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Let’s say the Martins have a huge condo up in Aspen, Colorado.
Let’s say Scott, Boyd, Stiles, Allison, and Derek are all invited up to stay at Lydia’s condo early one spring. For skiing, presumably—snowboarding, etc. The original plan was for a week, maybe two. They’re getting towards the end of their third week up there, no signs of coming back.
Let’s pretend jobs aren’t even a thing right now. Who cares? Not me, not them.
Let’s say Lydia and Scott are in town, shopping. Let’s say Allison and Boyd are racing each other. Let’s say Stiles is worn out, good for a day indoors, where the fire and the coffee are. Let’s say Stiles is in soft flannel, in his sock feet, standing at the glass door to the balcony, watching the snow fall. Let’s say he has a mug of coffee, half drunk, and his hair is all rumpled because he hasn’t found a reason to comb it today.
Let’s say Derek finds him there. Let’s say he’s feeling sentimental. Everyone needs that every once in a while. Everyone needs something gentle and uncomplicated, and while they fight a lot—such is their dynamic, such is home for them—let’s say Derek and Stiles can have that. Occasionally. Sporadically. Let’s say Derek sees Stiles watching the snow fall with his head tilted, in about eighty-five layers and mismatched socks. Let’s say Stiles looks pensive, and Derek feels pensive, and maybe they could be pensive together.
Let’s say Derek comes up behind him and nuzzles into the warmth clinging to his neck. Let’s say the fire is crackling (or popping, or whatever noise you want the fire to be making) and some kids are in the courtyard outside yelling and ruining each other’s snowmen, and Stiles turns around, leans his forehead against Derek’s.
Let’s say this morning they were fighting because Stiles actually likes raisin bran, and Derek just pretends to like raisin bran, so they’re out of raisin bran, but they wouldn’t be out of raisin brain if Derek would just suck up his weird pride issues and eat Cocoa Puffs like everyone knows he wants.
Let’s say last night Stiles was complaining about tickle fights, how couples always have weird play-fights on TV and shit. Stiles thinks it’s stupid, because in five years, not once have he and Derek spontaneously started flinging ketchup at each other or whatever. It’s unrealistic, what kind of relationship dynamic permits one partner to abruptly snatch up the other and wrestle them? No one actually does that. Let’s say Derek’s a contrary little shit, and he lunged at Stiles, and Stiles was like, “Oh, no, this isn’t a Derek Plays Devil’s Advocate situation, this isn’t that,” but it was too late and Derek chased him around the room while Stiles swore and jumped up on a table to avoid him, and then they fought each other and ended up having stupidly, impossibly rough sex, and didn’t even stop when Allison banged on the wall and shouted unerotic things (“All the Argent men are circumsised—including my dad! One time last year I got the flu so bad it was coming out both ends! What if I paid for the sheriff to get a Prince Albert piercing!”), because laughing just helped Stiles orgasm.
Let’s say Lydia swears to god she’ll never invite them up there again. At least not if she’s going to be there. (Although she will admit Derek’s the first guest she’s had that compulsively cleans and replenishes the food supply. He’s the primary reason they haven’t felt compelled to fly home yet.)
Let’s say Stiles sets down his mug and squeezes Derek. Let’s say Derek mumbles three stupid words into Stiles’ hair, and let’s say Stiles bites down on a grin and says them back, hides his face in Derek’s sweater.
Let’s say Boyd and Allison come back rosy-cheeked and covered in snow. Boyd goes, “Stop it.” Allison gives this bell-like peal of laughter. Let’s say Stiles just says, “You’re just in time for Derek to be perfect for me some more.”
Derek tells Stiles to shut the hell up.
Stiles tells Derek he’s living a teenage dream.
Boyd makes hot cocoa.
Let’s say all of that happens. Let’s just say that happens.