperate dash to the bathroom halfway through a sentence. Just... fullness.

And Peter had cooked.

Which, honestly, should have been the weirdest part of my morning, but wasn't. Not even close.

He came back from the kitchen and dropped onto the other end of the couch, not quite lounging, but close enough that I could see the edges of that ease creeping into his posture. Something about him was always too aware. Too focused. Like he was ready to fight something invisible in the next breath. But right then? He looked content. Still sharp, but not tense.

I hated that it made me feel a little safer.

"So," he said casually, "we're going shopping today."

I blinked. "What?"

"Groceries. Clothes. I'm not letting you try to squeeze into things that don't fit anymore. You looked like you were fighting your jeans this morning."

"I was fighting them," I muttered. "And I lost."

He gave me a look—one of those patient, impossible-to-argue-with expressions that he wore like armor. "Then it's decided."

"You can't just decide that. I'm not—look, I'm not even sure I want to be seen in public right now."

"You don't exactly have a choice," he said calmly. "You're ten weeks in. You need clothes that fit, and you need food that doesn't make you dry heave. Both of those things exist at places that aren't your house."

I frowned at him, like that might reverse time and erase the idea from his brain. It didn't.

"And you want to be the one to take me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Peter tilted his head, studying me with that slow, unreadable gaze. "Because I know what I'm doing. And because I don't trust anyone else to notice if something changes while we're out."

That gave me pause.

It wasn't said cruelly. It wasn't even said smugly. Just a statement of fact. And he wasn't wrong. I didn't trust anyone else to read me the way he could—not right now. Not when I still felt like I was wearing someone else's body half the time.

"I'm not a baby," I muttered.

"No. But you're carrying one."

"Touché," I said bitterly.

He didn't smile. Just waited. Quiet and still and infuriatingly correct.

I let out a slow breath. "Fine. But you're not dragging me to some overpriced werewolf boutique or whatever you have in mind. I want normal clothes. Things that stretch. Things I can throw up on without crying."

"That can be arranged."

"And I get veto power."

He nodded once. "Of course."

"I'm serious. If you try to put me in anything with buttons that don't open, I'll scream."

He stood up like we hadn't just had a full five-minute argument. "I'll take that under advisement. Go get dressed."

I looked down at myself. Oversized hoodie. Sweatpants that were dangerously close to giving up on life. "This is dressed."

"For a nap, maybe," he said, already moving toward the door. "I'll be in the car. Ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

I groaned and slouched deeper into the couch for exactly thirty more seconds before dragging myself upright.

Ten weeks. It didn't sound like much, but it felt like I'd been pregnant forever. The bloat had morphed into something softer, heavier. My skin felt stretched in places I hadn't even known could stretch. Every pair of jeans I owned had either rebelled completely or required advanced negotiations and at least one safety pin to stay on.

I shuffled into my room and peeled out of the hoodie, tossing it onto my bed. The shirt underneath stuck to my back, damp from heat and residual stress. I tugged it off too, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but my boxers and socks.

There it was.

Not flat. Not round, either. Just a curve. Small, but distinct. The kind that whispered you're not imagining this. A bump that didn't go away when I exhaled or changed positions. A little more real every day.

I reached out and touched it—just with the tips of my fingers. Not reverent, not dramatic. Just... curious. And a little afraid.

It still didn't feel like it was mine.

I found a clean T-shirt and a zip-up hoodie that actually zipped all the way without making me feel like I was one movement away from busting seams. The maternity jeans I'd bought weeks ago were now too tight in the worst places—low-rise lies from a store clerk who swore they'd "grow with me."

They hadn't.

Instead, I grabbed the softest pair of joggers I owned. Not stylish. Not impressive. But they didn't dig into my waist, and they didn't feel like a punishment. That was good enough for today.

When I came back downstairs, Peter was already waiting by the front door, arms crossed and keys in hand. He gave me a once-over.

"Acceptable," he said.

"Gee, thanks."

I grabbed my phone, wallet, and—on instinct—tucked a protein bar into my pocket. I didn't think I'd need it, but with how fast things could change, I'd learned not to underestimate my body's sudden demands.

We stepped out into the cold January air, and I paused on the porch for a breath. Just one.

Because I was still nervous.

Because I still felt like a glass bottle someone had overfilled and left too close to the edge.

But Peter waited.

Not impatient.

Just... there.

And I followed.

Because for all his sharp edges and impossible opinions, he hadn't once let me fall.

Not yet.There's a moment after eating where everything feels almost normal.

And Peter had cooked.

Which, honestly, should have been the weirdest part of my morning, but wasn't. Not even close.

I hated that it made me feel a little safer.

"So," he said casually, "we're going shopping today."

I blinked. "What?"

"Groceries. Clothes. I'm not letting you try to squeeze into things that don't fit anymore. You looked like you were fighting your jeans this morning."

"I was fighting them," I muttered. "And I lost."

He gave me a look—one of those patient, impossible-to-argue-with expressions that he wore like armor. "Then it's decided."

"You can't just decide that. I'm not—look, I'm not even sure I want to be seen in public right now."

I frowned at him, like that might reverse time and erase the idea from his brain. It didn't.

"And you want to be the one to take me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Peter tilted his head, studying me with that slow, unreadable gaze. "Because I know what I'm doing. And because I don't trust anyone else to notice if something changes while we're out."

That gave me pause.

"I'm not a baby," I muttered.

"No. But you're carrying one."

"Touché," I said bitterly.

He didn't smile. Just waited. Quiet and still and infuriatingly correct.

"That can be arranged."

"And I get veto power."

He nodded once. "Of course."

"I'm serious. If you try to put me in anything with buttons that don't open, I'll scream."

He stood up like we hadn't just had a full five-minute argument. "I'll take that under advisement. Go get dressed."

I looked down at myself. Oversized hoodie. Sweatpants that were dangerously close to giving up on life. "This is dressed."

"For a nap, maybe," he said, already moving toward the door. "I'll be waiting. Ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

I groaned and slouched deeper into the couch for exactly thirty more seconds before dragging myself upright.

There it was.

I reached out and touched it—just with the tips of my fingers. Not reverent, not dramatic. Just... curious. And a little afraid.

It still didn't feel like it was mine.

They hadn't.

Instead, I grabbed the softest pair of joggers I owned. Not stylish. Not impressive. But they didn't dig into my waist, and they didn't feel like a punishment. That was good enough for today.

When I came back downstairs, Peter was already waiting by the front door, arms crossed and keys in hand. He gave me a once-over.

"Acceptable," he said.

"Gee, thanks."

We stepped out into the cold January air, and I paused on the porch for a breath. Just one.

Because I was still nervous.

Because I still felt like a glass bottle someone had overfilled and left too close to the edge.

But Peter waited.

Not impatient.

Just... there.

And I followed.

Because for all his sharp edges and impossible opinions, he hadn't once let me fall.

Not yet. The grocery store smelled like too many things at once—plastic, fruit, raw meat, bleach—and I hated all of it immediately.

Peter didn't wait for me to adjust. He grabbed a cart with the kind of efficiency that said we're doing this and gave it a quick shake to make sure the wheels weren't cursed. Then he glanced back at me with a look that said, Try and keep up, without actually saying it out loud.

I trailed after him like a weird, exhausted shadow.

I didn't even notice we'd bypassed the bakery and the junk food until we were already deep in produce, surrounded by misters spraying innocent vegetables like they were on a tropical vacation.

Peter reached for a bunch of bananas. "Potassium. Helps with muscle cramps and nausea."

"I'm aware," I muttered.

He added them to the cart like a judgmental nutritionist and moved on to oranges, apples, and some kind of disturbingly large bag of pre-washed spinach.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I was already sweating under my hoodie and regretting everything. My back ached. My ankles ached. My stomach, at least for now, felt okay—but I could feel the twinge of queasiness lingering just under the surface, waiting to jump me in the cereal aisle.

He grabbed a clamshell of blueberries. "Antioxidants. Fiber. Easy on the stomach."

"You say that like blueberries ever saved anyone from vomiting."

"Have they not? What a shame."

I scowled but said nothing.

Somehow, without me noticing, Peter pulled out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. A list. An actual, hand-written grocery list that looked like it had been color-coded in his head before it ever touched ink.

I blinked. "Did you seriously write out a prenatal grocery list?"

"Of course," he said. "You're eating for two."

"Yeah, but one of us is the size of a grape."

"And growing."

He steered us smoothly through the produce section, grabbing avocados, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes without a single pause. The cart was already starting to look like it belonged to a health blogger or someone who actually used their kitchen appliances.

"Sweet potatoes?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Sure. If you're the one cooking them."

"I will be."

That surprised me more than it should have. I blinked at him. "You... cook?"

"I do many things you find improbable."

"Not the most comforting thing you could've said, but okay."

We moved on.

The dairy aisle was cold enough to make me shiver, and I tugged my hoodie closer, wishing I'd worn something thicker. Peter didn't seem to notice—or maybe he just didn't comment. He grabbed a gallon of almond milk, a tub of Greek yogurt, and a pack of cheddar slices before eyeing the options for cottage cheese like he was evaluating threats.

"You're not going to make me eat cottage cheese, are you?"

"Calcium. Protein. You'll thank me."

"I will not."

"You might."

I rolled my eyes, but I didn't argue when he dropped a container into the cart.

When we reached the meat section, I paused. The smell hit me harder than expected—raw and cold and vaguely metallic—and my stomach did a quick somersault. I sucked in a breath, held it, and stepped back.

Peter noticed.

"No," I said quickly. "I'm okay. I just—need a second."

He studied me, then nodded once. "Go to the next aisle. I'll meet you there."

I did.

I hovered near the grains and pasta section, pretending to browse whole wheat bread options while my stomach settled. A few minutes later, Peter joined me with chicken, ground turkey, and a pack of salmon tucked neatly into a cooler bag. He'd even double-bagged it to avoid "cross-contamination."

"Did you grow up in a lab?" I asked.

"No. But I learn fast."

The cart kept growing—brown rice, oatmeal, whole grain cereal, lentils, black beans, almond butter. He skipped nothing. It wasn't just food—it was a strategy. A nutritional war plan designed to keep me from dying of vitamin deficiency while I carried the most inconvenient baby in Beacon Hills history.

At one point, I tried to sneak a box of sugary cereal into the cart—Frosted Flakes, the holy grail of childhood breakfasts—but Peter caught it before it landed.

"Cravings corner," he said, unimpressed. "That comes after the staples."

"Your system is authoritarian."

"It's effective."

Eventually, he relented. I got the Frosted Flakes. And a jar of pickles. And sour gummy worms.

"Balance," I said, smug.

Peter didn't look impressed. "Moderation."

"Sure, sure."

By the time we got to supplements, I was flagging. My back hurt. My brain felt like it was running underwater. But I didn't say anything. I just hovered behind the cart while Peter restocked my prenatal vitamins, grabbed a bottle of DHA capsules, and added a few ginger chews to the pile like a weirdly prepared dad at an emergency kit convention.

When we passed the drink aisle, I grabbed a few bottles of lemonade, sparkling water, and one bottle of coconut water that I absolutely would not finish.

"Hydration," Peter said, approving.

"I'm aware. Again."

At the checkout, I stood aside while Peter handled the process like this was his grocery trip. The cashier didn't even blink—just scanned the items, bagged them, and handed over the receipt without so much as a question. It was weird. Normal. Like we were just two people shopping. Not a possessed-by-dark-magic teen dad and a morally ambiguous werewolf co-parenting an unborn magical baby.

Back in the car, I let out a long breath and sagged against the seat. My feet ached. My knees were furious. But I'd survived.

"I need a nap," I muttered.

"You'll get one."

Peter didn't gloat. He didn't say I told you so, or see, wasn't that terrible? He just put the bags in the back, climbed in, and started the engine.

We drove in silence for a while, and I stared out the window, watching the blur of Beacon Hills pass us by.

It wasn't a bad trip.

That scared me more than anything.

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

Summary:

Notes:

Chapter Text

Previously on Echoes of the Fox

Peter's Pov

Peter didn't gloat. He didn't say I told you so, or see, wasn't that terrible? He just put the bags in the back, climbed in, and started the engine.

We drove in silence for a while, and I stared out the window, watching the blur of Beacon Hills pass us by.

It wasn't a bad trip.

That scared me more than anything.

Stiles's Pov

By the time we pulled into the driveway, I felt like I'd been wrung out and folded in half. My back ached. My ankles were hinting at mutiny. And even though I hadn't carried more than a single bag, it felt like I'd run a marathon just from walking the aisles under too-bright lights with too many smells.

The house looked still. Quiet. No cruiser in the driveway, which meant my dad was either at the station or still working a late shift and sleeping through the day. I wasn't sure which option made me feel more relieved.

Peter cut the engine and didn't say anything. He got out, opened the trunk, and started collecting bags with the kind of methodical precision that reminded me of military procedures. Every item had a place. Every bag a purpose. I lingered on the porch steps, arms crossed over my chest and the cold breeze crawling under my hoodie.

He glanced up once and nodded toward the door. "Unlock it."

"I'm literally catching my breath," I muttered, but I pulled out my keys anyway.

The warmth inside hit me hard—like stepping out of the wrong reality and back into the only place I could halfway pretend to feel normal. Or, well, less haunted.

I held the door open while Peter brought the bags in, two at a time, setting them gently on the kitchen island like they were precious cargo. Which, I guess, for a werewolf obsessed with prenatal nutrition, they kind of were.

"You don't have to do all of it," I said, stepping in and leaning heavily against the wall.

"I know," he replied, not looking at me. "But I will."

He started unpacking, methodical and silent. Spinach, kale, and carrots into the crisper drawer. Greek yogurt and almond milk in the fridge. Oatmeal into the pantry. I watched, somewhere between impressed and weirdly touched. He moved like he'd done this before—not here, not in this house—but somewhere. Like he'd memorized the choreography of putting someone else's life in order.

I didn't help. Not because I couldn't—okay, maybe I couldn't—but because I didn't want to ruin it. I just watched, perched on the edge of the counter stool like a tired ghost with good timing.

"You didn't have to bring all the bags in at once."

"I didn't," he said. "I made three trips."

"Could've asked me."

He finally looked at me, expression unreadable. "Could've. Didn't."

There was a beat of quiet.

Then, softer, I said, "Thanks. For... all of it."

He didn't answer with words. Just nodded and opened the last bag—pickles, dark chocolate, sour candy, and the box of Frosted Flakes I'd smuggled in. He paused slightly when he held the cereal up, as if mentally reweighing his life choices, then set it on the counter without comment.

When he was done, he washed his hands, dried them with one of the dishtowels my dad never used, and turned to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Ready for part two?"

I blinked. "Part two?"

"Clothes."

I groaned. "I changed my mind. I'm tired. Let's pretend my legs don't exist for the rest of the day."

"No."

"Peter."

"You said the pants don't fit. You tried on two this morning and nearly fell over."

"That's not proof."

"You also swore at the zipper loud enough to wake the neighbors."

"Point still stands—do we have to do this today?"

"Yes. Because if we wait, you'll talk yourself out of it again."

"Not true."

"You almost didn't go to the store this morning."

"Because I was spiraling."

He gave me a long look. Not judgmental. Just sharp. "Are you spiraling now?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Sighed. "Not... actively."

"Then we go."

I looked down at myself. Hoodie that I hadn't washed in days. Sweatpants with one threadbare knee. I looked like someone who had never once made a decision that didn't involve a vending machine.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not trying anything on unless it promises to stretch and forgive me."

Peter didn't smile, but something softened around the edges of his face. "Deal."

He grabbed the keys from the hook by the door. I followed, dragging my feet like a kid being taken to a dentist who also sold shoes. But I didn't argue again. Because he was right. I needed clothes that fit. I needed something—anything—to feel less like I was falling out of myself every time I stood up or looked in a mirror.

And if Peter Hale was the one taking me, I could at least be sure of one thing.

He wasn't going to let me lie to myself and pretend I didn't need this.

He'd drag me through the discomfort. Through the awkwardness. Through the quiet, inevitable grief of outgrowing the life I used to have.

And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't hate him for it.

Not today, anyway.

It didn't matter that Peter was driving with one hand on the wheel like he owned the road. It didn't matter that the sky was that dull gray that always made Beacon Hills feel more haunted than usual. Or that I was warm and vaguely full and still riding the high of not puking up breakfast for once. None of that mattered, because the closer we got to the mall, the worse the knot in my stomach twisted.

And this wasn't nausea. Not baby-related, anyway. This was something different. Older. Quieter. A guilt that settled behind my ribs and made everything feel just slightly off-center.

I shouldn't let him do this.

That thought had been ping-ponging around my brain since the second he said clothes like it was a practical solution and not an emotional minefield.

I hadn't had new clothes since—God, probably sophomore year? Some Christmas or birthday when my dad still thought I might grow into something taller than five-foot-ten and not just stretch out sideways when I stopped sleeping. I had clothes, sure, but most of them were hand-me-downs from charity bins or discount racks at the Beacon Hills outlet stores. The pairs of maternity jeans I owned no longer fit.

Now Peter wanted to replace all of it. Quietly. Efficiently. Like it was just another box to check off on his mission to keep me alive and functional.

And I didn't know how to handle that.

He parked outside a boutique that didn't look fancy from the outside, but the second I stepped in, I knew I was out of my depth. The lighting was soft and warm. The racks were spaced wide like everything inside was allergic to clutter. There were mannequins wearing sweaters that probably cost more than my entire closet. I stared at a folded stack of jeans near the front and felt my stomach dip again.

"I'm not made of money," I blurted.

Peter arched an eyebrow. "I am."

"That's not the point."

"It is to me."

"I can't let you—"

"Yes, you can."

He said it so calmly. Like it wasn't even up for debate. Like buying me an entire new wardrobe was something he'd already made peace with and my opinion was just a formality.

"You don't have to fix everything," I muttered.

He turned to face me fully. "This isn't fixing. It's providing."

"For what, though? You're not—" I bit down on the word family. I wasn't ready to say it out loud. I didn't even know what the hell this was between us.

Peter watched me for a moment, then said, "You're growing a child. A child I helped create, whether intentionally or not. That makes this my responsibility."

I looked down. My hands were curled into the sleeves of my hoodie. The hem of it barely skimmed over the curve of my belly now, and the thought of trying to squeeze into anything with a button or a zipper made my spine ache just thinking about it.

I didn't answer him.

He didn't push.

Instead, he turned back to the racks and started sorting through them with a focus that was honestly terrifying. Like he was assembling a war outfit, not casual maternity wear.

"You want soft fabrics," he said. "Stretchable waistbands. Things that don't cling to the wrong places, but still fit you properly."

"I don't think anything fits me properly anymore," I said under my breath.

Peter didn't look at me when he responded. "Then we find things that fit who you are now."

Not what. Not your body. Not your condition. Who.

Something in my chest cracked a little at that.

He handed me a few items—longer shirts, soft tees, sweatpants that didn't look like they'd disintegrate after one wash—and then gestured toward the fitting room. "Try these."

I hesitated. "This is weird."

"It's clothes."

"It's me," I snapped before I could stop myself. "It's me being weird and huge and hormonal and—"

Peter stepped closer. Not looming, not pushing. Just... there. "It's you being in transition. And there's no shame in dressing for the version of yourself that needs comfort."

I opened my mouth. Shut it. Then grabbed the hangers and disappeared into the fitting room.

The mirror was unforgiving. That was nothing new. But something about seeing myself in better lighting, with new clothes draped over my arms and the swell of my stomach more visible under the harsh fluorescents—it made it feel real in a way that Deaton's monitor or Lydia's hugs hadn't. This wasn't just happening in secret anymore. It was happening.

I pulled on a pair of charcoal-gray joggers that felt like being hugged by clouds. The waistband sat perfectly under the curve of my stomach, soft and stretchy and merciful. Then came the shirt—navy blue, long enough to cover everything I hated right now, and slim enough not to look like a tarp.

When I stepped out, Peter looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow. "Better?"

I shrugged. "I don't hate it."

"That's high praise from you."

"I'm not crying. That's something."

He didn't comment on that. Just turned back to the rack and pulled a few more pieces for me. Henleys. Soft zip-ups. Maternity jeans that didn't look like nightmares. Buttonless flannels. A few things that were actually my style, just... adapted. Roomier.

He moved like he knew my measurements already. Like he'd been planning this long before today.

"You've done this before," I said, watching him.

He glanced at me. "Not exactly. But I've taken care of people before. And I notice things."

That shut me up.

I tried on everything. Not because I wanted to, but because Peter kept handing things over and I was too tired to argue. After the fourth round, I started to feel the strain again—my back stiffening, the weight of the day catching up to me all over again.

Peter noticed.

"We'll check out," he said. "That's enough for now."

I looked at the pile he'd gathered on the bench beside him. At least ten tops. Four pairs of pants. New socks. New underwear. A hoodie that I had stupidly fallen in love with the second I touched it. All of it high-quality. All of it paid for with money I didn't have.

"This is too much," I said quietly.

Peter didn't even blink. "It's the bare minimum."

"You spent more on me in two hours than I've spent on myself in a year."

"That's not something to be proud of."

"Doesn't mean I don't feel weird about it."

"I'm not asking you to feel comfortable. I'm asking you to let me help."

There was no pity in his voice. No condescension. Just... steadiness. Like he'd already made peace with this and was just waiting for me to catch up.

I looked away.

He paid.

I didn't ask how much it cost. I didn't want to know.

We loaded the bags into the car in silence. I stared out the window the whole ride home, tugging at the sleeve of the new hoodie I'd insisted on wearing out of the store. It was stupidly soft. Like being wrapped in a safe space.

By the time we got back, I felt half-dead from exhaustion. My body was done. My brain was fogged out. But when Peter handed me the first bag and said, "Go lie down. I'll handle the rest," I didn't argue.

I climbed the stairs slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands, my belly cradled with one palm.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like I was wearing a costume.

I felt like me.

Changed. Tired. A little scared.

But still me.

And that? That was something.

Waking up felt like surfacing from underwater—slow, groggy, disoriented. My brain floated somewhere above my body, untethered and sluggish. I didn't even remember falling asleep. One minute I was dragging myself upstairs with every intention of just "resting my eyes," and the next the room was dipped in soft late afternoon light and the world had gone quiet again.

The house didn't feel tense. That was new.

I sat up slowly, blinking against the dimness. My back ached in that dull, familiar way, and my legs felt like overcooked noodles. I reached automatically for my belly, palm resting lightly against the curve. Still there. Still solid. Still real.

The hoodie I'd fallen asleep in—one of the new ones, dark gray and warm enough to count as a hug—was rumpled, but still soft and clean. I could smell the detergent from the store, something expensive and vaguely citrusy, nothing like the stuff my dad used. It was comforting in a weird way. Foreign, but not bad.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and took a breath.

Okay. Movement.

The bags from the clothing store were still stacked neatly by the door, untouched. Peter had probably put the rest of the groceries away by now—if he hadn't, well, that wasn't my fault. I had been given strict instructions to sleep, and I'd followed them with alarming efficiency.

I shuffled over to the bags and started unpacking.

There was something incredibly surreal about putting away a whole new wardrobe. Like I'd slipped into someone else's life by accident. Each item I pulled out felt like it belonged to a version of me that hadn't quite caught up yet—one who wore soft fabrics and stretchy waistbands without flinching, who could walk into a maternity section without breaking into a cold sweat.

Shirts first. I folded them carefully, stacking them on the dresser in vague color order. The long-sleeved tees and oversized henleys went into the top drawer, replacing the crumpled mess of hoodies and too-small flannels I hadn't had the energy to organize in weeks. The new joggers and maternity jeans went into the second drawer, all of them neatly folded and smelling like clean cotton and unfamiliar comfort.

It was almost meditative, the folding and stacking. Like I was carving out space for something more permanent. Like I was starting to accept that this—this body, this stage, this weird limbo of not-quite-parenthood—wasn't temporary. Not in the way I'd been telling myself, anyway.

The last bag at the bottom was smaller. I didn't remember grabbing it at the store. The logo was different too—white, clean font, with no flashy branding.

Curious, I tugged it open.

Inside, nestled between layers of soft tissue paper, was the little gray onesie I hadn't seen in weeks.

It was folded neatly, almost reverently, with the tiny sleeves tucked in and the legs crossed just slightly at the bottom. The fabric was soft and heathered, the kind of cotton that would age well with washing. And right in the center, over where a baby's heart would be, was a tiny, detailed print of a wolf. Just a silhouette—dark and simple, standing tall on a ridge, howling at a moon that wasn't there.

My breath caught.

Peter had given it to me on New Year's. Quietly. Casually. Like it hadn't meant anything. Like it was just something he'd seen and bought and passed along because we were both pretending not to feel anything too big or too heavy.

I'd stuffed it in a drawer. Not because I didn't want it, but because I did. Because it scared me, how badly I wanted to hold it up to something small and real and alive. Because back then, I couldn't look at it without thinking about everything that could still go wrong.

But now, ten weeks and two days in, it felt different.

I sank down onto the bed, onesie in hand, and stared at it like it might start breathing on its own.

This was happening.

I was going to be a parent. There was a baby growing inside me, slowly, steadily, in spite of everything. And one day—maybe not soon, but soon enough—I was going to dress them in this. Wrap them in something soft and warm and vaguely ridiculous and know that they were real.

That we were real.

And for a second, just one second, I let myself imagine it.

Not the chaos. Not the fear. Not the weirdness of male pregnancy or the unspoken tension between me and Peter or the thousand ways this whole thing could still fall apart.

Just... the quiet moment. The weight of something small and alive against my chest. The feel of their heartbeat. The way they might smell, like milk and sleep and new beginnings. The way I'd press my lips to their forehead and know—just know—that I would burn down the world before I let anything touch them.

I blinked hard and set the onesie down in the top drawer, gently, like it might break.

Then I stood and headed for the door, hoodie sleeves pulled down past my fingertips.

Peter was probably downstairs, pretending not to worry, pretending not to hover. But he'd brought the onesie back on New Year's without asking. Just quietly, like a promise he hadn't meant to make.

And now?

Now I wasn't pretending anymore.

I was terrified. Exhausted. Still guilty as hell.

But I was also—maybe—starting to hope.

And that scared me most of all.

John's Pov

When I pulled into the driveway and saw Peter Hale's car parked behind the Jeep, my first instinct was to sigh. The kind of sigh that started in my spine and settled somewhere between my ribs and my temples. It wasn't irritation. Not really. Just... the kind of exhausted exhale you learn to perfect after raising a kid like Stiles. And now that kid was pregnant—with something supernatural—and Peter Hale was standing in my kitchen more often than I liked.

I stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The house smelled like garlic and something savory I couldn't immediately place. Warm. Rich. Not burned, which eliminated Stiles as the chef. No, this was something else entirely.

Voices drifted in from the kitchen—low and quiet.

Peter.

And Stiles.

I stepped out of my boots, hung my coat, and made my way toward the source of the sound. The smell got stronger as I crossed the threshold. Something was sizzling gently on the stove. A pan scraped. The hum of a vent fan buzzed overhead.

Peter stood in front of the range, sleeves rolled up, one hand resting on the handle of a cast iron skillet. He looked oddly domestic, which felt like a contradiction in itself. The last time I'd seen Peter like this—calm, methodical, not wearing blood or menace like cologne—I couldn't even remember. Probably never.

Stiles was sitting on the stool by the counter, elbow propped up, cheek resting against his palm. He looked tired, but not the usual kind. Not drained-from-existence tired. More like... full. Soft around the edges. Calm, even.

I didn't interrupt right away.

Peter was saying something about cumin. Something about balancing flavor. Stiles made a face.

"I don't trust any spice that looks like dirt and smells like B.O."

Peter didn't dignify that with a response. Just flipped whatever was in the pan—chicken, maybe—and lowered the flame.

I cleared my throat.

They both turned.

Stiles smiled faintly. "Hey, Dad."

Peter gave me a polite nod. "Sheriff."

I walked in slowly, like I was approaching a wild animal. I wasn't sure if I was trying not to startle Peter or myself. I looked at my son—tired, soft-eyed, hoodie draped over what was now unmistakably a small bump.

And then I looked at Peter.

Cooking.

In my kitchen.

I rubbed the back of my neck and gestured vaguely. "Should I... ask?"

Stiles shrugged one shoulder. "We got groceries today. He insisted."

Peter, to his credit, didn't smirk. "Someone has to make sure he eats properly."

I nodded slowly. "Right."

No blood on the walls. No fire. No tension so thick I could cut it with a knife. Just two people, occupying space in a way that felt... weirdly normal.

Which made it worse.

I crossed to the counter, set my keys down, and gave Peter a long look. "So this is a thing now?"

Stiles blinked. "What thing?"

"This." I gestured broadly. "You. Him. Groceries. Cooking."

Peter stirred something in a pot. "It's called dinner."

I shot him a look.

Stiles sighed. "I'm not—Peter's not—We're not, like, a thing. Not officially. Not really. It's complicated."

"That's one word for it," I muttered.

Stiles gave me a tired, lopsided smile. "You're not wrong. But it's not... bad."

That part caught me off guard.

Because for weeks—months—I'd been waiting for the fallout. For the spiral. For the moment when Stiles would crash so hard I couldn't catch him, and I'd be left watching it happen from the sidelines. But right now, in this moment? He looked steadier. Not whole—God, no, not that. But better. Grounded, in a way I hadn't seen since before the Nogitsune.

And Peter—he wasn't hovering. Wasn't posturing. He was cooking. Focused. Quiet. Present.

It was disorienting.

I turned to the sink, washed my hands, and reached for a towel. "Alright. What's for dinner, then?"

"Chicken," Peter said. "With quinoa, roasted vegetables, and citrus glaze."

I paused, turned slowly. "Citrus glaze?"

Stiles gave me a flat look. "Don't ask. Just eat it. It's actually good."

I glanced at Peter. "You poison it?"

"If I did, you'd be dead already."

I sighed again. Loud this time. "And that's comforting."

But I sat down anyway, easing into the seat across from Stiles. His hoodie bunched slightly as he shifted, hand automatically resting on his stomach like it belonged there.

That image—him, with his hand there, talking casually about Peter's cooking and shopping for groceries—rattled something in my chest. It made this all real again. Not theoretical. Not future tense. Now.

My son was pregnant.

And Peter Hale was standing in my kitchen, making dinner like we were a normal family trying to figure things out.

I wasn't sure if I was dreaming or hallucinating or just too tired to keep protesting.

But when Peter set a plate down in front of me and Stiles gave me a quiet smile, I didn't argue.

I just picked up my fork and started to eat.

Because if this was the new normal, I figured I'd better get used to it.

Stiles yawned wide enough to crack his jaw before mumbling something about needing a shower. He rubbed at his lower back as he shuffled toward the stairs, hoodie sleeves falling past his hands. He looked tired again, but not in that hollowed-out way I'd seen too often lately. This was just the weight of the day pulling him down, and after everything we'd done—hell, everything he'd survived—I figured he'd earned the right to drag his feet.

I waited until I heard the creak of the upstairs bathroom door, the dull thunk of it closing. Water started a few seconds later—sharp, steady, muffled by the pipes and age of the house.

That left me alone in the kitchen with Peter.

He stood by the sink, drying his hands on a clean towel, moving with the same quiet deliberation I'd come to expect from him. Everything Peter did was calculated, deliberate. Even his silences had posture.

I leaned against the opposite counter and crossed my arms.

He glanced at me once, then back to whatever internal ledger he was keeping in his head.

I didn't rush it. I waited, staring at him in that quiet, sheriff sort of way that usually made teenagers confess crimes they hadn't committed just to fill the air.

Eventually, I spoke.

"We haven't really had a chance to talk."

Peter looked up. "No, we haven't."

"Figure now's as good a time as any."

He inclined his head slightly, as if inviting me to continue.

"I'm not going to pretend I like this," I said. "Any of it. Stiles is seventeen. He should be worrying about exams, not grocery lists and prenatal vitamins. But here we are."

Peter's expression didn't change. "Yes," he said simply.

"And you're involved."

"I am."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "So I want to know—what exactly are your intentions here? With Stiles. With the baby."

Peter paused. Not because he was caught off guard, but because he was choosing his words like weapons. Quiet, careful, sharp.

"I want him safe," he said finally. "I want the baby safe. I want to ensure that whatever happens next doesn't destroy him."

"That's a start," I said. "But it's not enough."

"I know."

I stepped forward, just enough to cross the gap between us from distant to deliberate. "So tell me. What is this? What are you to him?"

That made something flicker in his eyes. Not emotion. Not quite. But something close. Awareness. Memory, maybe. Like he'd already asked himself the same question more than once.

"We're still figuring that out," he said. "But it's not casual. Not a game. Not some manipulation or power grab, if that's what you're afraid of."

"I'm afraid of a lot of things when it comes to my son," I said. "Especially when Peter Hale starts playing house in my kitchen."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're right to be cautious."

"You're not denying it."

"I've earned the suspicion," he said, voice even. "I don't expect to undo that overnight."

A long pause stretched between us. The kind that weighed more than noise ever could.

Then I asked the question I hadn't wanted to ask—not because I didn't want the answer, but because I wasn't sure what I'd do with it once I had it.

"Do you love him?"

Peter didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head like he was considering it, dissecting the weight of the word in his head. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, then stilled.

"I don't know if I love him," he said finally. "But I'm afraid of what would happen if I lost him."

That silenced me more than anything else could've.

It was honest. Not romantic. Not rehearsed. Just truth, raw and bone-deep. The kind of answer that didn't try to sound good. The kind that meant something.

"I've hurt people," Peter said quietly. "I've manipulated, threatened, killed. But this isn't about fixing my past. This isn't atonement. This is about what's here. Now. Him. The child. I don't know what to call it. But it matters. He matters."

I studied him. Really studied him. Looked past the polished front and careful tone and saw the shadow of something that wasn't quite vulnerability—but wasn't far off, either.

"He's not a shortcut to redemption," I said. "He's not your fresh start."

"I know."

"And if you hurt him, if you use this to control him—"

"I won't," Peter said, before I could finish. "Not now. Not ever."

I believed him. I didn't like that I did—but I did.

Not because I trusted him.

But because Stiles did.

And because Peter looked at him like he was the one thing in the world that could undo him—and he wasn't sure whether he was afraid or grateful for that.

The shower cut off upstairs, water slowing to a stop.

I let the silence settle for another beat, then pushed off the counter.

"I'm still watching you."

"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."

I gave him one last look, then turned toward the hallway. "Dinner was good, by the way."

"I know."

Typical.

I didn't smile as I walked away.

But I didn't scowl either.

Tuesday, January 17

10 weeks and 3 days pregnant

Stiles's Pov

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the cold.

Not the usual January kind, either—not the sort you can chase away with a blanket and a hoodie. This was a different kind of cold. Internal. Like my body knew what I was about to do and had already decided to go into emotional hibernation.

School.

The word alone made me want to sink into the mattress and disappear.

But I'd already delayed the inevitable. I missed Friday after the cramping scare and skipped Monday because my anxiety had started staging a mutiny somewhere around my lungs. I couldn't avoid it forever, no matter how much my body begged for more sleep or my brain whispered that one more day wouldn't kill anyone.

I lay there for a long minute, one hand pressed absently over the slight swell of my stomach. Ten weeks and three days, according to Deaton's latest check-in. I was officially hitting double digits in the pregnancy timeline. Somewhere in the swirl of blood and magic and shifting DNA, a heart was still beating.

And I still had to figure out how to act like a normal human being for six hours surrounded by teenagers who asked too many questions and knew too much about everything already.

The walk to the bathroom was slower than usual. I was already bloated, my back stiff from sleep. When I leaned down to grab fresh clothes from the dresser, my hoodie rode up. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—just a sliver. The curve was still small, but it was there. Undeniable.

My clothes still fit, technically. But only because Peter had dragged me shopping the day before and I now owned exactly three pairs of pants that didn't try to murder me with buttons.

After dressing, I trudged downstairs, stomach churning at the thought of breakfast. I managed half a slice of toast and some electrolyte water, then packed up and left before my dad could stop me for a talk I wasn't ready to have again.

Peter had offered to drive me. He'd offered three times, in fact, in increasingly gruff and impatient tones. But I needed to do this alone. For myself. For the version of me that was still trying to pretend there was a life outside this mess.

I parked in my usual spot at school and sat in the Jeep for a few extra minutes, breathing through the nausea that hadn't quite let go since I brushed my teeth. The idea of walking through those double doors, of being seen, was already making my fingers twitch against the steering wheel.

"You can do this," I muttered. "Just keep your head down. Keep moving. Don't throw up on anyone's shoes."

The hallway was buzzing the second I stepped inside. Laughter, shouting, the slamming of locker doors. Same chaos, different day.

I moved fast, weaving between bodies, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, head down. But Beacon Hills was a small school, and I wasn't exactly forgettable on a good day.

I didn't make it five steps past my locker before I heard them.

"Stiles!"

I didn't even have time to brace myself. One second I was reaching for my locker, and the next, I was surrounded—Scott to my left, Lydia to my right, and Malia hovering slightly behind them like a wolf ready to pounce.

I closed my eyes.

"Hey," I said weakly.

"You missed Friday and Monday," Scott said, his voice laced with worry and accusation in equal parts. "What happened?"

Lydia's eyes scanned me like she was reading a textbook. "You look pale. And you're holding your backpack like it might attack you."

"I am pale," I muttered. "And this thing weighs a ton. Calculus is an actual crime."

Malia squinted at me. "You smell different."

I tensed. "Yeah, I changed deodorants. Thanks for noticing."

Scott didn't laugh. Neither did Lydia.

"I covered for you," Scott said quietly. "But people are talking. And I was worried."

I sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I just—Friday got bad. Really bad."

His eyes widened. "What do you mean bad?"

I glanced around. There were too many people in the hall. Too many ears. Too many risks.

"Not here," I said. "Later. Okay?"

Lydia's expression sharpened, but she nodded once. "You'll tell us everything."

"Yeah," I said, and I meant it. "I will."

"Are you okay now?" Scott asked. "Like—really okay?"

I hesitated. "I'm... here."

That wasn't really an answer, but it was the best I had.

Scott clapped a hand on my shoulder, warm and solid. "I'm glad you're back."

I swallowed. "Me too."

Even if I didn't quite believe it yet.

Even if every part of me still wanted to crawl back into bed and pretend the world didn't exist.

The bell rang before anyone could say more. Students started shifting toward classrooms in a slow wave, and the crowd around me began to break up.

But Scott stayed close, walking beside me to first period.

He didn't ask anything else, and I didn't offer.

Not yet.

But it helped, having him there. Just for a little while. Just long enough to remember that I wasn't doing this alone.

That somewhere in the chaos, I still had people who gave a damn.

Even when I didn't know how to ask for it. Lunchtime came faster than I expected, which was unfair, honestly. My classes had been a blur of half-heard instructions, too-bright lights, and the constant throb of low-grade nausea that refused to take the hint and go away. I couldn't focus. My hoodie felt too hot. The cafeteria smelled like burnt cheese and regret.

I grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of plain crackers from the vending machine in the hall and made my way to the far table—our usual spot, tucked away in the back corner like the last safe place in a minefield.

They were already there when I arrived.

Scott looked up first, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Malia was halfway through a sandwich that she probably hadn't even chewed. Lydia sat prim and perfect as always, poking at her salad with the air of someone deeply offended by lettuce. And Kira—sweet, bright-eyed Kira—looked up from her orange juice and lit up like I hadn't just ghosted everyone for two days.

"There you are!" she said, sliding over to make room. "We missed you!"

I smiled weakly and dropped my backpack with a tired thud. "Sorry. Friday was... a lot. And yesterday wasn't much better."

Scott's smile faded a little. "You said you'd explain."

"Yeah." I sat down, bracing my elbows on the table, letting my palms press into my forehead like that would somehow keep the world from spinning. "I will. Just—don't freak out. Okay?"

That earned a chorus of suspicious silence.

I glanced around. No eavesdroppers. No random freshmen hovering nearby. Just my pack. My people. Even if I didn't feel like I belonged to them the way I used to, they were still here. Still waiting.

So I breathed in.

And started.

"Friday morning, I woke up cramping. It wasn't the normal kind—not the usual bloating or nausea or whatever. It was sharp. And then there was blood."

Kira's eyes widened. Lydia went perfectly still.

I kept going.

"I panicked. Called Deaton. He checked me out and said the baby was okay. No signs of miscarriage, no internal bleeding. Just... a scare. Probably from the magic still working itself through my system."

Scott's voice was low. "You didn't call me."

"I know," I said. "I couldn't. I couldn't even think straight."

"You should've called," he said again, quieter this time.

"I know."

No one said anything for a moment.

Malia was the first to break the silence. "But you're okay now?"

"As okay as I can be, considering everything."

Lydia leaned forward slightly. "How much magic are we talking about? Residual? Active? Could it flare up again?"

"Deaton's monitoring it. He said I'm stable. But... this isn't a normal pregnancy. And that means nothing about it is predictable."

I didn't have to say what that meant. They were smart. They knew. It could happen again. Or worse.

Kira reached out suddenly, wrapping her fingers around mine. "Wait," she said. "Did you say... baby?"

I froze.

The others looked at me, then at her.

And then I realized—I'd never actually told her.

She knew something was going on. Of course she did. But not this. Not the truth.

And I was already halfway in. Might as well finish the freefall.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm pregnant."

She blinked.

"I'm—sorry?" she said. "Can you say that again?"

"I'm pregnant."

Kira stared at me for a long beat. Then another.

Then she leaned in slightly, voice so soft it was almost scared. "How?"

"The Nogitsune," I said. "Some kind of residual magic—warped reality enough to leave behind... this."

"You mean it left behind a child?" Her voice cracked on the word.

"Not his," I said quickly. "Just... created the possibility. Used me as a vessel. But it's mine. And Peter's."

That drew another beat of heavy silence.

"Peter Hale?" she said, blinking rapidly.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Weird, I know."

But she didn't recoil. Didn't pull her hand away. If anything, her grip tightened.

"You're... you're having a baby."

I looked down at the table. "Yeah."

Kira's eyes went wide again, then started to glisten. "Oh my god, Stiles."

"Please don't cry," I whispered.

"I'm not crying," she said, very clearly crying. "I just—I didn't know. I didn't know it was this."

I nodded. "It's this."

She stood up suddenly, came around the table, and pulled me into a hug so tight I nearly lost my breath.

I let her.

Because I needed it.

Because it was Kira, and she was good, and nothing about this felt good lately except moments like this.

When she pulled back, she wiped her eyes and said, "I'm making you a protection charm."

I laughed once. "Of course you are."

"And I'm gonna research magical pregnancies. And—do you want snacks? I can bring you snacks."

"I've got a shopping list that would put Costco to shame," I said. "But snacks are always welcome."

Scott smiled for the first time. A real smile.

"You really kept this quiet," he said.

"I wasn't ready."

"We would've helped," Lydia said softly.

"I know," I said. "I just... I needed to figure out how to be okay with it before I let anyone else see it."

"Well," Malia said, crunching into an apple like it had offended her, "you don't have to figure it out alone anymore."

Kira nodded. "You have us."

And looking at them—at their serious, tired, protective faces—I believed that.

For the first time in weeks, I really believed that.

Lunch ended too quickly after that. The bell rang, and everyone stood, reluctantly grabbing their trays and bags. Kira gave me another quick hug before vanishing toward Chemistry. Lydia muttered something about checking in later. Malia shoved her uneaten crusts into my hand and walked off like that was the most natural gesture in the world.

Scott lingered.

"You're really okay?" he asked again, quiet.

"I'm getting there."

He gave a small nod, then smiled again. "Good. Because you're gonna need all the energy you can get. We're not going anywhere."

And just like that, I felt something in my chest ease. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to stand up and keep walking.

Enough to get through the rest of the day.

Enough to believe I could keep doing this—even if it scared the hell out of me.

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 1 Tue 28 Jan 2025 07:12AM UTC

*snuggles Stiles* depression and PTSD are a bitch. As the old saying goes, it's hard to fight enemies with outposts in your mind. The rest of them could actually try to reach out to him, not just the shallow "hey", cause yeah they're going through trauma too, but they aren't helping themselves or him with the avoidance

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Miss_Zabin1 on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Feb 2025 02:31AM UTC

It will be a harrowing path to happiness. I hope you continue with the story, because I loved it.
Thank you for the chapter ✨🌹

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Causeyouaremyflower on Chapter 1 Wed 23 Jul 2025 08:28PM UTC

Poor baby stiles. Rough start. I am not one to read male pregnancies or pregnancies in general but your description made me reconsider. 😀

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Angel_2000 on Chapter 1 Mon 28 Jul 2025 11:27AM UTC

Cara, o que os "amigos" e os pai dele está fazendo é um caminho sem volta para uma pessoa em depressão. Eles não tentarem ajudar Stiles de verdade, poderia levar ele ao suicídio. Eu sei. Eu estive lá e não ter uma rede de apoio agora pode ser a diferença entre o que salva a sua vida ou não.
Sei que todos eles tem trauma, mas eles estão vendo como Stiles está e mesmo assim fingem que não.
Principalmente o pai dele...

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 2 Tue 28 Jan 2025 07:27AM UTC

*snuggles Stiles some more* at least there was a minor reach out, it's good that Stiles is seeking some form of help, even though it's a struggle

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Lirix_mI on Chapter 2 Fri 07 Mar 2025 05:54PM UTC

"Monday, November 19, 2011." - 19 ноября 2011-го - это суббота, а не понедельник. *пристально смотрит в календарь* А, стоп, вы не по реальному календарю видимо делали, ну ладно.

Last Edited Fri 07 Mar 2025 05:56PM UTC

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 3 Tue 28 Jan 2025 07:38AM UTC

Nothing like a little extra trauma to bring everyone together

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Lirix_mI on Chapter 3 Fri 07 Mar 2025 06:00PM UTC

Так! Стоп! "Thursday, November 22, 2011" и "Thursday, November 24, 2011" - это как может быть?? Поначалу я подумала, что вы ошиблись в датах, потом, что вы пишите наугад, но теперь я снова склоняюсь к тому что даты в прошлой главе и в этой неправильные...

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 4 Tue 28 Jan 2025 07:49AM UTC

Why does it seem like scott is gonna trade Stiles for Derek? Hmmmmmms, that's a really rough plan there, and totally makes it seem as if she be hiding something

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Causeyouaremyflower on Chapter 4 Wed 23 Jul 2025 08:50PM UTC

I thought peter would give him the card and the.money when he showed up in his house. I like that you made it canon.

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 5 Tue 28 Jan 2025 07:57AM UTC

Okay then, that's definitely something of a long day for them. Still there be progress and that's always a good thing, even if the current progress sucks

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Angel_2000 on Chapter 5 Tue 29 Jul 2025 11:43AM UTC

Quando você disse que era construção lenta....Não pensei que fosse extremo 😢
Você escreve maravilhosamente bem, .... Mas minha ansiedade já tá me matando 😅
Depois eu volto. Vou caçar algo..

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 6 Wed 29 Jan 2025 04:35AM UTC

So does scott stay a bad friend or does he actually improve, I wonder...Yay for having Derek and working on getting themselves to safety. Stiles needed to get that out

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1. AliciaSteinke15 on Chapter 6 Wed 29 Jan 2025 04:52AM UTC
  
  I haven't decided yet on if Scott stays a bad friend or improves
  
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2. 1. jaimistoryteller on Chapter 6 Wed 29 Jan 2025 05:05AM UTC
    
    *nod nods* I get that, often times when writing something I won't know til the characters tell me
    
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wwegirl88 on Chapter 6 Fri 21 Feb 2025 12:12AM UTC

This story has been really interesting......I'm loving ot

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 7 Wed 29 Jan 2025 05:02AM UTC

Derek as the only born wolf is catching on fast, Stiles needs some snuggles

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 8 Wed 29 Jan 2025 07:09AM UTC

At least Deaton isn't being a tight lipped asshole

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wwegirl88 on Chapter 8 Fri 21 Feb 2025 12:52AM UTC

😲😲😲😲😲😲this is getting good

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Esly6 on Chapter 8 Tue 13 May 2025 05:22AM UTC

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

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Causeyouaremyflower on Chapter 8 Wed 23 Jul 2025 09:23PM UTC

Holy shit, this is so weird but at the same time i am so excited

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jaimistoryteller on Chapter 9 Wed 29 Jan 2025 08:01AM UTC

Nope, you totally won't be alone. Also, wouldn't be shocked if Peter and Derek had heard the second heartbeat but hadn't yet connected the dots, good for him for kicking scott to the curb and his dad actually standing up for him

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1. wwegirl88 on Chapter 9 Fri 21 Feb 2025 01:13AM UTC
  
  Totally agree with kicking scott out the jeep.
  
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