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Stiles is too drunk for this. He should have known better than to go on a bender after finding his boyfri- exboyfriend in bed with someone. Someone decidedly not him. Well okay, the bender could be expected, but he probably should have at least called to give Scott a head's u, rather than haphazardly breaking into his apartment at three in the morning. He’s already lost a shoe, maybe somewhere on the fire escape, maybe earlier, he can’t be sure at this juncture.
“Finally,” he breathes as he reaches the window, instinctively giving it a tug, and is more than a little surprised when it immediately gives. He thought Scott was more careful than that. Maybe it’s that 6th bro-sense; he always knew they had a special connection.
With all the grace of a drunken gazelle he crawls into the living room, immediately stepping his socked foot into something cold and wet. It’s too dark to tell and he’s too tired to care, slipping his remaining shoe and both socks off using his toes, kicking them into a pile which his t-shirt soon joins.
He bashes his shin on a coffee table - and why the fuck does Scott suddenly need a coffee table? - before wheedling his way to the couch. Which already has an occupant.
“Dude, c'mon, go to your bed, I need this.”
“Bed’s taken,” a voice mumbles from under the covers.
“Then I’m sleeping on you.” Stiles says, already poised to slip between Scott and the back of the couch - even inebriated he knows better than to take the outside of a small sleeping area with Scott.
“Fine, just shut up.”
Stiles snuggles in, trying to resist the instinct to spoon the other body, but relaxes in the knowledge that Scott doesn’t care, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d participated in a little just-friends spooning. He does end up laying a hand on a well-muscled arm, giving the bicep a little squeeze before sleepily telling Scott he’s bulking up nicely, and getting a grunt in return.
——-
He wakes up to several short bursts of bright light and the phantom sense of strong arms wrapped around his waist. His mouth and head feel like they’ve been stuffed full of cotton and there is someone sucking on his neck. His eyes fly open, trying to take in his surroundings faster than his poor alcohol addled brain can handle. The first thing he notices is dark hair and cheekbones, the next is a woman in firetruck jammies with her phone out, calling the cops or filming his humiliation, he can’t be sure, and the third is that this is definitely not Scott’s apartment.
“Ummmm,” he says, glancing between the two strangers, both of whom seem delighted in their current pursuits, and Stiles thinks he’d be enjoying one a lot more if the other weren’t happening.
“I made coffee,” the woman whispers, finally putting the phone down, still sporting a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame. “Just roll over him, he’ll be fine.”
“I, uh,” Stiles can’t think straight as the guy continues to mindlessly mouth at his throat, the situation in his pants more than just a little morning wood at this point, “I think I’ll wait for him.”
“Kay, you want pancakes?”
“Hell yeah,” Stiles answers before his brain can catch up and helpfully remind him that he doesn’t belong here. But right now it seems like he’s the only one that thinks that… Maybe Scott’s window was a portal to another dimension, an alternate universe where beautiful guys and gorgeous women welcome you into their home and feed you and sex you until you feel whole again. He’d definitely be down with that.
“C'MON DER, BREAKFAST!” The shout from the back of the apartment jars both couch occupants out of their current fantasies. The previously sleeping man pulls away from his assault on Stiles’ neck to blink drowsily at him, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. Stiles braces himself for the shout, the sneer, the push-away, anything that would normally follow finding a stranger in your bed, or couch, as it were. What he’s definitely not expecting is-
“Did Laura put you up to this?”
“Huh?”
“She’s always- and I didn’t- look, I would have remembered you, and I don’t. So, did Laura put you up to this?” And now he’s pulling away, leaving Stiles feeling a little cold and a lot disappointed.
“Dude, truth? Cards on the table? I don’t know where the fuck I am. I thought I was breaking into my best friend’s place but instead there’s a painting and a coffee table and a super hot guy on a couch that should have an imprint of my ass, I’ve spent so much time on it, but it doesn’t.” He scrubs a hand down his face, trying to will the hangover away.
“So… you don’t know Laura?" Stiles peers between his fingers to see the other man looking earnestly back at him. Dammit, he's cute, too.
"I’m assuming the brunette taking pictures of us this morning is Laura?”
“Fuck. Yes. Listen, I know this probably isn't how you expected to wake up today-”
“You’ve got that right,” it was so much better than anything he could have imagined.
“-but will you please, please pretend to be my one-night-stand? Just to get her off my back for awhile.”
“…you’ve got a weird family, dude.” But he’s smiling, softer than he intends, and halfway wonders if they can turn this fake one-night-stand into a real one, before he finds himself leaning in to give the guy a peck on the lips. "Stiles.“
"Derek.”
“Hand me my shirt, Derek?” The man smirks and pads over to the small pile of clothes, gingerly picking up the dripping wet tee from where it had been soaking in a water dish all night.
“… you can borrow one of mine.”
——
Three years later Stiles still refuses to give the henley back, proclaiming it the first gift his husband ever gave him.