I wish you would write a fic about Scott getting werewolf drunk with Derek and accidentally letting it slip that Stiles is on love with Derek. (In honor of your drinking) ;)
“Scott, I’m going to kill you!”
The door of his apartment banged open and for the first time in years, Scott jumped in shock. His coffee mug hit the kitchen tile and shattered, piping hot coffee splashed over his bare feet, and he suddenly remembered Stiles saying at some point that he was learning how to mask his presence from werewolves.
Apparently he mastered that particular skill.
And how to magically and silently open a deadbolt.
Normally Scott would pick up Stiles’ familiar heartbeat two floors down, and his jeep while it was still a ways down the road, but this time, there had been nothing. No heartbeat, no jeep, not even footsteps in the hallway—until suddenly there was everything. Elevated heart rate, clouds of anger wafting through the apartment, Stiles stomping closer, furious for some reason, and Scott could do nothing to prepare himself because for the first time in his life, he was hungover.
He was dying, because just the night before, he discovered in the stupidest way possible that yes, werewolves could get drunk with the right tools and a little determination. And the right tool was some crazy strong alcohol Stiles brought back from Poland last year that could punch straight through even an alpha werewolf’s metabolism. And what did he do with that discovery?
Like a college freshman away from home for the first time, buckling under immense peer pressure.
He was hungover, he was dying, and he was an idiot.
An idiot who Stiles was apparently about to murder, judging by his murderous expression when he turned the corner and locked his wild, murderous gaze on Scott. His hair was tugged up in every direction, he’d probably slept in that loose and stretched shirt, and he had the manic energy of a man who’d been roaming the streets looking for vengeance.
It had been years since Scott last felt any kind of inkling of fear towards his best friend, but right then, standing in his underwear in a puddle of hot coffee, feeling nauseous and fuzzy and somehow bloated—he was horribly aware of the mountain ash that Stiles always had on him. It was the emissary’s favorite threat towards werewolves who pissed him off, and while he rarely ever followed through with it, that murderous face promised no empty threats. Just revenge.
Scott stepped out of the puddle of hot coffee. That was really all he could do to improve the situation.
“You told him,” Stiles accused, eyes narrowed with rage as he stalked closer. “You actually told him, I can’t believe you would tell him!”