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Ownership of the Argent hunting cabin up in Washington state is rather nebulous, considering that like many of Gerard's properties, it isn't officially under the Argent name. There's an accountant in Nebraska that's being paid good money to manage the legal side of things. The name on the mailbox—formerly used as a drop-off location, it has never been visited by the postal service—is a different one than on the documents, and a different one from the only name that's ever mattered in the cabin.
All things considered, Chris should've sold the place. Fond childhood memories here don't quite outweigh the considerably less fond adult memories he has of his family. Of learning the depths of Kate and Gerard's depravity, of watching them die.
But the fishing's good here.
And so is the expression on Peter's face as Chris places a camouflage hunting cap onto his head. It doesn't suit him, but Stiles is leaning against the door and laughing, and there's something damn funny about it.
"How dare you," Peter tells him, looking horrified.
"You haven't even seen yourself in the mirror," Chris replies. It's a good thing there's no mirror by the door. "It's my birthday. Consider it your gift."
Peter offers him a glare. "I've already given you a gift. This is torture."
"This is great," Stiles says through fits of laughter. "Peter— you look— great."
"You're lying."
"He's laughing too hard for you to hear the lie," Chris corrects, feeling smug.
Peter rolls his eyes and places the cap on Chris's head. In return for refusing the cap, Peter kisses him, which is good enough for Chris. It's always good enough—perfect, really. Going fishing for his birthday had been Chris's idea and he'd been happy enough when Peter and Stiles had jumped on board.
The kiss ends, and fondly, Peter says, "You should look terrible in the cap. I almost hate you for pulling it off."
Chris huffs a laugh, adjusting the fit. "Don't forget your fishing line."
"I'm fishing with my bare claws," Peter says with a sniff.
"You're not going to catch a single fish like that."
"Unlike me," Stiles adds, joining them. "I'm fishing with magic."
"You will fry the entire lake," Chris replies, dryly.
Stiles grins at him, not even slightly offended. "Then we won't go hungry."
Chris sighs at the both of them. He shakes his head, unable to hide the way his lips twitch at the corners and the way his mood is soaring high. A quiet day on the lake with his two favorite men, what's else could he need? There's cake in the fridge for when they return and whatever surprise Peter and Stiles have been whispering about all week.
"I'm taking my trusty rod and out-fishing the both of you," Chris promises them.
"Yeah you are," Stiles says, leering at him even as he's on the edge of laughter.
Chris pushes them both out of the cabin, taking care to grab his fishing rod and supplies. He'll show them.
Memories are funny things. He'd had a birthday here with his father and Kate, once, a very long time ago. He doesn't remember it being nearly as good as this one. It's the company, Chris decides, even as Stiles and Peter wage war against the fish in the lake, and their boat threatens to turn over.