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Beacon Hills High – Afternoon Practice
The school’s dusty lacrosse field. The sun is brutal, the turf is half-dead, and Coach Bobby Finstock is yelling at a group of teenagers like it's 2011. But this isn’t about them. This is about Scott McCall, now Co-Coach, clipboard in hand, and Stiles Stilinski, whistle around his neck like he earned it. He's just helping, but don't tell him that. He acts like he’s running the whole damn team.
Stiles: (walking beside Scott, eyeing the lazy jog of the freshmen)
“Would you still be my friend if I was a worm?”
Scott: (blinks, turns his head slowly like Stiles just suggested burning down the school)
“…What?”
Stiles: (shrugs, hands shoved into the pockets of his old Beacon Hills Lacrosse hoodie)
“You heard me. If I was, hypothetically, a worm. Wriggly. Pink. Living in dirt. Would you still—”
Scott: (interrupting, frowning)
“Why would you be a worm?”
Stiles:
“Science accident? Cursed by a witch? Fell into an interdimensional garden gnome portal? The specifics don’t matter, McCall. The loyalty does.”
Scott:
“…You want me to be loyal to Worm-Stiles?”
Stiles: (pointing at him)
“Exactly. That’s friendship. That’s ride-or-die. That’s knowing you’d keep me in a cute lil’ terrarium and tell me about insane lacrosse plays while feeding me organic soil.”
Scott: (laughing now)
“Dude, I’m not putting you in a terrarium. You think I’m keeping Worm-You in a tiny box on my dresser?”
Stiles:
“I was thinking more of a tank. Like one of those big aquarium setups. Some fancy moss, maybe a little fern. Natural lighting. Maybe a fake castle, for ambiance.”
Scott: (shaking his head, amused)
“You’re seriously telling me that you’d expect me to carry you around in a worm-tank for the rest of my life?”
Stiles:
“You wouldn’t have to carry me around all the time. Just, like, if you moved. Or went out of town. Or if there was a big game and I needed to scream moral support. I could live in your office. Ooh! By the mini fridge!”
Scott: (mock serious)
“You’d scream moral support? As a worm?”
Stiles:
“I’d try. I could, like, wriggle enthusiastically. You’d know what I meant.”
Scott:
“...You’d guilt me with worm eyes.”
Stiles:
“Hell yeah, I would. I’d sit there in my dirt and judge every missed pass.”
Scott:
“Okay, okay, fine. Yes. I’d still be your friend if you were a worm. But, only if you promise not to do that thing where you give me side-eye with your whole body.”
Stiles: (beaming like Coach put in him the game)
“See? That’s why you’re my best friend.”
Finstock: (storming over, holding a clipboard and looking like he’s about to throw it)
“What in the sweet, hairless backside of a monkeys uncle are you two imbeciles talking about?”
Scott: (without missing a beat)
“Worm friendship loyalty.”
Stiles:
“Hypothetical moral boundaries of platonic transformation.”
Finstock: (blinks)
“Are you both high?!”
Stiles:
“Only on life, Coach.”
Finstock: (turns to the field and screams)
“MORGAN! YOU DROP THAT BALL ONE MORE TIME AND I’M TURNING YOU INTO A WORM MYSELF!”
Scott: (quietly, to Stiles)
“Hey… if Coach got turned into a worm—”
Stiles:
“I’d throw him in the nearest bird feeder.”
Scott: (chokes on his laugh)
“Dude!”
Stiles:
“What? You think he’d want to live like that?”
Finstock: (whipping back around)
“I CAN HEAR YOU, BILINSKI!”
Stiles: (smiling sweetly)
“That’s because we’re emotionally attuned, Coach. It’s the worms talking.”
Finstock:
“Get off my field before I bench you both. You’re not even on the team!”
Scott: (grinning)
“Technically, we run the team.”
Finstock: (growling)
“Technically, I will body slam both of you into the bleachers.”
Stiles: (to Scott, whispering)
“…He definitely wouldn’t keep us in a terrarium.”