Hi guys! I know this isn't a new update on Take Back This Soul that is So Rightfully Mine, but I saw a Tumblr that someone's headcanon was from the line "Those two are like sons to me" is loosely based that because their parents are single parents with time-demanding jobs, he let them help with Lacrosse stuff. So I HAD to write a one shot! (A little more cheerful than my regular pieces)

As usual – unbeta-ed and unedited because I am lazy.

Five Times Coach Forced Stiles and Scott to Help the Lacrosse Team (and One Time They Volunteered)

By Chase-the-Wind-and-Touch-the-Sky

I.

"I swear to God, Greenberg, your younger brother better not be as big of a pain in the ass as you are," Coach warns as he chucks a lacrosse ball at the senior, thanking the heavens that he's graduating this year. "And I better not see you in the goalie again! If I have to replace the frames one more time, so help me God!"

He stalks out toward the field, only pausing when he sees two lanky boys sitting at the chairs by the office, joking around and shoving each other playfully. Coach frowns. School ended over a half an hour ago. He walks up to the office secretary, asking, "Who are they? Are they in trouble or something?"

The secretary lifts her eyebrows. "Who – Scott and Stiles? I can understand why you think they'd be in trouble, but no. Both children of single parents – one's mom is a nurse and the other's dad is a deputy at the station. They tend to hang out here under their parent's insistence due to their knack for finding trouble."

Coach looks at his watch. "School's been out for almost forty-five minutes."

The secretary shrugs. "What else are they going to do? Single parenting is hard and they're fifteen year-old boys. Not a lot of options.

It still didn't seem good enough. Straightening his back, Coach brings his whistle to his lips and blows as hard as he can. It startles the boys – the one called 'Stiles' enough to flail and topple out of the chair like damn Bambi learning how to walk – and they stare up at him like he's an alien.

"I know I'm pretty, but are you two going to just sit there and fondle yourselves?" Coach snaps, earning himself a scowl from the secretary, but he doesn't care. "Or are you going to do something productive with your time and help out the lacrosse team?"

The pair look at each other and Coach can't believe how incredibly in sync all their movements are. Scott shrugs at Stiles, who's casting a glare at Coach like he's trying to figure out if he's messing with them or not. "What do you mean?" The lanky teen finally manages to get out, scrambling less-than-gracefully to his feet. "Why would you want us with the lacrosse team?"

"What else are you going to do with your time?" Coach snorts in response.

That answer seems to do the trick because Stiles returns Scott's shrug and helps him up. "What are we gonna do?" He then asks.

"Try and be tolerable." Coach mutters, watching the motley crew of awkward teenager follow him. He wonders if he made a mistake when they don't understand the difference between a long and short stick. He wonders it again when the McCall kid nearly passes out due to an asthma attack when the two are allowed to run with the team. He definitely wonders it when the Stilinski kid manages to whip the ball at their best player's head when he doesn't have his helmet on.

He even considers telling them not to show up tomorrow – obviously they can take care of everything – but then he notices a woman sitting in the stands with a small smile on her face. Sometimes parents come to watch the try-outs, but he's never seen her before. Originally he assumed she was a freshman's mother, but when the practice was over, the two gangly boys rush over to her. She stands, revealing dirty scrubs and her smile is filled with lines of tiredness. But it doesn't matter.

It broadens when the two sprint up to her, talking incessantly over each other (considering how well she handles this makes Coach think that this must be a regular occurrence). She catches Coach's eye and gives him a slight nod, putting an arm around each of the boys.

Maybe he'll let them come tomorrow.

II.

"McCall!" Coach bellows. "Where's Stilinski? You two know how important everything is before game day!"

Scott shifts nervously in that way that Coach has grown to realize the two did something stupid. That there is a mess that he will inevitably have to clean up later and give him a reason for a second beer this evening. "…hesnotcomingtoday." Scott mumbles, his eyes at his feet.

"What? Speak up McCall, you know that I want to beat you over the head with your own stick when you talk at your feet."

"He's not coming today." He only says this a little louder than the first time. He looks shy, like when he first invited to the two miscreants to help out with the team. It's weird seeing him without Stiles because he seems to shrink on himself without his partner-in-crime. Maybe Stiles forces them to be visible after being invisible for such a long time.

"Why the hell not?" Coach snaps, frustration hitting him like a train – which isn't anything new when it comes to these two. "We have a game tomorrow!"

Then, as if he knew they were talking about him, Stiles trudges onto the field, his eyes downcast. He's not talking, which should be the first red flag. He's not flailing, which should be the second. And he refuses to look at Scott, which is the trifecta of red flags.

Scott seems surprised he's there himself, nudging his shoulder. "You don't need to be here," he hisses far too loud for whatever privacy he's intending. "It's not important."

Coach almost snaps that this is important, that little fucker, but is inclined to keep his mouth shut when Stiles keeps his gaze at the ground. His hands are trembling and he clutches them, as if he's trying to hold himself together. "Shut it, Scott," he murmurs.

The ground must be wildly interesting.

But Coach can't keep his gaze off his hands. Long and wiry, in a fit of perpetual movement. "Stilinski," Coach snaps, ignoring the pleading looks from Scott. "Re-lace all the nets for the game tomorrow."

Without comment or complaint (something must be really wrong), Stiles slinks away and finds a seat on the bleachers, starting his work. Scott glares at Coach in a way that he's never seen before. For someone who allows himself to be tormented constantly by the Whittmore kid, that is one fierce gaze.

"It's his mom's death anniversary today," Scott growls, low and threatening. "Can't you just… pick on me twice as much and leave him alone?"

Coach flinches from the information, but tries not to let it show on his face. "McCall, make yourself useful. Do I need to hold your hand for the rest of the day or are you finally going to be productive for once?"

It didn't soften the glare, but it did make McCall lumber away in frustration.

Coach turns his attention to Stiles, who's still looking at the ground like it has the meaning of life, but at least his hands are busy. He makes his way over to the kid, yelling at the team to run around the field or something.

It's not until he gets really close does he see it. Droplets are falling from his face to the lacrosse stick. His fingers are fumbling and moving fast, the laces particularly sloppy.

"Jeez, Stiliniski, when I thought you couldn't get more useless." Coach snaps, but his usual heat is gone. He snatches the net out of Stiles grasp, tilting the kid's head up to eye level. His eyes are red and puffy, still swimming with tears which makes them look even bigger, if possible. Coach has to take a breath to calm himself down, but he maintains his usual resolve. "You're doing it all wrong, kid. Look. Take the laces in each hand. Loop it there twice – then it'll be twice as sturdy. And don't forget to check your slack each time – otherwise you may lose your grip. And don't be afraid to use your mouth if you need to. It's just grass."

Stiles looks at him, his tears still, but his eyes firm. He's scouring Coach to the point of making him feel horribly uncomfortable, but he's determined to maintain his air of authority.

After a minute or so of receiving the most intense and vulnerable stare of his life, Coach is relieve to see Stiles undo the loops of the net and start over, his nimble fingers looping the rope around. Coach blows his whistle after a few beats. "Don't think I don't see you slacking from here! Get your fat asses in gear!" He screams. The players jump and the intensity increases almost instantly.

He can coach from the bleachers today.

III.

He should've seen the fight coming from a mile away. He isn't sure why he didn't see it coming. It was bound to happen.

Coach has grown to a certain level of familiarity with the Dynamic Duo. There was one day when the two could stay after school due to some sort of camping trip with their parents and, even though he would shoot the person who said so, he missed their constant bumbling around and nonstop chatter. Plus, having to do everything himself sucked.

But he never expected the two volunteers to actually cause actual problems (besides grating on his nerves every once and a while). Jackson Whitmore has always been kind of a dick (can't feel bad if it's true), but he definitely found the line.

Right before practice started and Scott and Stiles were setting everything up, Jackson casts a glance over at them. "It must be nice to finally feel needed." Jackson starts, smirking at the two awkward boys. "It's pathetic that it took Coach to throw you two loser a fricken bone."

Scott merely scowls, but Stiles, always the loquacious, just huffs, "Fuck off, Jackson."

Coach blows his whistle. "Stilinski – language!"

All the teenage boys roll their eyes. But if possible, it only stirs Jackson on more. "How would your parents feel about this? I mean if they actually cared to pick you up once and a while. You're only allowed to be around us because Coach took pity on your pathetic parents."

The two boys stilled. The two were always laughing and joking, it was weird to see them so silent and still. "Whitmore…" Coach warns, that feeling in the pit of his stomach aching.

"I mean, McCall – your dad literally had to run away to get away from you."

Coach freezes.

It's common knowledge that McCall's father left a while ago – mainly because Melissa McCall was such a loved member of the community and everyone was trying to their best to help the floundering mom out. But even Coach didn't think Jackson would touch that.

And suddenly Jackson's on the ground.

Except, the most peculiar thing is that Scott McCall is still standing next right next to him.

"You worthless piece of shit!" Stiles says once he's tackled him to the ground. Stiles gets a few punches in before Jackson regains his wits enough to turn it onto him.

"I'm gonna kick your ass, Stilinski!" Jackson bellows, swinging a few times until Stiles is on the ground. He pummels him a few times before Danny pulls him off, whispering a few things which Coach thinks is 'Don't be a dick,' but he can't be sure.

Stiles lifts himself into a seated position, his eyes glazing over and he falls back to the ground. "Jackson! You're going to be running laps until you puke! Danny, get Stilinski to the nurse's office! He might have a concussion."

Scott moves to go with his friend, but Coach sticks out an arm. "Nope, McCall. You're with me. The rest of you – just run around the field. Don't look at me like that Greenberg, you're lucky I haven't shipped you to Iceland yet!"

Coach pulls Scott away from the team, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Listen up McCall and listen good. I will bring you down if you ever tell anyone, but we all know that Jackson is a douche. But you need to understand me when I say this. Men who leave their children aren't men. And it is no one's fault other than themselves. And I don't think that you should associate with men like that. Because you have the potential to be great."

Even through his stoic demeanor, Scott smiles a bit. "I don't need him. I have my mom. And Mr. Stilinski."

"And Stiles," Coach huffs. "The kid probably has a concussion defending your damsel in distress ass."

Scott laughs, his eyes still sad.

"Keep those people around you," Coach says quietly. "They're important."

The two remain in silence for a while. Coach expects him to go after Stiles, but he remains stationary.

"We're thinking about trying out for the team next year." Scott says quietly. He peeks up expectantly at Coach, like he's waiting for him to tell him that he can't.

Coach almost things he should encourage them, but then snorts.

"Good God, I'm never gonna rid myself of you two, aren't I?"

IV.

Coach sits in his office.

Sure, while Scott and Stiles aren't the worst players he's ever seen, they're pretty up there. Between Stiles' inability to do any graceful maneuver and Scott's asthma attacks, they may be the worst pair of teammates. But…

He couldn't not put them on the team.

They spent the past year lugging all the equipment and basically being Jackson Whitmore's whipping kids. And if he cut them, they would be taunted mercilessly. There's no way they would come back and help with equipment either.

He adds their names to the bottom of the list.

He stays in his office, but he can hear the whoops and hollers from the locker room. And he smirks when he hears a familiar yelp. "Duuuuuuuude, Scotty! Scotty! Get your toushie over here – no, just drop it! We made it! We're on the team!"

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" Coach can hear Jackson's groan.

"Shove it, Jackson! You're just jealous of our awesomeness!"

There's some scuffling and then there are three figures in his door. Jackson's livid. "You can't be serious." He snaps.

"Shut up Jackson." Stiles shouts.

"Go fuck yourself, Stilinski."

"Don't talk to him like that!" Scott bellows.

"Don't get me started on you McCall—"

"Enough!" Coach shouts. "Whitmore – get your ass in the shower, you smell something fierce. Get out of my face."

Jackson scowls and pretends to lunge at the two of them, Stiles flying backward into the door and knocking Scott backwards. Coach rolls his eyes. Like a baby gazelle.

Scott is the first to speak. "Thanks Coach. F-For—"

He stops.

Coach looks at his desk, determined not to be broken by the gazes of two invisible teenagers. "I hope you realize you're still in charge of the equipment."

V.

"I don't even want to know."

Coach sees them all on the bus. Stilinski, McCall. Lahey, Boyd. Lydia Martin and Allison Argent…?

They all look exhausted.

To be honest, Coach has had his suspicions. Things have happened in Beacon Hills that he simply cannot explain. He peers at the group of them – a weird mixture of teenagers. He remembers when Stiles was following the Martin girl like a lost puppy and when McCall couldn't run a lap without stopping. But somehow the two boys made themselves a nest of friends from all sorts of group.

No, friends isn't the right word. It should be stronger, but he isn't sure how to describe it.

They appear less invisible. Less forgotten. Happier and sadder at the same time, stronger and more vulnerable. He thinks of the two gangly teens who tripped their way into the team and his heart and he has to shake his head.

Stiles shakes his head, looking far more like a cartoon than anyone Coach has ever seen. "What's up?"

"Meet's cancelled. We're heading back to Beacon Hills now."

The two boys share a look that definitely means, "Thank God," but he isn't sure why. Scott moves to get close to Stiles and the two boys eye people as they enter the bus.

They're no longer invisible.

He can't help but feel proud.

Coach clears his throat and stares at them. "Are you two stupid? Load the equipment back up! I'd like to leave sometime in this century!"

The two teens groan, but nudge playfully at his shoulder as they pass. It's familiar. Homey.

Coach smiles.

+1.

Coach rubs his eyes. He can't tell if he's getting old or out of shape, since McCall and Stilinski have been taking care of the equipment for such a long time. As he drags it closer to the school, he feels a few pulls in his back and he groans.

"I'm really looking forward to retirement." He mutters to himself.

But then, two figures appear at his side, each taking two duffels of equipment. Coach is startled as Stiles and Scott joke around with each other as they haul the equipment closer to the school.

As they walk away, Coach has to stare at the once-gangly teen. Definitely not gangly anymore. Broad shouldered, muscular. Not teens either.

Men.

"Dude, Scotty! I thought Greenberg's eyes were gonna pop out! You have to pretend to dislocate your shoulder again!"

Well… mostly.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Coach snaps, catching up to the boys.

They stare at him incredulously. "We're getting the equipment," Scott says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, I have eyes, McCall." Coach says. "But… why?"

Stiles looks just as confused. "We always handle the equipment."

"But you two are Co-Captains now. Why would you still do it? Pass it off to a freshman. Stiles – you're always bitching about that Liam kid. Make him haul shit."

Stiles' eyes widen. "What? Never! I don't trust him with this!"

Scott however, get contemplative. "It's our job," he says softly, shouldering the bags. "This is what we do."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah – getting senile in your old age there, Coach?"

Coach snarls. "You'll be doing laps until you die, Stilinski."

The smile doesn't go away though. Stiles claps a hand on his shoulder and the two of them turn around and make their way closer to school. "Anyways, I think we should try it on Garrett next…"

The two disappear into the school. Coach knows that they'll be out in a few minutes, ready to grab more. He looks at the field and then back to the school.

Already their senior year.

He says he'll miss the free labor. He knows he's lying to himself, but he allows it.

He is the Coach, after all.

A/N: SO MANY COACH/SKITTLES FEELS.

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