Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1704221.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Lydia_Martin, Chris_Argent, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Male_Lactation, Kid_Fic, Babysitting, Fae_&_Fairies, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-28 Words: 8154
****** (Not an) Egg Baby ******
by the_ragnarok
Summary
     "Changelings are an old myth," Deaton says, tinny through Stiles'
     phone. Derek can hear him over the-- the not-a-baby's squalling, just
     barely. "They take the place of human babies to drink their mothers'
     milk."
     "We're kind of short on mothers right now," Derek snaps.
Notes
     Belated-as-fuck, omg, AO3 auction story for incredibly kind and
     patient limenitis_arthemis, who waited more than a year for this and
     then didn't even get the story I originally promised. Sorry!
     Beta'd with lightning speed by authocracy.
     This story mostly takes place in a vague post-season-2 AU where
     LALALA EVERYTHING IS FINE AND EVERYONE IS ALIVE I CAN’T HEAR YOU but
     it’s mostly just Stiles and Derek anyway so you can only tell by the
     relative lack of PTSD on the parts of everyone involved.
See the end of the work for more notes
Derek misses his Camaro. He misses the Toyota, too. Right now, he's missing
every vehicle he's ever driven that wasn't Stiles' death-trap Jeep, and the
Jeep itself isn't even the real problem. The problem is Stiles' music choices
(Lady Gaga, why), Stiles' inability to stop the car smoothly so that every time
they get to a stop sign Derek is jerked forward in his seat, Stiles' long
fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, tapping absent rhythms and Derek
can't even tell himself he'll crash the car if he doesn't stop staring.
It's making him irritable. Not that his mood was great to begin with. “Fucking
Fae,” he mutters under his breath.
"I don't know,” says Stiles, who lives to be contrary. “Actually it could be
kind of cool, depending what kind of--”
He's cut off by a sudden, incredibly loud noise. Good thing Derek isn't
driving, because he'd have wrapped the car around a telephone pole when the
unholy shrieking from the backseat started.
It's almost, but not quite, like a baby crying, with a mechanical overtone that
makes Derek's teeth grind together.
Stiles just sighs, rubs at his face and pulls into a bus stop.
"We're kind of in a hurry," Derek says, glaring as Stiles unbuckles his belt.
"It's illegal to stop here," he adds when Stiles ignores him.
"Shut up." Stiles twists back in his seat. Derek looks away in time to get no
more than a glimpse of pale stomach. By the sound of it, Stiles is rooting
through his backpack, curses rising in volume to almost match the crying until
Stiles yells "A-ha!" and the noise stops.
"Here, hold this." Stiles thrusts what looks like a baby doll at Derek. Holding
it by the ankle, Derek notes. He takes it away from Stiles before it can drop
on the floor and start that godawful screaming again. "Sorry, okay, but it's a
project for health class and I'm not failing that. I can deal with injuries and
psychological trauma, but if I one day have to tell a prospective sex partner
that I flunked sex ed because of supernatural shenanigans, I will turn into a
supervillain and destroy Beacon Hills."
Derek ignores Stiles, examining the baby doll. There's a plastic bottle tied to
its hand with a shoelace; presumably the idea is to bring the bottle to the
doll's mouth. The doll itself is kind of creepy looking, with glassy brown eyes
and holes around its head. "In my day we just had eggs," Derek says. His had
gone rotten.
Stiles snorts. "Technology marches on. Or maybe just Beacon High's budget, I
guess."
~~
The clearing's already occupied when they reach it. Derek gives Stiles a dark
look that is blithely ignored as Stiles hops out of the jeep, only to pause,
blink and say, "Whoa."
Not the way Derek would've put it, but Stiles has a point. The entire clearing
has gone...
"Is that glitter?" Stiles says in a tone halfway between terror and hysteric
glee.
A voice like a choir of buzzing insects says, "The woods acknowledge our
presence," and Stiles almost falls over himself trying to face the person who
was awaiting them. Derek, who was actually watching that person all along (and
not looking at Stiles' wide eyes, the curve of his lip, not at all), suppresses
a snort.
The person they came here to meet is tall and thin, with scaly-looking skin.
They blink at Derek, and blink again with a different set of eyelids. "You
wished to see us?" they say.
Derek really didn't, but being impolite to Fae is rarely a good idea. "You're
in our territory," he say, matter-of-fact. "We'd like you to leave." He catches
Stiles' frantic expression from the corner of his eye and adds a belated,
"please."
The fae hums thoughtfully. "You want us gone."
"Not gone, exactly," Stiles hedges. "Just maybe less here?"
"It's good to want things," the fae continues, like Stiles hasn't spoken at
all. "We also want. We long for sunlight, when winter is long, and sweet
nectar, and wine. And milk, warm and sweet from the breast." The fae turns
something like a smile at them. Black things crawl at its edges. "Very well."
The fae vanishes. The clearing around them is still glittery. Derek is about to
turn to Stiles and ask what the fuck just happened when the sound of screaming
comes from the jeep.
"Fuck's sake," Stiles snaps, "not now."
Derek goes very, very still. The sound is different now, not mechanical at all,
and frantic. He can't remember crossing the short distance to the car, can't
remember opening the door, isn't sure how but suddenly he's got his hands full
of warm, crying, human baby.
"Seriously?" Stiles asks faintly.
The baby takes the opportunity to piss down Derek's shirt. Derek flinches and
reflexively holds the baby away at arms' length.
Stiles is right next to him a moment later. "Seriously?" he asks again. “You're
how old and you don't know how to hold a baby?” Stiles wrangles the red
squirming bundle away from Derek, holding it against his chest.
"Says the person who held it by the ankle,” Derek says pointedly.
“Yeah, when it was a doll! Support his head, Christ, it's not rocket science,
didn't you have--” Just like that he falls silent, jerking his gaze away from
Derek and fixing it on the baby.
Whatever Stiles was about to say obviously isn't going to come out, so Derek
sighs and pulls his phone out. At least the baby seems to have calmed down a
little.
~~
"Changelings are an old myth," Deaton says, tinny through Stiles' phone. Derek
can hear him over the-- the not-a-baby's squalling, just barely. "They take the
place of human babies to drink their mothers' milk."
"We're kind of short on mothers right now," Derek snaps.
He can practically hear Deaton shrugging over the phone. "When the Fae try to
cut a deal, they usually make certain the other party can pay." Then the
conversation cuts off.
Derek opens his mouth - to curse or tell Stiles what Deaton said, he's not sure
- but he turns around and all words escape him. Stiles himself doesn't appear
to have noticed himself, busy attempting lullabies.
"Hush little crapper, don't you scream,” Stiles croons, “Papa gonna get you a
Netflix stream,” and all the while a little circle of wetness spreads on the
side of his shirt not obscured by the baby.
Derek drops his phone.
~~
Stiles is surprisingly laid back about his newfound milk production ability.
"It's actually pretty neat,” he says, adjusting the changeling's head. His
fingers curl around the back of its tiny skull, long and certain. Stiles' other
nipple is puffy. “Like, Miracle of Life and all that.”
"At least it's not crying anymore,” Derek says and heads back to the car.
The same magic that replaced the baby doll with the changeling replaced Stiles'
bookbag with a big blue-and-white bag with a baffling number of pockets, all
full of clothes and diapers. Small graces.
("Yeah, couldn't that asshole have gotten us a car seat for the baby, too?”
Stiles said, unimpressed, struggling to lift his shirt with one hand while
holding the squirming thing in the other. “I had my English homework in that
bag. What a dick.”
"Don't call it a baby,” Derek said and looked away.)
Derek pulls out a diaper, holding it gingerly and eyeing the changeling still
attached to Stiles' chest. “You might want to get a diaper on it before it
pisses all over you, too.”
"Whatever,” Stiles says. “It'll come out in the wash.” His nipple emerges from
the changeling's mouth with a wet pop. It's shiny-wet. A white droplet gathers
and trickles down Stiles' chest as Stiles moves the changeling to nurse from
the other side.
Derek only realizes Stiles is still talking because his tone changes to
something vaguely alarmed. “What?” Derek says, struggling for words that aren't
let me, come here, I want.
"You're bleeding,” Stiles says. “Your claws--”
They're poking into the surface of Derek's palms. Whatever. The wounds are
healed almost before Derek shifts them back into ordinary fingernails.
~~
"My dad is not going to be happy,” Stiles says. He keeps darting freaked-out
looks at Derek, at the baby-lookalike held in Derek's lap, and won't let the
car go any faster than a crawl.
"I don't know,” Derek says. “He looks like he'll want grandkids someday. Like,
say, by the time we get to your house.”
Stiles slows the car down further, scowling at the road. “Ha fucking ha. I
don't see why you couldn't run to the store to get a freaking car seat.”
The changeling squirms in Derek's grip. “Why didn't you go yourself if you care
so much?”
"What, and leave you alone with the baby?” Stiles snorts. “Great idea.”
"I don't buy baby things.” Before Stiles can turn a smug expression on him,
Derek adds, “Not that this is a baby. Just watch the road, okay?” He looks out
the window pointedly. “The completely empty road.”
"There might be deer,” Stiles mutters darkly. “Fucking deer.”
~~
Stiles fishes his keys out of his pocket, takes a breath and plasters an eerie
fake smile on his face. “Dad!” he says as he marches inside.
(Derek did think to suggest waiting till later, maybe, when the Sheriff would
be back to work and the house would be empty. But then he thought about
spending all that time with Stiles, alone, while Stiles is still wearing the
wet shirt, and the words dried up before he could form them.)
"I can explain,” Stiles starts saying as the Sheriff walks towards them,
eyebrows raised.
"Explain why you have a screaming baby doll?” the Sheriff says. “Or why Derek
is here?”
Stiles blinks. Derek can practically hear his brain shifting gears. “Um. The
doll is for health class,” he says. “Derek's helping me-- I mean, I'm helping
him. With a Fae problem.”
The Sheriff gets kind of a pinched look, but he nods, and Derek is grateful
that he knows. Lying to the Sheriff always felt both futile and just plain
wrong in a way that Derek's not comfortable examining.
The not-a-baby (though clearly not a doll, either, what the hell) sort of turns
around, its wails wavering as it takes in its new surrounding. It stares at the
Sheriff and, tentatively, says, “Goo?”
Something softens in the Sheriff's expression. He takes the changeling from
Derek, holding him-- it with practiced ease. “In my days we had an egg,” he
muses. “Got an A+ on mine.” Of course he did.
~~
"It's some sort of glamour,” Stiles says. They're upstairs in his room, the
changeling has a mouthful of nipple to cut off the screaming, and Derek is
glaring at Stiles' computer screen like it has all the answers. “I mean, it has
to be. My dad's like, a detective, he can tell a baby from a doll.” He rolls
his eyes before Derek can cut in. “Yeah, changeling, whatever. You get the
point.”
Derek scrolls down, not really seeing the text. “Question is, how do we get rid
of it?”
Stiles hum. “You know, I don't really see the need?”
Derek, foolishly, looks at him. Stiles is sitting on his bed cross-legged, one
knee propping up the changeling's head. His shirt is off, and Derek's eyes
fasten on to the dark trail of hair leading into his pants. There's a damp
patch above Stiles' belly button where dripping milk pooled.
Oblivious to Derek's pain, Stiles says, “I mean, the baby seems okay now.” The
changeling, possibly just to chime in, twists its head and grunts. Stiles
winces and adjusts his position until the noisy sucking resumes. “And other
people don't notice he's there, so whatever, I'll just feed him for a while.
The Fae will have what they want, they'll go, everybody's happy.”
"It never works out like that,” Derek says.
Stiles grimaces. Whether at Derek's words or at the way the changeling is
pulling at his nipple, skin taut before the changeling snaps off it with a
wail, Derek can't say.
~~
"Okay,” Stiles says. “I lied.”
"Grmph,” Derek says into the phone. He blinks sleep out of his eyes. Dust motes
flicker in a ray of moonlight. Derek mentally adds clean the loft to his to-do
list and asks, “What?”
"I can't do this.” There's crying in the background, petering down for a moment
before resuming with an added hysterical edge. “He won't fucking settle
already, I try feeding him and he won't take it, my nipples feel like they were
mauled by velociraptors.”
"If I come by,” Derek says in a fit of despair, “will you stop talking about
your nipples?”
"Maybe,” Stiles says sulkily.
It's not much, but Derek's willing to take it.
~~
When Derek hops in through Stiles' open bedroom window, he has to fight the
urge to cover his ears. Christ, the changeling is loud. Stiles doesn't even say
anything, just gives Derek this beseeching look like Derek knows what the hell
to do.
Then Stiles gets up, says, “Oh my God, thank you,” plonks the changeling in
Derek's arms and bolts outside the door.
Maybe it's the surprise of being moved around, but the changeling is actually
quiet, blinking up at Derek. Its head lolls dangerously before Derek remembers
to support it; Derek holds the thing slightly more securely and tries not to
freak out too much.
Of course, half a minute later the screaming resumes, and Derek is too
distracted by the pain in his ears to be too concerned.
By the time Stiles is back, Derek has pondered cutting off his ears, concluded
it wouldn't help, and is debating the merits of sticking his head under Stiles'
pillow. “Dude, thank you,” Stiles says again, fervent and grateful. “I needed
to pee so bad, you have no idea, he's been screaming for hours.”
He takes the changeling back. The changeling's scream peters down to a choked
cough, starting to rise again before Stiles shoves it unceremoniously against
his nipple. This time there's no mistaking Stiles' wince, even without his
earlier comments about mauling.
Derek opens his mouth to say something. Then he catches the faint scent of
blood. His fingers twitch, and it takes conscious effort to keep the claws in.
“Don't tell me it's a vampire, too.”
Stiles laughs. Given the circles under his eyes, Derek would've expected the
sound to be more bitter than it is. “Naw, man. My freaking nipples are
bleeding. Apparently it's normal.”
"Normal,” Derek repeats, faintly. He snags Stiles' desk chair and sits down.
Stiles seems more at ease now, holding the not-a-baby in place like he's done
it a thousand times. “Normal like a teenage boy breastfeeding.”
"Normal like normal breastfeeding, man.” Stiles tries to shrug and is hampered
by the changeling's grip, turning the motion into an odd wiggle halfway
through. “It's hardcore. Apparently after a week or so your nipples get used to
it and it stops hurting? This is just, like. Boot camp for breasts.” He cracks
a smile. “Boob camp!”
"Why,” Derek mutters, quiet and despairing.
"God hates us,” Stiles informs him. “Go downstairs and get me some Gatorade,
okay? I feel like I'm turning into a mummy, no pun intended. Hydrate me before
I turn into a desiccated shell of my former self.”
"I should be so lucky,” Derek says on his way downstairs to do exactly what
Stiles asks.
~~
The sheriff's not home. Probably on nightshift since glamour or no, there's no
way the screaming could've gone on for as long as it did without some pointed
questions from Stilinski the elder. It's a pity, since it means nobody but
Derek can bring Stiles drinks and snacks and hold the changeling while Stiles
dashes to the bathroom.
It's also pretty good in that it means nobody is there to see Derek staring at
Stiles. Stiles himself is distracted, and the changeling is pretty focused on
getting its next meal.
It's not Derek's fault that Stiles is shirtless, that his nipples are puffy and
red and wet. Still makes him want to cringe at himself, because – really?
Stiles' cranky expression, the sharp line of his mouth and the tense set of his
shoulders, all of them should mark an uncrossable line. There shouldn't be
anything about this Derek wants.
Either teenage libido is catching or Derek is just that gone on Stiles, though,
because there's nothing about this Derek doesn't want.
“Fuck,” Stiles says, tired and miserable and in pain as the changeling latches
on yet again. “They never showed how much this shit fucking hurts on TV.”
Derek doesn't think, doesn't let himself, just puts his hand on Stiles' flank
and pulls the pain away. There's a sensation like a bite when he catches the
first edge of hurt, unpleasant and satisfying all at once.
Stiles stiffens, then breathes out a long, low sigh, “Oh.” Derek stays where he
is and doesn't bury his face in Stiles' soft, exposed stomach.
~~
"Oh my God,” Stiles says, roughly a hundred years later.
Sun's coming through the windows. Derek can barely pry his eyes open, and given
that the interminable screaming has petered off, he doesn't understand why
Stiles felt the need to poke him.
Then he runs that thought through again, and looks.
The baby's asleep in Stiles' lap, one arm flung dramatically ahead, a trail of
milky drool running down his chin. His mouth is pressed in a pout. Short,
nearly invisible eyelashes fan against Stiles' thigh. Against Stiles' pale,
freckled thigh, right next to the hem of Stiles' ratty boxers.
In a last-ditch effort to distract himself, Derek says, “He almost looks sweet
like that.”
Stiles makes an odd noise that Derek manages to put back together into a
quickly-smothered triumphant cry.
Derek raises an eyebrow. “What.”
"You didn't call him it,” Stiles crows. But he does it quietly, and at this
time, Derek's going to count his blessings and not ask for anything more.
~~
Stiles texts him from school the next day: brstfeeding in the middle of
geometry, nobody noticed. freaky. It's followed by, cept lydia.deduced bby is
rl. shes awsum.
Derek, who'd just managed to focus back on the novel he's reading, puts it face
down and groans. He really, really did not need that mental image.
He can't help but pick at it, though, wonder if Stiles pushed up his shirt
right there in the middle of the class, bold and brazen like someone can only
be when they know nobody will look. Or if he turned to the side, all furtive,
smiling that teeth-baring smile Stiles does when he likes to pretend nothing is
out of the ordinary.
If there were milk stains on his shirt after, round wet spots where the fabric
stuck right to Stiles' chest, his nipples showing pert and hard under damp,
dark cloth.
Derek closes his eyes, bids a mental fairwell to decency, and shoves his hand
inside his pants. It's just self-defense at this point; if the universe is
going to shove Stiles at him, and then make it so that Stiles' nipples are a
regular topic of conversation between them, Derek can do nothing beyond keeping
his shameful obsession secret and contained.
Like this, though, in private, with no one to see.... Derek grits his teeth and
gives himself free rein, imagining Stiles with that fond, tired look in his
eyes, his broad hands pulling Derek closer. Imagines Stiles' stiff nipples
under his tongue and Stiles' stiff cock against his hip, Stiles twisting and
writhing and smiling into Derek's skin.
It's honestly not Derek's intention to imagine Stiles' nipples sensitive and
puffy, leaking, the skin around them gone tender and plush, with a give to it
that Stiles' skinny frame wouldn't usually allow. But it's there in his mind
all the same, gloriously vivid, and it's to that image that Derek comes, going
off in his underwear because he didn't even have the time or forethought to
take his pants off.
Derek stares bleakly up at the ceiling until his cellphone beeps again. Again,
it's Stiles. apprntly bb hidin glamor doesnt extend to diaper changes. sux.
~~
For about five minutes, Derek debates against going to Stiles' house after
school lets out. Stiles has proven extremely capable of calling if he needs
Derek around. The very fact that Derek knows Stiles' schedule and the drive to
his house well enough to know when Stiles will be home on any given day means
that Derek is too close and should stay away.
In the end, common sense gives in to that persistent, inevitable draw that
pulls Derek to Stiles. Like the tide, with an obnoxious teenager instead of the
moon.
Doesn't help that as Derek climbs in through the window Stiles smiles at him,
blurry around the edges, like he's too tired to keep his sarcasm honed. Only
when Stiles says, “Look at him,” softly, “he's actually kind of adorable like
this, huh?” does Derek realize the changeling is fast asleep.
He-- it-- he does, actually. It's screwing with Derek's brain. “Changelings,”
Derek says with a half-shrug. It's the best he can do.
"I don't know, I think I read something,” Stiles starts, and the changeling's
eyes slit open. “Damn. Spoke too soon.” With a sigh and a smooth motion of his
arm, Stiles hefts the changeling up against his chest. If Derek were a good
person, he'd look away.
Derek knows he's not. He looks.
The baby latches on to Stiles' nipple, sucking it in, then spits it out again.
Derek steels himself, waiting for the screaming to commence, but.
"Is he smiling?” Derek says.
Stiles is smiling back. It's not doing great things for Derek's composure.
“Yeah, turns out Raptor's a pretty happy little guy when his food's on time.”
"You named the baby,” Derek says. On second thought he adds, “You named the
baby Raptor.”
"Yeah, you have a problem with that?” Stiles gives Derek his best unimpressed
glare, which melts into snorts of laughter when the baby goes Ah!. “C'mon, it's
an awesome name.”
"Yeah, for a comic book villain,” Derek mutters. Stiles is ignoring him in
favor of bending his face to the changeling's and talking in a tone that seems
awfully close to baby-talk, though, and even Derek can pick his battles. Some
of the time.
Downstairs, the door is creaking, and Derek takes it as his cue to go. Stiles
waves him off absent-mindedly. The changeling's started fussing again, so
Stiles has him lying belly-down on Stiles' arm, the baby's face nestled in the
crook of Stiles' elbow, and Derek feels like he's had enough.
He flings himself out the window, wincing when he hits the ground hard enough
to sprain his ankle. It heals almost immediately, but it still aches. At least
it's a distraction.
Above him, in Stiles' bedroom, Derek can hear the changeling cooing, Stiles
delightedly baby-talking at him. “Who's a good little faery creature drinking
the milk of honest humans? You are! Yes, you are!”
Something's wrong. Derek doesn't quite know what, but Stiles' voice and the
baby's gurgling fold together into a layer of noise that unsettles Derek over
and over again until he's out of range.
~~
It's mid-morning, not a time Derek is used to spending in Stiles' bedroom. It's
the weekend, though, and Derek spent the entire night in his own apartment
tossing and turning, trying to quiet down the malformed uncertainty squirming
in him and failing miserably.
For once, Stiles seems content to let Derek do the majority of the research
work. Derek doesn't know why they don't do it more often; it's not like Stiles
is the only one who knows how to read. And this way Derek has something to do
beside try to keep his eyes on Stiles' face and off his-- firmly on Stiles'
face.
That's not without its own perils, though. Stiles is smiling, the maniacal
little curve his mouth gets when he's pleased with himself. Stiles' head is
bent down, to look at the changeling at it feeds, curled around it with a
protectiveness that seems instinctive. His eyes are--
Looking right back at Derek. Shit.
Before Stiles can ask, Derek blurts, “It's unnatural.”
"Excuse you, I thought we agreed to call the baby a he.” Stiles scowls. ”And
just because he is unnatural doesn't mean he doesn't need love!”
Derek blinks and slowly says, “I'm not talking about the-- changeling. Baby.
Whatever. I'm talking about you.”
Stiles, a teenage boy tenderly breastfeeding a tiny baby, frowns and says,
“What do you mean?”
"Is this what passes for normal these days?” Derek demands. “When I was in high
school, I don't recall liking babies half as much as you do.”
"Oh, well,” Stiles snorts. “When you were in high school you used eggs in
health class.” But his lips quirk as he shifts the baby to burp him. “I guess
it's a me thing. I've always liked babies. Babies are awesome.”
Derek's most vivid memory containing babies is from when his parents brought
Cora home. It'd been late at night and he'd woken up hearing her wail from the
driveway. “Never really saw the appeal.”
Stiles is looking at the baby when he says, “My mom used to run a daycare. I
helped, when I could. It was nice.”
"It suits you.” The words take Derek by surprise; he didn't mean to say them.
Judging by Stiles' expression, he wasn't expecting them either. But that
expression disappears soon enough. “Less talking,” Stiles says, gesturing with
the hand that isn't occupied with a baby. “More research.”
~~
Possibly this is why Derek doesn't do the research more often: he reads for the
better part of an hour, until Lydia arrives and gets straight to the root of
the problem.
"He's not a changeling,” Lydia says. She's sitting on Stiles' bed, one high-
heeled shoe dangling off her foot.
Derek looks at her. Before he can demand an explanation, Stiles says, “Huh.”
It doesn't sound surprised. It almost sounds... guilty?
"Look at him.” Lydia gestures at the changeling-- baby-- whatever, currently
awake and interestedly following Stiles' hand, clutching a small transparent
plastic box of multi-faceted dice.
(“Shut up,” Stiles had muttered when Derek first found him brandishing the box
at the baby. “It's colorful, he can't swallow it by accident, it rattles and
it's not like I have actual baby toys on hand, okay?”)
"What are you hearing?” Lydia asks. “Or rather, what aren't you hearing?”
Derek nearly strains his ears before realizing Lydia's question was much
simpler than that. “It-- he isn't crying.”
Lydia nods, satisfied. “People think the changeling myth came from babies with
the colic. Kids who cry on and on for no apparent reason, because the
changeling never stops wanting to be fed. Changelings don't do happy.”
The baby, as if on cue, looks Derek in the eye and breaks out in an enormous,
toothless grin.
"Okay,” Derek says, discomfited. “So if it's an actual baby, why did the fae
give him to us?”
Stiles frowns, looking down at the baby. “More importantly,” he says slowly,
“where did the baby come from?”
~~
"We're not bringing Chris Argent into this,” Derek growls. Kind of uselessly,
since they are already halfway to the Argent house, but it's the thought that
counts.
"This is too big for us,” Stiles says. He's gesturing with one hand as he
drives, giving Derek – or rather, the baby in Derek's arms – the occasional
worried glance. “This kid has parents somewhere. They probably want him back.”
"Yeah, the lack of screaming must have kept them up at night,” Derek says. He
says it quietly, though.
Evidently, not quietly enough, because Stiles' face darkens. “You know what? It
probably did.”
~~
They're expecting Chris not to see the baby at first, to see a doll like
everybody else has so far. They're not expecting Chris to push Stiles against
the door and snarl, “What do you think you're doing? Give me that child right
now.”
Derek is considering putting the baby down on the couch so he can properly push
Argent away from Stiles. Stiles just rolls his eyes and says, “So you know this
kid. Excellent,” like he's used to having conversations while people shove him
up against hard surfaces.
Which. Well. Maybe Derek's a little bit to blame, here.
"Nobody's letting you handle the baby until you stop handling me,” Stiles says,
pointed. He brushes invisible lint off his clothes when Argent reluctantly
backs off. “Thank you. Derek?”
As little as Derek likes the apparently-a-baby-after-all, he's not going to
just hand over an innocent child to a hunter. Derek hangs on to him,
restraining himself from growling.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Chris here knows the baby. And he cares that we have
it. Combine this with our usual shitty luck and what does that tell you?”
Derek hunches a little. “That Argent's hunting changelings?” The baby squacks
against the tightness of Derek's hold and Derek loosens it quickly, flushing
with guilt.
"I thought we've been through this,” Stiles says with an exaggerated sigh.
“Smiling, ergo not a changeling. Human baby. That Christ Argent knows. That the
Fae gave to us, hinting it's a changeling.” He rolls his eyes at Derek. “It's a
hunter baby. Try to keep up.”
The baby's in Argent's arms before Stiles finishes talking. Stiles actually has
the audacity to tack a little laugh on the end, say, “Whoa, Derek, I don't
think this one knows how to use wolfsbane yet.”
Derek shoves his hands in his pocket. “You can keep it,” he tells Argent.
Stiles, the impossible little brat, actually darts close to Argent and kisses
the baby's forehead. The baby coos and tries to grip Stiles' hair; with the
current cut, it's almost long enough for the baby to succeed.
For a long moment, Stiles and the baby are smiling at each other, and Derek
feels a twinge of something he can't quite name.
Then the baby starts wailing again, and it passes.
~~
"Why did the Fae give you the baby?” Argent asks. He's very intently not
looking at Stiles, who is feeding the baby.
Derek is doing the same. “We don't know,” he says.
"My guess-- ow, Raptor, those are attached,” Stiles says with a wince, “would
be a distraction. Something going on with the baby's parents? Maybe they were
digging too closely into something the Fae don't want them to mess with. Even
hunters would probably drop anything else if their kid was missing.”
"One that young, yes,” Argent says. He looks like he bit into a lemon. Then he
looks at Stiles and says, “Did you really name the baby Raptor?”
"Yes, I did,” Stiles says, with a lot of dignity for someone who smells faintly
like yogurt. “I stand by the greatness of the name, but that's not the point.
What were Raptor's parents working on, then?”
Argent's face goes stony. His silence is pointed enough to stick on a feathered
shaft and shoot innocent people with.
"Jeez, don't sprain yourself reaching for the cyanide pill,” Stiles mutters. He
waves his hand, the one not supporting the baby's head. “You know what? Just
this once, we'll let that slide. Not our territory, we don't care.” He frowns.
“Wait. They aren't actually here, are they?”
That much, Argent is apparently willing to give them. He shakes his head.
Raptor, apparently full for now, turns his face to watch them. Stiles shifts
him and pats his back with quick, careful movements. “Fine. So tell them to
come here and get their kid.”
Derek clears his throat. “What about the Fae?”
Argent crosses his arms. “Leave that to me. And,” he twitches visibly as he
says it, “Raptor's parents.”
Stiles smirks at him. “See, I told you. It's a great name.”
Argent shoos them out after that, along with the baby. “I don't have anything
to feed him,” he says. “And I hear breast milk is better for children that
young anyway.”
"Hardy har har,” Stiles mutters, but Derek isn't getting the impression that
Argent is joking.
They're halfway back to Derek's apartment when Stiles says, “Thanks, man,” just
as Raptor is discovering Derek's arm hair and pulling.
Derek winces and takes a minute to be grateful he waxes his chest. “What for?”
he says, once Stiles' words make it through.
Stiles makes a face. “For not disputing me. You know, on the whole,” for a
terrifying second he lets go of the wheel to make finger quotes, “'our
territory' thing. I know you don't like to share, despite, like. Everything.”
"Put your hands back on the wheel,” Derek says, snippy. “I thought you didn't
want to get into an accident.”
Fuck. This is getting out of hand.
~~
As soon as they reach their destination, Derek hands Stiles the baby and walks
away. “I need to clear my head,” he calls when Stiles yells a baffled, “What
the fuck, dude?” after him.
"This is your apartment!” Stiles says. Derek doesn't turn back. Stiles knows
where the spare key is.
He speeds up as the city fades into the woods. Tree branches snap at his face
and sides, a brief, familiar, welcome sting. The wind's on his face. The smells
of car exhaust and too many people in too little space make way for the scents
of green moss and still water, of sage plants crushed under his feet.
Years ago, Derek would pick sage for his grandmother, watch her steep it into
tea. A few weeks ago, he picked it for Stiles, watched wary from the sidelines
as Stiles brewed something that was supposed to “protect and heal a torn land,”
whatever that meant. A day or so after that, Derek poured the concoction near
the roots of an old juniper tree under Stiles' watchful eye.
He turns back to his apartment. Even as he runs he marshals the words into
order in his head, grim about it, knowing they'll come out wrong but willing to
take that chance so long as they come out at all. Derek is a lot of things, a
coward and a creep sometimes, an asshole usually, but he's not willing to be
unfair. Not about this.
~~
"I don't have to share,” Derek says as he enters his apartment. Then he pauses.
“Are you letting the baby watch True Blood?”
"One, he's too young to know what it is anyway,” Stiles says, like Derek's
going to miss how he jumped and changed the channel the minute Derek walked in.
“Two, it's valuable education in the supernatural, which this kid is going to
need. Three, since when do you care, and four, where the fuck have you been and
what the hell are you talking about?”
"I needed to process,” Derek says, tense.
Stiles blinks at him. Raptor, meanwhile, seems fixated on the screen, pacifier
drooping from the corner of his mouth like a gangster with a cigar. “Since when
do you process things?”
"I can process,” Derek says.
"Okay, supposing you can. What do you mean, you don't have to share? Are we
suddenly back in kindergarten?” Stiles seems to think of what he just said and
gives a delicate shudder. “Let's hope not. Those were not the finest years of
my life even without the daily mortal peril.”
Derek grits his teeth and resists the urge to tell Stiles to fucking focus.
“You were. Thanking me.” The words feel bitter on his tongue. “For not
contradicting your decision on matters impacting on,” don't say our, “this
territory. You didn't need to. It's yours as much as it's mine. You've done
enough to defend it.” More than Derek has, it feels like, some days.
Instead of saying something, anything, Stiles just looks up at Derek, all big
brown eyes like he's stunned.
"This can't be that much of a surprise to you,” Derek tries.
Raptor starts squirming in Stiles' lap. Stiles keeps staring at Derek,
apparently barely noticing the baby's movements except to hold him more
securely. Not bothering to pull his shirt down when Raptor's fidgeting shoves
it aside to expose a faint hint of happy trail, the jut of Stiles' hipbone
where his pants are sagging.
Derek takes an automatic step backwards.
Stiles' eyes narrow. “See, this right here? Is making me kind of doubt your
sincerity. How can you want to share your territory with me when you can barely
stand to be in the same room?”
"I don't have a problem being in a room with you,” Derek tries, but he doesn't
need wolf senses to hear himself lying.
Neither does Stiles, who looks perilously close to snapping Whatever and
throwing Derek out of his own apartment. Derek wouldn't even blame him; while
Stiles apparently bonded with Raptor, he hasn't been sleeping much for the last
few days. The fragile skin under Stiles' eyes is dark and bruised looking, his
lips dry and chapped.
Maybe Derek has a slightly hard time looking away from Stiles' mouth. Maybe
Stiles isn't quite as tired as he seems, because when Derek finally looks up
his expression has shifted, softened the way it does when Raptor finally falls
asleep and Stiles tucks him in, thinking Derek isn't watching.
Derek is always watching, though. That's the problem.
Or maybe, Derek thinks, dazed, as Stiles gets up and walks towards him with a
wicked glint in his eyes, it's not as much of a problem as Derek thought.
Time seems to slow as Stiles approaches. Derek finds himself looking at Raptor,
thinking This is when he starts screaming. Any minute now. Except the baby
seems mostly preoccupied with his own fingers, happy to lie on his back in the
middle of Derek's carefully made bed.
Then Stiles is right there, making himself at home in Derek's personal space.
He melts against Derek, sinking into him like gravity just shifted directions
and also robbed Stiles of his bones. He's warm and Derek feels him everywhere,
heart beating fast and steady. Stiles drops his head to lie against Derek's
shoulder. His ridiculous eyelashes tickle Derek's neck.
"I wanna kiss you,” Stiles says, voice muffled in Derek's henley, “but that
requires moving.”
There's no possible way for Derek to reply to this except to sink his fingers
into the short hair at Stiles' nape and angle his head. Stiles' mouth is warm,
his lips are dry and mobile, his tongue shyly swiping against the corner of
Derek's mouth.
If Derek had the air to speak, and if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, he
might have moaned. As it is, all he can do is gather Stiles closer and hope
like hell the baby doesn't start screaming.
To say one positive thing about Raptor, he stays quiet. The shrieking that
suddenly fills the room is all too adult in tone, matching the cold gun muzzle
at Derek's temple.
~~
"I'm guessing you're Raptor's mom?” Stiles says to the woman holding a gun to
Derek's head. Her partner is already beside the bed, picking up Raptor and
cooing at him.
It's a very hunter-typical cooing, which means a lot of murmured whispers
promising to “Kill the nasty monster with fire and silver, yes baby, and you
can have his entrails to play with!” but Derek supposes it's the thought that
counts.
"He's not a monster!” Stiles yells, even as the mother says, “He can't play
with his entrails!” Stiles gives her a tentative smile when she adds, “That's
not sanitary.”
"A+ priorities,” Stiles mutters. “Look, you guys, Chris Argent must have called
you. Right? So you know we didn't kidnap this baby. He was thrust upon us!” For
one terrifying moment, Stiles seems to be considering some pun about thrusting,
but to Derek's despairing joy, he gives it up in favor of glaring at the
hunters.
The cool metallic pressure on Derek's temple lifts. Derek cautiously turns to
see the hunter flicking the safety. She's still glaring at Derek, but he'll
take it. “Explain.”
Stiles makes a bunch of abortive hand gestures. “Fucking Fae exchanged my sex-
ed pretend baby for your actual baby! I had nothing to do with it!”
The hunters exchange glances. The one nearer Derek drops her backpack on the
floor. “I guess that explains this,” she says.
Derek only recognizes it as Stiles' bookbag when Stiles leaps at it with a
joyful, “Yes!” He opens the zipper and pulls out the terrifying baby doll,
crowing, “Ha! Guess who's got two thumbs and a passing grade in health class?
This guy!” He pauses and stares at the hunters. “Um. You did 'feed' it,” he
airquotes, “when it started screaming?”
“Yes,” the guy hunter says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It was really
loud.” Stiles grins. The guy hunter adds, "In my day, we just had an egg.” He
and the other hunter share a smile. “Ours hatched into a basilisk.”
"Good times,” Stiles says faintly.
~~
With Raptor bundled in the carseat the hunter pair provided, and their
determined expression as they set out to kick Fae ass, Derek feels like he can
finally breathe easy.
Or, well. As easy as it gets.
"I almost feel sorry for that Fae,” Stiles says, watching them go from the
window. “And I'm gonna miss the little dude, you know?”
A lesser man than Derek would squirm. As it is, he leans against the wall and
puts on his best impassive expression.
Stiles, watching him, grins. “Hey, man, it's cool.” He rests a hand on Derek's
shoulder. “I think I actually like kids a lot better when I can hand them off
to someone else at the end of the day, you know?”
The warmth of Stiles' hand is seeping through the fabric of Derek's shirt.
Every response that Derek carefully drilled into himself over the last couple
years screams at him Abort, abort, run away!
But Stiles isn't giving Derek room to retreat or run. Stiles, as a matter of
fact, is slowly but surely herding Derek towards the bed, moving his hips
against Derek's to steer him. “We shouldn't,” Derek says feebly.
"Oh, yeah?” Stiles says. “Why?”
If there was anything defiant or angry in his tone, any hint of the petulant
teenager Stiles is, it would be enough to bring Derek back to his senses.
Probably. Hopefully. As it is, Stiles just stands there, looking at him, a
little curious, still tired. Derek has a sinking, uncomfortable feeling that
the most mature person in the room may not be him.
“Thank fuck,” Derek mutters, ignoring Stiles' bewildered response in favor of
shoving them both into bed.
Stiles is enthusiastic enough, pushing his own shirt off before moving onto
Derek's. Derek lets him, mesmerized into stillness by all the pale skin on
display.
Maybe that gives the wrong impression, though, since Stiles shifts
uncomfortably. “Um. Sorry I'm.” He half-shrugs, raises his hands to his chest,
hiding his nipples. “I mean, I get if you think it's kind of gross. Plus they
still kinda hurt anyway, so maybe a shirt--”
Derek tunes him out, watches as his hand – seemingly of its own accord – goes
to cover Stiles', soaking away pain. It doesn't hurt as much as it did the last
time Derek did this, passing through Derek's system and out rapidly.
Under him, Stiles' breathing quickens. He licks his lips and watches Derek
through half-closed eyes. “Man, the endorphin rush never gets old.”
Derek kisses him, just a quick peck, because he can't help himself. He wants to
say something about watching out for addiction, or maybe about adrenaline
junkies, but that means backing away from Stiles' mouth and Derek is just not
strong enough.
Stiles opens up for him – not just his mouth, it's a whole-body experience
where Stiles' muscles go lax and his long arms and long legs wind around Derek,
strong and soft like a silk cocoon. He moves sinuously, rubbing every bit of
skin against Derek's.
Derek kisses down Stiles' cheek to his jaw to his throat, lingering there to
feel the vibration of Stiles' tiny noises against his lips then down, down to
his chest. “I can keep taking pain away,” he says, muffled against Stiles'
solar plexus, “can I, I want--”
"Sure.” Stiles laughs, a breathless little thing that Derek feels more than he
hears. His thigh shoves against Derek's dick, pressure just where Derek needs
it, and he shudders in an attempt to keep from hissing. “Dude. Are you actually
into this?”
When Derek tries to withdraw, though, Stiles' hand rests on his nape and keeps
him still.
"Dude,” Stiles says again, but his voice is gentle. So is his hand, for all
that it won't let Derek move. Tender but unyielding, a paradox of sensation,
holding Derek in place so he can't fall apart. “It's okay. I'm not laughing at
you, just.” Derek can't see Stiles' gestures but he can feel his muscles
moving, can imagine the expressive hand motions. “Do you realize how fucking
weird our life is?”
Derek has no idea how to reply to this. But then Stiles' hand on his neck
guides Derek to a stiff, puffy nipple, and Derek is spared the need to say
anything.
He's careful, still taking pain away, even though there's less of it now.
There's no milk coming out at first. Then Stiles pushes him off.
Before Derek can panic, Stiles says, “No, you need to put some more force into
it, like,” and pinches his own nipple, hard.
The jolt of pain courses through Derek at the same time as a spike of arousal
so intense it might as well be pain, at Stiles' strong fingers, at the sluggish
welling of white fluid on Stiles' nipple. Unable to think, unable to move away,
Derek bows his head and sucks.
It's sweet, with a little after taste that says skin - sweat, bitter remnants
of soap, traces of laundry detergent. But mostly just Stiles' scent, layered
and human and complex, things he's eaten, places he's been, people he's met.
He smells a lot like Derek. Derek's hips drive forward at the thought
helplessly, and Stiles gives another breathless laugh and thrusts right back at
Derek. “Take my pants off,” he says, “fuck, I know teenagers are allowed to get
off in their pants but I don't actually want to.”
With the actual verbal order, it's not hard to back off, to remove Stiles'
pants and then his own. To push Stiles' underwear down and watch his cock stand
up, red and wet at the tip.
Derek doesn't realize he's moving until he's mouthing Stiles' dick, licking at
the precome, sucking softly at the head.
The noise Stiles makes is almost inhuman but his hand is still careful at the
back of Derek's head.
Too careful. Derek closes his eyes. “Give it to me,” he says, voice gone raspy.
“Let me have it.”
He glances upwards and the look in Stiles' eyes is knowing. His hand tightens
over Derek's nape, his free hand's fingers tracing Derek's lower lip. “Open
up,” Stiles says, low, and Derek does.
Stiles is shaking when Derek swallows around him, holding himself so carefully
to keep from choking Derek. It's unnecessary, but Derek appreciates it. Derek
keeps his eyes open. As much as he wants to close them, he wants to watch
Stiles more, the tightening of his abs as he struggles not to thrust, the wet
trail leading down from his nipples.
He reaches a hand up to Stiles' nipple (not to pinch, he promises himself, just
to touch, to see if they're as hot and swollen as they were a moment ago), and
just barely makes skin contact before he comes all over Stiles' restless thigh.
"Did you just,” Stiles says, and the rest is an inarticulate noise as he spills
down Derek's throat.
~~
Derek likes where he is, curled up with his head on Stiles' stomach, Stiles'
restless fingers petting through his air. The bed smells like them, and a
little like Raptor still.
Before he can think better of it, Derek chuckles. Stiles tweaks his ear.
“What's so funny, fuzzbutt?”
"You're great at names,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of which, did
we ever find out what the little screaming machine was actually named?”
"Robert,” Stiles says without a pause. “See? I was close.”
His hand stills in Derek's hair, and he smells a little sour, momentarily, like
regret.
Derek waits until his hearbeat finishes settling down before he lets out a
breath and says, “It is kind of quiet without him.” He looks up at Stiles.
"Mmm.” Stiles' eyes grow darker. He bites his lip. “So how about we make some
noise?”
Derek has to bite back startled laughter. “I guess,” he says, as deadpan as he
can make himself.
Stiles, obviously, does not buy that for a minute. He grins at Derek, unashamed
and delighted, flips them over and plants a kiss against Derek's nose.
End Notes
     I'm theragnarokd on tumblr, come say hi! Also, I kind of wish this
     story involved mpreg, since then I could've called it "Milk, Eggs,
     Bred".
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