I have had the most intense case of writer's block for the past little while, and this is the first thing I've written in weeks that I like even a bit.
Anyway, I was day dreaming, and I was thinking about how Lydia wears heels all the time, and figured that's hell on her, her muscles will get permanently tight and she physically won't be able to wear flats if she carries on, and then it hit me that she's Lydia, of course she'll have a way around that, and then I thought that yoga would be good for that, and thus this was born!
Disclaimer: I don't own teen wolf
Stiles does not generally come home to find Lydia Martin and Derek Hale doing yoga in his living room.
So when he does, he is understandably puzzled.
"Um."
He did have an entire monologue about what and why and how and what and also what but the sight of Lydia gazing impassively at him from between her legs is enough to completely short whatever remaining brain power he has, especially after so many concussions.
Seriously, he's had so many that his dad doesn't say 'have a good day' when he leaves for school. He says 'don't get a concussion' instead.
He blinks a few times, pinches his leg to check if he's dreaming, surreptitiously counts his fingers, and comes to the conclusion that no, he is awake, and that yes, Derek Hale and Lydia Martin are doing yoga in his living room.
"How did you get in my house?" He asks. His brain has sort of kicked back in, so he even manages to curb the urge to shoot them to see if they're evil monsters who want to wear him like the skin suits in silence of the lambs. Except creepier. Not that it's possible, he'd had nightmares for weeks after watching that film.
"Your dad let us in." Says Lydia, smoothly transitioning into downward facing dog. Derek does the same, looking oddly relaxed.
"My dad, the Sheriff, let a former murder suspect and a banshee into his home?" Lydia shrugs.
How did she shrug whilst in a yoga pose? Stiles briefly considers the possibility that she's a super smart alien from Mars. That would be just his luck.
"Well. He let me in. I let Derek in." Derek stands up and positions his foot against his thigh comfortably, even though it looks anything but to Stiles. Lydia shuffles her feet closer to her hands, until she is wrist to toe.
"You let a murder suspect in my house?" Stiles is definitely dreaming, he decides.
"Former." Says Derek, and switches legs. He is barefoot, in slouchy sweatpants, and is looking the calmest Stiles has ever seen him.
"Former." Repeats Stiles dumbly.
"Besides, we're friends now." Lydia informs him, moving to mimic Derek's pose. She's dressed in what looks suspiciously like a pair of Stiles' sweatpants, rolled at the waist to compensate for her tiny form, and one of Derek's Henleys.
"You and Derek."
"Me and Derek, you and Derek, Scott and Derek. We're all friends now." Lydia, having switched legs at some point in the conversation, relaxes and then abruptly folds herself over in a backwards bend.
"I didn't know you could do that." Stiles tells her, transfixed by the small sliver of skin revealed by her movement. Derek rolls his shoulders, and drops into the same move. "I did not know you could that." Stiles marvels.
"Derek and I have been doing yoga for years."
"Together?"
"Separately until a few months ago. We figured we would keep each other company. Three months in and we thought it was a pretty good arrangement."
Stiles is suddenly gripped by the image of Derek doing yoga in Lydia's pristine living room. Speaking of...
"Why are you in my house?" He blurts.
"Waiting for you." Derek says.
"So you what, got bored and decided to do yoga? In my clothes?" Lydia finally gets up, cracks her back cheerfully.
"Yes." She says, unrepentant.
"Right then. Now that that's all cleared up." Stiles says sarcastically.
Derek leans over Lydia and grabs the orange juice from the fridge.
"Hey! Theft!" Stiles wags a finger at the older man dramatically. Then Lydia steals some. "Double theft!"
"Stiles, calm down. We do actually want to talk to you about something." Derek says.
"Okay." Stiles hurls himself down on the couch, and Derek and Lydia curl up next to him.
Well, Lydia curls up, Derek just kind of sprawls.
"We want to date you." Lydia tells him. No preamble, just blunt and straightforward.
Stiles flails and falls off the sofa.
He gapes at the pair of them from the floor, with a sore elbow and a bruised ass, very, very confused.
For a split second he's flattered. Then he gets mad.
"What the fuck?"He demands. "You don't get to say things like that, not when you know how I feel, and especially not because this is all going to turn out to be some sort of joke or bet or you're both possessed or being paid or something!"
"Lydia is serious." Derek stands up, pulls Lydia up with him, gently, with a familiar hand on her arm. "I'm being serious." And then, because fucking hell, Stiles has got to be dreaming, he puts an arm around the tiny girl's shoulders, and heaven fucking help him she smiles up at him.
And then he realises.
"You two are together?"
"Sort of?" Lydia poked Derek in the ribs. "Well, yeah." She smirks, pleased.
"What the fuck?" Stiles explodes. "I knew this was some sort of joke! You two are sick." He folds his arms and scowls, an expression that does not settle on his face often. Only, he is discovering, when he is being punked by two beautiful idiots.
"Will you let us explain?" Lydia asks him. He taps a foot, chews on his thumbnail, but finally nods.
"Fine."
"Last week, Derek and I were doing yoga at my house. He collapsed. I freaked. This was the same time that you were knocked out by that kelpie, and deaton told us you were going to die, right."
"I don't see what this has to do with dating me."
"Hush, Stiles. Anyway, when he woke up, I collapsed. So we figured there had to be a reason, and when we talked after you woke up, and when I did, it turns out we we're both in love with you. But we also like each other and we know you like both of us. A polyamorous relationship is clearly the answer." Lydia folds her hands over her knees neatly.
Stiles is dreaming. He's definitely dreaming. He has to be, because no way would this ever happen in real life. He frantically counts his fingers, repeating it again and again.
Only he doesn't have any extra fingers.
Derek catches his hands, stilling the movement of his fingers.
"Stiles, you aren't dreaming."
"You aren't real, I have to be, there isn't anything else this could be, I don't get any of this, not after what I did, what I've done. You aren't real." Stiles breaks away and counts again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three...
"Stiles." Lydia stops him this time. "Count our fingers." He stares at her. "If we all have the right amount of fingers, there isn't a chance of you being in a dream, is there?"
Dream Lydia has a point.
"Okay." So he takes her hands, counts ten of her perfectly manicured, slim little fingers. Then he does the same with Derek, with ten thick, strong, tan fingers.
"I'm not dreaming?" He whispers.
"Nope."
"And you guys are serious?"
Lydia nods, and Derek pins him with a heated glare. Except this is an 'I want to lick every inch of you' glare, not Derek's usual brand of 'I hate everything especially you' glare.
"Oh."
Stiles brain is finally caught up, officially not dreaming, and thinking in metaphors.
I get to have my cake and eat it too?
"Cake." He says.
Then he kisses Derek. And when he finally summons the will to break away, he sucks in a breath and kisses a very, very smug Lydia.
Three very rumpled, content people later, his bed is thoroughly christened, Stiles is newly non virginal, and less pleasantly, the bed isn't actually big enough.
But he's happy. Happier than he's been in a long while.
When he came home to two beautiful idiots doing yoga in his front room, he wasn't expecting to enter into a relationship with both of the afore mentioned idiots.
But he most certainly is not complaining.