how the cup holds the tea
Scott, Stiles, a manuscript, a dog, a flan, and a ring. | 4.2k, read on ao3
written for @scilesweek 2022, day 6: life post-canon
It’s been seven months since a new supernatural creature made itself known in Beacon Hills, and Scott is spending the morning making Stiles breakfast in bed. It’ll more be like breakfast-in-chair, since Stiles fell asleep at his desk again last night working on his manuscript. Sometimes he reads paragraphs, even full chapters out to Scott, who always feels guilty when he dozes off in the middle of them but it’s not his fault Stiles’ voice is so soothing. Or that his manuscript is so boring. Scott hadn’t really thought about the process of turning a PhD thesis into a published book until Stiles mentioned he was going to do it, but if he’d imagined it at all it would’ve involved a lot less editing and a lot more, like, picking a cool font for the front cover, or whatever. Which is why, Scott supposes, he’s a veterinary nurse, and Stiles has his doctorate in linguistics.
So Scott’s making breakfast: scrambled eggs, the way Stiles likes it, with milk and salt and pepper and just a little bit of sour cream. Every time they buy a tub it goes off before they can use it all, but Scott’s found a recipe for a sour cream and strawberry flan he wants to try, so he’s optimistic this time round. And Stiles likes strawberry anything.
He takes the eggs, and the toast made with the fancy sourdough from the new bakery down over on Mountview, and a glass of orange juice without pulp because Stiles can’t stand it when the bits get between his teeth, to their bedroom. With Stiles on a stipend that only barely covered groceries all they could really afford was this tiny one-bedroom, with a leaky faucet in the sink they’ve called three different plumbers about. They have a double bed that’s probably too small for them, although Stiles likes to curl up when he sleeps and Scott’s gotten used to his feet dangling over the bottom edge. There’s a wardrobe with half their clothes squished onto hangers and the other half dumped on the floor and a mirror stuck with dumb polaroids and a dresser with photos of Allison and Stiles’ mom and the aforementioned desk Stiles is slumped over in a way that gives Scott back pain just by looking at him. He puts the tray on the dresser and goes back into the kitchen to grab the heat pack from the microwave just before the timer dings, and returns to the bedroom after he’s wrapped it in a tea towel.
“Stiles.” Scott nudges him awake. Stiles lifts his head and makes a face, one hand going to the small of his back. Scott kisses the corner of his eyebrow where an unfortunate crop of small red pimples have made their home and hands the heat pack over.
“Oh thank god.” Stiles takes it. “I love you.”
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