Beacon Hills rarely sees the Hale brothers apart from one another. The Hale twins, people call them sometimes, even though they aren't, technically. Irish twins, his mother said once, born only a year apart. Stiles certainly gets why people like to call them twins. They're not a Mary Kate and Ashley matched set, but there's something about the way they off-set each other - Derek is slightly bigger, more muscled, quietly happy and quietly sad and so very, very loud when he's angry, while Laurent is sweet and caring and sly, a wisp of a man, mischievous as fuck, and so like his uncle Peter that Stiles can't be the only one who wonders. But they both have dark hair, dark eyes, severe eyebrows, straight bright teeth that somehow seem more like bone than anyone else's. They have a way of moving that makes Stiles feel clumsy - would make anyone but prima ballerinas feel clumsy, actually, and that might be debatable. They just know each other - the lift of an eyebrow, the twist of a smirk, and they're loping off somewhere. Together.
Stiles has known the twins his whole life. Can't even remember meeting them, he was so young. He was an only child - not quiet or withdrawn, God, no - but there were only so many hours a day his mother could spend running around with them, and the Hale house was bursting with people, children running everywhere, barely controlled chaos, and it's always been his second home. He spends his summers camping in the woods, his winters building forts and dodging snowballs. Laurent holds Stiles's hand when he goes to kindergarten for the first time, and Derek glares at Stiles's bullies in middle school until no one dares touch him and Jackson picks him second for dodgeball, just behind Danny. They've never done anything but keep Stiles safe. Never done anything but let him into their family and their lives. So what is it about them that doesn't make Stiles ever really feel safe?
Stiles only knows the boys are home from college when he sees the Camaro. It's a beautiful car, unusual - Laurent's car, but what's Laurent's is Derek's is Laurent's, rarely ever any distinctions - and Stiles is certain he sees it, idling in the corner of his vision when he talks to Scott, but when he turns around there isn't anything there.
He should know better than to walk home through the woods, but it's not like he has a lot of other options. The Jeep is in the shop again, and when given the choice between riding on Scott's handlebars and walking through the woods on a cool fall day, Stiles is going to go with the option that doesn't have a problematically high likelihood of him ricocheting over a curb, even if it is a pain in the ass after a lacrosse practice spent running suicides.
He doesn't even realize anyone's following him until he's being tackled. There's a split second of panic - the urge to fight, to push whoever it is off and run, screaming bloody murder all the while - but he knows the laughter in his ears, the fingers pushing into his sides and making him squirm. Chasing Stiles through the woods has been a game since Stiles could walk. The twins running merrily after him, darting through the trees, while Stiles's breath comes faster and faster, harder, and he leaves the scent of him all through the woods, like a moving treasure hunt. Stiles usually doesn't realize they're playing until it's too late.
"Stiles," they say, "Stiles, our little Stilinski," and Stiles actually resents that, really, he's at least Laurent's height and pretty close to Derek's, and he can't help that he's got a slim build. He's streamlined.
"I'd say I missed you, but I'm having a really hard time remembering why," and Laurent laughs.
"I heard you missed us," Derek says, smug, and Laurent chimes in, "Uncle Peter said you were pining."
"Pining? What am, a Bronte heroine? Pining, Jesus." Stiles tries to push the twins off of him, unsuccessfully. "And Uncle Peter lies like a rug, you know this. If you think he and Mrs. McCall are "just friends", you're both delusional."
"Ugh," they chorus, both of their foreheads wrinkling.
"And chase, really?" Stiles continues. "Aren't we a little too old for this?"
"To chase you through the woods?" Laurent teases. "Never!"
Derek snuffles at the back of his neck, a little, the quick edge of a bite, and Stiles puts his hand on Derek's forehead and shoves. "Off, Sour Twin. And don't think this makes you the sweet one!" he adds, rounding on Laurent before he can get a proper word out, and Laurent's mouth snaps closed with a satisfying click. He does scoot back enough for Stiles to prop himself up on his elbows. To pull down his shirt and try to brush the dead leaves out of his hair.
They haven't changed much since the last time he saw them - late summer, before they'd gone to college. Laurent's hair is longer, like he hasn't bothered to get it cut all semester, and Derek looks like he hasn't shaved in a week. But they're wearing their matching leather jackets, and staring at him like they're not the weirdos holding up the conversation.
"So. How's college?" because the staring gets weird after a while. Obviously.
Derek shrugs. "Not the same without you," and Stiles gets a little flutter in his stomach he tries to ignore, because there's not a Derek flutter or a Laurent flutter - there's only a Hale twins flutter, and he knows that's not fair. Not fair to him, or to either of them.
His father had asked about it, once - had given Stiles a mortifying second safe sex talk, a little more focused on the guy-on-guy mechanics of the whole thing - and hemmed and hawed his way around the Hale question, but he couldn't ask, and Stiles couldn't tell him. Because how could he pick? How could he choose between Derek and Laurent? And yet, how could he not? They're not the same person. Just because they live practically in each other's pockets doesn't mean they even like the same things. Or people. Derek dated Kate for two years in high school, and Laurent alternated between flitting between weekend hookups and staying home to run raids with Stiles's guild on WoW. They're not the same person. Stiles doesn't get two for one. That's not how it works.
"We snuck home for the weekend," Derek continues.
"To see you," Laurent chimes in, and Stiles snorts.
"I'll bet you dropped your dirty laundry off with your poor mother."
"Well, yeah. But we missed our Stiles!"
Stiles's grin goes lopsided. "I missed you guys too. Lies of pining aside." He's still a little short on friends even after all these years. He does make good ones, though, he has to say. With Scott and the Hale twins in his life, he doesn't really need any others.
"Did you?" Laurent asks, and Stiles can't help but notice that one of Derek's arms is still thrown easily across Stiles's stomach. That Laurent is curled up on Stiles's other side, knees pressed to Stiles's thighs, two full-body heaters insulating him against the crisp air. "Did you - do you remember our sleepovers?" Laurent asks, apropos of fucking nothing, and Stiles goes hot and cold and shivery all at once, because those sleepovers had continued far longer than they should have. Three boys in two bunk beds, insisting that Stiles not sleep on the floor but never volunteering to, either - playing rock-paper-scissors to see whose turn it was to share a bed with Stiles, and why does he have a sudden feeling that had been a contest they'd tried to win rather than lose.
"Laurent," Derek says - chides, really, because he's the cautious one, insomuch as any of the Hales are ever cautious. They generally aren't. They don't have to be. Stiles envies them that, sometimes; the knowledge that no matter how far or fast you fall, there's going to be someone there to catch you.
It's not that Stiles's dad wouldn't do that for him. Stiles knows he would. It's more that Stiles never wants to ask him to. He already feels like he's driving his father into an early grave.
Laurent's eyes dim, for a moment. "Sorry," he says, and when he smiles this time it's close-mouthed. More of a reflex.
"I remember your cold feet," Stiles says, as even as he can manage, instead of asking why they've slipped into What The Fuck Memory Hour, which is what he wants. "And Derek's elbows in my liver."
Laurent brightens almost instantly. "He is a space hog!" and Derek snorts.
"Better than a drama queen."
"Girls," Stiles interrupts. "You're both pretty, okay?" and Jesus God, why did he just call the twins pretty? And girls, what is his life.
Laurent laughs. Throws his head back and shows off every one of his pearly, pearly whites. "Do you think so? Really?" and curls up closer to Stiles, while Stiles's pulse skyrockets.
"Totally pretty," Stiles says after a moment, because he's nothing if not the kind of guy who can take one for the team. But the tone has changed, somehow. Thickened.
"We really missed you, is all," Laurent says again, his hand against the hook of Stiles's jaw. Derek's breath on the back of his neck. And Stiles is having a really hard time coming up with any other explanation besides the obviously sexy, incredibly impossible one.
"You can't - uh," he stammers, and the hand on his stomach flattens out. "You're giving me a little bit of a complex, here."
"Complex was not what we were going for," Laurent murmurs, just before he leans over to kiss Stiles. Press his mouth to the cupid's bow curve of Stiles's upper lip and slide downwards, testing his tongue against the lushness of Stiles's bottom lip. Reaching out to taste.
"Really," Stiles says. Snorts across Laurent's face, mostly, in a completely unsexy and mostly confused way. Because that was Laurent's lips on his lips. Where no lips have gone before. "Are you -"
"Kissing you," Derek says, matter-of-fact, and curls his fingers across Stiles's stomach. The points of his fingers barely scraping Stiles's skin.
"Oh," Stiles breathes, "oh, you - you - me?" he stammers out, way too many pronouns for even close to a proper sentence, but the twins nod their understanding anyway. Fluent in Stiles.
"You," Laurent says, and curls his fingers in the longer hair near the nape of Stiles's neck.
"I think I'm hallucinating," he says, almost automatically. Mouth continuing on without any notice whatsoever from his brain. "I'm just - I think I might be hallucinating, actually. Like I took that ride home from Scott after all, and bashed my head on a curb, and now I'm lying in the back of an ambulance babbling about threesomes while Scott freaks out."
Derek and Laurent have another silent conversation over the top of his head, and even Stiles knows what that look means.
"I'm not having a panic attack," Stiles hisses, and forces himself to even out his breathing, just in case. Lets himself fall back against the forest floor; Derek's hand cradling the back of his head. "I'm not freaking out," he says stubbornly. "You just - you blindsided me, okay? I officially did not see this coming," even if it seems like everyone else might have. Like his dad, and Jesus, that sends him into another mini panic spiral.
"It's all right if you don't want to," Derek says, and looks over Stiles to Laurent, who nods. "Or just... one of us. We talked about it."
"We can take it," Laurent says. "We just - we want you, Stiles, we both want you, but we didn't know if you wanted just one of us. You always smell -" and Derek growls.
"Let us drive you home," Laurent continues, after a minute. Strokes the hair near Stiles's temples, now. Gently, and on the other side of Stiles Derek growls. Always much more impatient. "It's our fault. We didn't mean to tell you like this. We meant to be - less shocking, I think," and he grabs Stiles arm to help pull him to his feet.
"Wait. No. Yes," Stiles says, and the twins go still. So very literally still. As if they'd stop breathing.
"Yes!" Stiles grits out. "No to bringing me home, and just - yes. To everything. Everything. Both. All. Either," he babbles, and the twins take that as their cue to descend.
Derek gets to Stiles first - slides his leg in between both of Stiles's and settles on top of him, solid and strangely reassuring, for all that it reminds Stiles of being seven again, and Derek shoving Stiles's nose in the dirt. The main difference being the way Derek's hand slides ever closer to Stiles's rapidly growing erection.
"Westermarck effect, kiss my ass," he mutters, and Derek chuffs out a laugh that rolls through Stiles's body. Laurent is on his side, pressed up next to them. Lit up with happiness. Incandescent, Stiles thinks, thanks SAT study guide, and turns his head towards Laurent. Puckers his lips and blows a kiss with the hand that isn't wrapped around Derek's neck.
"Minx," Laurent says, happily, and Stiles barely has enough time to be offended.
"Minx!," he wants to sputter, but Derek apparently takes Stiles's opening his mouth as an invitation to slip his own tongue into it. Which - Stiles isn't exactly complaining. Even as Laurent begins to press shivering little kisses to Stiles cheekbones, the side of his neck. One to each inside of his wrists. They're quick kisses, sweet affectionate things, and not much more. Sex would be one thing - these could destroy him.
"Have you," he starts to ask. "I mean, this - you guys are my best friends," he says, trying to convey the enormity of all the things he can't say. "You're really okay with this?" With me, he wants to ask. With sharing me. With not making me choose.
And because they're Hales, because they're DerekandLaurent, LaurentandDerek, they understand.
"We tried - other people," Derek says, and Stiles feels a hot rush of jealous at that, at anyone who had Derek's stubble scrape over their face, or Laurent's clever hands play with their hair. Jealousy isn't a new feeling for Stiles - or is it envy? He forgets the difference, sometimes, he'll have to look it up later - but it doesn't seem particularly fair this time. "Sharing them."
"Dating them. Separately, together, whatever. It worked between us, but they -"
"They weren't you."
"Our Stiles," they say again, and Stiles can't remember - did they call him that, before? So frequently?
"Yours, huh," and the little growls of pleasure he gets in return make him shiver. "Yours."
When Stiles is eleven his mom finally dies. She's been dying slowly for years now, bit by miserable bit, but at the end it seems particularly like agony. Seems cruel, and Stiles can never again hear the phrase "dying with dignity" without getting sick to his stomach. The doctors tell his father she won't make it through the week, probably, but they can't be any more specific than that. Stiles is terrified. Not scared that it's going to happen so much as scared he's going to miss it. Scared that he won't be there, because all anyone ever tells him is that it doesn't matter what he says or if he holds her hand, but she's gonna know if he's there. His father and Mrs. McCall try to get him to leave, once, and Stiles has his first panic attack. They make him wait in the hallway mostly, anyway.
Mrs. Hale brings him two changes of clothes at a time, and his homework, which Stiles stares at with wet eyes. He spends his time memorizing the tile pattern on the ceiling, the laminate marbling on the floor. Laurent and Derek switch off afternoons and nights. Stiles snots all over Laurent when he asks how Stiles is doing. Lies down across the chairs with his head lying in Laurent's lap, and Laurent pets Stiles the way you would a puppy. Fingers scritching through Stiles's overgrown bowl-cut. Derek quietly shares bags of stale potato chips and cans of diet coke, which Stiles slurps obnoxiously just for the noise. Derek rolls his eyes but says nothing, and sometimes Stiles gets to feel normal for a second.
They stand next to him at the funeral; his father on one side, Derek and Laurent quietly jostling for the space next to his shoulder, and the full force of the Hales behind them. Derek walks him into the junior high for two weeks, to his locker, and then to homeroom. Handing him off to Scott like some kind of weird honor guard. He thinks Derek sneaks into his room at night sometimes to check on him, because that's the creepy sort of thing he might do, but it could just as easily be Laurent. Either way, Stiles never latches his window again. Never could keep the Hale boys out.
"In the forest? Really?" is what he asks. Laurent's head perched on his stomach, grinning up at him even as his fingers stroke Stiles's cock. One little pinch beneath the head every time Stiles tries to buck his hips.
"You want to go back to the house?" Derek asks, smug. Fingers running perfectly between the grooves of Stiles's ribs. Like being tickled, but - so very not, as much as it makes Stiles squirm. "You think we could walk in there now, without everyone knowing what we've been doing?"
"You're the ones who ambushed me in the middle of the woods!" Who have him currently half-way stripped, mouth wet and raw and somehow still running, while they paw him all over and trade lazy kisses like there's nothing better to do.
"To be fair," Laurent admits, and slides his thumb over the slit of Stiles's cock in a way that is not fair at all, "that was not the plan. We saw you head into the woods, and we - we had an impulse. The plan also wasn't to actually jump you so much as..."
"State our intentions," and how does Derek make such a boring phrase sound like dirty, dirty sex? Because he did. Although they could probably be talking about mukluks right now, and Stiles would find a way to bring it around back to sex. It's his gift.
Stiles tries, in vain, to protest. Why head to the house when there is a perfectly good carpet of grass under his back? And no witnesses. "We can't sneak into the house. You know your mother has a weird sixth sense about visitors."
Laurent snickers. "I wouldn't call it a sixth sense..."
"Laurent," Derek says sharply, and Laurent shrugs. Makes his hair ripple with a toss of his head. "Peter's the only one there right now anyway."
"Oh, only Peter," Stiles chokes out. No big deal. Back to the handjob.
"He doesn't care."
"He loves you." Laurent pauses. "He knows we love you."
"Oh great." Now he's having flashbacks to his father's crazy awkward sex talk, which is actually not doing anything for him. "Does everyone - did everyone know about this except me? Did I miss a meeting? Was there a vote?"
Derek rolls his eyes, and it's good to know that somethings are never going to change. "Don't be stupid."
"We were just obvious."
"Not to me."
"You are strangely oblivious to social cues sometimes," Laurent muses. "Remember the time you followed Danny around like a lost puppy for a month?"
"Until we introduced him to Matt," Derek says, with something like satisfaction.
"Yeah, but - oh." Danny and Matt are currently going three years strong, and Stiles is totally going to have to reexamine his entire childhood, wow. "You could have just asked me out like normal people."
"We're not normal people," Derek says, and considering Stiles's naughty bits are sticking out of his unzipped jeans while they discuss where to devirginize him in a vaguely incestuous threesome, he's gonna have to agree.
"Point taken. But we are still not going back to the house. I refuse to lose my virginity with Peter downstairs." Peter brings up way too many uncomfortable dad-like feelings, and Stiles already gets enough trauma in his regular home life, thanks so very much. "Seriously, why have we stopped with the touching?" he asks, because Laurent and Derek have gone completely still again. "I have to say, holding me down and giving me an epic case of blue balls is not endearing me to you. At all."
"Oh," Laurent sighs, "really?" and suddenly Stiles isn't exactly sure what they're talking about.
"Really what," he yells, and shrieks when Derek wrenches his head to side, and buries his teeth in Stiles's neck. Freak.
"A virgin. No one - no one's ever - "
"You know that," he says crossly. "I would have told you - " the same way he'd told them everything, asked for all the adult advice it would have been too mortifying to ask actual adults but seemed to make sense coming from Laurent, and confided all his deepest, darkest fears because he's never known anyone who could keep a secret better than Derek. "I tell you everything, you idiots," and finds his hot face pressed to Derek's chest, the scratchy triangle of hair against his face. Laurent's lithe fingers pressing against Stiles's heart, feeling every beat of the thumping tattoo.
"Can't believe we got so lucky," Laurent murmurs, and Stiles would protest but he's caught in another petting-fest, Derek and Laurent's hands sliding through his hair, slipping over his lips, down his neck, across his stomach, over his hipbones, everywhere all at once.
"You can't - please," voice gone soft, and not quite hoarse so much as strained, clothes half undone and shirt rucked up around his armpits. Laurent teasing Stiles, softly, dragging wet kisses to the tip of Stiles's cock while Derek watches, mostly, and holds Stiles still. Presses him down and lets him tremble, watches him buck up for friction, for attention, and Laurent laughs about it - amused and pleased and happy, so Stiles can't even be genuinely mad about it so much as intensely frustrated.
"You're bastards," he swears, and Laurent bites the inside of Stiles's thigh.
"Don't say that about our mother," Derek growls, and Laurent laughs, god, he laughs. Like a fucking bell ringing through the forest, and he puts his mouth to the inside of Stiles's thigh, to mirror the other bite he just made.
Derek likes Stiles's neck, likes him shoved against Laurent, pressing down onto them both while Laurent curls around him and laughs. Likes to watch, which Stiles might have guessed if he'd taken a minute to ever really think about it in more than the abstract.
Laurent likes Stiles's nipples; cupping Stiles's balls, stroking his fingers over them until they draw up, tight and hard. Likes tasting Stiles - tongue dipping into his mouth, licking the sweat on his collarbones, lapping at the head of Stiles's cock. Sucking on the tips of his fingers until Stiles feels the skin there wrinkle.
They both like to manhandle him, shove his limbs here or there, part his legs or push their fingers into his mouth. They both like to kiss him, like when he laughs. They like when he's unclothed and they aren't, just barely. They like to lick him, they like to smell more than Stiles has ever imagined, or seen in porn - except for that one time he stumbled across some weird panty-sniffing thing, which, gross, would not fast-forward through again - and they like teasing him until he begs. They love when he begs.
"Okay," Stiles says, dazed, and tries to sound like he's not begging for respite. "Uncle, or - mercy, I guess. Time out."
"But we need to have you home in time for dinner," Laurent says, way too innocently for someone who's just had a sixteen year old's dick in his mouth, hello.
"And a shower," Derek adds, and he doesn't have dick breath, to be fair, though his cock is still half-hard and nestled against the small of Stiles's back.
Stiles sighs. Presses a kiss just below Laurent's Adam's apple. "We've got... time?" even though he doesn't have a clue how long they've been out here, rolling all over and around one another. He's sucked Laurent's cock, nestled amid a surprising thatch of hair, and Laurent hadn't let Stiles gorge himself on it the way he'd wanted, wanted to not just suck but swallow, and Laurent had kept pulling back and petting Stiles's face, tapping the head of his cock against Stiles's lip and watching it swell. Letting pearls of come sit there, until Derek had sucked them off. And Derek - God, Derek had looked bigger out of his clothes than in them, somehow. Had held off until nearly the end, Stiles pushed up against Laurent, nestled between his legs. Hands like iron bars holding Stiles down, until he had come, hot and wet, between Stiles's legs. And Stiles had come three times himself, in Laurent's mouth and against Derek's leg and in both of their hands. Breathless and more and more unsure each time it had happened, until they're rolled all back together again, Laurent to Stiles's front and Derek at his back. Clinging limbs and soft mouths.
Laurent sighs. "Maybe," humming in consideration before kissing him gently on the mouth. "Up, then, come on," and Derek stiffens behind him. They're having another one of those silent conversations, and Stiles is going to have to get better on decoding those. For his health. Obviously.
"Up, like -"
"On your knees, Stiles," Laurent urges him, "up," and drags him there, onto his elbows - totally exposed, and Stiles wishes his hair were longer, wishes he could hang his head and disappear, for a second, but then his face is cradled in Laurent's hands, soothed, Laurent's voice washing over him.
"Shh, Stiles, sweetheart, come on," and Derek's nails scrape over Stiles's thighs, his back, his ass, grabbing and forcibly unclenching, while Stiles's breath catches.
"Is this - are you - " back to being unable to formulate sentences, words coming in little gasps, and he cries out when he feels Derek's tongue touch him. "Fuck, you - "
"Our little virgin," Laurent says, and lets one of Stiles's hands fist in his hair. Yank for control. "But not for much longer."
Wasn't he at lacrosse practice a few hours ago? It was still Thursday, wasn't it, Beacon Hills, California, Planet Earth? How did this end with rimming, with Derek's tongue buried in his ass, fingers rubbing just at the stretched opening while Stiles howls?
"You can't - you can't just - "
"You can't think we'd just let you go back home," Laurent says, and Derek snarls. Replaces the tip of his thumb with a wet finger. "That we wouldn't want this," and Derek shoves another finger in, and then another. Tongue still licking at the rim while Stiles shouts, and jesus god he hopes there isn't anyone else in the woods right now, thinking he's being murdered. Murdered by cock, while Derek's fingers shove inside of him, and rub, crooking experimentally.
Laurent watches Stiles's face like a hawk - or some kind of predator, anyway - switching between petting Stiles and petting Derek, just to keep them calm. And when Derek's cock is finally in Stiles, fully inside, to the point where Stiles feels stretched out and filled in - Laurent holds Derek there. Buried.
"He'd be savage, if you let him," Laurent says. Whispers in Stiles's ear, like a secret. "Derek still has a lot to learn about control," and it's not like Stiles doesn't believe him.
"S'okay," Stiles says, and shudders. Shaking with it, and it hasn't totally escaped his attention that his dick is back in action. Pressing up against his stomach and begging for attention. "Come on, Derek, please - " and that's all it takes - the Derek, or the please, Stiles isn't sure, definitely to be explored later - but Derek growls. Grits his teeth and begins rutting into Stiles's hard enough to send him sliding across the grass, little rocks and bits of twig stuck into his forearms.
"Fuck," Stiles says, "fuuuuuck," and he tries to ignore the tears springing to his eyes. Bat them away, duck his head. He can hear Laurent behind him, whispering something to Derek, settling him down until the strokes smooth out, and the hands on his hips untighten. Brush more gently over the already darkening bruises. "Fuck," again, but with more air behind it this time. More conviction. Moving when Derek does, moving in tandem with that feeling inside of him. "Derek, come on, Derek - " and he gets manhandled again, pulled up and onto his knees, pushed against Derek's chest until he's braced against Derek's thighs. It's not easier, he thinks, not technically, but he likes it better. Derek's hands holding him up. One of Stiles's arm twined around Derek's neck to pull him even closer.
"There, there you are," Laurent croons, and Stiles isn't sure which of them he's talking to, though his hand is around Stiles's cock and pulling, already practiced in the things that make Stiles squirm and swear and tense, that make the muscles in Derek's thighs and stomach flex and pull. "Come on, Stiles, come for us," and he can feel himself teetering on the edge of orgasm - a little lost in it, straining for it, all the new ways he's aching, the unfamiliar taste in his mouth, the rawness of his lips -
"Oh," Derek's voice in his ear, so very loud and so very close, "Stiles, fuck -" and it's the second hand that does it, he thinks, the one that sneaks around, Derek's shaking fingers overtop Laurent's steadier ones, and Stiles comes with a sweet little cry. Head turned away from both the twins, and he can feel the thunder of Derek's heart beneath his ear. The slickness between his thighs, and sticking.
Derek is slumped on top of Stiles's, a little, leaning heavy, and Laurent pulls them to the grass beside him. Lazily stroking his cock, half-hard, a pleased look on his face.
"Oh man," Stiles says, once he gets his voice back. Pitches his voice low, dreamy and soft, because if the twins can have silent conversations he can have secret weapons of his own. "I can't wait to take both of you," and this time he expects the pile of Hales on top of him.