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Your Eggo is Preggo

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"Well, that's either the creepiest or cutest thing I've ever seen," Stiles says when he stumbles across Derek carefully creating a nest of blankets in the middle of his not-as-sad-as-it-sounds floor-bed.

("It's not a floor-bed, Stiles. It's a futon on a low wooden frame," Derek had snarled the first time he heard Stiles call it that.

"Okay," Stiles had instantly replied, then went right on calling a spade a spade.)

"Get out," Derek snaps back, the tips of his ear going red the way they always do when he's embarrassed.

"Naw, not gonna," Stiles tells him, wandering closer to the lopsided pile of blankets and pillows. "Gotta say, never pictured you as the nesting type."

Derek gives him bitch face. "That's because I'm not."

Stiles cocks a head to the side, watches as Derek tucks a pale gray sheet into place. "Right, yeah. I can see that."


"Witches," Stiles says in his best Dean voice. "Why does it always have to be witches?"


"You want to tell me what's going on with you now, big guy?" Stiles asks when he walks in and finds Derek squatting over the blanket nest he's been fussing with for the last couple of weeks.

Derek glares at him and keeps on with the squatting.

Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Alright then." He makes his way over to Derek's kitchen area. "Want some pizza rolls?" he snorts out a laugh. "Dude, of course you want some pizza rolls. How is that even a question."

"I'm starting to seriously regret ever giving you a key," Derek grumbles, by which he means hell yes, pizza rolls.


Seriously though, with the witches.


"Okay, that's an egg. A massive, massive egg. In your blanket nest. And you are cuddling it."

"It's not a blanket nest," Derek says with a mulelish look.

"That's what you're objecting to?" Stiles gives him I'm-totally-judging-you-right-now eyes. Derek ignores them and goes right on snuggling his egg. Because that's not disturbing at all. Stiles sighs and shakes his head. "Deaton," he says. "Definitely time for Deaton."

Derek doesn't say anything, just makes his pizza-roll face

("I do not have a pizza roll face, for fuck's sake Stiles. Where do you even come up with this shit," Derek raged, then proceeded to devour not one, not two, but three, count 'em, three boxes of pizza rolls all on his own.

"It wasn't on my own, Stiles, you had some.”

One. Stiles had one and nearly lost his fingers over that single, solitary pizza roll too.

“Oh my god, why did I ever give you a key?")


Stiles really wants to challenge Deaton's witches verdict, but Derek's in the middle of a blanket nest, arms wrapped protectively around an egg roughly the size of a watermelon, which he apparently laid, and that can only mean witches.



"Maybe it's a emu," Scott muses, eyeing the egg.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "It's not an emu." He adjusts the definitely-not-an-emu egg in his lap, carefully tucking a fold of blanket over it.

What? He takes his egg-sitting duties seriously, alright.

Scott narrows his eyes. "No, dude, think about it. An emu is the only thing that makes sense. I mean, it's not a sparrow." He laughs and Isaac, damn his puppy eyes, laughs along with him.

"It's not an emu," Stiles grits out.

"Wanna bet?"

"Fifty bucks says you're wrong."

"Fifty bucks says you are."

They squint at each other, then nod.

"Not going to shake on it?" Peter asks from the living room area. Stiles ignores him, as per usual. Besides, friends like Scott and Stiles don't need to shake to know that neither of them will try to weasel out of a bet.


"I told you not to piss off witches," Stiles mumbles sleepily, shifting so that he can curl around Derek's side. He yawns and blurrily watches Derek pet his egg while he croons at it.

It's kind of totally creepy, but endearingly so.

"Witches," Stiles says around another yawn, then turns his head so that his cheek is resting against Derek's thigh and falls back asleep.


"Hurry up, it's hatching!" Stiles shouts into his phone. "Oh my god, Derek, your egg is hatching and you aren't even here and it's totally going to imprint on me like a duckling!"

"Totally called it being a bird," Scott puts in from the living room area. Dick doesn't even look up from his game.

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Nope, you said 'emu' not bird.”

"An emu is a bird, you douche."

"Oh my god, shut up," Boyd cuts in, tossing his controler down beside him on the couch, a scowl on his face.

Looks like someone needs more pizza rolls.

("Pizza rolls are not a magic cure all," Derek said, pizza roll crumbs around the corner of his mouth. He was totally glaring at his empty plate like it was guilty of a crime. Quite possibly the crime of being empty. Stiles pointedly didn’t call him on how wrong he was about the magic cure all thing, just dumped another box worth of pizza rolls onto his plate and watched as Derek's frown turned upside down.)

Except that there is no time for pizza rolls right now, what with the potential hatching of Derek's still-not-an-emu egg.

Which gives a massive twitch.

"Oh my god, just get here!" Stiles says, then ends the call and chucks the phone at Scott's head.

He just going to ignore that he misses.


"I hate witches! I hate witches! I hate witches!"

"Jesus Christ, Stiles, shut up. We know."


"Pay up, Eggbert is so not a bird."

"He's not a wolf either."

"I never bet he was. 'sides, you can't know that yet. Derek said born werewolves don't fully shift until puberty, so we won't know if Eggbert is till then."

Derek lets out a growl. "If you call my son Eggbert one more time..."

"Our son," Stiles reminds him, leaning down to drop a kiss on Eggbert's tuft of brown hair.

("You can't make nothing from nothing," Deaton said emphatically when Stiles demands an answer for why Derek's egg hatched into a mini-Stiles.

"I thought we had the safe sex talk when you were twelve," Stiles's dad groaned when Deaton confirmed the boy to be his magically conceived grandson.

"I'm too young to be a grand-uncle," Peter had pitched in, because Peter is always around, whether anyone wants him to be or not.)

"Our son," Derek repeats, his voice gone soft, eyes wide and wondering, and Stiles's heart gives an offbeat thud because damn. Then Derek goes and ruins the moment by scowling. "We are not naming him Eggbert."


"Nothing with a ‘Bert’ in it, Stiles.”

"I think Peter is a wonderful name," Peter says and Derek's eyes flash red.

"Pizza roll, anyone?" Stiles asks desperately, willing to completely leave the subject of baby names in favor of no blood on the baby's brand new floor-crib.

("It's not a floor-crib, Stiles. It's a low to the ground, European style crib with an adjustable platform that we can easily convert to a toddler bed when the time comes."

"I know, I read the floor-crib’s product review before I let you spend over a thousand dollars on it, you crazywolf."

"It's. Not. A. Floor-crib. Stiles."

"Alright, alright, enough with the claws and fangs already.")


"I think I love witches," Stiles says, Eggy nestled up against his chest, getting his sleep on because that's what babies do, even if they are egg-babies.

("I let you call him Eggy, even though he has a perfectly respectable name, but if you call him an egg-baby one more time, Stiles, I swear to god..."

"Straight to the moon, right?")