Chapter Text
The last thing Stiles remembered was the sharp tang of mountain ash on his tongue and the way his fingers had trembled around the ritual knife. Then—nothing. Just a dizzying rush of darkness, like falling backward into a well.
He woke up flat on his back, staring at a ceiling he didn’t recognize. That was weird enough. What was weirder was the fact that his arms were stubby little things waving uselessly in the air, his legs kicking against something soft and padded. A crib?
A diaper. That was the first horrifying realization that punched through the haze of Stiles’ disorientation. The crinkling sound beneath him was unmistakable, as was the way the fabric bunched awkwardly between his thighs when he tried to roll over. He managed to flop onto his stomach, only to immediately faceplant into the mattress. His arms—tiny, useless—flailed like overcooked noodles.
The door creaked open. Stiles’ head snapped up (or tried to; his neck muscles were apparently as reliable as a wet paper bag), and there stood Derek Hale, arms crossed, eyebrows arched in a way that suggested he was enjoying this way too much.
“Well,” Derek said, voice dripping with smugness, “look who’s awake.”
Stiles tried to yell—something scathing, preferably—but what came out was a garbled, high-pitched babble that sounded more like a disgruntled kitten than the cutting remark he’d intended. Derek’s smirk deepened, and he strode forward, scooping Stiles up with one arm like he weighed nothing. The sudden shift in altitude made Stiles’ stomach lurch, and he instinctively grabbed at Derek’s shirt with his tiny fists, wrinkling the fabric between his fingers.
“Derek,” Stiles tried again, but it came out as “Deh!” followed by a frustrated growl that only made Derek chuckle.
Derek adjusted the grip, tucking Stiles against his chest with an ease that suggested he’d done this before—which, given the pack’s revolving door of emergencies, wasn’t entirely surprising. What was surprising was the way Derek’s thumb absently brushed over Stiles’ back, rhythmic and soothing, as he carried him down the hallway. The scent of laundry detergent and something distinctly Derek—warm leather and pine—filled Stiles’ nose, weirdly comforting despite the circumstances.