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Scott throws his bag down on the bed and looks out the window. It’s snowing hard already, even though the forecast had said it wouldn’t start until the next afternoon, so he sends a text to the rest of the pack to make sure they’re coming before he heads back downstairs.
Stiles is in the kitchen of the cabin the pack rented for the weekend, dancing to the Spice Girls and cooking pasta. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles’s waist from behind and rests his chin on his best friend’s shoulder.
“Scotty!” Stiles fishes out a rotini with a fork and feeds it to Scott. “Is this done? Also, is this enough?” Stiles counts on his fingers while Scott chews. “If everyone’s here by dinner…”
“It’ll be fine,” Scott says with a grin, pressing a kiss to Stiles’s jaw. “And give that another minute.”
Stiles nods, then grabs Scott by the hand and twirls him. In all the time Scott’s known Stiles, he’s never seen him cook without music – something Scott remembers Claudia doing too. So Scott laughs and goes along with it, then checks his phone while Stiles stirs the meatballs.
Roads are closed. We’ll try to make it in the morning, Lydia’s text reads. There’s a similar message from Boyd, and just a snapchat of a snowbank with the text fuck no over it from Jackson.
“Everyone’s bailing,” Scott announces.
“Ugh, bullshit.” Stiles makes a face, then winks. “Whatever, though – you, me, twelve servings of pasta, and three bottles of wolfsbane-spiked Captain Morgan. We’ve had fun with less.”
Of course, that’s exactly when Derek comes through the front door, tracking in a pile of snow.
“Where is everyone?” he says, without preamble, throwing his leather jacket onto the couch.
Scott shrugs. “You’re the only one who bothered driving through the snow.”
“Yeah, well, we agreed I’d start showing up to pack meetings.”
“If we’re going to be alphas of this pack together, Derek, you need to be around for the betas,” Scott points out. “So yeah, pack meetings are a start.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Oh my god,” Stiles cuts in. “I feel like I’m watching a divorced couple bicker over custody arrangements.” He takes Scott’s hand. “Scott, put the claws away. Derek, thank you for showing up for this trainwreck of a ski trip. Who wants meatballs?”
Dinner turns into an extended discussion of pack politics and local hunter activity. “Which would be fine, except that the point of a pack ski trip was to get away from that shit and just…have fun as a pack,” Stiles says as he places one of the bottles of rum in the middle of the table. “So, we’re going to have fun, as a pack!”
Derek stares at him. “One, what did I ever do to deserve getting stuck here with you two. Two, Captain Morgan? Really?”
Scott ignores Derek and takes a swig from the bottle. “Jesus, Stiles, this is foul.”
“Yeah, well, adding wolfsbane to booze does that. Give it.” Stiles makes grabby hands toward the bottle, and Scott hands it over. “Come on, let’s watch a movie.”
“No, dude, you drink twice whenever one of A’s texts says ‘bitches.’”
Scott laughs, then takes another swig. “Oh, shit, does that count as a constipated look?”
Stiles stares at the screen, then takes a sip. “For sure. Fuck, man, Spence’s sister is such a fucking bitch.”
“I hate you both,” Derek mutters from the other side of the couch, where he’s nursing one of the other bottles and pretending he’s not paying attention to the show.
The power goes out halfway through the next episode. “Well, that’s bullshit,” Stiles says, before rolling off of Scott’s lap and stumbling toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Scott gets up and follows him, werewolf senses handy in the dark. Except that he’s drunk too, so he ends up tripping on a potted plant in the hallway and barely catching himself in time.
“Getting a flashlight! Ta-da!” Stiles turns on the light and shines it on his own face, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “Jesus fuck that’s bright.”
Scott gets up, laughing at him. “Maybe you shouldn’t shine it in your face?”
“I’ll shine it in whomsoever’s face I choose, Scott.”
“Whomsoever’s?” Scott teases, shoving his hand into Stiles’s face. Stiles scowls, then cracks up and throws his arms around Scott’s shoulders.
“You know you love my loquaciousnicity, Scott.”
“That’s not even a fucking word!” Derek chimes in from the other room.
“It’s close enough!”
Scott grins, then picks Stiles up and throws him over one shoulder before making his way back into the other room, using the wall for support. Stiles only makes the task harder, though, because he’s drunk enough that he’s pretending to be an airplane while Scott carries him. “You’re a very handsy airplane,” Scott notes.
“Scott Elizabeth McCall, any airplane would be honoured to fondle this ass.”
“Elizabeth?” Derek asks with a snort.
“You didn't know? Scotty was descended from a long line of English queens!”
“Oh my god, Stiles –”
“I know, I’m sorry, it’s a deeply guarded family secret.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” Stiles rubs his nose against Scott’s, then kisses him sloppily for a moment before Derek clears his throat.
“Derek, your room is the one on the left upstairs, with the blue door. You can go up there and read or something if you want to give us our privacy,” Stiles says, in some sort of weird accent Scott can’t place. “French,” he whispers in Scott’s ear, like he’s a mind-reader or something. “Omelette du fromage.”
“That is without a doubt the worst French accent I’ve ever heard,” Derek points out. “I’m going upstairs.” Derek gets up and offers the mostly-empty bottle of rum to Scott.
On a whim, Scott grabs Derek’s wrist and pulls him down onto the couch. Derek’s wolf reflexes have been dulled enough by the alcohol that he lands sprawled across Scott and Stiles.
“Alternatively,” Scott slurs, because he’s drunk but this idea is brilliant, “and I could totally be off base here, so if I am just pretend I never said this, Stiles and I are sharing the other bedroom upstairs, and, you could, uh. Join us?”
Stiles nods slowly. “No power, no heat. Which means we should probably at least, you know, share body heat?”
Derek looks at them both like they’re crazy, but when Scott pulls him up and kisses him, Derek goes along with it. “This is a bad idea,” he says, softly, when Scott pulls back.
“Is that a yes?” Scott asks.
Derek nods.
Scott wakes up with his head tucked into the crook of Derek’s neck and his arm thrown over Stiles’s waist. They kicked off the blankets sometime over the course of the night, and he’s got awful morning breath and a little bit of jizz caked onto his stomach.
He groans, then does his best to crawl out of bed without waking either of the others.
The lights and hot water in the bathroom work, thankfully, so he rinses off quickly and makes his way downstairs to start prepping pancakes. Lydia’s text said she and Allison would make it in by eleven, and his phone says it’s a little before ten, so he starts whipping up enough pancakes for the whole pack.
He’s spooning batter onto the griddle when he hears Derek coming downstairs. “Hey,” Scott says with a smile. “Can you make some coffee?”
Derek nods, and they prep breakfast together in silence, but the silence is comfortable, calm, their hands occasionally brushing and neither one jerking away from the contact. Scott’s pretty sure he even catches Derek smiling at him at one point.
Around ten-thirty, Stiles makes it downstairs, only wearing his boxers. He yawns and steals Derek’s coffee, then leans against Scott and steals a pancake straight off of the griddle. “Jesus christ, how are you two so awake already? Fucking werewolves.”
Scott kisses his forehead and ruffles his hair. Stiles scowls, then adds more sugar to his coffee before throwing himself down on one of the barstools. “So none of that was weird, right? We’re all good here?” he asks after a moment of silence.
Scott looks at Derek, then at Stiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re all good here.”
By the time the rest of the pack shows up, almost all of the pancakes are gone and Stiles is asleep on the couch, his head in Derek’s lap and his feet in Scott’s. They’ve got Scott’s laptop up again, TV playing that none of them are really paying attention to.
“Pretty Little Liars, really?” is the first thing Lydia says, before she fully takes in the scene before her. “Wait, did you all – oh my god.” Scott doesn’t know exactly how much she’s processed in that moment, but he’s sure it’s enough.
Fortunately, they're saved from her interrogation by Allison’s arrival, followed by the rest of the pack, and Lydia’s three suitcases. Erica grabs a pancake and sits down on Derek’s other side, hitting play with her toe. “I fucking love this show,” she announces. Stiles, awake now, says something in agreement.
“Where am I sleeping?” Lydia asks, standing at the bottom of the stairs with her suitcases.
Scott looks at Derek, who nods.
“Second floor, to the left, the one with the blue door. It’s all yours.”