Chapter Text
The newest group of arrivals is a mix of scholarship campers and the paying clients; Scott’s used to the different types of attitudes and expectations by now and watches them pile into the main cabin they use for dining and cooking. It’s one of the few actual structures in the basecamp-- everyone sleeps in the semi permanent canvas tents, which are actually pretty nice, Scott thinks. They’re rowdy now, after an hour of relaxation and the chance to cleanup. He’s heard a lot of complaints already about the facilities but he puts on a cheery smile as he helps dish out the night’s dinner-- freshly baked cornbread, steamed broccoli and carrots, fluffy golden mashed potatoes, and generous slices of roast beef.
“Ooh yeah, my compliments to the chef,” a guy says as Scott plops a mound of potatoes on his plate. Joshua, Scott remembers from the brief introductions they made when the new campers arrived. He’s good with names, made mental notes on each of their faces so he can remember them, speak to them by name. It’s one of the things Derek’s been consistently impressed with, and Scott means to keep up with it. The trick is to pair their name with something you can remember them by until you get to know them better. Joshua, expensive haircut and brand-new North Face jacket.
“I’m not the cook, you should thank Violet,” Scott says, always ready to give credit where it’s due. He jerks his head backwards towards the kitchen where Violet is coming out with a new batch of cornbread. She came to camp last year instead of serving time for boosting cars, and ending up loving being in the mountains. Hiking and trekking, not so much, but Scott knows her handiness with a knife and creativity in the kitchen makes her a valuable volunteer. Violet designs all the menus for their basecamp and backcountry trips, and wrangles all the groups when it’s their turn to help her cook dinner.
Joshua lets out a sharp whistle of appreciation. “I’d love to just eat you up, girl.”
Violet narrows her eyes and sets the tray down with a heavy clang. “Move along,” she says.
“What, I don’t get cornbread?”
“We have a zero harassment policy here at WYLD. Not of the other campers, not of the counselors or volunteers. Only polite non-assholes get cornbread. Now move along,” Violet repeats.
The guy behind Joshua snickers. Scott actually had trouble remembering his name out of all of them-- Derek couldn’t pronounce it, and the guy had been too lost in his thoughts or something when they first arrived to introduce himself, so Scott had just dubbed him as Cute Freckles-- no, just Freckles-- Scott really can’t afford to be thinking of the campers as cute. He does seem older than the usual lot, though, like Boyd’s age, or even Scott’s.
“Hey, I paid good money for a fucking epic vacation in the woods, and part of that was for complete homemade meals. Now give me some fucking cornbread.” Joshua pushes his tray forward.
Violet rolls her eyes, and Scott can see her fist clenching-- he steps forward quickly, thinking to diffuse the situation, when a sharp whistle rings through the air.
“Joshua Meadowsweet,” Braeden says, standing up from her table. “You are directly violating the codes of conduct you agreed to before you signed up for this so-called vacation. Like Violet said, we have a zero harassment policy. I believe you just signed up for latrine duty while we’re at basecamp.”
The dining room erupts in slow laughter and Joshua grips his tray and finds himself a seat.
“Zero harassment, huh,” Cute Freckles says with a cocky tilt of his head.
Freckles, not Cute Freckles-- damn it, Scott needs to get his name.
“It’s for everyone’s benefit,” Scott replies. “We believe at WYLD in building strong friendships out here, and we do have campers who have gotten in relationships and such, but they don’t do it in the field. And for--”
“What if I ask before I flirt with you?” Freckles leans in, voice dropping to a lower whisper, inaudible to everyone else in the dining room, already preoccupied with their food. Freckles is the last one in line, and Violet’s already retreated to the kitchen. No one is paying them attention, no one can see the way this guy licks his lips like he’s in a damn porno, leaning forward over the potatoes.
No one’s ever been this forward with Scott before. He feels his face turn red, and he hastily dumps a scoop of food onto the guy’s plate. “That won’t-- that doesn’t-- uh, what’s your name?”
“Stiles,” is the smug answer. “And you’re Scott.”
“So you were listening during the introductions,” Scott says, slightly amused. Stiles had seemed preoccupied with this weird, shifty thing where he kept trying to hide behind Boyd. “It’s okay, Derek’s speeches can be pretty dry and boring, I wouldn’t blame you for looking lost.”
Stiles steps in closer, smirking, until his face is mere inches away from Scott’s own. “Well I was lost in your eyes, that is. I think I need a map. Can you help me out?”
Scott blinks and then he bursts out laughing. He drops the spoon into the potatoes, and it lands with a wet plop, splashing potato into Stiles’ face. It drips slowly off and lands in lumps on his own plate, and the sight just makes Scott laugh harder.
“That was supposed to be sexy,” Stiles says, wiping his face.
“You’re the funniest guy I’ve ever met,” Scott says sincerely.
Stiles huffs but there’s a small smile on his face, and it looks the most sincere of any of the ones Scott’s seen so far.
Seven am is the wake up call time for campers; Scott is up at five. He goes for a run first, warming up his body against the chill of the morning mountain air. It’s a mile around the entire basecamp, and then he takes the steep trail all the way up to the lookout point to watch the sunrise.
“Good morning,” Scott says to the world, as the sun climbs over the horizon. The forest is a rich, vibrant green, and the lake is starting to sparkle with the early golden light. Scott takes a deep breath, smelling the rich earth. Below him he can see the breakfast crew starting to awake, emerging from the canvas tents one by one, still bundled up in their warm clothes. Stiles is last to exit his tent, pulled out by a surly looking Derek, who looks like he’s giving him an earful about being on time. Stiles plods along after the other campers, and Scott notices unlike the others; he’s still in his sleeping clothes-- a thin t-shirt and shorts.
Scott finishes his run, heading back to basecamp to do his chores. By the time he’s finished feeding the chickens and the burros, and the breakfast bell is ringing and the entire camp is awake.
The dining cabin is still chilly, but Scott’s plenty warm from his exercise. He heads into the kitchen, where the campers chosen to cook breakfast today are still hard at work. Stiles is standing by the counter, stirring pancake batter, shivering slightly.
Scott takes off his jacket and throws it over Stiles’ shoulders.
“I knew you liked me,” Stiles says.
“I-- you’re a camper, I’m looking out for you!”
“Mmhm.” Stiles is doing that lascivious lip-licking thing again.
Scott finds himself staring and he shakes himself. “Watch out, you’ll sprain your wrist if you keep going at that speed.” He gestures towards the rapid pace Stiles is whipping the batter.
Stiles grins. “Naw, I’ve got plenty of practice. I can jerk off three times a day at home with this hand, I’ve definitely got the muscle.”
Scott snorts. “Well, you won’t have time to do that here.”
“I can make time.”
The idea of any camper having spare time-- in private, no less-- is hilarious to Scott, especially since he’s on his way to meet with the other counselors to debrief the day’s activities. It’s a jam packed schedule. They’ve only got three days to prepare these kids for a backcountry trip, get them used to the altitude, being outside, pitching their own tents, hiking and cooking for themselves. But the most important part is the teambuilding; getting a group to gel together, knowing that they’re gonna be there for each other in the next week.
Scott’s seen kids who hated each other at the start push each other and help one another get to that mountain summit; who help each other on the climb, open up about what’s going on in their lives. It’s those nights, the campfires and the intimate rawness of sharing who you are to these other people, the landscape stripping you down to the bare bones; it’s what Scott has faith in most in this program, that whatever these kids are going through, this trip is gonna help them see that they are strong enough to make it through.
Scott’s been there. And he knows while right now Stiles might be making jokes about jerking off, by the end of this week, he’ll be there too.
After breakfast-- pancakes, bacon, toast, eggs and fruit (they like to get the campers rich and filling meals the first few days), Boyd leads everyone in stretching exercises. Scott stands to the side, watching and matching the names and faces of all the campers and which new group they’re in. They’ve got three groups preparing to trek out now; one paid client group, and two scholarship groups. At debrief this morning they haven’t quite figured out now how to reorganize the scholarship groups yet-- the ones that arrived first, with Liam and Mason, are all from the same inner-city high school, and have all gone on a trek last year. They’re veterans, despite being the youngest campers here. The other group are the “alternative” campers, the ones who think camp is some sort of punishment. Ideally WYLD likes to mix them up.
Scott stands in the back, paying attention during stretching, taking note of who tries, who’s laughing, and who’s just standing there. Braeden asked him for his input, and he’s nervous, hoping he’ll have some good thoughts to share for evening debrief.
Boyd leads them into a downward dog position and Scott realizes who he’s standing behind. It seems like Stiles knows too; he glances from where he is, upside down, and he shakes his ass a little, winking at Scott.
This is really inappropriate, but it takes Scott a good second before he moves away. He hopes he’s not blushing; he just doesn’t know how to handle this kind of forward behavior. The only guy he’s dated before was Danny, who liked reservations at certain types of restaurants, and for Scott to cheer for him at his lacrosse games. They held hands and kissed sometimes, and went to Homecoming together, but Danny’s never shaken his ass at Scott. Dating Danny had been simple; Danny asked Scott out for coffee, Scott liked Danny and said yes, they were together for three months when they both agreed there really wasn’t much chemistry, and stayed good friends.
Scott shouldn’t think about dating Stiles. He really shouldn’t.
By the time Scott’s pulled back to his thoughts, the stretching is over, and everyone is getting ready for their next activity.
Scott’s jacket is tossed at him. “Thanks for keeping me warm,” Stiles says jauntily, before walking off.
Liam glances between Stiles’ retreating back and at Scott, bursting into a multitude of questions. “Is he a new counselor in training too, Scott? He said the F-word at breakfast, I heard! Is he your boyfriend, Scott? Is that why you gave him your jacket to wear? Are you dating now, that’s why? I’m gonna talk to him, and tell him if he breaks your heart I’m gonna hurt him!” Liam punches his fist into his hand, and then winces in pain.
Mason throws his hands up apologetically. “I have no idea where he’s getting all this.”
“He was cold,” Scott says. “And he’s a camper. I’m not-- I wouldn’t-- date a camper.”
“I told you,” Mason says, bumping Liam with his hip.
“Shut up,” Liam says, bumping him back, but with enough force to send Mason a few steps.
“Alright, stop.” Scott’s seen this game progress to the point where Liam sprained his ankle last summer. “How about you two help me set up the games for all my teambuilding events?”
“YEAH!”
“I LOVE TEAMBUILDING!”
“What games are we gonna play today, Scott?”
Scott thinks about how enthusiastic Liam and everyone was in his first group and sighs. They’re all currently on an interpretive hike with Isaac, and he’s got the other scholarship group now.
“This is dumb,” Joshua says.
“Just try and cross the river, figure out a solution,” Scott repeats, for the third time. He folds his arms, waiting behind the blue rope that marks the “riverbank.” Ten feet away behind another piece of rope, the campers stand there in a mixture of boredom and pseudo-rebellion. They haven’t talked to each other on how to solve the problem, and the orange pieces of construction paper (they were supposed to be carpet squares, but Erica stole them to take the other group to journal out by the lookout point).
It’s easy. Scott’s seen people figure this out in ten minutes at the quickest, but these campers just don’t seem to want to do anything.
Derek walks up to him, handing him a ice-cold water bottle. “How’s it going?”
Scott takes a grateful swig before handing it back. “I suck at this.”
Derek lifts an eyebrow. “The waiting is part of it. It’s the facilitator's job to gauge when to challenge the group, when to step back, when to question them.”
Scott kicks at the dirt in front of them. “Can I give them a hint?”
“Hm. It’s your game, your group. Do what you think they need.”
“That wasn’t an answer, Derek,” Scott says crossly.
Derek just steps back and makes a go ahead gesture.
Scott shakes his head and walks towards the campers. “Alright, listen up.” Scott knows they’re smart-- he overheard a group of them talk about how to take apart a car engine, and another one was talking about social contract theory, so he knows they can solve this. Third graders have solved this in less time they’ve spent standing here. “If you can solve the puzzle in the next ten minutes, we’ll have extra time before lunch, and I’ll take you all to the lake and you guys can go for a dip if you like. Remember the rules-- you can’t touch the river, everything has to be connected, and you can’t leave the magic tiles unattended, otherwise they’ll float away.”
There’s a chorus of interest in this idea, especially as the sun is shining hot directly down on them.
Scott smiles to himself and walks back to the other side.
Derek’s smiling at him.
“What?”
Derek jerks his head towards the group, who are now tentatively placing the “magic tiles” on the river and starting to use them to walk across, helping each other go.
“Nothing. You’re gonna be good at this, that’s all.”
Scott grins and watches the campers-- not holding hands like the easiest way (and like the challenge nudges people toward trusting and physical proximity), but holding onto shirtsleeves and fabric of their pants.
“You didn’t even give them a hint,” Derek adds proudly.
Stiles is at the forefront of the group, scowling as Joshua drops then next tile and doesn’t step on it right away.
Scott is on it, snatching the tile away. “That one floated off!” he announces. The group makes noises of frustration and curses Joshua.
Scott shrugs.
Stiles is holding the rest of the construction paper. “You know what? The goal is just to get across, right-- look, we have enough of these magic tiles to just--” and then he rips the paper in half, and then in half again, dropping them in front of him and walking all the way across.
The rest of the group follows him with glee, dropping the stay-touching-stay-connected rule, bouncing across the small pieces of paper all the way across the river.
Scott stares at Stiles, who’s grinning at him expectantly. Technically they succeeded, but ripping apart the “magic tiles” shouldn’t have been an option, given they had the right props. But these challenges are supposed to be about thinking outside the box. And while they did lose a bunch of tiles… they did make it across the river. “Good job, everyone.” Scott says. The group cheers, and Scott goes through the game debrief; pointing out good ideas, how they listened to each other for new solutions, the innovative finish.
“That was very creative, Stiles, you took a lot of initiative there,” Scott says.
“So we can go to the lake?” Nicki, a girl with purple hair in neat braids, asks, bouncing up and down impatiently. “We did your stupid river game. You promised.”
“Yeah, okay! Go on, you’ve got half an hour!” Scott waves them off.
Derek nods at Scott and starts to lead the way, the excited campers rushing off behind him.
Stiles hangs behind, picking up the pieces of paper. He hands them to Scott, and their fingers brush.
Scott’s about to pull back when Stiles catches him by the wrist. Scott can see every single one of the moles on his jaw; the pinkness of his lips, and the very air seems to still. “What are you doing?” The question comes out as a hoarse whisper, and Scott’s heart beats faster in anticipation.
“Taking initiative. What do you think?” Stiles pulls him closer and waits, his lips an inch away. Scott can feel the gentle press of his breath; can practically hear his heart pounding, like Scott’s own. Scott’s mind is whirling. Is he being kissed? Does Scott want to be kissed? Oh God help him, he does, he’s only known Stiles for a day but he’s already enthralled by that quick wit and the over-the-top pickup lines, and probably has wanted to kiss him since he thought of him as Cute Freckles before he learned his name.
Except Stiles isn’t kissing him, he’s just holding this position. Or has time gone still?
Scott takes the moment, letting instinct and desire guide him, moving forward. Their lips meet in wet, hot urgency. Stiles groans, and the paper goes fluttering to the ground as his arms reach for Scott’s waist, holding him close, hands trailing up and down Scott’s back. Scott is lost for a good minute in the kiss, losing the plot completely; he’s never kissed anyone like this, like they were on the same wavelength, and Stiles--
Scott wrenches himself away, staring at Stiles in horror, catching his breath.
Stiles’ lips look all the more delectable now, reddened from the kiss, and his hair is going every which way. Scott doesn’t remember putting his hands in Stiles’ hair, but he must have; he remembers the feeling of soft hair in his hands, wanting to tug it a little…
“I can’t,” Scott finally manages. “You-- you kissed me.”
“Nope, pretty sure you kissed me,” Stiles says smugly.
“You’re a camper. I’m a counselor. This isn’t right. It’s not appropriate.” Scott finds the words and says them, determined, like the tone of his voice will make it true.
“But you like me. Admit it.”
“This was a mistake. It never happened.” Scott folds his arms, ignoring the unhappy feeling curling in his gut.
“O-kay then,” Stiles says, tone just a little too casual. He walks past Scott, and their shoulders brush again, and the contact sends an electric shock through him.
Scott watches as Stiles walks towards the lake, unable to move. Stiles pulls off his t-shirt in one sinuous motion, and turns to look at Scott over his shoulder. It's supposed to be a careless smirk, an I don't care, but Scott can see how Stiles' gaze lingers on his own.
There are freckles-- moles? Scott can’t tell from this distance, as Stiles is walking further away, and he finds he wants to; wants to see them up close, to drag his fingertips along Stiles’ spine.
This was supposed to be an easy summer job.