And This All Bears Repeating

Part 1

"You've never been to a baseball game," Stiles repeats, astounded. "Never."

It's a unique moment of peace in the middle of the chaos that is the life of a werewolf's best friend. Isaac and Erica are sprawled together, taking up most of the couch, forcing Stiles closer to Derek than he would have necessarily placed himself. On the torn-up blue recliner, Boyd leans forward and shouts at the TV.

After the train car was wrecked, Derek found himself a new semi-creepy abandoned hotspot: the former Beacon Hills library, gutted for renovation and, thanks to budget cuts, left collecting dust ever since. Lydia nearly volunteered to move in too, knees weak and cheeks flushed at the thought of all those books, until she realized there was nowhere to plug in her curling iron. Like most of Derek's previous haunts, the place has no functioning gas or electricity. Derek manages, and the pack drags in rejected furniture off sidewalks and lamps and decor from yard sales, so the place isn't as much a Broody Werewolf Lair of Darkness as a Really Extensive Clubhouse Full of Books and Gaudy Junk. In theory, Lydia said once, they could pull up the floorboards and screw around with the wiring and really get this place up and running. In theory, Stiles countered, this whole place could go up in flames with one- He caught a flicker of something on Derek's face then, and backtracked into an endless, tangent-filled monologue. In theory, he thought, mouth still rattling on, I'm an asshole.

Boyd, alone, managed to hook up the TV, station a beat-up blue recliner in front of it, and extend the closest neighbors' protected WiFi. Goals accomplished, he sat content, ignoring Lydia's demands for an explanation of his process. Since then, Isaac and Erica teamed up to push and shove a cheap but decently comfortable couch in place beside it, and the place became a home.

Sort of.

Derek shrugs.

"But you have a favorite team, right?" Stiles asks. "Come on."

"Mets are alright," Derek says. "Considering."

Stiles groans. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."

"What?"

Stiles breathes an exaggerated sigh. "You live in California. You've gotta root for the home team, dude, I mean, that's just the rules."

"I lived in New York for a while," Derek says. "No one ever tried to kill me there."

Stiles tips his head. "Okay, that's fair. But we're going to a game. You, me, Scott… eating overpriced corn dogs, cheering from the sidelines… it'll be like lacrosse, but with you and overpriced corn dogs. We're doing this."

Derek doesn't argue.

Mets VS Padres, San Diego, California 8/03/2012

"You made it!" Stiles crows, returning to his seat to find Scott sitting with Derek,who seems to have gotten into the spirit of things: his shoulders are tension-free, his signature exhausted-by-your-antics expression AWOL. Scott said he'd try to come, but Stiles'd kind of assumed he'd be ditched for Allison again. Apparently not.

Scowl-free Derek, Allison-free Scott… Things are looking up, in a big way.

"Dude, you look different, man," Scott says, by way of greeting. "Did you buzz your head? Like, since we we got here?"

Derek bounces his eyebrows high, smirks. "Hair and makeup's gonna love this." He claps Stiles on the back, his grip claw-less and friendly. It kind of freaks Stiles out. "Mets are up."

"Shockeeeeer," Scott laughs.

"Uh huh," Stiles says, like Derek's sudden outbreak of smiling is totally ordinary. Derek's smiles, Stiles assumes, having minimal experience with them, are easily scared off. Like a deer. You don't want to spook it. "That's great. Rub it in my face."

"What the fuck?" Scott says.

"No, I get it," Derek says, another huge, fang-less grin pretty much splitting his face in two. Aaaaaand this is officially the weirdest thing in the history of weird things, ever. "Method acting." His palm finds Stiles' shoulder; he pulls the younger man against him. His touch is different. There's no excessive, wolfy force, just a hug-and-drag. Which, huh. Derek is hugging him. Willingly. His choice. He smiles a bright white grin at the incredibly weirded-out teenager, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he says, "And I get to hang out with Stiles!"

"Fuck, really? That's awesome, bro," Scott says, sounding nothing like himself either. Maybe Stiles is dreaming. Maybe he's finally having that mental breakdown everyone's been waiting for. "Just total improv." Scott sounds high. Maybe they're all high. Maybe Stiles is high. He's never been high before. Is this what it feels like? His mouth is pretty dry, and his head is kind of buzzing, but Stiles kind of assumed it wouldn't make him feel like everything was wrong, like he's gonna have a panic attack in the middle of a baseball game. "I'm gonna try," Scott says, oblivious, as usual, to Stiles' head-spinning existential crisis. "Okay, uuuuuuuuuuuum… Crap! Now I can't think of anything!" Suddenly his eyes light up. "Okay, wait no. Here goes, okay? Try not to pee your pants! This is gonna be awesome!" Disclaimer in place, he widens his eyes comically and growls, "'Allison!'"

Derek cracks up. Stiles takes a moment to let that sink in. Derek Hale is laughing. Like a normal person. A really chill normal person. Like… like Matthew McConaughey, but not a douche-bag, and wearing a shirt. "What do we even need Jeff for? We've got this."

"Jeff?" Stiles repeats, and Derek grins again. "Right. No Jeff in Teen Wolf universe."

"Teen Wolf?" Stiles gives up on logic. "Sure. Whatever." Maybe it's the Adderall, keeping him focused, refusing to let him chill. Which, come on, cut a guy some slack, universe. If Derek freakin' Hale can mellow out, why can't Stiles?

"You're blowing my mind right now." Derek's face is inches from Stiles'. So apparently the lack of personal space isn't gonna change, ever. The look on his face is kind of making Stiles feel emotions, though. Weird, weird emotions. Because, hello, Derek Hale is staring into his eyes, and he looks completely freaking awed, and- Stiles is just a little bit confused, in a case where a little bit confused means totally fucking out of his depth.

"Seriously," Derek says, "You're amazing."

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure this is a mental breakdown. So, okay, he's having a mental breakdown. At least he realizes he's having a mental breakdown. That's a plus, right? Acceptance being the first step to recovery, or something like that.

Shit, he's having a mental breakdown!

Panic rising in his throat, Stiles closes his eyes.

"Funny joke," a very angry werewolf growls in his ear, dragging him by the shoulder to two empty seats and pushing him into one of them. "For five minutes I actually thought-"

Stiles opens his eyes. Ahhhh, relief. Derek- normal, real, grumpy Derek- is getting ready to threaten him with some kind of bodily harm. Actual Derek, not crazy hallucination Derek. He lets out a long breath.

"What's wrong with you?" Derek says. "You smell-"

Crazy, Stiles supposes, his relief crumbling. "Oh my god, shut up and watch the game," he snaps.

Surprisingly, Derek does.

Minutes later, Stiles spots them again, two rows up: Derek and Scott, and a long-haired Stiles joining them.

He looks at the real Derek staring off at nothing beside him, at the shadows under his eyes, the flat line of his mouth, at his stress-knotted shoulders. That's real. Stiles knows what's real.

Dad doesn't have to hear about this. Stiles can handle it.

a.n. : This one is a four-parter. I really do like the idea of actors and characters mingling with their alter egos, and I hope I write the actors believably. I've never written Hoechlin, Posey, or Dylan before. I hope they sound like themselves!

The title is a lyric from The Antler's song "Two."