The Weight of Secrets

The days bled together in a haze of violence and adrenaline, the city's skyline a jagged silhouette against the crimson glow of chaos.

Stiles and Damon moved through the streets like a storm, untamed and unrelenting. They were a symphony of destruction, their bond forged in fire and blood, a connection that defied logic and reason.

But beneath the surface, something was shifting—something Stiles couldn't quite name.

It started with fatigue, a bone-deep weariness that clung to him no matter how much he slept.

Then came the nausea, a relentless churning in his gut that left him doubled over in alleyways, gasping for air. He chalked it up to stress, to the constant fight-or-flight mode they'd been living in. But when it was continuous, the truth hit him like a freight train.

He was pregnant.

The realization left him reeling, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. Joy, terror, disbelief—they all warred within him, leaving him breathless and shaky. He wanted to tell Damon, to share the weight of this revelation, but fear held him back. 

Damon would be overjoyed, he knew that much. But he also knew Damon would become overprotective, treating him like glass, and Stiles couldn't stand the thought of being coddled. 

He wasn't weak. He wasn't fragile. So he kept the secret locked away, a fragile ember glowing in the dark recesses of his heart.

---

Their recklessness finally caught up with them. SHIELD descended like a swarm of angry hornets, their agents relentless and efficient. Stiles fought with everything he had, his movements sharp and desperate, but even he couldn't outrun the inevitable.

They were subdued, cuffed, and dragged into the bowels of the Triskelion, their defiance met with cold, clinical indifference.

Stiles' cell was a sterile, suffocating box, the walls closing in on him with every passing second. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, his skin crawling with the need to move, to fight, to do something. When the door finally creaked open, revealing a stone-faced agent with a clipboard, Stiles bared his teeth in a feral snarl.

"What the hell do you want?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

The agent didn't flinch. "Director Fury wants to see you," she said flatly. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Stiles rolled his eyes, his sass flaring despite the situation. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I inconvenience you by existing? My bad."

The agent's expression didn't change, but Stiles caught the faintest twitch of her eyebrow. He smirked, following her down the hallway with a swagger that belied the anxiety churning in his gut.

Fury was waiting for him in a small, windowless room, his single eye fixed on Stiles with an intensity that made his skin crawl. "Mr. Stilinski," Fury said, his voice deceptively mild. "We seem to have a problem."

Stiles crossed his arms, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, I can see that. Your interior decorator, for one. This place is really giving 'dystopian nightmare.'"

Fury's eye narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait. "You and your partner have left a trail of destruction across this city. Innocent people have been hurt. Lives have been lost."

Stiles' jaw tightened, his hormones amplifying his emotions. "Innocent?" he scoffed. "Please. Everyone's got blood on their hands, Fury. Some of us just wear it better than others."

Fury leaned back, studying him with a calculating gaze. "You're clever, I'll give you that. But you're in over your head. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

Stiles' eyes flashed with defiance. "I know exactly what I'm dealing with. And I'm not afraid of you or your little superhero club."

Fury's expression didn't change, but something in his eye sent a chill down Stiles' spine. "We'll see about that," he said softly.

---

Damon was thrown into the room not long after, his clothes torn and bloodied, his eyes wild with barely restrained fury. When he saw Stiles, some of the tension drained from his shoulders, but his jaw remained clenched, his body coiled like a spring.

Stiles felt a surge of emotion at the sight of him—love, fear, and a desperate, aching need. He wanted to go to him, to feel the safety of Damon's arms, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep his distance.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours, the air thick with unspoken words. Stiles could feel Damon's eyes on him, heavy and questioning, but he couldn't bring himself to meet his gaze.

When Dr. Banner and Dr. Strange entered the room, Stiles' instincts went on high alert. They were both dressed in lab coats, their expressions serious as they approached.

"We need to run some tests," Banner said, his tone gentle but firm.

Stiles' eyes narrowed. "What kind of tests?"

Banner hesitated, his eyes flicking to Damon before returning to Stiles. "Just routine bloodwork. Standard procedure."

Stiles scoffed, his sass flaring again. "Oh, sure. Because nothing says 'routine' like two of the world's most brilliant scientists playing phlebotomist."

Strange raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "We'll try not to disappoint."

They submitted to the tests, Stiles' heart pounding as vial after vial of blood was drawn. When the doctors left, the room felt heavier, the silence pressing down on them like a weight.

---

Hours later, Banner and Strange returned, in front of the closed door, not even inside the interrogation room yet, their faces grave. 

Banner said, his voice heavy, still in disbelief, "Stiles…Stiles is pregnant."

But even then, it wasn't private, both Stiles and Damon heard everything.

The room seemed to tilt, Stiles' breath catching in his throat. He felt dizzy, his mind spinning with the implications. He glanced at Damon, whose eyes were wide with shock.

Damon's vampire hearing had caught every word, and now he stared at Stiles, a storm of emotions raging in his eyes—disbelief, anger, and a flicker of betrayal. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "Did you know?"

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I… I suspected. But I wasn't sure."

Damon's jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. "And you didn't think to tell me?" His voice rose, sharp and accusing. "You didn't think I had a right to know?"

Tears welled in Stiles' eyes, his hormones making his emotions impossible to control. "I was scared," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I didn't know how you'd react."

Damon's expression softened, the anger giving way to something deeper, something raw and vulnerable. "I would've been there for you," he said, his voice rough. "No matter what."

Stiles felt a sob escape his throat, the weight of his secret finally lifting. "I know that now," he said, his voice thick with tears. "I'm sorry."

Damon crossed the room in two strides, pulling Stiles into his arms. "It doesn't matter now," he murmured, holding him tightly. "We're in this together. You, me, and our baby."

Stiles buried his face in Damon's chest, his tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of hope. They had a long road ahead, but with Damon by his side, he knew they could face anything.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, Stiles felt the tiny spark of life inside him, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was light. And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.