Table For Three

Dear Beatrice, Give Me Strength

"I think I might be dying."

Scott doesn't even glance up from the receipts he's counting. "Uh-huh."

He looks up when Stiles doesn't say anything sarcastic in response. Scott takes in Stiles' panicked face and twitching fingers and pauses. "Dude. You were quiet for like 30 seconds—you must be dying. What's wrong?"

"Do you have any idea who's sitting in the dining room right now?" Stiles is freaking out, tapping his knuckles against the serving tray he's holding. He yanks at the black tie noosed around his neck. "Also, you're making me wear this torture device."

Scott raises a brow. "It's the uniform."

"It's stupid!"

"You helped pick it out."

"I can't be trusted—I wore nothing but plaid until I was 20!"

"Trevor called in sick, we needed a server."

"It was my one night off!"

"You volunteered."

Stiles pauses, pointer finger raised. He squints. "Touché."

Chuckling, Scott stretches his arms behind his head. "So what's wrong?"

"Do you. Have any. Idea who's in the dining room right now?" Stiles' hands are clammy. "And sitting in my section?"

Scott rolls back his chair and stands up. "I'm about to find out."

He races out of his office door, making his way through the busy kitchen. Stiles scrambles after him, all of his sous-chefs shouting, "Yes, Chef!" obnoxiously as he passes by. His assholery is really catching on.

Awesome.

He flips them all off.

God, he loves his job.

He runs into Scott's back, gripping his friend's shoulders to stabilize his landing. "Be cool, be cool. The table in the back over by the good peace lily."

Scott huffs. "You just say it's the best because you picked it out."

"Beatrice bloomed before everyone else! All those other phonies got nothing on my baby," Stiles whisper-shouts.

Confused, Scott cocks his head. He does a double-take. "Wait, isn't that...?" He looks over his shoulder at Stiles, finding his best friend's head right next to his. Waving his hand, he shoos Stiles back and turns to face him. "That's Allison and Malia. What the hell has you so worked up? You were cool with them when I dated them." His brow wrinkles. "Whoa, hold on...I'm the one that offered them the good table. They called and said they had something special to celebrate." Scott sighs dreamily. "I think they're getting engaged."

He refocuses, blinking back to reality, and sees Stiles scowling at him. "What?"

"I don't have a problem with them, per se, just the situation."

"What situation?"

Stiles starts struggling with his tie again. "Do you know who those men sitting with them are?"

Scott looks out the little window, narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face as a waiter—Jessica, Jesus she needs to stop slamming into things—barrels through the swinging door. She gives Stiles a sheepish look when she sees his hard gaze.

"Yeah, the guy with the beard is Allison's dad and the guy in the suit is Malia's."

"Chris and Peter," Stiles mutters.

Scott blinks. "Uh, you just said you didn't know them. How do you know their names?"

Stiles sighs wearily, looking up at the ceiling for answers.

He doesn't find any.

Looking back at Scott, he places both hands on the guy's shoulders and shakes him a bit. "That's the problem. It isn't with any single one of them—it's with all of them. Together. Here. In my section."

"I'm sorry buddy, but I'm not following."

Stiles cringes preemptively. "Well, I might've...bangedeveryoneatthattable." He closes his eyes tight.

Scott gapes. "You, you—wait run that by me again?"

He peeks through one eye. "I fucked each and every person at that table and apparently they're all either related, about to be related, or in a relationship."

It's Scott's turn to close his eyes. "You had sex with Allison and Malia?"

Stiles shakes Scott's shoulders a bit harder. "Hey, they were your ex-girlfriends. Heavy emphasis on the ex. Like, years later. You don't get to throw stones after Lydia. Or Heather."

Scott winces. "You know about that?"

Stiles pins him with a withering look. "Or Danny."

Blushing, Scott nods slowly. "Fair. Just...one thing first." Then he grabs a dish towel from the prep station and starts smacking Stiles with it, punctuating each hit with: "You. Are. So. Gross. I. Can't. Believe. You."

They both start giggling. When Scott finally runs out of steam, he snickers out, "You had sex with their dads."

Stiles cackles. "I met Chris at a farmer's market and Peter at The Tool Box. They were so good, too."

Scott grins wickedly.

Stiles stops laughing. "What?"

Scott's grin turns positively evil.

Stiles' palms start to sweat. "What?"

Then Scott pushes him out into the dining room, shoving him along until Allison spots them both.

"I fucking hate you," Stiles grits out through clenched teeth.

Scott ignores him and keeps dragging him through the restaurant. "Love you too, bro."

They both stop at the dreaded table, and Stiles looks at Beatrice for strength. "Hi, there!" He fixes a bright smile onto his face. "I'm Stiles and I'll be your server for the night."