Chapter Text
“Personally,” Stiles says, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m mostly pissed that we met a trickster god and he didn’t look a thing like Loki.”
Derek is the only one that laughs while the rest of the pack just glares at him. It’s been a long three days. They've been trapped together in Derek’s new house under the trickster’s spell, Stiles bearing the brunt of everyone’s frustration, because technically, it was all his fault.
In his defense, he thought it was just a description of the trickster. He didn’t now that the stupid little poem in the ancient book of lore he was cross-referencing was a summoning incantation. Sixteenth century scribes aren’t known for their clarity, you know.
The trickster appeared right after he finished reading the last line. “‘Hair dark like coal / emerald glare to your soul.’ Sounds like you, Zenwolf.” He had poked Derek, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table reading his own book of supernatural lore. Derek grunted and opened his mouth to snark back but his reply was cut off by the a quick rush of wind and the ozone smell of magic, the trickster appearing right there at the table.
Neither one of them can remember exactly what the guy looked like – part of his magic – but Stiles knows for sure that he didn’t look a thing like Derek, the douche. They did remember that the trickster had stared at each for them for a long beat, disconcertingly long at Stiles, like he really was seeing into his soul. And if that hadn’t been creepy enough, he whispered a spell in an unrecognizable language before he grinned, winked, and disappeared.
The rest of the pack had been at the house at the time. Scott and Kira were in the basement with Liam practicing werewolfy fighting skills. Isaac, recently returned from his European sojourn, was in the living room with Lydia, disappointing her with his halting French. It didn’t take long to realize that they couldn’t leave the house, couldn’t open the doors, even with the combined strength of a true alpha, a kitsune, a perfectly functional beta, a superwolf, and a baby Jackson (Stiles didn't bother helping, choosing to offer moral support until Derek growled at him).
It really didn’t take long after that to realize whose fault it was. There was a lot of yelling and blaming of Stiles. He had thought it would help to remind them how lucky they were that it was first week of winter break and it’s not like any of them had anywhere else to be. It didn’t.
It took three days of research and failed spells to resummon the trickster – apparently the incantation in the book was a one-time-use deal – so they could pin it down and force it drink the banishing elixir Deaton had recommended. Its black nails had grown into razor-sharp claws that thrashed and slashed at Derek as he held him down, Lydia pouring the foul liquid down its throat, the thing disappearing in a wisp of green-black smoke that was still curling around the kitchen ceiling as everyone dispersed to gather their things to leave, badly in need of a break from each other.
Thank god Derek is a secret millionaire and finally bought a real house for the pack, even bigger than the old Hale place. The seven-bedroom-basically-a-mansion had made the last few days tolerable – Stiles can’t imagine what would have happened if they had all been stuck in Derek’s old creeper loft or the McCall house. It’s on the opposite side of the preserve as the Hale ruins and surrounded by forest on all sides, and fortunately more than big enough to house the pack during supernatural crises such a The Great Trickster Fiasco.
“I don’t want to see any of you for at least a week,” Lydia calls, breezing through the living room on her way out, everyone but Stiles following, the door slamming closed with a bang.
Derek falls heavily into the oversized couch that Stiles picked out, gulping gatorade. As usual, he had taken the brunt of the violence, shirt shredded and covered in already-dried blood, skin underneath new and soft-looking over hard muscle. He heals even faster now, since he found his full wolf abilities, since he evolved or leveled up or finally spanked his inner moppet.
“So what’s for dinner?” Stiles jokes, repeating his refrain from the past few nights. He joins Derek on the couch, which is big enough that they can both spread out lazily and not even come close to touching.
He knows he should leave too, but his dad is working another all-nighter and even after three days of trickster-enforced slumber parties, he still doesn’t want to be alone. Stiles has never done well with loneliness, not since he learned what it really meant when he saw the light go out of his mother's eyes all those years ago. It got worse after the sacrifice to the Nemeton, and worse still after the Nogitsune. He knows that's why he let things happen the way they did with Malia, knows that his own weakness is responsible for so much pain. At least this time it's mostly his.
It’s not out of the ordinary for Derek and Stiles to hang out just the two of them, not any more. At some point along the way, being forced to and then choosing to keep each other alive turned into trust and respect, and somehow, friendship. When Stiles ran into that temple in Mexico he was trying to save his best friend, trying to carry out Derek's dying wish, but he was also running away from the seeing the light go out in Derek's eyes. He had saved him too many times to watch him die as he stood by powerless, jealous of Braeden, even then. Stiles knew that if he stayed there, if he watched Derek die he would die too, in every way that mattered, that he might actually shatter and turn to dust with the pain. So he ran.
When they stumbled out of that place, miraculously still alive, Stiles was relieved about Scott and Kira, dazed at Malia's betrayal, and utterly dreading seeing Derek's body, would have had a panic attack if Liam hadn't been holding him up. He had never been happier when he learned about Derek's resurrection.
Then he seethed in frustration the whole drive home because he missed naked Derek.
And ever since then, he and Derek have learned to be real friends, and Stiles is grateful and tormented and happy and so hopelessly in love with the man and he doesn't know what to do. So he just works hard at being friends.
“There’s still some of that stirfry from last night,” Derek answers, startling him from his daydream. Stiles grins to himself. He was worried that Derek was going want solitude, was going to tell him to leave, or at least ask him why he was still hanging around when he wasn’t magically compelled to be there. But instead he stands and pulls off the tattered remains of his once-gray shirt. “I’m going to take a shower.” He tosses the stained shirt in Stiles’ face as he walks by, not even looking at him, but smirking.
“Asshole,” Stiles yells, mostly just to cover the sound of his rising heartbeat. All this time and he can effectively lie his ass off to any werewolf he meets, but he still can’t control his heart rate around shirtless Derek.
“Warm some food up for me too,” he answers, and Stiles smiles the whole way to the kitchen.
~*~
For a long time Stiles considered himself your average hetero male, not stridently straight like some of those no homo assholes at school, just a dude who liked ladies. And then as high school crept by, he felt something, a curiosity he couldn’t shake but tried to ignore, and then finally stopped trying to.
He hasn’t acted on his attraction with anyone, has still only been with one person, Malia, a thought that leaves his stomach sour and mouth bitter.
The only person he’s told about his bisexuality is Lydia. He hasn’t even told Scott. He’s not exactly sure why; Scott is the most open-hearted, easygoing guy in the world, even as an alpha. He would probably high-five him and then they’d order a pizza and play Skyrim. He knows his dad would be cool with it too; in fact, he can’t think of a single person who matters to him who would give a damn, in the very best way.
But he’s still hesitant to let people know, and he can’t quite figure out why. Lydia says it’s because he’s still all confused about exactly how his little revelation began to really take hold, and Stiles hates that she’s probably right.
Because as Stiles was figuring out his sexuality, Scott was becoming a fucking werewolf (why do you always have to one-up me, bro). And as if having the veil of ignorance about the supernatural world torn off wasn’t enough, Derek Hale was the first person Stiles saw once it came crashing down.
In his more maudlin moments Stiles thinks back to that day in the preserve when he first saw Derek after more than six years. The drawn, angry lines of his face were familiar, even after all that time, even though they had never actually spoken to each other, but the memory of their one interaction still burning bright in Stiles' mind as he stood there dumbfounded, completely mesmerized by his hard-edged beauty, astounded and confused by how his body was reacting.
Nearly every day since then has been an exercise in trying to control his attraction to Derek, a ridiculously impossible feat given what they’ve been through, the situations they’ve been thrust into together. He knows that Derek and the pack, with their extremely useful but incredibly fucking invasive sense of smell, have likely picked up on his attraction, but Scott told him once that lust is just lust and they can tell who it’s coming from but not who it’s directed towards, which isn’t a complete get-out-of-werewolf-induced-boner jail-free card, but it’s something.
But Stiles also knows that even without werewolf senses, a casual observer could easily see that his gaze often lingers on Derek too long, that he gravitates toward him, that he touches him often, even easily now. Either his friends are incredibly dense, or they are very kind for not calling him out on it, for pretending not to notice (except for Lydia, who Stiles can’t hide anything from). For this, Stiles is eternally grateful.
It’s not like he thinks anything could actually happen with Derek; he knows that it’s just a fantasy, and that’s okay. He’s accepted that, mostly. He’s just a little…fixated on him, that’s all. Even in the early days when they were working really hard to hate each other, Stiles still felt a little short of breath every time he was around him, a little too excited to see how his eyes would change color from one day to the next, sometimes felt like he was going insane from the near-constant thrum of Derek in his head, in his heartbeat.
Despite Stiles’ fixation, they've still managed to become something like close in the months since the weretrifecta from hell was defeated. Enlightened Derek is more open, softer around the edges, the anger that used to consume him gone. It’s not like he’s a glowing ball of sunshine or anything, but he smiles with ease and sincerity now and actually answers Stiles’ questions instead of just glaring.
Stiles marvels at all of the things he knows about Derek now. He knows that he reads voraciously and speaks half a dozen languages, that he has a double degree in History and Linguistics, and that he was applying to grad school when Laura was killed.
Stiles knows that Derek loves baseball and hates lacrosse. He knows that he drinks the world’s strongest coffee and loves sugary cereal. He knows that Derek has a soft spot for cats and that he feels rejected when they won’t go near him, something Stiles found out when Scott – with the most joy he has ever seen in his puppy eyes – discovered that werewolves can get high if the weed is strong enough.
Stiles not only knows that Derek can, in fact, laugh, but that his laugh is deep and warm, like it’s actively trying to compensate for his resting scowl face. Stiles knows that his laugh fills the expansive living room of his new house with joy the way his roar used to fill the forest with terror. Stiles knows that his laugh is utterly transformative, remaking Derek’s glowering expression into the kindest, most tender face he’s ever seen.
And the dimples. Derek has dimples, for the love of god.
Stiles has memorized the lines that form around Derek’s eyes when he laughs, the way his nose scrunches up like it’s trying to high-five his ridiculous eyebrows, and he knows that when he’s stressed, he palms his beard, and that for some reason that seems to calm him.
Even before his evolution, Stiles knew that Derek, for all his faults and mistakes, was a good man who’d been through hell way too many times and was still here, still trying, and Stiles thinks that’s admirable, thinks that takes a strength and a goodness that Derek doesn’t get enough credit for from the rest of the pack.
And he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t like being alone either.
“Heard from Braeden lately,” Stiles asked a couple of months ago, working very hard to sound casual as he thumbed through a book, not looking up at him.
“Last I heard she was in New Orleans,” Derek answered. “But that was awhile ago.”
“Is she coming back,” he asked before he could stop himself.
“If we ever have a job for her,” Derek replied quietly, matter of fact.
Derek didn’t ask him about Malia. Stiles isn’t sure he’s ready to talk to anyone about her, but if there’s someone who would understand what it’s like to be misled and manipulated by someone you cared about and thought cared about you, it’s Derek.
Derek, who’s straight. Or so Stiles assumes. He’s only known him to be with women, but given his own situation, he can’t really use that as anything definitive, and he doesn’t really have any other way of knowing. They’ve become friends, but it’s not like they’ve ever sat around and talked sexual experiences.
Not that it matters. Because he needs to stop wanting Derek. He’s incredibly grateful for the friendship they’ve built, and he knows he should be happy with that.
He’s happy with that.
~*~
After everything with Kate and Peter and Malia, Stiles was determined not be caught off guard by the next thing to come their way, so he decided that he was going to get serious about learning everything he could about the supernatural. He took over a corner of Derek’s loft as a research area, adding his own growing collection of books to what Derek had salvaged from the Hale house and let him remove from the vault under the school. Chris Argent gave them access to his extensive records as well, and it wasn’t long before Stiles was almost as knowledgeable as Derek about this stuff, the two of them often staying up late into the night talking supernatural lore and legends. Derek had even asked Stiles to show him how to use the database he and Lydia built, and he was helping them cross-reference the Argent bestiaries.
Stiles had even called him Giles once as a joke and Derek laughed and said something about needing to drink more tea and working on his British accent. When Stiles stared at him in wide-eyed surprise, Derek had just shrugged. “Laura loved Buffy,” he explained before returning to his work, looking downright studious in the gray knit cardigan he was wearing, only missing glasses to complete the picture of a devoted scholar.
Not long after that, just before Derek moved into the new house, Stiles had tracked down some rare archaic texts at an occult bookstore in Santa Cruz that had wanted a fortune to ship them. Derek had offered to pay for it, but Stiles refused on principle, so he convinced Lydia and Kira to make the two-and-a-half drive with him. The shop was a treasure trove and Stiles easily forged Derek’s signature when he charged a small fortune to his credit card, knowing Derek would be just as excited about the purchases as he was.
He had been looking forward to organizing the new acquisitions to the Hale/McCall pack library (Stiles is still the only one that calls them that, everyone, even Derek, seemingly okay with dropping the Hale) and settling into a night of reading and cross-referencing in the warm lamplight in his corner of the loft, hopefully with Derek. But Lydia insisted on going shopping, and they didn’t get back to Beacon Hills until well into the evening, much later than they had planned.
Stiles is sure that’s why Derek assumed they weren’t coming over, which is why he must have felt perfectly comfortable walking out of his bathroom naked, dripping wet and steaming from the shower, casually drying off, just as Stiles walked in the door hauling a box of books, calling out to him.
“Hey Derek! You gotta check his out. I found this old book about shapeshifters, and there’s something in here about one of your ancestors – ”
He lost all capacity for speech when he looked up and saw him, torso rippling and glistening, for the love of god. Stiles’ eyes stuck to the dark towel in front of his groin, thankfully saving him from what he was sure would be the devastating sight of Derek’s cock. He finally tore his gaze upwards and saw that Derek was staring at him, eyes locked on his, not moving, seemingly stunned too.
Braver – and stupider – than he’s ever been, Stiles lowered his eyes again, taking in the impossibly muscled ridge of Derek’s shoulders and the long, graceful lines of his thighs before darting back up his face. His hair was standing up in a hundred different directions, wet and shiny, looking even blacker than usual, making the contrast with his jeweled eyes even sharper. Stiles was entranced, and Derek just stood there, letting him drink in the rich swell of his biceps, delighting in how they dipped and curved into the thick, corded musculature of his forearms. There was a wild thatch of dark hair peeking out from behind the towel and Stiles licked his lips, going a little light-headed from how fast the blood was rushing to his dick. Derek’s nostrils flared a bit, and fuck, Stiles was probably smothering him with the scent of his lust.
The sound of Kira and Lydia’s voices making their way up the stairs with the other books shook him out of his trance; he glanced toward the door and by the time he looked back, Derek had disappeared back into the bathroom. He told Lydia and Kira that his dad had texted him to get home as soon as possible, tossing the books onto his desk in the corner and hustling them out the door.
At the last second, he ran back in, bravery from before lingering. Derek was still nowhere to be seen, probably waiting for them to be blocks away before coming back out, something Stiles considered a great kindness. From the box of books he grabbed Campbell’s History of the Exceptional Wolf, the passage about a shapeshifting alpha named Verónique Hale who settled in this area in 1832 already marked with the sparkly howling wolf bookmark Stiles had also bought.
He left the book on Derek’s favorite reading chair, where he knew he would find it.
~*~
No one had to know that Stiles barely made it up to his bedroom before he was yanking off his pants, falling back on his bed, squeezing and stroking with uncoordinated jerks, fueled by frustration and an almost desperate need. He closed his eyes to better see, with precise clarity, every line and curve of Derek’s heartbreakingly perfect body, his breathtaking face, eyes big in surprise as he stood there, letting Stiles’ eyes rake over him. Stiles imagined himself catching a drop of cooling water dripping from his sweet earlobe, licking down Derek’s neck, rubbing his face on his chest hair, falling to his knees before pulling the towel away. He thought about Derek’s strong hands on his head, guiding him towards his cock, what the weight of him against his tongue might feel like, how he would taste, what he sounds like when he comes, clutching at Stiles’ hair, emptying himself down his throat.
Stiles finished quickly, spilling hot over his hand and belly. He had no interest in dragging it out, making it last. He was tired of having him in his mind but never for real, and this was the only way he knew to get his brain and body to shut the hell up about goddamn Derek Hale for a while.
It didn’t work for long, of course.
~*~
Thankfully, Derek never mentioned The Shower Incident, just texted him later than night to thank him for the book, things between them going on like normal ever since. And it’s a good thing, too. Stiles isn’t sure how they would have gotten through the past few days of trickster shenanigans if that had been hanging over them.
He’s just putting the first plate of food into the microwave when the doorbell rings. The pack pretty much just comes and goes as they please these days, so Stiles he’s expecting to see Chris Argent, or maybe even his dad, even though both of them have already been updated on the successful conclusion of the trickster bullshit.
But when he opens the door, he sees Derek. “Dude, I thought you were taking a shower? When did you go outside? Why did you ring the bell?”
Derek just stares at him for a second, eyes wide and a little disbelieving behind his black-rimmed glasses – wait.
Derek doesn’t wear glasses, not even when he was a real boy.
Derek’s scruff has never been that long, and yeah, he’s a hirsute sonofabitch, but there’s no way he went full beard in the few minutes since he went upstairs to take a shower.
So it’s clearly not Derek standing on the other side of the door, but it also most definitely is. Other than the glasses and the beard, it’s Derek in every way possible, right down to the uneven white teeth, copper-flecked jade eyes, and the unruly, intense eyebrows. But wait – is that – yeah, there are few strands of gray in that beard, and at his temples too. It’s Derek, but older, mid-thirties probably.
So not a long-lost twin, then. Some other relative assumed long dead or comatose?
The Hales have a knack for coming back to life, but come on.
“Who the hell –”
The question gets stuck in his throat when he sees the person standing next to not-Derek
Stiles’ mouth opens and closes in shock, face contorting in who knows how many ways, because now he’s looking at himself.
Standing next to not-Derek – whoa, holding not-Derek’s hand? – is someone who looks remarkably like Stiles. Is Stiles, a slightly-altered replica, just like this guy both is and isn't Derek.
It’s not like looking into a mirror – one, because looking into a mirror actually makes some kind of sense, and two, because not-Stiles looks older too, mid twenties maybe. And the tips of his short, spiky hair are dark purple, and he’s got a lip ring and he’s shirtless and covered in tattoos and what the holy hell?
“Time travel…” he asks, sufficiently freaked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his dad laughing.
“Not exactly,” not-Derek says, and shit, even his voice sounds exactly the same, disconcertingly gentle. He gestures behind him, and Stiles looks over his shoulder, where behind him, scattered across the porch and in the front yard, are more…Dereks and more Stileses.
Fourteen total, including the two at the door, he notes distantly, eyes feeling like they’re about to pop out of his head from bulging so hard.
Seven other Dereks. Seven other Stileses.
Seven Derek and Stiles pairs.
Some of them are holding hands like the ones at the door, some leaning with arms around each other and one pair – does that Stiles have the Hale triskele tattooed on his neck? – is making out against Stiles’ Jeep in the driveway.
Stiles. Himself. And Derek. Making out.
His brain shuts down for a minute, air leaving his chest in a rush of shock and want, and maybe even something like jealousy, and that’s weird, but this is by far the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him and that’s really fucking saying something, so he’s just going to give himself a free pass on weird emotions right now.
So yeah, he doesn’t actually think anything would ever happen with him and Derek, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t imagined it, often. But having imagined it doesn’t prepare him for sight of his – clone? Future self? Doppelganger? – shoving his tongue into Derek’s – a Derek’s mouth, the Derek smiling into the kiss before pulling away, whispering into his ear before turning them both to face the house.
He manages to tear his eyes away from that pair, eyes darting over the others, trying to take it all in. Like the seemingly older ones right in front of him, the other not-Stileses and not-Dereks are just different-looking enough to not be totally identical, but identical enough that they’re clearly seven copies of himself and seven copies of Derek and what the hell.
Some of them have backpacks or messenger bags, and one has a guitar case, and the Stiles with him has a beard and that just might be the weirdest thing yet.
One of the Dereks is wearing a soft hoodie and a baseball cap, the Stiles at his side wearing glasses and a sweater vest, the geek.
Two of the Dereks are rocking full tattoo sleeves, the one with the hulking muscle like Derek – the real Derek – used to have when he was an alpha – is the one that was making out with the Stiles with the Hale triskele on his neck.
The other is wearing low-slung sweats and a white tank top, the Stiles at his side looking sleepy in a red beanie and Henley that looks decidedly Derek-sized.
Another of the Dereks looks exactly like the real Derek from a couple years ago when Scott and Stiles first saw him in the preserve, right down to the scowl and leather jacket. The Stiles at his side though – he’s…unnerving. His hair is buzzed the way Stiles used to wear it, and he radiates confidence and strength and power, maybe reminding him a little just a little bit of the Nogitsune who manifested in a copy of his body.
Stiles darts his eyes away from him, doesn’t feel much better about the last pair he spots though, but for an entirely different reason. Both of them are almost naked, wearing only snug-fitting boxer briefs. The Derek is muscled like all of them, but the Stiles is pretty cut too, with like, visible abs and biceps. He’s…well, shit, he’s hot, and seriously, what the hell?
The Stileses and Dereks are all looking at each other, taking each other in, darting glances back to the house to where Stiles is backpedaling away from the door, finally finding his voice again.
“Derek!” he yells, panic rising in his voice. “Derek get your ass down here now!”
He must sound pretty terrified, because Derek’s striding down the stairs in seconds, naked except for the towel he’s wrapping around his waist because apparently the universe hasn’t done enough to totally and completely fuck with Stiles today.
But he can’t even appreciate the beauty of almost-naked Derek, because he’s watching his eyes grow wider, and then wider still as he takes in their…visitors?
Finally, he tears his eyes away from the pairs and levels a harsh glare at Stiles, the real one, sighing heavily, exasperated. “What did you do now?”