Disclaimer: Teen Wolf and all of its characters and elements are a product of their creator Jeff Davis and subsequently belong to him and MTV.

Notes: Not beta read. Sorry for any and all grammar/structure mistakes. Enjoy (Hopefully)!


Stiles is sitting in class, idly writing down 'notes' as he pretends to listen to his professor drone on and on about the importance of something or another when he feels a lurch in his stomach. Ugh, he thinks, hunching in on himself slightly, not again. He's been feeling pretty off these past few weeks, but with classes, his coursework and Derek, the concern over his mystery ailment has fallen to the backburner. It was easy to push aside at first, just a general 'off' feeling, but now it was really starting to cause some discomfort in his day to day life, what with the disappearing and reappearing nausea, his being so ridiculously tired it was a freaking trial to get out of bed in the morning (and let's be real, in the afternoon, too), the sudden lower backaches and the startlingly new and intensly emotional moodswings.

Grateful that he is at least in a general education course filled with over one-hundred students so the professor isn't really paying attention, he slips his phone out from his pocket and queues up WebMD. He discreetly types in his symptoms and peruses the results, occasionally glancing up from under his lashes to make sure the professor is still preoccupied; when he stumbles upon the result stating the possibility that he could be pregnant, his mind inadvertently flashes back to the full moon two months ago when he and Derek got a little enthusiastic (and maybe, just possibly they might have forgotten to use protection in a round or two and let it completely slip their minds. Until now.) and hisses out a "oh, shit", which causes the girl sitting next to him to jerk in surprise.

"So-sorry," he stutters out, flushing furiously as he slinks down into his chair; his current nausea is all but forgotten in his current state of panic. He realizes that there's just a point where a man is in over his head and he's reached it. Of course, he shouldn't just blindly rely on the internet (that way lies madness), but Stiles tries not to lie to himself—others sure—but not himself. There's a knot of tension that's settled in his belly now and it's not going to disappear until he finds out if he really is pregnant or not, so with that in mind, he glances at the clock and resolves to suffer through the last twenty minutes of his lecture. After that, he'll head to the nearest off campus store and… and, well, he'll do something, that's for sure. Groaning quietly, he rests his head on his arms.


Stiles can feel his left eye start to slightly twitch as he stares at the sight before him; he knows, he knows, that the weasel-faced kid behind the pharmacy counter is totally giving him the stink-eye okay, but he just doesn't know what to do with himself in this situation. Logically, he knows that there had to be different brands and types of pregnancy tests (everyone has different needs, yo), but he just didn't expect to be confronted with a literal wall of said tests—did there really have to be that many?

Thus, there he stands, possibly with a slightly hysterical look on his face, until a kind-looking woman passing by pauses to ask, "Do you need some help, sweetie?"

"I just don't know where to start." He whispers with a wide eyed look; he probably looks like a lost baby woodland animal, Jesus Christ.

Pulling her cart to the side, she steps up beside him and gestures to the left. "Well, all of the tests over here are intended for women, so I doubt they would suit your needs, honey. So, we should start over here on the right. Now, the next thing to consider is whether or not you need something suitable for early detection?"

"Early detec—oh. Uh. No, I am not in need of that." He mumbles out as his cheeks redden.

The woman moves forward to select a box of tests from the former wall of horror (don't judge him, alright). "Then let's go with this brand. Not only are the results easy to read, it even comes with multiple tests in case you mess up on the first—or second—try. Or in case you just want to make sure." Smiling encouragingly at him, she pushes the box into his hands.

"I—just—thank you for your help, or I'd still be standing here staring in confusion." Stiles thanks her, clutching the box to his chest.

"Don't mention it, hun. I hope it turns out the way you want it to." She smiles at him one more time, pats him lightly on the shoulder and continues on her way. He watches her go for a moment before heading off to the self-checkout area (seriously, whoever came up with that? Awesome!), relieved that he doesn't have to face Mr. Judgey in order to pay for his purchase.


Ten minutes later, Stiles finds himself locked in a stall in the public restroom of a local café; he absolutely cannot go home for any part of these shenanigans. He's already taken two of the tests and set them off to the side wrapped in toilet paper (because ew, he totally peed on those sticks) and settled in to wait for what appears to be the longest two minutes of his admittedly short-lived life. He preoccupies himself with reading (and then re-reading) the information on the back of the pregnancy test box. Finally, after what seems like his 50th cycle through the information, he hears the beep of his cellphone signifying that the two minutes are indeed up.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, that has nothing to do with his previous nausea, he gingerly lifts the first stick up to eye-level. Immediately, he puts the first test down and picks up the other one. At first, he just sits there and blinks owlishly at it a few times, hoping that he's reading it wrong, like he did with the first one, but as each second passes and the phrase 'Pregnant' doesn't change, Stiles is forced to accept the inevitable: he's pregnant. Knocked up. Got a bun in the oven. On stork watch for the foreseeable future. Leggo his friggin' eggo, he's preggo. He's pretty proud of himself for not passing out.

Alright, he thinks firmly to himself, you definitely got this. He carefully shuffles out of the bathroom stall to toss the tests and their remains into the trashbin before moving to the sink to wash his hands. It's not a complete shock, you knew this was a possibility before you even came in here to take the tests; this was just confirmation. So you just need to go home and talk to Derek—

Derek. Derek Hale. The young, notorious boss of the Hale family; a violent criminal with whom Stiles has been sleeping and has apparently created a baby with; a violent criminal who never said anything about wanting anything remotely like a baby; a violent criminal whose life has no room for baby.

Derek, who sometimes kills people, violently, with fangs and claws—is probably going to kill Stiles!

Oh, fuck, is the last thought to shuffle through his head before he lets the darkness consume him—who needs pride anyway?


Later, when he's back at Derek's house after being woken up from the bathroom floor at the café by an elderly gentleman and made bullshit excuses about being an overworked student with poor time-management skills and low blood sugar (certainly not a shining moment, yet ironically somewhat true), and he's a little ashamed of this, he panics. Just decides that he has to get out of Derek's house and possibly out of his life and figure out what he's going to do. Not just for himself, but for his baby.

Throws some of his things that have managed to find their way into Derek's home, into his closet and drawers, into an overnight bag, grabs his keys and books it out of the house without anyone from Derek's pack spotting him. He reasons he can hide out at his dorm at school until he figures out just what exactly he is going to do—whatever that's going to be.

If only he hadn't panicked and had taken the time to think that plan through.

Obviously, Derek was going to come looking for him and school dorm was the first place he was going to go.