Fic: Occam's Razor (6/?)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
A/N: Seems like every fic, there is one canon element that I feel I must dismiss, because it just doesn’t make sense. Here’s the willfully-disregarded canon element of this fic - that werewolves can’t take pictures. That was fun for an episode, but I don’t think the writers considered the implications. By that rule, in essence ‘outing’ werewolves is as easy as taking their picture? Too easy. What about school pictures (we know the Hale kids went to public school)? Driver’s licenses? Nope. Not buying it. So I’m throwing that piece of canon out the window.
********************
As per his agreement with himself, the next day Stiles opened the photo album.
He spent hours flipping through the pages. They were in chronological order. It was like a visual journey through Derek’s verbal account yesterday in the woods.
Graduation pictures of him, Scott, Lydia, and Kira. Allison’s absence was like a knife to the gut. Isaac’s was surprising. Stiles had just assumed he finished out high school before he left, but clearly he’d assumed that part of the story, because Isaac was not in any of the pictures. A picture of John Stilinski at a barbeque party trying to ward off the camera and protect a plate of hot dogs at the same time. Stiles and Scott, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, diplomas in hand. An image of the girls throwing their caps in the air. Scott laughing at them. Stiles, in the background, distracted. But Stiles knew it was more than that. He knew himself. That was the haunted look in an unguarded moment. That was the post-nogitsune thousand-yard stare.
A picture of Stiles in his graduation gown leaning on the side of his Jeep, arms on the hood, cap next to his interlaced fingers, just staring out into the setting sun. A picture of a Jeep, a Camaro, a dirt bike, and a Toyota in the McCall driveway.
A picture of Scott and Kira in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, selfie-style. Wedding shots of Scott and Kira. A white dress and dry-cleaned tuxes and first dances.
A random picture of a black cat.
One of Stiles sprawled on the living room couch with a game console in hand. And it might have looked like any normal teenage boy, but again, that stare. That ‘something in me died and is still in there rotting’ glaze, and Stiles wanted to ask how the photographer didn’t see that. Why he/she would memorialize it in print. Why Stiles or Derek would put it in this album.
A photograph of Derek looking as angry and foul-tempered as Stiles had ever seen him in a booth at a restaurant. Like he was mad at the world and meant to rake his claws over the next living thing that got too close.
Then several pages of unadulterated adventure.
Pictures from the road of highways and plaster dinosaurs and giant balls of twine. Sunsets and sunrises and everything in between of the American southwest. Saguaro cacti and a picture of the Camaro pulled off on a desert road while Derek changed a tire. Stiles face-planted in a generic motel bed, dead to the world. Pictures of both of them interchangeably behind the wheel, an ever-changing scenic backdrop out the driver’s side window beyond their profiles. A crowded sea of heads over Hollywood Boulevard. Scowling Derek next to the golden lions at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Stiles’ shoes on either side of the topmost point of the star on the Walk of Fame for Fleetwood Mac. A hill covered in windmills. Stiles bent over to peer into a prairie dog hole. The Grand Canyon. The first selfie of the two of them both wearing smiles, a painted canyon behind them and smiling faces in the forefront. Stiles looking miserable with a horrific sunburn across his nose and cheeks. Derek about to take a bite out of a huge hamburger in a diner at the very moment he glanced up at Stiles taking his picture. Stiles off the highway with his back to the car pissing on a bush. ‘Welcome to’ state line signs. Bison. Derek with his chin in his hand, leaning against a fence post watching elk graze. An image of wolves, tiny in the distance, crossing a clearing with Stiles in the forefront pointing a thumb over his shoulder and making a ‘zoikes!’ Scooby Doo face while Derek, on the other side of the photo, gave him a look of ‘Stiles is an idiot’. Stiles caught in mid-skitter trying to avoid the spray of Old Faithful. A selfie with the geyser of water in the background and Stiles and Derek, shirts wet, with arms around each other’s shoulders and grinning at the camera, hair water-logged and eyelashes holding water droplets like dew. Derek fast asleep, curled on his side in some random motel room. A close-up of Derek’s face in the same bed, eyes resolutely closed but mouth curled in a smile. The glitzy strip of Las Vegas at night, blurry because the camera sucked at low light. Derek walking down the colorful thoroughfare turned back to look at Stiles. A photo of Derek’s hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he was caught mid-fall into a fountain. Stiles soaked to the bone, grinning at the camera, while an attendant scowled in the back. A sphinx with search lights. Stiles, unaware of an audience, with his eyes closed and head tipped back just being in the moment with a casino in the back giving him a fuzzy halo.
Stiles studied so many pictures of the road trip. Four months of memories but barely a fraction of them captured on film. Stiles lingered over each one. Even the stupid pictures of desert flora.
Then it was Derek barefoot in his loft kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Stiles carrying in a bag of take-out like it was a prize won in battle. Stiles at some kinds of functions, a few with Cancer Society banners in the background. Derek coming home from construction work filthy and sweat-soaked and smiling.
Then a picture of Stiles and Derek, both in suits sans ties, standing in the county courthouse. At first without rings. Group shots with John and the JP flanking the couple on either side. The two of them before the court official, looking at each other with bliss in their eyes. Then pictures wearing rings. A picture of Derek and Stiles kissing. Stiles laughing at something and hiding his face in Derek’s shoulder; Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles and pressing his nose into his hair.
Then pictures of a castle. Stiles in front of it, looking like it was the best day of his life. Derek eating churros in flip-flops. Both of them grinning on either side of Mickey Mouse. Pictures of attractions and rides and some of the photos from rollercoasters where they were open-mouth screaming, grabbing on to each other. Stiles smiling on a park bench, a mouse-ear shaped ice cream in hand. Derek in the hotel room looking out over Anaheim. A strange, fuzzy action shot looking down at Stiles on the bed while Derek was obviously tickling him. A shot of a hot tub, Stiles in the foreground looking over his shoulder at the camera like the cat that ate the canary. Unclothed Derek sprawled magnificently in bed, spared indecency only by a corner of the sheet pulled over to cover his junk as he slept like a Greek god. A selfie of the two of them reclining in bed against the headboard, smiling tiredly after a day at the park. Stiles holding up the ‘do not disturb’ sign for the hotel room and giving the camera a wicked smirk. Stiles fast asleep, Mickey Mouse ears askew atop his head. Stiles belly-laughing at little kids in Jedi robes. Derek in some kind of argument with Goofy. One taken by a park photographer, with a tiny Disney logo in the bottom corner, of Derek with his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles with his arm hooked around Derek’s waist in the main square.
All too soon, Stiles reached the end of the album. He knew there was so much more to know. So much left untold. But the album ran out of pages. There was too much to their lives for one album to hold it all. That was kind of amazing.
Stiles sat for a long time with the album open to its last page on the coffee table, just kind of trying to soak it all in. He wanted that life. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible for him - if the Derek in his world was just too different from the Derek here for it to ever be in Stiles’ future - but god, he wanted it.
*********************
“Stiles, my man,” Stiles somberly addressed his reflection, “you have seen better days.”
But then, he’d also seen worse. So there was that.
He was standing in front of the bathroom sink in just his boxers considering himself in the mirror. At first it had just been to assess his shave job, then he got distracted by the scar on his chest. It was years old, so he hadn’t thought much of it the first time he saw it, but now he knew that it had actually been a severe injury. At one point, Derek didn’t know if Stiles would live. And that had apparently scared the shit out of him. Derek loved his Stiles that fucking much.
“I don’t know how you got him, Mr. Hale,” Stiles told his twenty-four-year-old married self, “but well done.”
Then Stiles got to looking at the line of stitches above his eyebrow. The skin around the cut had purpled up nicely, making it look a lot worse than it felt. The edges of the held-together skin were scabbing, pink and raw where he’d accidentally touched it in the shower. It would probably leave a scar, too.
Other than that, he realized that he didn’t feel like he was looking through someone else’s eyes anymore when he saw his reflection. He was used to looking older. A lot about the gawky teenager he’d been he did not miss.
And that was a dangerous, bad, not-good thing.
“You can’t get used to this, Stiles,” he scolded himself. “This isn’t your reality. You haven’t earned this. Do not want this.”
But who was he kidding? He did want it. At least part of him did. He wanted his mirror-twin’s life. He hadn’t gotten back in touch with Kira and Scott yet to see if they had any leads on how to undo what had happened to him. That was probably telling. Like maybe he was okay if this didn’t get fixed.
Stiles looked down at the wedding ring on his left hand. From the beginning of this trip down the rabbit hole, he’d never taken it off. At first because it didn’t feel like it was his place. And he didn’t want to hurt Derek. Then, well… Stiles was getting used to the weight of the ring. Like he’d feel naked without it now.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
But as usual, Stiles was not listening to himself.
When he went back to his old bedroom to get dressed, he picked up his cell phone and found he had a message from Derek waiting for him. His heart did not skip, because he wasn’t a teenager with a god damn crush, thank you very much. He was a grown man.
Or… well… anyway…
Derek: finally getting the station blazer back from shop today. sick of only having 1 car
Stiles texted back:
Stiles: didn’t know we had another car
Though it made sense. Up until a couple of months ago, they were both working, and that would be near impossible to do in a town like Beacon Hills without them both having their own car.
A protracted pause, then:
Derek: sorry. i forgot
Forgot that Stiles wasn’t the same guy Derek had been married to for the last five years. That just made Stiles feel bad all over again. Derek got some good news at work and his first thought was to pick up the phone and share it with his husband. But his husband wasn’t here… just this train-wreck of a Stiles that showed up and turned everyone’s lives upside down.
Stiles: 2 cars is good. won’t be stuck at the house anymore
Stiles tossed the phone on the bed and by the time he threw on some clothes it had dinged with another text.
Derek: where do you want to go?
Stiles had a feeling Derek was asking if he wanted to get away from this imposter life. If he was contemplating escape. Stiles dare not tell him far from it.
Stiles: grocery shopping. dad has crap to eat here
Stiles had rummaged through the cupboards earlier and found potato chips, canned soup, SPAM, candy bars, and at the very back that nasty-ass Japanese tea from Kira. It was horrifying that it had been in there for seven years. Stiles had to have a talk with his dad about cleaning out his pantry once in a while. Stiles had gagged at the sight of the box of tea bags, then put it aside to give Kira hell for making him drink that shit. He never got a chance to in his world, and he’d be damned if Kira foisted that vile liquid on him without hearing about it. That stuff was so gross there was no statute of limitations for bitching about it.
Derek: need to pick up blazer from shop at end of shift. pick you up and take you over so you can drive honda home?
Stiles: ok
Stiles put his phone down on the nightstand and suddenly found himself staring at his pillow rumpled up on the ugly-ass comforter. He looked around at his scattered clothes on the floor. His laptop on the desk. ShineGold beside his phone.
He thought about his dad’s advice.
Making a decision that very moment, Stiles grabbed up the duffel bag Derek brought his stuff over in and started packing all his things up.
*************************
When Derek pulled up to the house a little after five, Stiles threw the duffel bag over his right shoulder, tucked his laptop under his left arm, and went out the front door to meet him. Derek, who had been getting out of the car to go knock on the door, stopped when he saw Stiles heading his way. He frowned when he saw the duffel and computer.
Stiles wondered if the other him ever got used to Derek in his work uniform. Because he totally wasn’t yet. Fucker was delectable. Women in Beacon Hills probably tried to get tickets.
There was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Other Stiles was a smug son of a bitch about that, too. All ‘back off, bitches, he’s mine’. Stiles would be in his place. Just saying.
“Open the backseat?” Stiles asked when he reached the car, and Derek unlocked the back doors so Stiles could dump his stuff in the backseat. Then Stiles rounded the car and got in the passenger side.
Puzzled, Derek got back behind the wheel and looked over at Stiles. “Why did you bring your stuff?”
“You said I was driving the car home, right? I assume you meant our home.”
Derek stilled, clearly recalling his own words via text earlier. Then he looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean you had to. I really wasn’t thinking. You can come back here if you want.”
“And if I don’t want?”
Derek looked surprised. Then hopeful. “That’s a stupid question.”
“It is?”
Derek scoffed. “Yes. Of course I want you to come home.”
Stiles smiled. “Okay, so let’s give that a try, then. I can’t… I can’t make any promises, but… I’m homesick. I thought it was for Dad’s house, but that wasn’t it. Maybe I’m homesick for our place and I just don’t know it.”
Derek tried to hide a smile as he started the car.
“Besides,” Stiles buckled his seatbelt, “I never could figure out my computer’s stupid password, so I’ve been deprived of the internet for days. I think I’ve got the DTs.”
“It’s SSHale,” Derek said as he pulled out on to the road.
Stiles gaped at him. “Are you shitting me? I’ve been trying everything and you knew it the whole time?”
“Sorry… I didn’t think about how you wouldn’t know your password.”
Which, yeah. To be fair, Stiles never thought to ask Derek what his password was, either.
“SSHale?” Stiles repeated. “Like you’re a ship?”
Derek chuckled. “Well, it was your initials and our last name, but you get a lot of mileage out of the ship thing. If I had a dollar for every time you asked me ‘permission to come aboard’…”
Stiles squawked and swatted Derek’s arm with the back of his hand. “Hey! What did I say about the dick talk?”
“Not to discuss yours. But that was about mine.”
Stiles scrunched down in the seat. “Jesus christ,” he grumbled, then he started quietly laughing. Derek joined in a second later.
It felt almost natural now. Stiles didn’t want to feel guilty about that.
*********************
The ride to the auto shop was relaxed, and when Derek picked up the Chevy with the Beacon Hills Police decals all over the sides, Stiles took the keys for the Honda and followed Derek back to their house.
Where he sat in the driveway for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and looking at the house apprehensively. He was worried he wouldn’t feel at home here.
But he was even more worried that he would.
When Derek stopped on his way to the front door and looked toward Stiles with the question eyebrows, Stiles girded himself and got out to gather his things from the backseat and go inside.
The inside looked just like the last time Stiles saw it. Furniture he didn’t recognize as his own and a floor plan he couldn’t walk in the dark without turning on any lights. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but hoping he might have an epiphany and gain access to all of the other Stiles’ memories, maybe. A guy could dream.
“We’ve got the stuff to make spaghetti, if that’s good with you,” Derek said as he dropped his keys in a bowl on a shelf of the nearby bookcase.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Stiles said, standing in the foyer with laptop and duffel in hand.
Derek looked over at him like he wanted to say something, then he just shut his mouth and headed for the bedroom.
Stiles went to the couch and started unpacking the duffel bag. ShineGold, his laptop, and the photo album he put on the coffee table, soon joined by his cell phone that he fished out of his pocket. His pillow he threw against the couch armrest. He grimaced and used a two-finger pincer grip to put the tea on the end table. Then he peeked in at the assortment of clothes left in the bag and carried it all to the laundry room. He was proud to at least know where it was, after his brief tour that first day.
By the time he came out of the laundry room, Derek was in the kitchen in black basketball shorts and a faded Disney t-shirt with the wolf pack from The Jungle Book on it.
Stiles couldn’t help but smile.
Derek saw it and tilted his head quizzically.
“Your shirt,” Stiles gestured at him. “From our honeymoon?”
“Yeah.” Derek kind of blushed.
“I saw the pictures.”
Derek turned to look at the photo album Stiles had left on the coffee table in the living room, then turned back to Stiles. “Did it help? I mean, did the pictures make you remember any of it?”
Stiles’ smile slipped. “No.” He could see how much that disappointed Derek. “They were nice pictures, though.”
“They’re better memories,” Derek muttered dejectedly.
An uncomfortable silence fell around them, and Stiles wanted no part of it. “So,” he turned toward the kitchen cabinets, “spaghetti?”
“Right.” Derek came forward to show him where everything was and get dinner started.
They fell into a rhythm that was strangely synced. Like maybe Stiles didn’t remember this, but this body had the muscle memory of cooking with Derek down to an art. Their kitchen choreography, it turned out, did not allow for a lot of personal space. The kitchen wasn’t necessarily small, they just seemed to be in a decaying orbit around each other. Before long, Derek’s hands were ghosting over Stiles. His arms, his back, his hands.
Every time he crowded close to Stiles, Derek inhaled deeply. Stiles guessed that’s what his dad meant about Derek sniffing him a lot.
The scary thing was that Stiles didn’t mind. He found himself aiding and abetting the behavior. When Derek leaned in to stick his finger in the sauce, Stiles hip-checked him. Where he could have moved back because Derek was skin-to-skin close, he didn’t. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Once the food was ready and they’d served up portions onto two plates and taken a seat at the table, Stiles was feeling dangerously at ease. Like he might do something horrible. Like try to steal this Stiles’ life.
“So have you talked to Lydia?” Stiles asked. Mostly to remind himself that he didn’t belong here. He couldn’t get attached. He’d have to give all this back and return to his own life, and he didn’t want to mourn losing Derek. Which it was already too late for that, he knew he would, but he could at least keep it manageable. Remember Derek wasn’t really his.
“Not yet,” Derek answered evasively, suddenly refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes. He’d gone from relaxed to tense in no time flat. Stiles narrowed his eyes, perplexed.
“Are we fighting with Lydia or something?”
“No.”
“Then what’s going on? You’ve been weird every time I bring her up.” Stiles canted his head speculatively at Derek, wondering if this was about the major crush Stiles had on Lydia for so long. Did Derek feel threatened by her? That was utter nonsense, of course, but maybe werewolves took that kind of thing more personally than humans did?
“We’re not on the outs with Lydia, it’s just…” Derek sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
Stiles wanted to prod further, but Derek looked like he would rather chew ground glass.
A new topic was in order.
“So… I couldn’t help but notice I have a tattoo now.”
Derek kept his face downturned toward his plate, deliberately twirling pasta around his fork, but he visibly smiled.
“Tell me I wasn’t drunk when that happened.”
“You weren’t… though I don’t think Dad believes that to this day.”
“So what made me decide to get inked?” Stiles took a bite while awaiting Derek’s answer.
“You, uh… got that the morning after we first had sex.”
Stiles spit half-chewed spaghetti all over the table.
Derek laughed at him.
Stiles, coughing, took a drink to get the noodles out of his throat. When he could talk without choking on his food, he rasped, “Seriously? I felt the need to commemorate getting you in bed with permanent body art?”
“I thought a high-five would have sufficed, but you didn’t ask me before you did it.”
Stiles flipped Derek the middle finger then grabbed a napkin to clean up the mess he’d made.
Derek shook his head, chuckling, then he gave Stiles a lop-sided smile. “I like it, though.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do… it’s basically like having ‘Property of Derek Hale’ branded on me.”
Derek shrugged but he did not deny it.
“So are there any other werewolves in Beacon Hill these days?” Stiles asked. “What’s the hunter situation?” When Derek looked at him, Stiles continued, “I started to go out for a walk the other day and freaked myself out because I have no clue what the deal is in this town right now.”
“There aren’t any resident werewolves. Besides me, that is. We get transients sometimes. Loners. Omegas. They don’t stick around, though. My presence is enough to keep them from trying to establish a territory here. Tradition keeps the packs out. This area has always been Hale territory, and most packs honor territorial boundaries. Crazy all-alpha packs notwithstanding.
“When the steady werewolf population moved on, so did the hunters. Really, I’m the only kind of policing force of the supernatural in Beacon Hills right now.”
“You’re a hunter?”
“In a sense,” Derek replied hesitantly, clearly uncomfortable with that word. “I don’t hunt down innocent werewolves, obviously. I just take care of any threats to public safety. I defend my home.” Derek took a bite of garlic toast, chewed, and swallowed. “It’s actually been relatively quiet for a couple of years now. We still get things - even dormant, the nemeton still stirs up the unnatural, like fucking harpies - but not nearly like before.”
“All things considered, that really surprises me. There was always epic levels of shit going on around here.”
“It’s because there isn’t a werewolf presence anymore. Werewolves are magnets for that kind of stuff. Supernatural forces are drawn to us. So when they left, a lot of the trouble did, too.”
“So you don’t attract them?”
“One werewolf isn’t worth noticing. Without the pack, a wolf is nothing.”
Stiles didn’t like the way that sounded. Like without the pack, Derek was worthless. It was so… demeaning. Like Derek didn’t have anything to offer if he didn’t have a fucking entourage. That was so much bullshit.
Derek didn’t sound bothered by being the last werewolf in Beacon Hills, but maybe he’d just gotten good over the years at hiding it.
“Does that… do you miss having a pack?”
Derek looked oddly at him. “I have a pack.”
“But… you just said…”
“You’re my mate. That’s my pack. You and Dad. Do I miss the group dynamics of a big werewolf pack? Yeah, sometimes. But I don’t need it to be happy. Not as long as I have you.”
But he really kind of didn’t, because Stiles wasn’t supposed to be here.
He looked down at his food, appetite waning.
It was obvious that Derek noticed the mood at the table had shifted, but mercifully he didn’t push it. He and Stiles finished their meal quietly, pretending they weren’t both stealing looks across the table at the other.
Next
A/N: Seems like every fic, there is one canon element that I feel I must dismiss, because it just doesn’t make sense. Here’s the willfully-disregarded canon element of this fic - that werewolves can’t take pictures. That was fun for an episode, but I don’t think the writers considered the implications. By that rule, in essence ‘outing’ werewolves is as easy as taking their picture? Too easy. What about school pictures (we know the Hale kids went to public school)? Driver’s licenses? Nope. Not buying it. So I’m throwing that piece of canon out the window.
********************
As per his agreement with himself, the next day Stiles opened the photo album.
He spent hours flipping through the pages. They were in chronological order. It was like a visual journey through Derek’s verbal account yesterday in the woods.
Graduation pictures of him, Scott, Lydia, and Kira. Allison’s absence was like a knife to the gut. Isaac’s was surprising. Stiles had just assumed he finished out high school before he left, but clearly he’d assumed that part of the story, because Isaac was not in any of the pictures. A picture of John Stilinski at a barbeque party trying to ward off the camera and protect a plate of hot dogs at the same time. Stiles and Scott, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, diplomas in hand. An image of the girls throwing their caps in the air. Scott laughing at them. Stiles, in the background, distracted. But Stiles knew it was more than that. He knew himself. That was the haunted look in an unguarded moment. That was the post-nogitsune thousand-yard stare.
A picture of Stiles in his graduation gown leaning on the side of his Jeep, arms on the hood, cap next to his interlaced fingers, just staring out into the setting sun. A picture of a Jeep, a Camaro, a dirt bike, and a Toyota in the McCall driveway.
A picture of Scott and Kira in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, selfie-style. Wedding shots of Scott and Kira. A white dress and dry-cleaned tuxes and first dances.
A random picture of a black cat.
One of Stiles sprawled on the living room couch with a game console in hand. And it might have looked like any normal teenage boy, but again, that stare. That ‘something in me died and is still in there rotting’ glaze, and Stiles wanted to ask how the photographer didn’t see that. Why he/she would memorialize it in print. Why Stiles or Derek would put it in this album.
A photograph of Derek looking as angry and foul-tempered as Stiles had ever seen him in a booth at a restaurant. Like he was mad at the world and meant to rake his claws over the next living thing that got too close.
Then several pages of unadulterated adventure.
Pictures from the road of highways and plaster dinosaurs and giant balls of twine. Sunsets and sunrises and everything in between of the American southwest. Saguaro cacti and a picture of the Camaro pulled off on a desert road while Derek changed a tire. Stiles face-planted in a generic motel bed, dead to the world. Pictures of both of them interchangeably behind the wheel, an ever-changing scenic backdrop out the driver’s side window beyond their profiles. A crowded sea of heads over Hollywood Boulevard. Scowling Derek next to the golden lions at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Stiles’ shoes on either side of the topmost point of the star on the Walk of Fame for Fleetwood Mac. A hill covered in windmills. Stiles bent over to peer into a prairie dog hole. The Grand Canyon. The first selfie of the two of them both wearing smiles, a painted canyon behind them and smiling faces in the forefront. Stiles looking miserable with a horrific sunburn across his nose and cheeks. Derek about to take a bite out of a huge hamburger in a diner at the very moment he glanced up at Stiles taking his picture. Stiles off the highway with his back to the car pissing on a bush. ‘Welcome to’ state line signs. Bison. Derek with his chin in his hand, leaning against a fence post watching elk graze. An image of wolves, tiny in the distance, crossing a clearing with Stiles in the forefront pointing a thumb over his shoulder and making a ‘zoikes!’ Scooby Doo face while Derek, on the other side of the photo, gave him a look of ‘Stiles is an idiot’. Stiles caught in mid-skitter trying to avoid the spray of Old Faithful. A selfie with the geyser of water in the background and Stiles and Derek, shirts wet, with arms around each other’s shoulders and grinning at the camera, hair water-logged and eyelashes holding water droplets like dew. Derek fast asleep, curled on his side in some random motel room. A close-up of Derek’s face in the same bed, eyes resolutely closed but mouth curled in a smile. The glitzy strip of Las Vegas at night, blurry because the camera sucked at low light. Derek walking down the colorful thoroughfare turned back to look at Stiles. A photo of Derek’s hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he was caught mid-fall into a fountain. Stiles soaked to the bone, grinning at the camera, while an attendant scowled in the back. A sphinx with search lights. Stiles, unaware of an audience, with his eyes closed and head tipped back just being in the moment with a casino in the back giving him a fuzzy halo.
Stiles studied so many pictures of the road trip. Four months of memories but barely a fraction of them captured on film. Stiles lingered over each one. Even the stupid pictures of desert flora.
Then it was Derek barefoot in his loft kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Stiles carrying in a bag of take-out like it was a prize won in battle. Stiles at some kinds of functions, a few with Cancer Society banners in the background. Derek coming home from construction work filthy and sweat-soaked and smiling.
Then a picture of Stiles and Derek, both in suits sans ties, standing in the county courthouse. At first without rings. Group shots with John and the JP flanking the couple on either side. The two of them before the court official, looking at each other with bliss in their eyes. Then pictures wearing rings. A picture of Derek and Stiles kissing. Stiles laughing at something and hiding his face in Derek’s shoulder; Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles and pressing his nose into his hair.
Then pictures of a castle. Stiles in front of it, looking like it was the best day of his life. Derek eating churros in flip-flops. Both of them grinning on either side of Mickey Mouse. Pictures of attractions and rides and some of the photos from rollercoasters where they were open-mouth screaming, grabbing on to each other. Stiles smiling on a park bench, a mouse-ear shaped ice cream in hand. Derek in the hotel room looking out over Anaheim. A strange, fuzzy action shot looking down at Stiles on the bed while Derek was obviously tickling him. A shot of a hot tub, Stiles in the foreground looking over his shoulder at the camera like the cat that ate the canary. Unclothed Derek sprawled magnificently in bed, spared indecency only by a corner of the sheet pulled over to cover his junk as he slept like a Greek god. A selfie of the two of them reclining in bed against the headboard, smiling tiredly after a day at the park. Stiles holding up the ‘do not disturb’ sign for the hotel room and giving the camera a wicked smirk. Stiles fast asleep, Mickey Mouse ears askew atop his head. Stiles belly-laughing at little kids in Jedi robes. Derek in some kind of argument with Goofy. One taken by a park photographer, with a tiny Disney logo in the bottom corner, of Derek with his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles with his arm hooked around Derek’s waist in the main square.
All too soon, Stiles reached the end of the album. He knew there was so much more to know. So much left untold. But the album ran out of pages. There was too much to their lives for one album to hold it all. That was kind of amazing.
Stiles sat for a long time with the album open to its last page on the coffee table, just kind of trying to soak it all in. He wanted that life. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible for him - if the Derek in his world was just too different from the Derek here for it to ever be in Stiles’ future - but god, he wanted it.
*********************
“Stiles, my man,” Stiles somberly addressed his reflection, “you have seen better days.”
But then, he’d also seen worse. So there was that.
He was standing in front of the bathroom sink in just his boxers considering himself in the mirror. At first it had just been to assess his shave job, then he got distracted by the scar on his chest. It was years old, so he hadn’t thought much of it the first time he saw it, but now he knew that it had actually been a severe injury. At one point, Derek didn’t know if Stiles would live. And that had apparently scared the shit out of him. Derek loved his Stiles that fucking much.
“I don’t know how you got him, Mr. Hale,” Stiles told his twenty-four-year-old married self, “but well done.”
Then Stiles got to looking at the line of stitches above his eyebrow. The skin around the cut had purpled up nicely, making it look a lot worse than it felt. The edges of the held-together skin were scabbing, pink and raw where he’d accidentally touched it in the shower. It would probably leave a scar, too.
Other than that, he realized that he didn’t feel like he was looking through someone else’s eyes anymore when he saw his reflection. He was used to looking older. A lot about the gawky teenager he’d been he did not miss.
And that was a dangerous, bad, not-good thing.
“You can’t get used to this, Stiles,” he scolded himself. “This isn’t your reality. You haven’t earned this. Do not want this.”
But who was he kidding? He did want it. At least part of him did. He wanted his mirror-twin’s life. He hadn’t gotten back in touch with Kira and Scott yet to see if they had any leads on how to undo what had happened to him. That was probably telling. Like maybe he was okay if this didn’t get fixed.
Stiles looked down at the wedding ring on his left hand. From the beginning of this trip down the rabbit hole, he’d never taken it off. At first because it didn’t feel like it was his place. And he didn’t want to hurt Derek. Then, well… Stiles was getting used to the weight of the ring. Like he’d feel naked without it now.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
But as usual, Stiles was not listening to himself.
When he went back to his old bedroom to get dressed, he picked up his cell phone and found he had a message from Derek waiting for him. His heart did not skip, because he wasn’t a teenager with a god damn crush, thank you very much. He was a grown man.
Or… well… anyway…
Derek: finally getting the station blazer back from shop today. sick of only having 1 car
Stiles texted back:
Stiles: didn’t know we had another car
Though it made sense. Up until a couple of months ago, they were both working, and that would be near impossible to do in a town like Beacon Hills without them both having their own car.
A protracted pause, then:
Derek: sorry. i forgot
Forgot that Stiles wasn’t the same guy Derek had been married to for the last five years. That just made Stiles feel bad all over again. Derek got some good news at work and his first thought was to pick up the phone and share it with his husband. But his husband wasn’t here… just this train-wreck of a Stiles that showed up and turned everyone’s lives upside down.
Stiles: 2 cars is good. won’t be stuck at the house anymore
Stiles tossed the phone on the bed and by the time he threw on some clothes it had dinged with another text.
Derek: where do you want to go?
Stiles had a feeling Derek was asking if he wanted to get away from this imposter life. If he was contemplating escape. Stiles dare not tell him far from it.
Stiles: grocery shopping. dad has crap to eat here
Stiles had rummaged through the cupboards earlier and found potato chips, canned soup, SPAM, candy bars, and at the very back that nasty-ass Japanese tea from Kira. It was horrifying that it had been in there for seven years. Stiles had to have a talk with his dad about cleaning out his pantry once in a while. Stiles had gagged at the sight of the box of tea bags, then put it aside to give Kira hell for making him drink that shit. He never got a chance to in his world, and he’d be damned if Kira foisted that vile liquid on him without hearing about it. That stuff was so gross there was no statute of limitations for bitching about it.
Derek: need to pick up blazer from shop at end of shift. pick you up and take you over so you can drive honda home?
Stiles: ok
Stiles put his phone down on the nightstand and suddenly found himself staring at his pillow rumpled up on the ugly-ass comforter. He looked around at his scattered clothes on the floor. His laptop on the desk. ShineGold beside his phone.
He thought about his dad’s advice.
Making a decision that very moment, Stiles grabbed up the duffel bag Derek brought his stuff over in and started packing all his things up.
*************************
When Derek pulled up to the house a little after five, Stiles threw the duffel bag over his right shoulder, tucked his laptop under his left arm, and went out the front door to meet him. Derek, who had been getting out of the car to go knock on the door, stopped when he saw Stiles heading his way. He frowned when he saw the duffel and computer.
Stiles wondered if the other him ever got used to Derek in his work uniform. Because he totally wasn’t yet. Fucker was delectable. Women in Beacon Hills probably tried to get tickets.
There was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Other Stiles was a smug son of a bitch about that, too. All ‘back off, bitches, he’s mine’. Stiles would be in his place. Just saying.
“Open the backseat?” Stiles asked when he reached the car, and Derek unlocked the back doors so Stiles could dump his stuff in the backseat. Then Stiles rounded the car and got in the passenger side.
Puzzled, Derek got back behind the wheel and looked over at Stiles. “Why did you bring your stuff?”
“You said I was driving the car home, right? I assume you meant our home.”
Derek stilled, clearly recalling his own words via text earlier. Then he looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean you had to. I really wasn’t thinking. You can come back here if you want.”
“And if I don’t want?”
Derek looked surprised. Then hopeful. “That’s a stupid question.”
“It is?”
Derek scoffed. “Yes. Of course I want you to come home.”
Stiles smiled. “Okay, so let’s give that a try, then. I can’t… I can’t make any promises, but… I’m homesick. I thought it was for Dad’s house, but that wasn’t it. Maybe I’m homesick for our place and I just don’t know it.”
Derek tried to hide a smile as he started the car.
“Besides,” Stiles buckled his seatbelt, “I never could figure out my computer’s stupid password, so I’ve been deprived of the internet for days. I think I’ve got the DTs.”
“It’s SSHale,” Derek said as he pulled out on to the road.
Stiles gaped at him. “Are you shitting me? I’ve been trying everything and you knew it the whole time?”
“Sorry… I didn’t think about how you wouldn’t know your password.”
Which, yeah. To be fair, Stiles never thought to ask Derek what his password was, either.
“SSHale?” Stiles repeated. “Like you’re a ship?”
Derek chuckled. “Well, it was your initials and our last name, but you get a lot of mileage out of the ship thing. If I had a dollar for every time you asked me ‘permission to come aboard’…”
Stiles squawked and swatted Derek’s arm with the back of his hand. “Hey! What did I say about the dick talk?”
“Not to discuss yours. But that was about mine.”
Stiles scrunched down in the seat. “Jesus christ,” he grumbled, then he started quietly laughing. Derek joined in a second later.
It felt almost natural now. Stiles didn’t want to feel guilty about that.
*********************
The ride to the auto shop was relaxed, and when Derek picked up the Chevy with the Beacon Hills Police decals all over the sides, Stiles took the keys for the Honda and followed Derek back to their house.
Where he sat in the driveway for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and looking at the house apprehensively. He was worried he wouldn’t feel at home here.
But he was even more worried that he would.
When Derek stopped on his way to the front door and looked toward Stiles with the question eyebrows, Stiles girded himself and got out to gather his things from the backseat and go inside.
The inside looked just like the last time Stiles saw it. Furniture he didn’t recognize as his own and a floor plan he couldn’t walk in the dark without turning on any lights. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but hoping he might have an epiphany and gain access to all of the other Stiles’ memories, maybe. A guy could dream.
“We’ve got the stuff to make spaghetti, if that’s good with you,” Derek said as he dropped his keys in a bowl on a shelf of the nearby bookcase.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Stiles said, standing in the foyer with laptop and duffel in hand.
Derek looked over at him like he wanted to say something, then he just shut his mouth and headed for the bedroom.
Stiles went to the couch and started unpacking the duffel bag. ShineGold, his laptop, and the photo album he put on the coffee table, soon joined by his cell phone that he fished out of his pocket. His pillow he threw against the couch armrest. He grimaced and used a two-finger pincer grip to put the tea on the end table. Then he peeked in at the assortment of clothes left in the bag and carried it all to the laundry room. He was proud to at least know where it was, after his brief tour that first day.
By the time he came out of the laundry room, Derek was in the kitchen in black basketball shorts and a faded Disney t-shirt with the wolf pack from The Jungle Book on it.
Stiles couldn’t help but smile.
Derek saw it and tilted his head quizzically.
“Your shirt,” Stiles gestured at him. “From our honeymoon?”
“Yeah.” Derek kind of blushed.
“I saw the pictures.”
Derek turned to look at the photo album Stiles had left on the coffee table in the living room, then turned back to Stiles. “Did it help? I mean, did the pictures make you remember any of it?”
Stiles’ smile slipped. “No.” He could see how much that disappointed Derek. “They were nice pictures, though.”
“They’re better memories,” Derek muttered dejectedly.
An uncomfortable silence fell around them, and Stiles wanted no part of it. “So,” he turned toward the kitchen cabinets, “spaghetti?”
“Right.” Derek came forward to show him where everything was and get dinner started.
They fell into a rhythm that was strangely synced. Like maybe Stiles didn’t remember this, but this body had the muscle memory of cooking with Derek down to an art. Their kitchen choreography, it turned out, did not allow for a lot of personal space. The kitchen wasn’t necessarily small, they just seemed to be in a decaying orbit around each other. Before long, Derek’s hands were ghosting over Stiles. His arms, his back, his hands.
Every time he crowded close to Stiles, Derek inhaled deeply. Stiles guessed that’s what his dad meant about Derek sniffing him a lot.
The scary thing was that Stiles didn’t mind. He found himself aiding and abetting the behavior. When Derek leaned in to stick his finger in the sauce, Stiles hip-checked him. Where he could have moved back because Derek was skin-to-skin close, he didn’t. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Once the food was ready and they’d served up portions onto two plates and taken a seat at the table, Stiles was feeling dangerously at ease. Like he might do something horrible. Like try to steal this Stiles’ life.
“So have you talked to Lydia?” Stiles asked. Mostly to remind himself that he didn’t belong here. He couldn’t get attached. He’d have to give all this back and return to his own life, and he didn’t want to mourn losing Derek. Which it was already too late for that, he knew he would, but he could at least keep it manageable. Remember Derek wasn’t really his.
“Not yet,” Derek answered evasively, suddenly refusing to meet Stiles’ eyes. He’d gone from relaxed to tense in no time flat. Stiles narrowed his eyes, perplexed.
“Are we fighting with Lydia or something?”
“No.”
“Then what’s going on? You’ve been weird every time I bring her up.” Stiles canted his head speculatively at Derek, wondering if this was about the major crush Stiles had on Lydia for so long. Did Derek feel threatened by her? That was utter nonsense, of course, but maybe werewolves took that kind of thing more personally than humans did?
“We’re not on the outs with Lydia, it’s just…” Derek sighed. “I’ll talk to her.”
Stiles wanted to prod further, but Derek looked like he would rather chew ground glass.
A new topic was in order.
“So… I couldn’t help but notice I have a tattoo now.”
Derek kept his face downturned toward his plate, deliberately twirling pasta around his fork, but he visibly smiled.
“Tell me I wasn’t drunk when that happened.”
“You weren’t… though I don’t think Dad believes that to this day.”
“So what made me decide to get inked?” Stiles took a bite while awaiting Derek’s answer.
“You, uh… got that the morning after we first had sex.”
Stiles spit half-chewed spaghetti all over the table.
Derek laughed at him.
Stiles, coughing, took a drink to get the noodles out of his throat. When he could talk without choking on his food, he rasped, “Seriously? I felt the need to commemorate getting you in bed with permanent body art?”
“I thought a high-five would have sufficed, but you didn’t ask me before you did it.”
Stiles flipped Derek the middle finger then grabbed a napkin to clean up the mess he’d made.
Derek shook his head, chuckling, then he gave Stiles a lop-sided smile. “I like it, though.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do… it’s basically like having ‘Property of Derek Hale’ branded on me.”
Derek shrugged but he did not deny it.
“So are there any other werewolves in Beacon Hill these days?” Stiles asked. “What’s the hunter situation?” When Derek looked at him, Stiles continued, “I started to go out for a walk the other day and freaked myself out because I have no clue what the deal is in this town right now.”
“There aren’t any resident werewolves. Besides me, that is. We get transients sometimes. Loners. Omegas. They don’t stick around, though. My presence is enough to keep them from trying to establish a territory here. Tradition keeps the packs out. This area has always been Hale territory, and most packs honor territorial boundaries. Crazy all-alpha packs notwithstanding.
“When the steady werewolf population moved on, so did the hunters. Really, I’m the only kind of policing force of the supernatural in Beacon Hills right now.”
“You’re a hunter?”
“In a sense,” Derek replied hesitantly, clearly uncomfortable with that word. “I don’t hunt down innocent werewolves, obviously. I just take care of any threats to public safety. I defend my home.” Derek took a bite of garlic toast, chewed, and swallowed. “It’s actually been relatively quiet for a couple of years now. We still get things - even dormant, the nemeton still stirs up the unnatural, like fucking harpies - but not nearly like before.”
“All things considered, that really surprises me. There was always epic levels of shit going on around here.”
“It’s because there isn’t a werewolf presence anymore. Werewolves are magnets for that kind of stuff. Supernatural forces are drawn to us. So when they left, a lot of the trouble did, too.”
“So you don’t attract them?”
“One werewolf isn’t worth noticing. Without the pack, a wolf is nothing.”
Stiles didn’t like the way that sounded. Like without the pack, Derek was worthless. It was so… demeaning. Like Derek didn’t have anything to offer if he didn’t have a fucking entourage. That was so much bullshit.
Derek didn’t sound bothered by being the last werewolf in Beacon Hills, but maybe he’d just gotten good over the years at hiding it.
“Does that… do you miss having a pack?”
Derek looked oddly at him. “I have a pack.”
“But… you just said…”
“You’re my mate. That’s my pack. You and Dad. Do I miss the group dynamics of a big werewolf pack? Yeah, sometimes. But I don’t need it to be happy. Not as long as I have you.”
But he really kind of didn’t, because Stiles wasn’t supposed to be here.
He looked down at his food, appetite waning.
It was obvious that Derek noticed the mood at the table had shifted, but mercifully he didn’t push it. He and Stiles finished their meal quietly, pretending they weren’t both stealing looks across the table at the other.
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