"Towels! Yes, Mom better have an industrial-sized dryer and a lifetime supply of towels, or I'm suing this town for excessive dampness!" Alex declared, finally pushing himself off his car. He grabbed a sleek, expensive-looking duffel bag from the passenger seat – clearly, his definition of "packing light" was different from most people's.
The three of them, two McCalls and one very soggy Stilinski, squelched their way up the porch steps. Scott fumbled with the keys, his hands still slightly shaky from the combination of Allison-induced euphoria and Alex-induced anxiety.
The moment the door opened, Alex strode in like he owned the place – which, Scott reflected, considering he'd paid for half the renovations, he kind of did. He dropped his duffel bag with a theatrical thud onto the nearest sofa in the comfortable, well-kept living room. The house was warm, a welcome contrast to the stormy night, and smelled faintly of Melissa's famous lasagna.
"MOOOM! Honey, I'm hoooome!" Alex bellowed, his voice echoing through the house, dripping with mock enthusiasm and genuine affection. "Your prodigal, and undeniably more fabulous, son has returned from the land of heathens and bad reality television!"
Melissa McCall appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a wide, relieved smile instantly lighting up her face. The worry lines that had been etched there earlier seemed to melt away at the sight of him. "Alex!"
In two long strides, Alex crossed the room and enveloped his mother in a tight hug, lifting her off her feet slightly. Melissa laughed, a genuine, happy sound that Scott hadn't heard nearly enough lately, hugging him back just as fiercely.
"Oh, my boy," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she finally pulled back, cupping his rain-dampened face in her hands. Her eyes, so like his and Scott's, scanned him lovingly, though a flicker of concern crossed her features as she took in the faint, smudged remnants of lipstick he hadn't quite managed to obliterate. She wisely chose to ignore it for now. "You're soaked! And skinny! Are they not feeding you in that ridiculous city?"
Alex grinned, his usual suave mask softening into something more boyish and vulnerable in his mother's presence. "They feed me, Mom, but nobody makes lasagna like you. And it's called 'lean and mean,' not skinny. Hollywood demands sacrifice." He winked.
Scott and Stiles hovered awkwardly in the doorway, feeling a bit like intruders on a private reunion. Stiles, however, was practically vibrating with the sheer amount of observational data he was collecting.
Melissa finally turned to them, her smile encompassing them both. "Scott, honey, get your brother a towel. Stiles, you too, you look like a drowned rat. There's a pile in the linen closet. Dinner's almost ready."
As Scott and Stiles scurried off, Melissa led Alex towards the kitchen. "So, your father finally saw sense, did he?"
"More like you yelled sense into him, from what I gathered," Alex said, chuckling. "He sounded like he'd survived a Category 5 hurricane armed only with a thesaurus."
The dinner table was soon laden with food: a bubbling dish of lasagna, a large salad, and a basket of garlic bread. The atmosphere was surprisingly light, almost festive, a stark contrast to the usual quiet dinners Scott and Melissa shared. Stiles, having toweled off and changed into a spare, slightly-too-small t-shirt of Scott's that read "Beacon Hills Cyclones #1 Fan," was in his element, peppering Alex with questions about LA, movie stars, and whether he'd ever met a real-life ninja. Alex, in turn, regaled them with exaggerated tales of Hollywood absurdity, carefully omitting the more scandalous details, his easy charm filling the room.
"So, Scott," Melissa said, beaming at her quieter son as she dished out a generous portion of lasagna onto his plate. "I was telling Alex you made the lacrosse team. First line, even!"
Alex raised an eyebrow, looking impressed, or at least feigning it convincingly. "Lacrosse, huh? Wow, Scotty, that's… new. Didn't peg you for a jock. Last I remember, your primary athletic pursuits involved competitive napping and advanced-level video game marathons."
Scott flushed slightly. "Yeah, well, things change." He mumbled, spearing a piece of lettuce with unnecessary force. "It's a good sport."
"It's certainly… energetic," Alex conceded, taking a bite of lasagna and closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm, Mom, this is ambrosia. You could weaponize this deliciousness." He opened his eyes. "But lacrosse, really? All those sticks. Seems a bit… chaotic. I always thought basketball had more finesse. More style."
"Lacrosse is aggressive," Scott countered, feeling a need to defend his newfound passion, especially in front of his effortlessly cool twin. "It's tough."
Alex smirked. "Aggressive? If you want aggressive, little brother, you should try rugby. That's a proper chaotic maul. Or even American football – now that's a game where men become gods and occasionally lose a few teeth in the process. Makes lacrosse look like a spirited game of tag with oversized butterfly nets."
Stiles, mouth full of garlic bread, nodded enthusiastically. "He's got a point, Scott. Rugby players are like… like human battering rams. It's brutal. I saw a game on ESPN once. Someone's ear almost came off. It was awesome!"
Melissa shot Stiles a look that was half amused, half exasperated. "Boys. Honestly. Alex, maybe you should try out for some sports here too? Get involved in school activities. It would be good for you."
Alex leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Sports, huh? Well, I do dabble, Mom. I know boxing. Pretty good with my fists. And I'm not too shabby at fencing."
A sudden silence fell over the table. Melissa stared at him, her fork halfway to her mouth. Scott and Stiles exchanged wide-eyed glances.
"Fencing?" Melissa said slowly, a note of alarm creeping into her voice. "You mean… with swords?"
Alex chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Relax, Mom, it's not like I'm challenging people to duels at dawn. It's sport fencing. You know, the kind rich people do in those silly white suits with the mesh masks. The swords are more like flexible metal sticks, really thin, not those giant claymores you see in historical dramas. It's all about technique, speed, precision. Very civilized. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Scott echoed, picturing Alex in a dramatic sword fight. It wasn't actually that hard to imagine.
"Well," Alex admitted with a sly grin, "there was this one incident with a particularly arrogant viscount at a charity tournament in Monaco, but he totally had it coming. And his pristine white suit was asking for a dramatic red wine stain."
Melissa sighed, rubbing her temples. "Alexander McCall, sometimes I don't know whether to hug you or ground you for the next ten years."
"Always go with hug, Mom," Alex said brightly. "It's less paperwork."
She shook her head, but a smile played on her lips. "Anyway," she said, changing the subject before her blood pressure rose any further. "I spoke with Principal Thomas at the high school today. You're all set to start tomorrow, Alex. With Scott."
Alex, who had been reaching for another piece of garlic bread, paused. "Tomorrow? So soon? Don't I get, like, a day to acclimatize to the local flora and fauna? Maybe write a brooding poem about the existential angst of being surrounded by excessive amounts of plaid?"
"Tomorrow," Melissa confirmed firmly. "No arguments."
Stiles, ever practical, piped up. "So, uh, Scott, should I still come by to pick you up in the morning, or…?"
Before Scott could even open his mouth, a wave of panic washing over him at the thought of navigating his first full day of school with both his newfound werewolf abilities and his celebrity twin brother, Alex interjected smoothly.
"No need, Stiles, my good man," Alex said, flashing a dazzling smile. "Scotty here will be riding with me, in style. And you know what?" He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "I'll even swing by and pick you up too. Let's make an entrance, shall we? The McCall brothers and their trusty, slightly hyperactive sidekick, descending upon Beacon Hills High like conquering heroes. Or at least, like two guys who own a really cool car and one guy who knows all the best conspiracy theories."
Stiles's jaw dropped. "Seriously? In the Batmobile?"
"It's a BMW, Stiles, not the Batmobile," Alex corrected, though he looked pleased. "But close enough. Consider it your chariot, oh noble squire."
Scott just groaned internally. Tomorrow was going to be a very, very long day.