"He's not Derek," Stiles says. Bear's gone from hiding behind his legs to exploring the house, darting back to the living room every few minutes to make sure Stiles is still there. "He's my kid. Like my actual—" He stops. Scott's looking at him like he just came down in a UFO and asked to be taken to his leader. "Not me me," he clarifies. "Alternate universe me."

"He had two dads," Lydia says.

"Has," Stiles says firmly. The alternative is too horrible to actually consider.

Lydia's still looking at him like he's missing the point.

"And, uh... surprise?" Stiles ventures, weirdly nervous.

"Dude," Scott says, and attack-hugs him. Relief seeps in immediately, makes Stiles close to lightheaded, till Scott says, "What's wrong, Bear?"

"Not your bear," Bear says defiantly, eyes narrowed. So that name's just for his parents, and alternate universe parental doppelgangers, then. Good to know.

Stiles feels kind of stupidly honored. Which—yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense.

Still, he scoops up his kid—other Stiles' kid—and bites down on what he knows is a goofy crooked grin.

"Derek," Scott tries again.

Bear watches him balefully from Stiles' arms. He doesn't say anything.

"So alternate you named his kid Derek," Jackson says. He's sprawled on the couch like an Armani spread. But with all his clothes on, thankfully. "He looks like Derek."

"Are you sensing a pattern?" Lydia asks him, unimpressed.

"Stilinski got in Derek's pants," Jackson surmises.

Stiles goes pink. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, can we—" Bear doesn't seem incredibly traumatized by this conversation or anything, but Stiles might be, and this is the best excuse he's gonna get. "There's a kid here," he reminds the room at large. "And can I remind you, this is alternate Stiles. Al-ter-nate. Different dude."

"So you wouldn't," Jackson says. "If you could."

Stiles makes an indignant noise at him. "Excuse me, I could definitely—"

Jackson smirks.

"You know what?" Stiles says, face heating. "Shut up. Just—stop talking. In fact, never talk again. Ever." That doesn't feel emphatic enough, but Jackson just makes some stupid smug face and goes back to posing, so. Stiles'll take it.

"The point is," he says, because everyone is focusing on like the least important detail in this whole thing, "Derek? Our Derek? He's not this guy." He looks down at Bear. Bear looks contentedly back up at him. Stiles grins, then remembers his actual point. "He got swapped."

"Well that's just great," Jackson says, folding his hands behind his head artistically. "Any alternate universe in particular? Or are we just gonna go alphabetically."

"Ha ha ha, you're hilarious," Stiles says, making a face at him. "I don't actually know everything—"

"I'm shocked," Jackson says flatly. "You, clueless? What a plot twist."

"What do you know?" Scott asks. He's genuinely interested. Scott is the best.

"Well, I'm pretty sure people know about werewolves," Stiles says, looking down at Bear nervously, but Bear just hugs Stiles' neck and clambers down his side to check out the research bookshelf. "I don't think there's anything you'd like there, Bear." Shit, should Stiles be buying Bear toys and stuff? Hands-on play is critical for a kid's development at this age. Stiles is pretty sure he read that once.

"Woof watch," Bear says, fingering the spines of the volumes on the lowest shelf.

"What?" Stiles says blankly.

"Woof watch," Bear says meaningfully. It clearly means a lot to him, anyway. "Scott an' Stiles," he expounds, when Stiles continues to fail at understanding him. "Bein' pack, havin' adventures—" He frowns at Stiles, warbles halfheartedly, "Comin' back?"

"Scott and Stiles," Stiles repeats. Well, here goes nothing. "Bear, am I on a show?"

"Was," Bear says, frustrated. "Woof Watch."

Well, that's—Huh. Other Stiles is an actor. And his kid likes his show! That's—that's actually adorable. That's actually the most adorable thing Stiles has ever heard.

So that's what Bear's doing over there, Stiles realizes. He's looking for a DVD.

Oh, god, it's just one more disappointment for the little guy. Stiles is really hitting this 'not sucking at child care' thing out of the park.

"I don't have any Wolf Watch DVDs, Bear," Stiles says regretfully. "But you know what I do have?"

"What," Bear says, his lower lip puckering.

"The real life Scott McCall," Stiles says, grinning his widest grin, hoping this actually works. "Right here."

Bear goes wide-eyed.

"Here?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, smiling for real now. Bear looks like a kid in a candy store. He looks like a kid who's just had the concept of a candy store explainedto him using an actual candy store. "He's Da—He's my best friend in real life, too."

"An' pack?" Bear presses, thrilled out of his mind.

"Of course," Stiles says, kind of drunk on finally getting something right, here.

Scott catches on quickly. "What's your favorite part of the show, Bear?"

"Der—" Bear starts pointedly, but his mouth goes so wide he can't actually form words. "Scott," he says, delighted, and scampers over to hug Scott's legs.

There's an impossible look on Scott's face as Bear clings to him. For a few seconds Stiles actually wishes he was a werewolf. Just for a little while, to know—Does Bear, y'know, smell like him? Like he's Stiles'? Werewolves can smell that kind of stuff, right?

Reality kicks in hard. Bear can't be Stiles', not physically, not looking this much like Derek, and even a family tie—Other Stiles is a whole other person. Stiles just looks enough like him to fool a homesick toddler, that's all.

"Stiles," Scott says, staring down at Bear, face unreadable. "Stiles? Um."

"What," Stiles says, a little harsher than he means to, trying not to let stuff that should've been obvious bum him out and kind of failing at it.

"Dude," Scott says, sheer disbelief taking over his face. "He's yours."


"What, like mine mine?" Stiles says, stupidly hopeful, even though that'd obviously be impossible. He laughs. "He looks like Derek, there's no—"

"Yours yours," Scott confirms. "Like you had a baby yours."

"Like with a—" Stiles stops. There's a kid here. "Dude, I don't have that. Also, what?"

"It's an alternate universe," Lydia says, like that makes a difference.

Does it make a difference?

"So the other Stiles has—both?" Stiles tries. Wow, that's weird to think about.

"Or magic," Lydia says. "There was a witch, wasn't there?"

"'Or magic,'" Stiles repeats. "You know, that was not the response I was expecting from you, Lydia."

Lydia shrugs. "There's no reason an alternate universe has to work like ours. You could be a seahorse."

"A seahorse," Stiles repeats, nodding agreeably. He stops, stares at her. "What?"

"The males have the kids," Lydia says, like that's not the desperate cover story of some scientist dude not willing to admit he screwed up at identifying seahorse genders.

"So he's mine," Stiles says, pushing the head-spinning non-science aside for a minute. "Like, biologically."

"Alternate you," Jackson says.

"Shut up, Jackson," Stiles says. This literally could not be less of his business.

"Daddy," Bear says, pressing up against Stiles' legs again.

"What is it?" Stiles says, but he's having trouble getting the words out.

"Don' be sad," Bear says worriedly.

"What?" Stiles swipes at his eyes, shakes his head quickly. "I'm not. I'm not, I'm—I don't know what I am right now, but not—not that." He scoops Bear up again, feels the full warm weight of him settle in his arms, little hands gripping at the back of his t-shirt, splaying out softly against his back.

This is all gonna turn out to be some really vivid dream in a minute. Stiles is just gonna wake up and never tell anyone he had a dream about having a kid with Derek Hale, and the world will just make sense again.

He maybe holds Bear just a little bit tighter for a second.


"So," Stiles says when his brain comes back online, "We're looking for an alternate universe where they, uh, where they know about werewolves, and where some version of me had a baby."

Bear is back to hovering close, but he peers at Scott over Stiles' shoulder, heart still thrumming excitedly.

Which—Right, that's not normal.

"And where I have, uh, werewolf symptoms?" Stiles ventures. "Like I can hear Bear's heartbeat, right, that's not—Lydia, can you—"

"You can hear his heartbeat," Lydia repeats, fascinated. "No, I definitely can't." She looks at the two of them, shrugs. "But I'm not his dad."

"I'm," Stiles says, an instinctive one-beat laugh forcing itself up and out. "I mean—" He shakes his head. "And, uh, I heard him calling for m—for his dad from my Jeep."

"So?" Jackson says.

"I was halfway across town," Stiles says slowly.

That shuts him up.

But not for long.

"So where do we start looking?" Jackson asks. "Craigslist? Google?"

"Missed connections," Stiles says. "'I was the guy next to the alpha you were glaring at. You were the witch who replaced—'"

"That's it," Lydia says, eyes suddenly sharp.

"What's it?" Stiles asks blankly.

"There's only one way you can hope to find Derek in a multiverse you don't know the first thing about," Lydia says. "You have to find the witch."


"The witch," Stiles repeats. "The one looking at Derek like she—" Bear squirms in his arms. Stiles reroutes carefully. "—didn't wanna be friends," he says, instead.

"Well, you're gonna have to make friends," Lydia says.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Stiles says.

Bear's stomach growls.

Oh, god, Stiles is worse than the worst fake dad ever. Even the worst dad must remember food without being cued by their kid's stomachs.

"You hungry, Bear?" Of course he nods. Of course he is. Stiles is the worst. He stands up, transports Bear to the kitchen. The house isn't exactly well stocked or anything, but Stiles is pretty sure they have one of those mac n cheese mix things somewhere. Kids like those, right? "You want mac n cheese?"

Bear beams at him. The clot of anxiety in Stiles' chest gets worse. What, does Bear think food is a perk here?

"Okay," Stiles says, trying to stay calm. "Okay, I can make some mac n cheese."

The light on Bear's face dims just a little bit.

"Not Papa?" he says mournfully.

Aaand Stiles has accidentally stepped in a landmine, because mac n cheese apparently has some special alternate Derek/Bear significance, and Stiles just reminded him.

"No, I'm gonna make it this time, Bear," Stiles says, struggling not to apologize with his everything and alarm Bear worse.

But it's too late.

"I wan' Papa," Bear says, and buries his head in Stiles' shoulder.

"I know," Stiles says. "I know. And I'm gonna find him, okay?"

Bear lifts his head, eyes wide and wet and horrified. "Papa's lost?"

"What? No! No no no no," Stiles says hurriedly. "We're just gonna—"

"We're lost?" Bear asks, lip trembling.

Why, why couldn't he have gotten sent to a universe with a more competent parent? Because Stiles is pretty sure he's scarring this kid for life, here.

"No," he says carefully. "No, nobody's lost." He reaches for the mac n cheese blindly, nearly clears a shelf with the back of his hand. "It's an adventure," Stiles says desperately, slapping his arm across everything in an effort to bat it all back into place. He hikes Bear up his side with a little bounce, looks at him. "Like the show, right? Scott and Stiles, the wolf pack, having adventures—"

"'Bein' pack,'" Bear corrects.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "So that's what we're doing, okay? We're having an adventure. Scott and Stiles and Bear."

"Scott an' Stiles an' Bear," Bear repeats, awed.

"And Lydia and Jackson," Stiles adds, as an afterthought.

"No," Bear decides. Stiles grins at him.

"Yeah, good call," he says.


The mac n cheese is orange and gluey, exactly like every mac n cheese Stiles has ever eaten. Not so Bear, apparently. He tries a tentative spoonful and frowns at the bowl like it's offended him.

"s not cheesy," he says.

Curse alternate Derek and his probably homemade pasta with six cheeses and, like, breadcrumbs. Stiles cannot cook. He can make most things with Just Add Water! on the label, he can basically use a microwave, but he doesn't have any—Michelin stars, or whatever. He has fucked up boxed spaghetti a few times, okay, he has burned popcorn. He's not gonna impress any critics.

Turns out his kid is a critic. That's just wonderful. Stiles is just rockin' this parenting thing.

"Wan' Papa," Bear says, his lip quivering.

"We'll see him soon, okay?" Stiles tries. "After the adventure."

"Don' wan' an adventure," Bear says, near tears. "Wanna go home."

"Bear," Stiles says, but—what is he supposed to say to that? No, Bear, you can't go home, I don't know where it is? I'm not even your dad. I'm screwing all of this up, and I don't even know if you still have family to go back to, and I don't know what to do, and I'm kind of freaking

"Laura said," Bear says, and Stiles' heart sinks. "Laura said—"

"Don't worry about that, okay?" Stiles says. "Papa's fine, I'm—I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to him. I promise."

Famous fuckin' last words, but what is Stiles supposed to do?

"Laura said—" Bear shakes his head, shudders.

Stiles scoops Bear up again, waits for his lock-tight hug to relax around his neck.

It doesn't.

"People're scared of werewoofs," Bear whispers.

"No," Stiles says. That's not fair, he can't—he can't just keep thinking that, that's toxic. Maybe it's true, that doesn't change anything. That just makes it worse. Bear's like the cutest kid Stiles has ever seen, he can't—He doesn't need some complex about what he is, who he is, just because people suck. "No, it's—Some of them just don't get it yet, okay? Like—Like before I told you that Allison was my friend, you thought she was scary. But she's not, y'know?"

"She's'a hunter," Bear says stubbornly. "Papa says careful of hunters."

That hits Stiles fantastically, just a really fantastic punch to the gut. Stiles winces, nods.

"He's right," Stiles says. "Being careful's important. But—"

He hooks Bear close with one arm, takes Bear's little hand in his, shows it to him.

"You have claws, right? And you could hurt someone—"

"No," Bear says.

"You don't have claws?"

"Not gonna," Bear says. Tears are sparking in his eyes. His little hands curl into fists, tiny fingernails digging into his own palms. "Not gonna hurt someone, not gonna—"

"No, no, I know," Stiles says, feeling like shit. He's making kids cry now, that's what he's doing. He hopes the other Stiles is better at this stuff. And alive, and okay at the end of this. And Bear's papa too, Jesus. "I know you're not. You're—" He goes for broke. "You're my little bear," he says, and feels like the biggest fraud in the world when Bear looks at him so hopefully, like Stiles really is his dad, just taking off some dumb Halloween mask of bad parenting and general ineptitude and revealing himself. "I just mean—if you wanted to. But you don't! You don't, I know that."

The simile isn't working; it's just upsetting Bear more. Stiles just drops it, drops Bear's hand, nuzzles his hair.

Tiny tears drip off Bear's chin.

"I'mma werewoof," he says, so quietly.

"I know, Bear," Stiles says.

He's the worst fake parent in the world. The actual confirmed worst.

"'m not scary," Bear says, twisting to look up at Stiles, eyes pleading.

"No," Stiles says, over the strangling lump in his throat, and brackets Bear in safe with his palms. He really does look like a tiny Derek, that wide eyed, desperate stare, the one that just tears you open because it's obvious he's never seen his face do that, that he doesn't realize he's not faking tough anymore, doesn't get why you're not running and screaming. "No, you're not."

"I'm your bear?" Bear asks, uncertain.

The lump in Stiles' throat grows and grows and grows.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah, of course you are."

It almost doesn't feel like a lie.


"Yeah, well, just because you can heal doesn't mean—" Stiles starts. Derek stands up so fast his chair scrapes on the tile.

"We're wasting time," Derek snaps. "Talking about—ancient history."

"It's not—"

"Just leave it, Stiles," Derek says. He starts pacing around the kitchen, glaring at random furniture like it's personally offended him.

Stiles hasn't done any acting in a while, but he's pretty sure he knows what that means.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Sorry."

Derek stops, looks back at him, eyebrows high.

Stiles holds his gaze.

Derek snorts, fixes his eyes on the line of pictures on the fridge.

His eyes narrow.

"Who the hell is she?"

Stiles looks. Frowns.

"What, you're serious?"

"Who," Derek says frostily, face closing up like origami. "Is. She."

"I thought—" Stiles huffs out a short breath. "What, you really don't—"

"Stop screwing around," Derek says. "Was this all some big plan, huh? Get my—my world's Stiles alone, or get me—"

"Dude, you're not making any sense," Stiles says.

"That witch is the reason I'm here," Derek snaps.

"Wait, she's—" Stiles could laugh. He doesn't, because Derek looks a dangerous mixture of pissed off and freaked out, and Stiles doesn't need him growling or something and getting the whole neighborhood on his ass. But it's a close call.

"Derek," he says slowly. "Derek, that's your sister."