Work Text:
Stiles eyes Derek warily. They have been going through some of the allegedly outdated—according to Mr. Argent anyway—sections in the bestiary all this evening in Derek’s newly furnished library and Derek just twitched and made the strangest wheezing noise.
“You okay there buddy?” Stiles says tentatively.
“Huh. Uh, yeah, I’m great! Thanks, man!” Derek says. His voice sounds oddly—soft. Softer than usual. And kind of…weirdly chipper. Derek wrinkles his nose for a brief second as if he’s just thought of something puzzling, and then he turns to flash a bright smile at Stiles. A smile. A bright smile.
Stiles is immediately certain that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
“Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale,” he immediately stands up, causing his chair to topple over with a loud crash to the floor. He tries desperately to channel all the menace Derek had shown him in the past, and can only hope that the whatever inhabiting Derek’s body right now feels intimidated by his attempt at looming.
Not!Derek blinks up at him, all wide-eyed innocence and startled confusion. “Uh… Derek Hale, you say?” He blinks some more, those impossible eyes shining, the corners delightfully crinkled—crinkled, what the hell—, up at Stiles so he has to look away for a second. “Oh! Does that… Does that mean you’re Stiles?” Impossibly, Derek’s face lights up even more. He looks so genuinely happy to see Stiles. Stiles gets dizzy just looking at that expression.
“Who are you,” he demands again, trying his damnedest to exude hostility in the hopes that it will mask the bewilderment and unease thrumming under his skin.
“You are Stiles, aren’t you? Oh, hi, my name is Tyler and it’s so good to meet you! I have no idea what’s going on but this is so cool. Stiles! I don’t believe it, this is the best thing ever. You were always my favorite character, you know,” Not!Derek—Tyler—gushes at him all in one breath, beaming charmingly the whole time—whoa, were the laugh lines there the whole time?—and even offers a hand for him to shake. “Yeah, so, hi. Stiles! Hi.”
“What,” Stiles says, pointedly ignoring the proffered hand until Not!Derek—Tyler, whatever—drops it with a confused head tilt exactly like a scolded puppy. Stiles feels bad for a second until he shakes himself out of his surprise-induced stupor. “Okay, Tyler, is it,” he says after taking a deep fortifying breath, and Tyler nods amiably in response. “How did you get here? Where did you come from? How did you know my name? What happened to Derek?”
Tyler scratches the back of his neck, looking all sincere and apologetic. “Oh. I’m so sorry, but I have no idea what happened. One second I was sitting there eating dessert with Ian and Colton back in LA, the next second I’m here with you.” He flicks a finger idly and startles when a sharp claw pops out right from the fingertip. “Oh. Oh wow. Oh my god, this is terrifying yet awesome. Oh man, wait ‘til I tell Dylan, he’s going to be so amazed.” He begins to examine the curved talon with avid fascination. He flicks the finger again carefully and the claw slips back with barely a sound, then with another flick of his wrist, all five claws make their appearance. Stiles can’t help recoiling a little from the deadly looking pointy bits in their full glory, but Tyler smoothly retracts his claws again, seemingly with barely any effort.
Stiles gapes a little. “How—?”
“Hmm?” Tyler hums idly, busy studying his nail beds. “Holy shit, I’m an actual werewolf,” he says to himself in awe, then turns to Stiles with an apologetic grin. “Ah, excuse me, what were you asking again?”
Stiles flails wordlessly, gesturing toward Derek’s—Tyler’s hands, his brain still stuck on the fact that someone with Derek Hale’s face just apologized to him. Twice.
“Oh. You mean the claw thing? I dunno either, it just kind of happened. It was surprisingly easy to control,” Tyler says and wiggles his fingers. “I was just thinking how cool Dylan and the gang would find this all,” he chuckles. “Oh, I meant like my friends—the cast of our show?—from back home. And Dylan! He plays you on our show, actually. He’s the best. I guess, I guess they are probably my, uh, anchors, huh? That’s why handling the shift is so easy for me.” He shrugs and then, eyes widening, asks, “Oh yeah, Dylan would definitely be disappointed if I don’t ask you this. So, do you know where the eyebrows go when the wolves wolf out?”
He looks so painfully earnest that Stiles manfully resists the urge to facepalm or, alternately, burst into hysterical giggles. “I don’t have a clue man, sorry. Believe me, I’ve asked this question many times before,” he snorts a little, “no one knows.”
Tyler looks a bit crestfallen, but soon perks up again and seems poised to ask another question.
“Before you ask, I don’t know anything about werewolf dick either.”
Tyler turns bright red. “Ah. That’s—too bad, I guess. I actually wasn’t going to ask that, but nevermind.” He takes a long while to recover, but soon he’s giving Stiles his dazzling smile again, and his nose does this wrinkly, scrunch-y up—thing which is so disgustingly cute—cute! Derek Hale’s face is cute!—that Stiles momentarily questions his sanity. Tyler remains oblivious, just keeps on grinning like he’s the happiest person in the world. “Stiles! Real life Stiles! Unbelievable. This is so great. I have questions, so many questions, man,” he says eagerly, eyes shining. Actually shining. “So, when you tell jokes—”
“Whoa whoa whoa, hold your horses, man,” Stiles flaps his hands around until Tyler stops speaking. “Dude, in case you forgot, we are kind of in the midst of a supernatural crisis here?”
Tyler looks suitably chastened. “Sorry, sorry.”
Apology number three. Stiles feels weirdly twitchy, like he wants to punch something. “Okay. Just tell me what you remember,” he says with deliberate calm.
After a rambling ten minute explanation, Stiles is more or less confident that this is a case of alternate universe body swap, if there is even such a thing, and Derek’s body is apparently occupied by this actor who plays Derek in a stupid-sounding MTV show about their lives—what even, this is way too Inception-like for Stiles’s tastes—and Stiles has no idea how to go about fixing this. Tyler seems to know all about Stiles and his friends’ lives though, even if he’s foggy on certain details and his narrative has weird inconsistencies and made their lives sound absurdly over-dramatized. That’s TV for you, Stiles guesses.
He is now also well-informed of how much this Tyler apparently loves Stiles…’s character, to a ridiculous extent, and Stiles can’t keep his ears from burning at the lavish praises Tyler keeps sprouting out at him.
Tyler looks an odd mixture of wonder and pride as Stiles begins thinking aloud in his usual flaily way in an attempt to make sense of what he’s learned (and to shut out Tyler’s constant stream of praises).
“I didn’t know that I could be even more in awe of Dylan’s acting, but I was wrong,” Tyler breathes, “this is amazing.” He sounds positively giddy. “Maybe I can record some footage on my phone to show Dylan and Posey when I get back.” He pats at his pants pockets and the looks around. “Oh wait, that’s not my phone. That’s Derek’s isn’t it. Damn.”
“What if you can’t get back?” Stiles says, a little meanly.
“But I know you always figure it out. You’re Stiles, you always do.” Tyler looks at him with such open trust it makes Stiles want to simultaneously cry and murder someone.
“Oh my god, are you for real,” Stiles buries his face in his hands.
“What do you mean?” Tyler says guilelessly.
“Christ. Okay, just talk about something else. Anything else that’s not how awesome you think I am. Much as I enjoy getting my ego stroked, because god knows that doesn’t happen nearly enough, this is too much. Please. Talk about your show or whatever, I don’t care.”
“Our show? Well, I’d always enjoyed the development of the relationship between you and Derek most of all on the show,” Tyler says easily, face relaxing into another toothy grin. His expressions become even more animated as he warms to the topic. “I enjoy your dynamic so much! Like, Stiles, or rather, you are like the funny one, right, but when I’m—when Derek is around you he kind of reacts and that’s really interesting because—”
“…I want Derek back here. Right now.” Stiles tells no one in particular, feeling numb.
Tyler quiets and looks at him thoughtfully, and then his face shifts into a familiar scowl. Stiles’s heart leaps in his chest.
“Derek?”
“Uh. Yes?”
“Oh god, what happened? Where did you go just now? There was this weird guy who said he was an actor who played you on a TV show about us that inhabited your body for a while and it was creepy as hell, Jesus Christ, this is the weirdest thing that’s happened to us yet,” Stiles babbles, barely restraining himself from jumping on and clinging to Derek.
Derek rubs his back and tries to give him a hug.
Wait. “You’re not Derek.” Stiles flinches back.
“…No. Sorry. Still Tyler. I just thought you’d feel more comfortable if I, y’know, acted like Derek,” Tyler shuffles his feet guiltily, hunching his ridiculous shoulders.
“Well I don’t feel any better!” Stiles says almost hysterically, banging his head against the wall, and yells in frustration when Tyler tries to stop him.
“I’m so sorry.” Tyler says. And he looks truly sorry.
“Why are you so nice,” Stiles wails in despair. “I’m actually starting to miss the old mean Derek shoving me around.”
Tyler bites his lips. “Derek cares about you, you know. Trust me, I play his character, I would know. There’s just always been something between you. I’ve always kind of hoped Jeff would—” He trails off, then a look of determination flits across his face. “So, listen, Stiles, I really think the two of you work well together,” he says firmly, though his cheeks and the tips of his ears are pinking rather becomingly.
Stiles thinks he would happily give up the entirety of his meager savings just to see Derek look this adorably flustered. And then he pauses as the words, “work well together,” register in his sluggish brain.
Tyler is hurriedly barging on before Stiles can get a word in.
“I mean, you argue and snark at each other a lot and that’s funny, sure, but you totally have each other’s back when it counts! Like the pool thing! Which was awesome, one of my favorite scenes. Oh, oh, right! You should definitely call him Sourwolf more.”
Stiles’s jaw drops at that. Tyler seems unduly pleased about this.
“You’ve called him that before, right? I loved that, man, and I’m pretty sure he likes it too.” He then adds at Stiles’s no doubt skeptical look, “because I know him, c’mon, gimme a little credit here, I know my roles.”
Stiles finally cuts in. “How do you even know about that stupid nickname? I’m pretty sure I’ve only ever used it like once. This is creeping me out, man.”
“It was an ad lib by Dylan back on the show, and it’s totally a thing. The fans loved it.”
“I said it once. As a joke. And I’m pretty sure I remember Derek looking at me murderously afterwards.”
“Nah I’m sure he’ll like it if you call him by nickname.”
“Why on earth are you telling me all this?”
Tyler is apparently on a roll. “I just really love Stiles and Derek and want you guys to be happy! I think you should definitely go for it, man, like, buy him pizza, be friends first, and then—”
Stiles ends up conking him on the head with his trusty baseball bat to make him shut up.
(He’s only slightly sorry. Derek’s body has super healing, after all.)
-
When Tyler recovers from the baseball bat to his head, he’s Derek again. Stiles thinks. He’s understandable wary, but Derek’s grumpiness seems genuine and is here to stay.
“I somehow ended up at the Cheesecake Factory having dessert with two guys who look like Peter and Jackson,” Derek says with obvious disgust. “It was really weird. They were both human though. They kept saying my face is funny and tried to hug me when I tried to leave.”
“God I missed you so much,” Stiles says with feeling, clutching Derek’s sleeve and holding on. Derek looks at him, then his hand, but doesn’t pull away, and even pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Sourwolf,” Stiles tacks on quietly, mumbles a little to preserve some semblance of deniability.
Derek stills for a moment, but he doesn’t pull away, just snorts and knocks their shoulders together. “Shut up,” he says, not at all murderously, and he maybe is kind of smiling a little. If Stiles squints.
Stiles counts it as a win.