I just want Scott and Stiles to be this notorious true alpha and emissary pair that other packs and hunters are wary of and create legends about but also they get into tickle wars a lot. That’s what I want.
OOH, yes, and everyone who actually meets them/spies on them is like “THESE guys? These fucking dorks screwing around with water guns in the back yard? The guys wearing dumb floppy board shorts and hitting each other with pool noodles?”
There isn’t a dramatic entrance they can’t botch up, like Stiles falling down a hill and standing up with a huge smudge of mud down the side of his face and arm, that time they broke the elevator and had to squeeze out one at a time, the time the Jeep broke down and they had to borrow the neighbors kids’ huffy bikes, which had streamers on the handle bars and Scott’s had butterflies painted on it, the other time the Jeep broke down and they had to carpool with Derek who messed up their dramatic entrance by yelling out the window not to forget their hats and mittens, Stiles was still getting over that cold, remember? The time the Jeep wasn’t broken but the tape deck was and the OFF button had broken off and there was a cassette tape stuck in there and so they couldn’t go anywhere without Joanie Mitchell songs blaring at top volume, the time Scott showed up straight from work in scrubs with balloons on them, the other time the Jeep broke down and Allison had to pick them up, the point is everyone is like, jesus christ, these guys, REALLY? but Stiles and Scott can go from goofball to psychotic protective determination like flipping a switch, even wearing mittens, even with Both Sides Now playing in the background.
U G H, can I just — I bet it goes the other way too, right? The legends, I mean. Like, everyone whispers that Stiles has this notebook, he carries it with him everywhere, it’s in his back pocket or tucked inside his coat, and if you see it, if he pulls it out, you’re dead, or you’ll wish you were. He’ll write your name inside and once that’s happened forget it, he’s coming for you, he’s icing you out, he’s turning your family and friends against you, they say he’s even got the law in his pocket. And what’s Stiles going to do, really? Hold up a hand and tell them all it was just a notebook, chemistry, world history, whatever; it’s not like he could cite supernatural exemption when he was applying to colleges. Nah, he lets them think it — what’s the harm in letting them think it? — until even he kind of believes it, a little. Until he makes sure to have a notebook with him, blank but carefully frayed at the edges, just in case.
Scott’s harder with it, about it, he wants people to know him; that it’s pizza sauce on the side of his mouth, not blood, how could anyone think that it’s blood, god, can’t they smell it? He worries at the things people say about him until even that becomes a rumor: don’t talk about Alpha McCall, he’ll hear about it, it’ll get back to him. He hates it but he can’t fight it, and it’s useful, even if it’s hateful — Scott gives up, eventually. Scott lets that time he and Stiles took a lazy hike in the woods and stumbled out hours later, boozy and loose, happy, become a story of how he marked their whole territory, seeded bits of his power in and along the treeline. Scott lets the way Derek’s always hovering become hisses of “control” and “domination,” “true alpha powers,” instead of explaining that Derek’s an overprotective stalker freakshow and has been for as long as they’ve known him. Scott watches everyone twist and squirm, uncomfortable, because of the spot of dried spaghetti sauce on the very corner of his mouth, until his licks it off with an affected vicious pleasure, and Stiles snorts, and rolls his eyes.
headcanon that the reason finstock always keeps stiles on the bench is because he has an amazing technical knowledge of the game and his absent muttered running commentary helps finstock direct the field
I absolutely buy it.