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Bobby Finstock does not, as a rule, pay much attention to his students. For one, most of them aren’t worth paying attention to. They come to high school, they slouch through the day, and then in four years, they’re gone. For two, he’s never been all that great with names to begin with — especially the fancy ones. Jackson Whatshisface can get snippy with Bobby all he likes, but really, he should be grateful that he doesn’t have Mallanny’s last name. Seriously, what was that kid’s mother thinking, letting her husband pass on a name like that? Bobby shudders at the thought.Anyway, back on point. As a coach and a teacher, Bobby takes his job seriously, but doesn’t really feel inclined to learn anyone’s names for any reason. Which is why it comes as some surprise when he turns to the kid next to him, says, “Stilinski, tell your buddy Scooter to pick up the pace, wouldya? He’s lagging behind," and the guy lights up like it’s the best suggestion ever."What’s the matter," Bobby deadpans suspiciously and makes a shooing gesture. “Did you hear what I said? Go!"Stilinski just hops around on his toes for a bit, bouncing with a level of joy that Bobby really doesn’t need infecting his aura. “Got it, Coach. Gettin’ right on it!"He darts off toward Scooter and shoves him around until he’s back in line with the rest of the team’s pace, instead of making oogly eyes at the girl in the stands. “Did you hear him, Scott?" Bobby hears the kid saying as the team passes. “Coach totally knows my name!"Scooter clearly doesn’t think this is of import. “That’s great for you," he says, trying to peek over Stilinski’s shoulders. "Try to sound more enthusiastic, Scott," Stilinski scolds. “This could mean that he’s more likely to put me on the team, you think?"Bobby doesn’t hear Scott’s reply. He’s busy trying to find Stilinski’s name on his roster so he can make a note to definitely, definitely never put him on the field.*The next year sees Stilinski near permanently benched, though Bobby is a bit perturbed by how little that upsets him. In exchange, the kid hunkers around him, fiddling with the notebooks that have Bobby’s strategies in them and the line ups for when the game season starts."Hey!" Bobby snaps, snatching the notebook out of the kid’s hands. “These are top secret!""I’m part of the team too!" Stilinski protests. “I can look! I could help maybe!""You can’t even play," Bobby tells him. “Greenburg is better than you. What makes you think you could help?""Gimme the playbook and maybe I’ll show you," Stilinski says, and before Bobby knows it, the notebook is back in Stilinski’s hands and being flipped to a blank page.Bobby grunts and resigns his notebook to having senseless scribbles in it for when he finally gets it back. His fingers itch to grab it, but then there’s shouting and a fight on the practice field and Bobby has to go yell at kids whose names he doesn’t really know. (Thank god they have labels.) The notebook, when Bobby finds it on the bench later, has four or five more pages of potential plays written out. The line ups underneath them are new too — more of the newer, younger players that Bobby hasn’t tested out yet. Apparently Stilinski thinks he’s got some idea of what their abilities are like, and the longer Bobby looks at Stilinski’s scribbles, the more he thinks, “Aw, what the hell."*The referee throws in a flag on Lahelee for a rough check — totally uncalled for, in Bobby’s opinion — and he and Stilinski are in the referee’s face almost at the same time, gesturing at the field together and talking over one another while the referee tongues at his whistle in frustration."Lahelee is like—""Lahey," Stilinski cuts in."—a hundred-fifty pounds, tops!" Bobby is shouting. “The guy he’s guarding is twice that! Get your eyes checked!"The guy that Lahelee— Lahey had knocked to the ground is already getting to his feet and shaking off the hit like it’s nothing, eyes glowering from within the shadow of his gear. Lahey makes a rude gesture and prances to the huddle up with a proud grin. Stilinski is practically vibrating against Bobby’s shoulder as he watches intently. The referee retracts the foul on Bobby’s team, earning a cheer from the crowd, and Bobby slumps with relief onto the bench next to Stilinski. The kid’s leaning forward on the edge of his seat, chewing distractedly on the safety strap for his glove. His mouth is pinched and tight around the woven threads, which have gone a bit dark with saliva, and Bobby stares a little as Stilinski’s tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth."Eugh," Bobby says and reaches over to grab Stilinski’s glove. “Get that out of your mouth and find a sucker or something, for god’s sake. You’re disgusting."*"You ever thought about being a coach, Stilinski?" Bobby isn’t sure what’s made him blurt out the question now of all times. Stilinski’s paused at the tail end of him packing up his stuff to head home after spending an hour going over the playbook after practice. It’s late already. The last thing Bobby should do now is express an interest in the kid’s future, let alone try to talk him into following Bobby’s footsteps. That’s the kind of thing that Bobby should save for… oh, sometime around never."Me?" Stilinski laughs to himself and slings his backpack over his shoulder. He’s taller now than Bobby is, he’s pretty sure, and that’s kind of weird. “Nah, Coach. I’ve got too much on my plate to even think about what I’m gonna do with my life. But I dunno—" He rocks back on his heels. “Now that you mention it, it might be a good idea.""Yeah," Bobby says, then grimaces. “Pay’s not great." Stilinski shrugs. “But it’s nice to see the team get together still. The year’s been kind of crazy, you know what I mean?"They laugh awkwardly together, though Bobby suspects it’s for different reasons.*Bobby Finstock does not, as a rule, pay much attention to his students, but Stilinski sort of forces him to. He’s loud and excitable and sneaky and he keeps chains in his locker for crying out loud. Bobby doesn’t want to know — he doesn’t want to know ever! Yet come Stilinski’s junior year, he’s sitting in Bobby’s office, in front of Bobby’s desk, slouching low in one chair with his feet kicked up on another, and he’s got the roster of new applicants sitting in his lap. Stilinski knows everyone, whether they’d like it or not, Bobby’s found out. It’s super helpful considering the fact that Bobby is just so terrible with names."What about Adam and Even?" Bobby asks. Stilinski gives him a puzzled look and the sucker he’s got stuck in his mouth clacks against the his teeth. “The twins? We could put them on offense."Stilinski pulls the sucker from his mouth with a smack. “Aiden and Ethan," he says. “Put them on defense. Their tempers run hot but they work really well as a team. We’ll want them tearing through the other team together."Bobby takes notes dutifully even though he only puts down initials for the names of the twins. “What’s your suggestion for first line?" he says and tries not look up when he hears more wet noises when Stilinski sucks at his candy.Stilinski’s an oral thinker, Bobby’s found out. He thinks out loud most of the time and when he’s not saying what he’s thinking, he’s chewing on it. Sometimes quite literally. Like now, as he thinks about who the best players are on the team, Stilinski is rolling a sucker between his teeth, the little white stick making creases across his lip and at the corner of his mouth.It’s stupidly obscene, is what it is — absolutely, 100 percent not the kind of thing Bobby should be noticing about one of his students — and Bobby would complain about it, but aside from the oral thinking thing, it’s nice to have Stilinski around. Few students like lacrosse as anything other than a popularity notch or a way to vent off aggression, and Stilinski, well.He’s got passion.Bobby does look up briefly when the eating noises stop for a moment, and Stiles is giving him the side eye as he answers, “Scott for captain, Boyd for vice—" He clears his throat. “Isaac, too and — Okay this is weird.""What?" Bobby asks quickly, feeling on the verge of some kind of hysterical laughter."You’re the coach. Not me. Shouldn’t you be making these decisions?" Stilinski says."Right," Bobby agrees, nodding gratefully right up until Stilinski seems prepared to pop the last of his candy back into his mouth. “How about Greenburg?"Stilinski goes bug eyed and his voice is muffled around his sucker. “Are you fucking kidding me! He plays worse than me!"*Bobby becomes aware, with time, that things are not as they appear to be. He wishes that he could’ve stayed in denial for a bit longer, but then there’s animals on the field and shredded uniforms and people with guns and crowds of people being thrown into a panic. Stilinski is the one that drags him by the arm to the parking lot, shouting at him to get in the car and drive home and—"Get in with me," Bobby is sure he said at one point, eyes pointed back toward the field, where bright lights had shown an animal the size of a bear maybe. Bobby remembers it roaring — howling so loud that he felt his stomach turn — and he remembers Stilinski shutting the car door after shoving him into the driver’s seat.He knows he told Stilinski to get in the car, but ten minutes later, Bobby is in front of his house, shaking, and Stilinski is no where to be seen. He spends the rest of the evening pacing while the local news blathers on, and fiddles with his phone even though there’s no one to call. He worries is the thing. Stilinski had shoved him in the general direction of safety while taking none for himself, and now Bobby doesn’t even have a phone number for him to make sure that the kid had gotten out of harm’s way. Greenburg’s number, Bobby has — so that he can avoid it, Christ — but like so many of Bobby’s other students, Stilinski is absent.Which is why Bobby’s so grateful when the cops show up to finally take his statement. The Sheriff’s uniform reads, Stilinski, and Bobby remembers his face from parent teacher conferences."Your son," Bobby blurts out. “Is he alright? Last I saw of him was his hand on my face as he pushed me into my car. Did he get home?"The Sheriff smiles, crooked and fond. He and Stilinski look alike, just then. “Yes," the Sheriff says. “He called me. Stiles is fine.""Good," Bobby says. “That’s great."*Stiles does not look fine when he shows up at school the next day. Bobby catches him in the locker room before first period starts, putting away the gear that he’d been wearing last night. There’s bruising and cuts on his face and hands — maybe elsewhere, too, but Bobby only takes note of what he can see. There’s bandages on some things, but for the most part not."What in the hell happened to you?" Bobby asks accusingly. “Your dad said you were fine."Hunching with guilt, Stiles replies, “Yeah, well, that’s probably all he knew at the time.""You look like you took a beating," Bobby says, eyeing up the pretty savage cut on Stiles’ forehead. He jerks a thumb toward his office. “Come on. I got a kit."Stiles follows on soft feet. “You know first aid?"Bobby grunts at him and kicks the chairs around until they’re facing each other. “It’s cleaning and bandaging stuff up, Stiles. Ain’t exactly rocket science," he says, pulling the box off the wall. He hunts through his locker for paper towels and some soap and tosses them to Stiles. “Wash your face, would ya?"Stiles does, and taking one of the chairs, Bobby finds the antibiotic ointment and some fresh bandages by the time the kid sits down opposite him."This is so weird," Stiles murmurs, tilting his head up when Bobby taps his chin. His eyes slide closed as Bobby dabs ointment onto the cut above his brow, head tilting when Bobby’s fingers slide across the abrasions on his cheek."Don’t have anyone doing this for you at home?" Bobby asks."I take care of myself," Stiles says. “It’s fine. I know what I’m doing.""What about those things on the field last night? You know what you’re doing about those too?"Stiles smiles, but it looks painful. “Don’t be crazy, Coach. I wouldn’t know anything about that.""You don’t know a lot about a lot of things, Stiles," Bobby grinds out. “You’re just a kid." This time, when Stiles smiles, it’s much softer — more genuine. It freaks Bobby out a little. “What?""Didn’t know you knew me as anything other than Stilinski."Bobby tries to wave it off. “Your dad said it. I asked how you were doing.""Oh." Stiles seems surprised. “That was nice of you." He leans forward, braces his hands on Bobby’s chair, and tilts his face up for inspection. “I think you missed a spot, Coach."Squinting at Stiles’ face, Bobby tries to find a wound he hasn’t taken care of. “Where?" "Here," Stiles says, and pushes forward the last inch he needs to kiss the corner of Bobby’s mouth. It’s quick, chaste, simple. Hardly worth mentioning or thinking about if it hadn’t come from a student. “Thanks for thinking of me, Coach. And taking care of me. I appreciate it."Bobby coughs and scrambles to busy himself with putting the first aid kit back into order. “Yeah, no problem. Any time," he says, wincing at his own fumbling. He thinks he can feel a hard blush crawling onto his face.A glance at Stiles, though, shows him chewing on the inside of his cheek — thinking while he looks at Bobby. Slowly, Bobby stops trying to put the kit back together, and it sounds awfully familiar when Stiles goes, “Aw, what the hell," and leans in for another kiss.