Title: Counting Blue Cars

Rating: T

Characters: Stiles, Peter Hale, OC's, Sheriff Stilinski

Warning: Unwanted pregnancy that came to full term, unwanted baby, teenagers panicking and making bad decisions, but don't worry... the baby is okay in the end!

PART ONE

Stiles sat down heavily on the concrete step in front of the Beacon Hills Gas Station and Convenience Store on the edge of town. He let out a shaky sigh, tears filling his eyes all over again. He dropped his head into his hands and took a few deep breaths, trying to stop himself from breaking down into gross sobbing. It took him a good few minutes of sucking in lungful of the mixture of fresh, pine air and general gas station stink before he was able to breathe more easily without the threat of a panic attack. Of course, it was then that someone cleared their throat immediately to his left. Stiles' nearly fell over from startling so hard, but didn't bother looking up at the person next to him. Instead, he buried his face further into his arms to hide the tears streaming down his cheeks like an open wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

"Do you need help, kid?" asked a surprisingly gentle voice, smooth and masculine and actually sounding rather refined considering the setting.

Stiles didn't reply, just inhaled sharply and held it for a few beats before blowing it out.

"Are you in trouble?" the man asked, sounding slightly more concerned than the first time, "can I call someone?"

Stiles shook his head where it was cradled in his arms, elbows resting on his knees. He hoped that if he didn't respond, the man would leave. The man didn't leave; instead, he moved closer to Stiles and sat down next to him. He was close enough that Stiles could feel his body heat radiating from him in the cool spring air, but had left enough space between them that he didn't brush against him at all.

Stiles let out another shaky sigh. His heart felt all twisted up in his chest, but it wasn't nearly as bad as his stomach which felt like it had turned itself inside out and was attempting to crawl up his esophagus. He had such a hard time believing his reality when Dana Kennedy had approached him at his locker on the first day of the new school year, dark circles under her eyes and worry written across her face. It hadn't seemed real when she had told him she was pregnant. He had asked her what she needed from him and she had just shaken her head and asked him to keep it quiet before leaving him to stand in shock at his open locker.

Later, when her belly had gotten harder and harder to disguise, it had seemed a lot more real and a lot more terrifying. He had gotten angry when it finally began to sink in. He had lashed out at anyone near him, had locked himself in his room, and had cut himself off from close friends. It wasn't fair; it was his first and only time and he got the girl pregnant. He had used a condom, damnit! It just wasn't fair.

The man was still sitting next to him. Stiles took a deep breath, blue it out through his mouth and then, finally, raised his head to peek over at the man. He was kind of familiar in the way someone who lived in the same little suburb community would be, but Stiles couldn't place him. He was mid thirties, probably, had a handsome face, was well-groomed and wearing an outfit that, while casual, looked as though it were put together with thought and care.

"Tell me," said Stiles, his voice not sounding right when he croaked the words out, "what are your thoughts on God?"

The man's eyebrows raised in a knee-jerk reaction before he quickly set his face into a more benignly neutral expression. He tilted his head to the side and, though his face might have been neutral, his eyes were deep pools of thought and intensity.

"I can't say I have many," he said almost regrettably, "what are your thoughts?"

Stiles rubbed the heel of his hand across his face, trying to clear the tear tracks from his cheeks before they dried and tightened the skin uncomfortably.

"I… I don't know," replied Stiles, shaking his head, "I never really had much experience with that. My family was never religious or anything, but then Mom got sick and suddenly everyone was talking about God and Heaven and all that."

The other man remained silent as if knowing Stiles really needed to get whatever this was off his chest. His eyes were calculating, but somehow also soft.

"If there is a God, I don't really know how I feel about him," said Stiles, through a heavy exhale. "What kind of God lets things like cancer happen?"

"One who allows choice?" offered the man, though he didn't sound like he was preaching, just that he, too, wanted to know the answer.

"She didn't choose to have cancer," whispered Stiles, feeling new tears begin to sting in his eyes. "She didn't choose to die and I didn't choose to lose my mom."

He felt hoarse.

"Mom," Stiles croaked, "I really need you right now."

Stiles felt the man's warm hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze.

"I'm sorry," said the man in a low voice.

Stiles nodded, silently thanking the man for caring, even though it didn't actually solve his problem. His mind drifted back to only an hour or so earlier when he had received a phone call from Dana. Her voice had sounded raspy even at a whisper as she talked to him as quietly as she could over her cell phone, locked in the bathroom across the hall from her bedroom.

"I had it, Stiles," she had whispered, sobbing quietly.

"Are you okay?" Stiles had managed to ask even with his heart in his throat.

"There's so much blood," she had said, weakly.

"Blood?" squeaked Stiles, "I don't do so well with blood—"

"The baby, Stiles, she won't… she keeps crying and Mom and Dad are going to be home any minute. I don't know what to do, Stiles."

"Don't worry, Dana," offered Stiles, even while he could feel his stomach acting up and his gag reflex trying to kick in, "I'm coming. I'll come and I'll help you and we'll… we'll figure this out."

"Stiles," she had simply said before breaking down into hysterical sobs that she was working so valiantly at keeping quiet.

"I lost my daughter two years ago," said the man, cutting through Stiles' fog and bringing him back to the present. He looked over at the man in surprise, curious despite himself. "She was only a few months old. They call it SIDS, they don't know why it happens, but… it happens. We didn't know her long, but we feel her loss every day even now."

Stiles bit his lip at that, his thoughts immediately turning back to the baby, his baby. Dana had told him not to come, had said she was going to hide the baby. She said she had talked to some people online about it and they had said to just put it in a sack and leave it somewhere, perhaps a town over, or, if she didn't want it found, in the forest somewhere or a river. The thought of it made Stiles sick, but he was so scared and he had no idea what to do, what he could do. He and Dana weren't even dating, had never dated, actually. He had no right to the baby aside from being the sperm supplier and that had been a complete accident.

He had been both horrified and relieved at Dana's plan when she had told it to him over the phone, and then he had felt guilty for feeling relieved. He fled his house, telling his dad he wanted to go for a run. It was hard to see through the tears in his eyes as he ran. He had finally stopped at the convenience store, and there he sat next to some stranger who was unintentionally making him feel even guiltier about the baby.

Baby.

It wasn't just some accidental pregnancy anymore, it was a baby. It was a living, breathing person with his DNA. It was a tiny little person with all the potential in the world and… and it was about to lose any chance of a future. Stiles jumped up off the step, startling the man.

"I have to go," exclaimed Stiles, his chest already heaving in anticipation of the running he was about to do. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Dana's number. "Thanks," he awkwardly called back to the man before running back toward town.

"Dana," he cried into the phone when she picked up with a whispered what?, "have you done it yet? Dana, tell me you haven't. Where is it?"

"No, I… why?"

"Don't do anything, I'm coming," said Stiles, jumping over a small bush and running up a grassy hill on the side of the highway.

"I told you not to," she said, her voice sounding just as angry as it did fragile.

"Don't… just… you don't have to worry about anything, Dana, I'll… I'll take it, I won't tell anyone you're the mother, but… we can't… I… it's my baby, Dana… it's our baby… I can't let you just…" he paused, breathing heavily as he reached the first street of houses and made for the back alley, swallowed harshly, closed his eyes tightly for a second, then continued, "Just don't do anything, yet, okay?"

There was silence on the other end for a few beats, but finally Dana let out her breath in a long, low woosh.

"Okay, okay, but hurry," she said.

Stiles' entire body loosened with his relief and he leaped into an even higher speed, making way to her house.

"Blankets," demanded Stiles, the wailing baby held awkwardly in his arms, "or towels… something."

Dana looked horrible as she limped around her room looking for something she could bear to part with. It made Stiles' jaw clench in frustration; she was able to give up her own baby, but not a fucking blanket?

Finally, she handed a throw blanket to Stiles and an oversized sweatshirt. He awkwardly grabbed them still clutching the baby tightly to his chest. It was amazing and terrifying how small it was; it weighed next to nothing in his arms. Stiles wrapped the blanket around the baby and covered it with the hoody.

It was making itty bitty grunting noises and rooting its face around against his chest like a tiny piglet.

"I don't have boobs, baby," said Stiles apologetically. He let out a frustrated sigh, suddenly wondering how he was going to feed it. In an attempt to push the sudden resulting panic attack clawing at his throat, he turned his attention to Dana, "what do you wanna name it? Err her, what do you wanna name her?"

"I don't," said Dana, crossing her arms over get chest and looking lost. Stiles' earlier annoyance with her faded away, he suddenly just felt bad for her. She needed a hug and medical attention, probably.

"Okay, okay, I'll just go," said Stiles, trying to give her a reassuring smile even as he tried not to lose it himself and break out in hysterics. "Don't worry, Dana, I'll take care of her."

"I don't care," whispered Dana almost sounding horrified to realize it herself.

Stiles' stomach dropped uncomfortably, but he pushed through the feeling.

"What about you?" he asked, finally voicing his concern over her, "I don't know much about this sort of thing, but I'm pretty sure women generally need some kind of aftercare, you know? Hence the whole... staying in the hospital."

Dana closed her eyes and shook her head, new tears wetting her cheeks. "Just… Don't get us caught, okay?"

"Yeah," replied Stiles, letting out a sigh.

He adjusted the baby in his arms, holding it carefully, albeit awkwardly, and then left Dana's room. Moving quickly through the house, he headed out the back door just as he heard the garage door at the front of the house begin to open. Her parents were home. The baby squirmed in his arms, pink and wrinkled with tiny, skinny fingers, and flaking skin. Weren't babies supposed to be cute?

Once he was outside, the sun setting and the cool spring wind picking up, he started walking aimlessly. He concentrated on putting one foot before the other in hopes of staving off the panic that would undoubtedly seize him were he to ask himself what he was going to do now. He had no idea what to do. He couldn't go home; he had a fucking baby in his arms. Scott crossed his mind; his mom was a nurse, she could make sure the baby was okay and could help him take care of it –except she would want to take it to the hospital, would need to alert authorities, would tell his father where he was and what was going on.

No, Stiles couldn't do that. He'd get Dana in trouble and he had no idea what kind of trouble he'd be in outside of what his father would think. Plus, he and Scott were barely friends anymore, anyway. He had pushed Scott out of his life that year, just like everyone else, not knowing how to deal with the revelation of the unwanted pregnancy. Scott had found a new best friend and Stiles had burned all the bridges he had.

Without actually making the decision, he walked back to the outskirts of the city, leaving the suburban neighbourhoods behind and passing the convenience store he had been having his mental breakdown earlier. He found himself picking through the deepening pine forest some hours later, baby crying weakly in his arms. Stiles felt numb, lost and numb. Tears were streaming down his face, but he wasn't sure if he was actually crying or if the wind was pulling them from his eyes.

He was cold, he was hungry, he was tired, and he knew the baby was probably feeling the same way ten-fold. It hadn't eaten anything in its entire existence, he realized with a jolt. It was going to die. He sat down heavily at the base of a tall, ancient tree and looked down at the baby wrapped tightly in the blanket and his arms. Its skin was looking less pink and a lot more... gray. Its cries had gotten progressively weaker.

Its bottom had begun to feel warm and mooshy through the blanket. Diapers, just another baby necessity he didn't have. Stiles laid it out on the ground in front of him and unwrapped the blanket to check on it. He let out a sharp gasp when he saw the dark, oily poop smooshed into its tiny thighs and bottom as well as the blanket. Why was it black? It didn't look anything like poop, it looked... it looked like death.

"Oh, God," whispered Stiles, unsure if it was a curse or a prayer as he said it.

He didn't have time to worry over it long, though, because there was the sound of a twig break to his left. Stiles jolted and grabbed the baby up into his arms, unworried about getting the black tar shit all over himself. He jumped to his feet and looked around, frantically. He was far enough into the forest that it probably wasn't some random person who was walking or driving by and thought they should investigate the lost teen. It probably shouldn't have been relieving to know that considering the alternative, but he didn't want to be found out.

Turning around a few times, surveying his surroundings, he squinted in the growing darkness to try to find the source of the noise. Mountain lions wouldn't be so thoughtless to make a sound if they were approaching prey, so perhaps it was just a deer or something. He took a deep, relieved breath after a few moments of nothing happening. Of course, that's when a hand came to rest on his shoulder nearly making him jump out of his own skin.

"FUCK," he squeaked, leaping out from under the hand and twisting around to see who it belonged to.

Heart pounding in his throat and chest heaving, Stiles found himself looking into the face of the man he had talked to only hours earlier.

"You scared the crap out of me," he breathed, clutching the baby closer to himself and silently pleading with it not to make a sound; maybe the guy wouldn't think anything of the bundle of blanket and hoody in his arms.

"Are you lost?" asked the man, concern in his voice though his eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

"N...no, nope, not lost," said Stiles, shaking his head, "I'm exactly where I meant to be."

"So," said the man, tilting his head to the side as he drew out the word, "you meant to be trespassing on my property?"

"OH!" exclaimed Stiles, eyes widening, "Um... yes?"

The man's nostrils flared as if he were an animal scenting something, then his eyes zeroed in on the bundle in Stiles' arms. Stiles took a defensive step backward.

"Is that the cause of your teen angst earlier today?" asked the man, voice gentling.

"An old blanket?" asked Stiles, his voice breaking as he said it. It sounded incredibly weak even to him.

The man let out a sigh like he was disappointed with how lame Stiles' lie was, like he thought he could expect better from Stiles though he didn't even know him. Stiles wanted to feel indignant, but he was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion, mental and physical, and new tears flooded his face. The man reached for him at the same time as his knees gave out, like he had anticipated it. He cradled Stiles and the baby to his chest, going down with Stiles. Unabashedly, Stiles pressed his face into the man's shoulder and fell completely apart into ugly weeping.

"I don't know what to do," he managed between body-shaking sobs, "she's going to die because I... don't... know... what to do."

"It's okay, I've got you," whispered the man, rocking him and holding him tightly so Stiles wouldn't fly apart into a billion pieces.

"Meconium," she said, taking a moment to smile gently at Stiles before turning her attention back to the baby, "every baby's first bowel movement looks like that, it's a good sign. It's a mammal thing actually, even wolf cubs have it."

Stiles let out a small exhale of relief and wondered if he would ever stop crying over everything as tears filled his eyes. Monica Hale was wiping the baby clean with a warm, wet washcloth, while the man Stiles now knew to be Peter Hale was gone to the 24-hour Walmart to get baby formula and diapers.

"She's beautiful," said Monica, softly, "look, Stiles, she has your nose."

Stiles bit his lip feeling awkward and emotional, but he looked as Monica had asked. He frowned down at the sad little creature. She was lethargic with hunger, which he felt monumentally bad about, and her skin was dry and flaky with irritation at having to get used to so many new stimulants and irritants in the air –or so Monica had said. Stiles looked at her squishy little face, but couldn't see anything there that stood out as a specifically identifying feature. She just looked like a newborn baby.

"You'll see it in time," encouraged Monica, "as she gets older, her features will be more prominent and you'll see her mother and yourself in her."

In time? Stiles swallowed hard at that. Obviously, he knew intellectually that babies are kind of an eighteen year commitment, but on a more idiotic level -Well, it just hadn't really crossed his mind.

Once Monica had the baby clean of the poop and leftover blood from being born, she wrapped the baby tightly in a receiving blanket she had from her own baby years earlier, and then placed her in Stiles' arms.

"There you go, Daddy," she said, flashing Stiles a bright smile.

Stiles awkwardly took the baby, holding her like she was made of precious, fragile glass. It felt so strange to have 'daddy' directed at him, but perhaps it was just as strange as holding a tiny, little person and knowing he was responsible for her. Monica gave him a bright smile and ruffled his hair before leaving him in the kitchen.

"I'm going to go get the crib ready for her," she said as she left Stiles alone with the baby.

"Okay, no problem," he called faintly to her before mumbling the rest to himself, "I'll just stay here and have another panic attack."

Even though lucky wasn't a term he had ever felt could be used to describe himself, Stiles definitely felt grateful the Peter had found him in the forest. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like a constant threat. If Peter hadn't found him, if the Hales hadn't taken him in, he would still be sitting under that tree, undoubtedly holding a dead infant.

Stiles shuddered at that, looking down at the sleepy baby in his arms. She blinked up at him with big, dark blue eyes. Stiles glanced around guiltily before leaning in to kiss her forehead. He didn't know what he felt toward the baby at the moment, but he worried that his paternal instincts weren't properly kicking in. He didn't look at her and see the most beautiful baby in the world. He didn't look at her and feel his heart swell in his chest with paternal love and adoration. He didn't feel some sort of connection to her beyond knowing he was the one currently responsible for her and he couldn't just let a baby die. He wanted what was best for her, but he didn't feel a need for that to involve him. Was he broken? He'd never been accused of being a nice guy, or a responsible guy, or a sweet and loving guy, but one would think that when a father held their baby in their arms, something would tug in their chest.

The only tugging going on in Stiles' chest was the constant threat of another panic attack.

Letting out a shaky sigh, Stiles carried the baby into the living room and sat down in the large, leather sofa chair in the far corner. He let her rest against his chest, cradled in one arm.

"I'm sorry for all this," he whispered to the baby, "you didn't do anything wrong; remember that, okay? It wasn't your fault you got such a shitty beginning, so don't let that define you later on in life. I promise you, I'll do my very best from here on out to give you a better chance, okay?"

The baby blinked sleepily up at him, her eyes dull and her skin pale. Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling more tears pricking his eyes. He idly wondered if he could dehydrate from too much crying and resolved to drink a large glass of water once Monica had come back.

The house was quiet, save for the sounds of Monica humming to herself and moving around upstairs and what sounded like the steady thrum of a washing machine having just been started. It was a large house. Stiles hadn't poked around it, yet, but it had to have a lot of bedrooms if the main floor was anything to go by. The living room and kitchen were very big and grand, and Stiles had seen a door leading out of the kitchen that looked like it went to a formal dining room. The house was tall, with high ceilings and two floors on top of a basement. It didn't seem like the kind of house that only two people lived in.

A few moments later, Peter opened the front door and stepped into the foyer between kitchen and living room, heavy laden with bags. It definitely looked like he had bought more than just diapers and formula. Stiles' gut did a guilty twist as he wondered just how much money Peter had spent.

"How's she doing?" he asked when he spotted Stiles.

"Good," Stiles answered, before frowning and correcting himself; "actually, I have no idea."

Peter smiled crookedly at him and gave him a wink that probably would have looked smarmy in the right setting. Stiles blew a heavy sigh out through his mouth and leaned back in the chair. He was so tired.

He closed his eyes and listened to the rustling of Peter moving the bags into the kitchen to unpack. He would just rest his eyes for a bit, he wouldn't actually go to sleep, not while holding a baby, anyway, and not while she still hadn't been fed. Distantly he heard Monica come down the stairs and start talking to Peter in low voices. There was more movement in the kitchen, cabinet doors being opened and kitchen items being used.

His last thought before he fell asleep was to wonder how long it would take for his father to start to worry about him when he came home from work to an empty house.

Stiles woke with a start, awakened by the alarmingly empty sensation in his arms. He sat up straight in the sofa chair, the afghan across his shoulders falling down with his movement. He glanced around the room owlishly only to see that all the lights were off and the place was quiet. He heard no baby crying, didn't see any little forms at his feet like he had dropped them in his sleep.

The afghan was a good sign. Monica or Peter must have draped it over him after taking the baby from his sleep-lax arms. Stiles let himself relax back into the chair, listening to the general silence broken only by his slowing heart rate. He was still so tired. Through the large living room window he could see the light of morning dimly coming through the forest canopy. It was still quite early.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift for a while. When he was just about to drift back into sleep, though, he heard a creak on the stairs. He opened his eyes to see Monica smile sheepishly at him, baby in her arms.

"Sorry," she whispered, "go back to sleep."

Instead of obeying, Stiles pushed up out of the chair. He stretched his arms over his head, twisting as he did so he could stretch his back out. He was sore and stiff from running through the forest in the beginning of the night and then sleeping in a chair –even as comfortable a chair as it was. After a big yawn and some caveman scratching, he sauntered after Monica into the kitchen. She was getting out the can of infant formula when he entered, baby cradled to her chest in one arm while she did everything with her other.

"Can I help?" asked Stiles.

Monica turned a bright smile, albeit a tired one, onto him and nodded. She handed him a bottle.

"Open the can of formula," she instructed while adjusting the baby in her arms and beginning to rock her back and forth, "inside there is a little measuring scoop."

Stiles did as she said.

"Measure two scoops of that into the bottle and then fill it with water in the kettle," she continued, watching Stiles as he did as she instructed. "We always boil the water before using it," she explained, "her little tummy can't take regular tap water just yet."

Once Stiles had the top back on the bottle after doing as Monica had asked, she showed him to pinch the nipple and then give the bottle a careful shake to mix everything together. The formula powder dissolved quickly.

"Now, tip it and let a few drops fall on the inside of your wrist," she directed, going back to rocking the baby as it began to squirm in her arms. "We don't want it to be too hot or too cold, it needs to feel like it is the same temperature as your body –just like breast milk would be."

Stiles did as asked while feeling momentously grateful that Monica and Peter had taken him in. He had no idea how to do any of this and was kind of terribly worried about what would have happened if he had been left to his own devices –it wasn't the first time he felt that way in the past twelve hours.

When the milk was to the correct temperature, Monica had Stiles go back to the big chair that had been his bed the night before. Once he was seated, she placed the baby in his arms and showed him how to feed her. He grinned down at her as she nursed from the bottle, little fingers clenching and unclenching around his hand on the bottle.

"You're a greedy guts, aren't you?" he asked her softly, earning a small chuff of laughter from Monica who was watching over them.

"You're a natural, Stiles," Monica praised before taking a seat on the formal-looking chesterfield next to the chair.

Stiles grinned.

"You hear that?" he asked the baby, "she says I'm a natural which is saying something cuz my lack of breasts is a pretty good sign to the contrary."

That earned him another soft laugh, but this time it wasn't from Monica. Stiles looked up to see Peter stepping silently down the stairs. He startled slightly, narrowing his eyes at the man.

"How do you keep sneaking up on me like that?" asked Stiles, "you're like a ninja."

"More like a wolf," muttered Monica under her breath.

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at her, but shrugged it off. He was beginning to realize that Monica had a rather odd personality –which was saying something coming from Stiles. Peter was giving Monica the 'stink eye' thought Monica looked completely unrepentant. Stiles figured it was some sort of inside joke or previous fight. Either way, it didn't involve him, so he directed his attention back down to the baby in his arms.

She looked about a million times better than she did the night before. Her eyes were brighter, her complexion was pinker, and the few movements she had seemed a lot more purposeful and strong. Peter and Monica must have fed her a few times in the night.

"Does she have a name, yet?" asked Peter, moving across the room on his damn silent feet to hover over Stiles' shoulder and coo at the baby.

"N-no," answered Stiles, feeling his stomach churn.

"Any contenders?" asked Monica, gently.

Stiles shook his head, feeling tears prick at his eyes yet again. The room fell to silence –not that it had been noisy before, but suddenly the quiet felt weighted with awkward emotions. It pressed down on Stiles, making him feel trapped and small.

"Well," said Monica in a falsely upbeat voice, "since it's already awkward, can I ask? Stiles, do your parents know about her?"

Those damn tears fell from his eyes, then, rolling down his face in hot, embarrassing trails. He closed them tightly and shook his head.

"No," he croaked, "no, he has no idea."

"And your mother?" pressed Peter, sounding sympathetic.

"Dead," muttered Stiles, opening his eyes and staring down at the baby in his arms, refusing to look at the other people in the room. The baby was nearly done the entire bottle –such a hungry little thing.

"Ooh, that's right, I'm sorry," said Peter, sounding somewhat embarrassed for forgetting.

There was a few beats of silence before Monica started again.

"So, your father doesn't know about the baby?" she asked, again. Stiles nodded. "So, he's at home right now wondering where his son is and what he did to make his baby boy want to run away from home?"

"Monica," admonished Peter, lowly.

"Yeah," answered Stiles, feeling his voice rough.

"Are you worried he'll react badly?" she asked.

"I—no, he'd be supportive, I think... maybe?" said Stiles, completely unsure what his father's reaction would be, but he definitely wasn't afraid of him or what he might do.

"So, why doesn't he know?" asked Peter.

Stiles wasn't focusing his eyes any more, too busy feeling blindsided with emotions. The sound of the baby suckling milk from the bottle changed into a strange hollow sound and Monica was quick to pluck the bottle from his hands. It caused Stiles to finally look up in confusion, the world around him coming back into focus.

"That sound means the bottle is empty and she's just sucking air," explained Monica, smiling gently. "We don't want her to do that or she'll get a tummy ache."

"Sorry," mumbled Stiles.

"Don't be, you're learning," she said, patting his shoulder affectionately before leaving to clean the bottle in the kitchen.

"Stiles," said Peter, getting his attention once Monica was out of the room, "you need to tell your father. You're welcome here whenever you need us, but... but you need to go home to your dad, boy."

Stiles bit his lip but nodded.

"He has so much stress in his life," said Stiles hoarsely, "this is going to be the last straw. I don't... I can't... he's going to be so disappointed in me."

"Why?" asked Peter, causing Stiles to look up in disbelief. Peter had his head tilted to the side, his intense eyes looked considering and the corner of his mouth was twitching in the beginnings of a wry smile.

"Why?" repeated Stiles, his eyebrows raised because really?

Peter nodded.

"Anyone and pretty much everyone can have a quick fuck, that isn't something to be embarrassed about or looked down upon for," said Peter. "The accidental baby is definitely a problem, yes," he continued, looking ironically thoughtful, "but... personally, I'd be proud if I had a son with strong enough character to take responsibility for the resulting child."

Even though Peter had a strange way of saying it, his words made something in Stiles' chest unclench and he felt lighter than he had since the day Dana had dropped the bomb on him half a year earlier. He took in a shuddery breath and looked back down at the baby in his arms.

"You wanna meet your grampa, little one?" he asked, his voice raspy and weak.

Peter grinned in triumph.

"Thatta boy," he said, standing and moving to pat Stiles on the back.

Stiles was trembling as he walked up to the front door of his house. It felt like the bones in his legs had been turned to gelatine. He was happy for Peter's calm presence at his side and even more so for his hand splayed open and grounding on Stiles' back. It felt kind of ridiculous to ring his own doorbell, but, at the same time, it felt inappropriate to just walk in. He'd been gone two nights without explanation.

Though Peter had convinced Stiles to go home that first morning, Stiles had asked for another day to get his head in order before springing everything on his dad. It was mostly just a pathetic attempt at putting off the inevitable, but Peter and Monica's help with the baby over that time had Stiles feeling a little more confident with taking care of her on his own.

Monica was waiting in the car with the baby who was strapped securely in a brand new infant carrier —another expensive item Stiles would have to pay the Hales back for. They had decided to give Stiles a chance to talk to his dad before springing the baby on him. Peter had been the only one of the three opposed to the idea. He said springing the baby might have actually been a better course of action with the argument that "no one yells around a new baby". Stiles wasn't actually worried about his father yelling, his father didn't have a bad temper. It was the tearful disappointment he was scared of.

When his father opened the door looking tired and worn, Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat. It felt like it had been eons since he had last seen his dad even though, really, it had only been two and a half days. John Stilinski's stood still, eyes widening in surprise for a millisecond, before he was tearfully pulling Stiles in for a tight hug. Stiles could feel his own tears pricking at his eyes, yet again, as he hugged his dad back with just as much enthusiasm. Once they finished their long embrace, John pulled back to give Peter a suspicious look.

"Sheriff," Peter greeted with a nod.

"And you are?" asked John, his proverbial hackles raised and his eyes narrowed.

"Peter Hale," said Peter, offering his hand.

John looked at it just as suspiciously as he had been eyeing Peter, making no move to return the handshake.

"And you're the one in custody of my currently underage and missing son, because?" he asked.

"Dad," said Stiles behind an exasperated sigh "can we not? Peter and his wife took me in out of the goodness of their hearts and convinced me to come back, so... can we just... not?"

"Convinces you to... Stiles," said John, the hurt on his face making Stiles' heart twist uncomfortably in his chest.

"Dad... I... here's the thing... I... uh... well, you know how you said I should be more responsible? ...heh, heh, well..." Stiles spoke in stuttered half-thoughts, feeling a panic attack coming on again. His eyes began watering again and his heart was pounding in his throat. He had practised in the bathroom mirror back at the Hale house so many times and yet, now that he was in front of his dad with the words on his tongue, they didn't want to come. He sucked in a few lungfuls of air, feeling like his lungs wouldn't expand for him, like they were locked tight. He saw black spots and was feeling dizzy, but then Peter's hand returned to his back, warm and solid right between his shoulder blades and suddenly Stiles' lungs were working again at their own capacity. He let out a long breath of relief, leaning into Peter ever so slightly which probably looked even more suspicious to his dad, but it couldn't be helped.

"Dad," he started, again, "I got someone pregnant."

The shock on his father's face should have been offensive at just the level of surprise it had. Stiles would have taken the opportunity to be momentously indignant over it, but he was a little bit preoccupied with watching his life flash before his eyes.

"Wait, there's more," he attempted to joke, but it came out flat and on a squeaky voice, "Uh... it's a girl?"

Silence stretched out between the three of them as Stiles watched the parade of emotions pass over his dad's ever-changing face. He felt incredibly guilty putting the stress on his dad who already had to be careful because of his heart.

"You mean it's already been born?" choked out John, finally.

"Yeah," said Stiles, awkwardly, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. His hair had been a short buzzcut for the longest of times, but he had begun to let it grow out that year, so it looked like a shaggy crew cut at the moment.

"And it was a girl?" asked John.

"Uh, yeah," answered Stiles.

"Where is she?" he asked looking a mixture of excited and frightened.

"In the car," answered Stiles, motioning behind him.

Without another word, John was stepping past them and down the front steps of the house, his gait purposeful. Stiles looked over at Peter who grinned and winked at him before turning to follow after John to the car. When Stiles got there, behind Peter, Monica was already out and unbuckling the baby from her car seat. Once she had the baby out of the seat, John was practically making "grabby-hands" for it. Stiles couldn't help his amused, derisive snort, despite himself.

"Stiles," hissed John, tears in his eyes as he cuddled the baby close causing Stiles to step closer in confusion, "She's beautiful."

"So... not mad?" asked Stiles before biting his lips together.

"I'm feeling a lot of things right now, Stiles, a lot of things," answered John, tearing his eyes away from the baby to give Stiles a scathing glare the quickly melted off his face again when he turned back to the baby.

After "baby-talking" to the little baby girl for quite some time while walking around in circles in the driveway and rocking the her in his arms, John finally looked up at Peter and Monica with a guilty look like he just remembered they were there.

"So, uh, Peter," he said, sounding a lot like Stiles when he was feeling sheepish... huh, "how about that handshake?"

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