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“… kill you! I’m literally going to kill you, do you understand me? You cannot do this to us again! You could have seriously injured yourself and what would I have done then, huh? Huh?”
Stiles groans, his head pounding furiously as he struggles to open his eyes.
Hands frame his face and he presses against the touch instinctively, eyes closed again as he concentrates on the soothing motions of a thumb stroking along his cheekbone.
It’s a nice thumb, probably the best he’s ever felt, and for a moment he entertains the thought of Lydia being attached to it.
A callous scrapes over his barely-there stubble and no, that’s definitely not Lydia.
Scott, then, only he can suddenly feel a set of lips pressing against his forehead and nope, they might be close but they’re definitely not there yet.
The beard rubbing against his skin rules out Melissa as well, which leaves his dad, who – apart from Derek – is the only member of Stiles’ circle of family, friends, and furry-or-otherwise acquaintances actually old enough to grow proper facial hair without the influence of the full moon.
Reassured, he opens his eyes with an almost herculean effort, ready to face the worried but probably scowling face of his father.
There’s scowling alright.
But his father’s eyebrows definitely can’t do that.
On the one hand, Stiles is very, very confused.
On the other hand, the fact that he woke up to a death threat suddenly makes a heck of a lot more sense.
“De… Derek? What? Why … what are you doing here?” he croaks, and Derek promptly engages in his favorite past-time activity, eyebrows squeezing together as he frowns like it’s a discipline in the Werelympics.
As far as Stiles is concerned it probably is and Derek is the reigning gold-medal champion.
Damn, his head hurts and Derek’s thunderous expression is definitely not soothing.
“Where else would I be? God, Stiles, never do that to me again, or I’ll …”
He breaks off, almost choking at the word and Stiles frowns because there’s something about Derek that seems … off.
He can’t quite put his finger on it, though, so he accepts the glass of water Derek presses to his parched lips, narrowing his eyes as he tries to figure out what’s going on.
He’s in a hospital room, which means he was probably injured.
Derek’s with him, so it was possibly his fault.
In fact, he’s pretty sure it must have been Derek’s fault, because the Alpha looks like crap.
It’s not quite at Must-Ask-Stiles-To-Cut-Off-My-Arm-Level yet, but the dark shadows under his eyes indicate to Stiles that Derek definitely hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep lately, further solidifying his suspicion that Beacon Hill’s resident Sour Wolf was definitely involved in his current malady.
Only he doesn’t quite look guilt-ridden over having somehow caused the tragic chain of events that has led Stiles to the embrace of the not-so-soft cotton of these hospital sheets.
It’s more like he’s simultaneous fuming in righteous indignation and … some other emotion that Stiles for the life of him can’t decipher.
“Where … where are my dad and Scott?” he asks, coughing, and Derek squeezes his hand, obviously trying for a reassuring smile when he says, “Your father is on his way here and Scott just went down to the cafeteria. You’ve been unconscious for two days, god, Stiles, if I hadn’t been so scared you wouldn’t wake up I would have strangled you, why in the world did you …”
Derek continues talking, but Stiles isn’t listening anymore because holy crap, he’s holding hands with Derek Hale.
There’s only one possible explanation for this madness, only one that makes sense to his still-aching head.
Derek has gone insane.
He’s alone in a room with a crazy person who has fangs and claws and Stiles can literally feel his heartbeat speed up at the realization.
Apparently, so can Derek, who squeezes his hand even tighter.
“Stiles!” Scott yells, stumbling into the room and interrupting Stiles’ colorful visions of death-by-deranged-werewolf and he tries to wave from the bed, ends up accidentally waving Derek’s hand, too, because the werewolf still has an iron grip on him.
“Dude, we were so worried! Don’t do that again!” his best friends exclaims, completely unfazed by the fact that Stiles and Derek are now Buddies-With-Hand-Holding-Benefits and Stiles frowns heavily, wincing when the effort sends another jolt of pain through his head.
It’s gone the next moment and Stiles sighs, relieved, only to flinch when Scott suddenly snaps, “Derek! You know you’re not supposed to!” looking and sounding like Derek just killed a puppy.
Confused, Stiles turns towards Derek, who’s looking a tiny bit guilty and a lot petulant as he tries to hide his hand behind his back, the last tendrils of Stiles’ pain still trailing up his arm.
When he turns back to Scott his best friend’s eyes are flashing Alpha-red and Stiles … doesn’t quite flail because his movements are still too sluggish, but he definitely startles.
“Holy shit! Who did you kill?”
Scott stares at him, completely flabbergasted.
“What? I didn’t kill anyone, why would …”
“Your eyes, Dude! You’ve got freaking Alpha eyes! Did you kill Derek? Wait, Derek’s here, so you didn’t kill him, but you must have killed someone, so … oh no, don’t tell me Peter stole the Alpha power again!”
“What?” Scott repeats and Stiles looks back and forth between him and Derek, taking in the baffled concern on his best friend’s face and the slowly dawning understanding on Derek’s.
Stiles receives his second shock in under a minute when whatever Derek’s just figured out leads him to smile gently.
At Stiles.
It’s a completely unprecedented event and Stiles isn’t quite sure he’s recovered enough to survive it.
“It’s ok Stiles,” Derek says and for a moment he looks like he wants to hold hands with Stiles again, his fingers twitching just so against the golden ring on Stiles’ own finger.
“Ok? Ok? Wait, what the hell is going on? Why is Scott an Alpha? Why am I in the hospital? Wait what is … Whoa! Holy shit, that’s a wedding ring! Am I married? I’m 17, why am I married? More importantly, whom did I marry? Where the hell is she? Why are the two of you smiling? What is …”
“Stiles, breathe,” Derek says fondly, and Stiles bristles, the novelty of his and Derek’s apparently newfound bro-bond only slightly distracting him from the fact that he still has about a million questions and exactly zero answers.
“No seriously, what the hell is …”
“Melissa warned us that you might suffer from temporary memory loss. You’re not 17 anymore, you’re 27 and you’re in the hospital because you were a complete and utter moron! That being said, they have you on a medication that can apparently cause some confusion upon waking up. You’ll get your memories back soon, just try to stay calm, everything will …”
“Calm? Calm? I am lying here, on the threshold of death and instead of wailing by my bedside like a Banshee my wife isn’t … wait, did I actually manage to …”
“Orange juice! Have some!”
Despite having apparently ascended to Alpha-status without any maiming or killing involved – Stiles is calling BS on that one, but he’s willing to give his best buddy the benefit of the doubt – Scott’s voice reaches an impressive high note as he unceremoniously stuffs a straw into Stiles’ mouth.
His entire expression is screaming “Shut up!” and Stiles splutters, spilling orange juice all over himself.
“Dude, what ...” he gets out, silenced when Derek reaches over to grasp Scott’s shoulder.
“It’s ok, don’t worry about it, Scott,” he says, sounding exactly zero percent like the Derek Hale that Stiles – and his fear-boners – have grown to appreciate over the years.
“It’s not ok, he shouldn’t … especially not in your condition, you …”
“Scott! I think one shock is enough for one major concussion, wouldn’t you agree?” Derek interrupts him firmly and Scott huffs, clearly in disagreement as he turns towards Stiles, looking determined.
“Listen, Stiles, I know you’re obviously in a headspace where I’m clearly not the Alpha yet and you’re still working on your 10-year plan to woo Lydia, but you don’t actually have a wife, you have a husband, so I really think it would be unfair to …”
“Husband? Husband? Ha! I knew I was attractive to gay guys, I knew it! Well, where’s my love-muffin, why isn’t he here to support me in my time of need?”
So yeah, realizing that he’s not married to Lydia is maybe kind of a tiny little bit of a blow to Stiles’ 17-year old ego, but on the other hand he’s pretty stoked he wasn’t imagining all those Derek-Induced Fear-Boners – as well as the occasional Danny-Induced-Dimple-Boners and the singular and thoroughly horrifying Scott-Induced-Never-To-Be-Spoken-Of-Again-Depravity-And-Shame-Oh-The-Shame-Boner.
Besides, Stiles is nothing but adaptable and he does not appreciate the very not-Derek-like snort coming from the older werewolf.
“He’s actually been here the entire time Stiles! We tried to send him home to rest but he wouldn’t have it, even when I almost gave him a direct Alpha order! To be perfectly honest, I’m still pissed about that, because guess who you are going to be angry with once you get your memories back and realize that your love-muffin hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in like two days? Me! Not him, oh no, even though he’s the one who should have been resting and not sitting in these super uncomfortable hospital chairs!”
Scott huffs, looking equally concerned and outraged and Stiles blinks, slowly making sense of his best friend’s outburst.
“Alpha-order? But that would mean … I married a werewolf? Wait, I mean that in a good way, obviously, I mean, my best friends are werewolves and … anyway, why isn’t he here, shouldn’t he be concerned about … oh dear god, please tell me I didn’t marry Peter!”
“What?” Derek and Scott yelp simultaneously and with rather high-pitched voices.
Stiles winces.
“Not Peter then?” he deduces and Scott nods rather frantically, all the while throwing worried glances at Derek that Stiles doesn’t quite get.
“So … Isaac?”
“Oh for the love of …” Scott begins and Stiles frowns, frustrated.
“Don’t ‘oh for the love of’ me Scott McCall, if I married someone under your – highly dubious I might add – Alpha command, then who else could it be? Boyd’s completely gone on Erica, Jackson is out of the question, it’s clearly not you, and Derek barely even tolerates me on a good day! Granted, Isaac has yet to master talking to me without sounding condescending but hey, maybe I’ve grown to love it over the years? After all, I used to have quite a thing for snarky men with great hair and leather …”
Stiles bites off, cheeks flaming at his near-blunder.
When he looks at Scott and Derek he’s not quite sure he likes the knowing smirks on their faces.
“You are indeed quite fond of my leather jacket,” Derek muses, his expression amused but also a little uncertain and Stiles … realizes that all that hand-holding that seems to have temporarily skipped his concussed mind suddenly makes a heck of a lot more sense.
He gapes.
“What?”
“Is that really such a shock to you?” Scott cuts in quickly when Derek’s face takes on a somewhat pinched look and Stiles gapes some more, silently marveling at just how wide he can open his eyes and mouth … and how much Derek probably appreciates it, too.
He’s a married man trapped in his perpetually horny teenage-mind, sue him.
“But I … he … we … did I really?”
“If I may quote your own wedding vows back to you, yes, Stiles, you ‘totally managed to bag that hot piece of skin-tight-jeans-clad perky werewolf ass’. Your father cried, it was quite a moving moment,” Derek says drily and – for possibly the first time in the life that he can actually remember – Stiles is rendered completely speechless.
It lasts about ten seconds.
“If we’re really married where is your wedding ring then, huh?” he bursts out, waving his own ring-clad hand into the air accusatorily and almost hitting a hovering Scott’s nose.
“Water retention”, Derek replies stoically and Stiles nods, his “Sure, sure” sounding about as unconvinced as his father sounded that one time Stiles claimed all the meat in the freezer had been eaten by Big Foot.
In his defense, his father had just learned of the supernatural and Stiles had been semi-convinced he’d get away with it.
Derek’s face is still a little bit pinched and Stiles frowns, having greatly preferred softly-smiling Derek over the sour face his hus …. his husband is currently sporting.
He pauses at the memory, thinking back to the look on Derek’s face when he first woke up and the way he hasn’t quite stopped touching him ever since.
Not to mention the kiss and wow, he has really hit his head if he’s managed to forget about that one.
Yeah, they’re definitely something.
And Scott’s right, it’s really not that big of a shock, all things considered.
At least not from his end, though – from his 17-year-old ‘Derek Loves Pushing Me Against Hard Surfaces And Not In the Fun Way Either’ insecure-virgin point of view – he briefly wonders what Derek is getting out of the deal.
“So we’re really, really married? Like, honest to god actually werewolf-married?”
The look on Derek’s face clearly says that the werewolf has just started wondering what exactly he’s getting out of the deal as well.
“Yes Stiles, we are married. Happily so, I might add, so you can stop sounding so horrified, it’s getting really hard to not take it personally.”
Derek pauses, gives him a very knowing look.
“Also, there is no such thing as werewolf-married, so please keep your horrid, anatomically disturbing thoughts on that matter to yourself. The last time we had this talk Scott almost cried, so …”
“Did not!” Scott cuts in, sounding like he might just cry even at the memory and Stiles shrugs, refuses to be embarrassed.
From the look on Derek’s face he knows exactly where Stiles’ mind just went but his eyes are still shining with worry and affection and it’s making Stiles feel warm all over.
Definitely married, then.
His realization is followed by an awkward silence during which Scott fidgets, Derek just stares, and Stiles ponders what they’re supposed to talk about now.
“Honey, did you remember to take out the trash?” seems like appropriate married-people-talk but last Stiles checked Derek still lived in an abandoned train-car, so he’s not at all convinced they actually have a trashcan.
The thought makes him smile and he can almost feel Derek’s relief when the werewolf smiles as well, his whole expression going almost achingly tender as he gingerly takes Stiles’ hand again.
Stiles only hesitates for a second before squeezing back, feeling decidedly accomplished when Derek’s smile grows wider, his thumb softly stroking the back of Stiles’ hand.
Now that he’s paying attention everything about Derek is softer, actually, and Stiles pauses, confused.
It’s a good look on him, definitely, but Stiles still can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something important here.
He looks carefully, taking in the slightly fuller cheeks, the soft-looking beard, the way Derek’s no longer hunching his shoulders like he’s perpetually preparing for a fight, the pronounced curve of his belly, the …
On the bright side, Stiles muses, he’s finally figured out what’s been bugging his subconscious pretty much ever since he woke up.
The drawback to his discovery is that he’s now staring like a body-shaming creeper who stares.
Because the famous abs of steel that used to be visible even through Derek’s shirts have somehow been replaced by an impressively large protrusion on his middle, the only thing visible through the stretched fabric a little knob at the center.
Derek’s hands come up to cover his abdomen – with limited success – and Stiles would feel guilty over having obviously made his husband feel self-conscious if he wasn’t still busy staring.
Because the way he’s sitting there, eyes soft, hands cradling his stomach and glowing like a werewolf-shaped light bulb, is making Stiles’ deduction skills go places that are quite harmful to his overall sanity.
“How many werewolves does it take to change a light bulb?” the sane part of his brain asks, even as he feels his heart speed up.
“A pregnant one,” the part that has descended into yodeling madness answers and Stiles might quite possibly be wheezing, but he’s still too busy staring to care one way or the other.
All in all, Stiles is immensely proud of himself that he doesn’t outright scream when something suddenly pushes against Derek’s skin from the inside Alien-style, right next to where he’s resting his hand.
Well … he would have been proud if the reason for his stoic calm hadn’t been a dead faint.
==============
“This is just not my day!” Stiles gasps two minutes later, spitting out some water and glaring at Scott, who’s holding the now empty water glass with a very judgmental expression.
“Tell me about it!” Derek snaps, his previous concern over Stiles’ health having completely evaporated.
He’s still rubbing his belly, wincing ever so slightly when there’s a particularly enthusiastic kick from the apparently hyperactive Hale-Stilinski hybrid inside and leaving no doubt to Stiles’ involvement in this completely unforeseen turn of events.
“Really not all that unforeseen, actually,” Scott mutters and Derek growls, looking and sounding very done with the entire situation.
“They’re not hybrids, they’re our babies, what is it with you and your incessant need to label our children before they’re even born?”
“Twins? I knocked you up with twins?” Stiles gasps, wide-eyed, terrified, and quite a bit awed.
“Quadruplets,” Derek corrects him, sounding equal parts pissed off and proud.
Stiles ponders the new information for a second, decides on the only reasonable course of action … and promptly passes out for the second time.
He blames it on the concussion.
=================
When Stiles wakes up in a hospital bed for the third time that day there are not one, not two, but four very judgmental faces hovering over him, but the one he focuses on is Derek’s, his hands grabbing for the werewolf frantically.
“Oh my god! Derek, I love you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to faint, I love you, I love our babies, you’re my everything, I love you so much, please don’t leave me!”
“I think it’s safe to say the medicine has run its course,” Melissa observes, shaking her head with a cluck of her tongue as she checks Stiles’ vitals.
“Two times, Dude? Not cool, not cool,” Scott mutters, his arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head like a sad puppy, ruining the entire display of Alpha disgruntlement.
“If it’s any consolation to you son, when you showed me that fourth grandbaby on the ultrasound I thought I was going to faint,” Stiles’ father says but Stiles isn’t paying attention, having just noticed the dark circles under Derek’s eyes.
“Are you ok? You look exhausted! When did you last sleep? Wait, Scott says you’ve been sitting here for two days? How could you let him do that, he needs to rest, why didn’t you …”
“Told you I’d get the blame,” Scott sighs and Derek shakes his head, his expression still a bit exasperated but also deeply relieved as he takes Stiles’ flailing hands and pushes them against his belly.
“I’m ok, Stiles. So are the children. We’re all ok. You’re a dumbass, but you’re going to be ok, too. Just … don’t to that to me again, you hear me? I’m sure as hell not going to raise four babies all by myself!”
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” Stiles declares solemnly, his panicked breathing slowly evening out now that he can feel the familiar reassuring movements under his mate’s skin.
“Considering you can’t even be trusted to go into your own children’s nursery without almost tripping to your death I highly doubt he’d have to try very hard,” the Sheriff comments, shaking his head in exasperation.
“How come you were in such a hurry that you didn’t see the half-assembled crib on the floor anyways? I mean, it was bright pink, you’d think you’d notice a garish monstrosity like that?” Scott asks and because he’s the heavily pregnant love of his life Stiles decides to ignore Derek’s huff of agreement.
“It’s not a garish monstrosity, it’s the Pinky Pie limited edition My Little Pony Friendship is Magic crib, and therefore quite fitting, because Pinky Pie embodies the element of laughter and my little princess is going to bring so much joy and laughter into our lives!” Stiles replies snappishly, racking his brain to remember why exactly he tripped over their baby-girl’s bed in the first place.
“I don’t know Man, I still think you’re overcompensating. I mean, it’s not your fault it took Deaton almost the entire pregnancy to figure out that The Three Cubsketeers were hiding their baby-sister on the ultrasound, so I highly doubt she needs all that pink princess stuff to feel validated. What if she takes after Derek and asks you for a black leather-jacket as soon as she learns how to talk?” Scott offers wisely and Stiles frowns when the Traitor Wolf he can now definitely remember getting married to nods, clearly in agreement with the soon-to-be-godfather of Stiles’ sons and daughter.
“I have an all boy-themed nursery with three big baby-boy-wolves dressed like the Three Cubsketeers painted on the wall – oh stop it Derek, it’s a brilliant wordplay, just admit it – and a tiny pink princess squished in at the side at the last minute because Isaac used up almost all the empty space on the wall and we’re lucky we could fit her in there at all! I don’t want her to feel like an afterthought for the rest of her life!” Stiles protests, still trying to remember the accident.
“It’s just that I really doubt a Pinkie Pie Limited Edition My Little Pony Friendship Is Magic crib will help with that. Especially if she grows up knowing Daddy almost died when he tripped over it,” Scott muses, clearly not convinced.
“If we could get back to the important question at hand, why did you fall over that lovely piece of gender-stereotyping furniture? Did you see what happened, Derek?” the Sheriff asks and Stiles turns towards Derek questioningly, suddenly quite sure that the werewolf was in the room when it happened.
Derek is suddenly very interested in his fingernails, his expression once more a tiny bit guilty and a lot petulant.
“He was over-reacting, as usual. I was doing just fine, he didn’t need to charge at me like that,” Derek says grumpily and Stiles … suddenly remembers entering the nursery to the sight of his heavily pregnant werewolf husband standing on a ladder to install a crib-mobile and his own panicked instinct to run and save him from tumbling to his center-of-gravity-challenged death in horrifying clarity.
“Over-reacting? Over-reacting?” Stiles gasps, righteously outraged, and Derek looks towards their enraptured audience with a begging expression, only to discover they’ve sneakily abandoned him to Stiles’ – in his opinion – completely justified and not at all overprotective wrath.
They stare at each other.
“Oh what the hell, come here you Reckless Wolf,” Stiles finally sighs, patting the side of the bed as he scoots over and Derek hefts himself up on the bed with a grunt, throwing a triumphant look at Stiles that seems to say If I can get on this bed without help while being nine months pregnant with four babies then you bet I can step on a ladder if I so please.
And yes, Stiles knows he’s been on a consecutive winning-streak for “Excessively Overprotective Mate of the Year”, but it’s not like he doesn’t have something precious and invaluable to protect.
“You do understand that I’m probably going to yell at you about this once you’ve had our babies, right” Stiles asks, hand gently stroking Derek’s stomach as he leans over to kiss him.
Derek smiles against his lips, his fingers intertwining with Stiles’ over their children.
When he answers, his voice is deceptively sweet.
“You do understand we’re going to have to talk about your repressed love for my uncle and the fact that your first instinct was that you married him instead of me … right?”
Stiles freezes.
“Uh … yelling is really overrated and I love you?”
Derek smirks.
“Damn right you do.”