I don’t really have an explanation except I like puns.
“Excuse me?” Stiles splutters. “I can fly, okay? I can soar. With my mind.”
“Um, I’m not sure that counts?” Scott blinks. Then, seeing Stiles’s scowl, he quickly says, “I mean, it counts! It totally counts. Flights of the imagination are, um - ”
“Pointless.” That’s Derek Quale, black-feathered angst-bird of yore, who probably thinks the night sky is an endless abyss of existential nothingness, and to whom spring must seem like a cruel trick of the gods, rather than a happy season of mating and egg-laying. Sure, Derek’s nest burned down in a forest-fire, once, but -
But that doesn’t make everything pointless. “Fuck you,” Stiles says, sticking his beak out so that it tilts upward, sharp and long and (he hopes) intimidating as a rapier. Stiles likes to imagine himself as a musketeer, sometimes. It helps. With the whole… grounded situation. “You think adorable baby chicks are pointless. Me? I’m gonna marry Lydia Martin and build a nest with her and have lots and lots of beautiful kids. Into whose throat I will regurgitate my daily catch of food.” Stiles beams, brightly. “I’m good at regurgitating. I’ve been practicing.”
“That’s an eating disorder,” says Derek, darkly, and Stiles frowns.
“Er, Stiles?” Scott hesitates, like he’s the bearer of bad news. “I don’t think martins and kiwis can - ”
“Shut. Up,” says Stiles, blissfully. “Don’t rain on my paraaaaade. And if you tell me kiwis can’t sing Barbara Streisand, either, I’ll just have to disown you as my best friend.”
“Quails do,” says Derek, out of nowhere.
“Mate for life.”
“Right.” Stiles stares at him. “How is that relevant? To this conversation? Exactly?”
Derek’s feathers fluff up; his shoulders hunch; his red eyes narrow. “Never mind,” he snaps, and flaps away.
“What the hell?” Stiles asks the air where Derek had been standing. “What was that about?”
Scott rubs his forehead with his wing. “I don’t wanna know. I really, really don’t wanna know.”