fic: Transition (Teen Wolf; Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall; g)
You guys, I don't even know.
Transition
Teen Wolf; Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall; g; 1,555 words
He hadn't thought of his weekly dinners with Melissa as dates. At least, not until now.
For
angelgazing. Also the West Wing title project.
~*~
Transition
Dinner with Melissa is a weekly event now (he doesn't want to think of it as a habit, a routine, as something he takes for granted, because he knows all too well how easily the things you take for granted can be taken away), a bright spot to look forward to while he's catching up on paperwork or slogging through one of Stiles's allegedly healthy yet frequently tasteless meals or tramping through the woods to investigate yet another mauling.
Tonight, at least, it's nothing so inexplicable. He stands beside the wreckage of a late-model SUV and bites back a sigh as he looks down at the bodies. It's a couple, probably in their mid-twenties. They look terribly, heartbreakingly young. It makes him feel painfully, helplessly old.
While his deputies stake out a perimeter around the scene, he pulls out his phone and calls Melissa.
"Looks like I'm going to have to take a rain check," he says when she answers. "There was an accident out on Crabtree Road. Two fatalities. Looks like I'm going to be here for a while."
"Why don't you come by when you're done?"
He wants to, but--"It's probably going to be late."
"It's just ziti. I can keep it warm." She sounds like she means it. "I start on second shift tomorrow, so I can sleep in."
And there's a distracting thought--Melissa soft and warm in bed with late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. Not that he's actually had the experience. Not that he thinks he's ever going to, though over the past few months he's started to want to, which isn't something he ever really expected (or, to be honest, wanted) before. But his wife's been gone for years and Melissa's husband isn't coming back either, and she's a good looking woman who's done a damn fine job raising her son alone, and no one knows better than he does how hard that is, and how nice it would be to have someone to share it with.
When the boys were younger, he'd entertained the notion occasionally, usually after one too many belts of whiskey, and then laughed at himself for coming up with ridiculous Brady Bunch fantasies. He hadn't been ready and she'd never shown any interest, so he'd stopped, mostly.
But then weird things started happening again, and Stiles started lying to him more often than not, and he knows (even if he can't prove) that the two are related. And if Stiles is involved, Scott must be, too, and for all their dumbassery, they're good boys. After what happened at the station house (and then later), he'd offered to have a talk with Scott if Melissa thought it was necessary (she hadn't), and that had turned into dinner, which had turned into a weekly date. Not that he thinks of it as a date--at least, he hadn't until now.
"You still there?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says, faintly embarrassed; he can feel his face heat and is grateful it's dark enough that no one can see it. "Yeah, okay."
"Just call when you're on your way."
"Will do." He hangs up before he says something stupid.
*
It's two hours before they get the scene cleared. The aggressive mist has turned to rain and now the chill feels like it's settled into his bones. Part of him just wants to go home, make sure Stiles is still breathing, and then crawl into bed. The other part of him wants to see Melissa, maybe talk to her long enough to wipe away the memory of mangled bodies for a little while.
He decides to split the difference; after he calls Melissa, he checks in with Stiles. There's a lot of fumbling noises when Stiles answers, and some heavy breathing, and okay, he really doesn't want to know what he's interrupting so he says, "I'm having a late dinner with Melissa McCall. I'll see you when I get home." He hopes the you better be there is implied.
"Be safe! I won't wait up," Stiles says and hangs up before he can respond.
He glares at his phone since he can't glare at Stiles, even though he's already cataloguing the contents of his wallet and the glove compartment of the car and coming up empty. He hasn't bought condoms in years, though he's pretty sure Stiles has a supply (more wishful thinking on Stiles's part than anything, or maybe he just prefers to believe that).
Not that he's going to need one tonight.
He swipes a hand across his face and focuses on the road in front of him until he reaches the McCall house and pulls into the driveway.
She opens the door, haloed by the warm light of the house, and he smiles at the sight.
"Hi," he says.
"You look like a drowned rat." There's affection in her voice when she says it, though, and if he's not imagining things, maybe more. "You can leave your boots by the door."
He hands her the bottle of Merlot he'd stashed in the car and then forgotten about when the call about the accident came in. "Hopefully this makes up for my lateness."
She looks at the label and hums in approval. "That just might."
He hangs up his wet coat and, after a moment of watching her hips sway as she heads back into the kitchen, he shucks his boots (thankfully, she doesn't see him hopping around on one foot like an idiot). He heads towards the kitchen and finds her taking the ziti out of the oven. He takes a moment to watch that, too.
She straightens up, puts the tray of ziti on the counter, and gives him a knowing look, eyebrows raised. "Are you staring at my ass?"
He chokes out an embarrassed, "Yes."
She nods. "It's okay." She grins, then. "It's a fine ass."
He grins in response. "Yes, yes, it is." He turns away to open the bottle of wine, and they move around each other in the kitchen like they've been doing it for years, and okay, that's because they have, but something's changed tonight, and he can't help but be glad and just a little nervous about it.
He talks a little about the accident while they eat, because she's an ER nurse and she's not squeamish, and because she understands, maybe better than anyone else he knows, how rough it is to not be able to do anything for the victims except tell their loved ones they're gone.
He eats two helpings of ziti, and between that and the wine and the warmth in Melissa's eyes, the last of the lingering chill of the evening dissipates. He leans back in his chair and sips his wine and laughs as she tells him the latest gossip about two of the doctors at the hospital.
"It's a regular Grey's Anatomy over there," she says, and he doesn't even pretend not to know what she's talking about, though Stiles mocks him whenever he comes across the episodes on the DVR.
He helps her clean up afterward, and she's moved on to telling him about the latest disaster in Scott's love life. "I told him that he's young and there will be plenty of other girls if this one doesn't work out, but he's sixteen, you know? He thinks it's Allison or no one."
"It's hard to move on when you lose someone you love," he agrees. "But everyone does eventually."
Melissa swings the dishwasher door shut and leans against the counter. She cocks her head and looks at him thoughtfully. "Do they?"
"They do." He comes to a decision he's been stumbling towards all night and takes a deep breath. "Even me." He leans in and kisses her, one hand on her hip and the other on her cheek. Her mouth is warm and tastes of wine and tomato sauce, and she feels soft and delicate and strong pressed up against him, breathing into his mouth.
His heart beats like the fluttering of wings and he feels young again as they make out, pressed together between the fridge and the dishwasher, and he doesn't know how long it's gone on when the front door slams and Scott yells, "Mom, I'm home."
They spring apart like naughty teenagers, laughing and blushing, and she keeps hold of his hand even as they put some distance between them.
Scott comes into the kitchen and grins. "Hi, Sheriff. I hope you guys left me some ziti."
"It's in the fridge," Melissa says, and Scott practically dives for the refrigerator door. "I'm going to walk Sheriff Stilinski out." She wraps a hand around his elbow and leads him out to the foyer, where he stumbles into his boots and shrugs his coat on, which takes a lot longer than it should because she keeps leaning in to steal kisses and completely discombobulate him. He has a faint, likely forlorn, hope that Stiles will be just as oblivious as Scott when he gets home.
"Thank you," he says, giving her one last, lingering kiss before he opens the door. "For everything."
"You're very welcome," she answers. "We should do this more often."
"Yes," he says. "A lot more often." He stumbles out into the rainy night with a stupid grin on his face and a warm feeling in his chest.
end
~*~
Feedback is appreciated.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/539272.html.
people have commented there.
Transition
Teen Wolf; Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall; g; 1,555 words
He hadn't thought of his weekly dinners with Melissa as dates. At least, not until now.
For
angelgazing. Also the West Wing title project.
~*~
Transition
Dinner with Melissa is a weekly event now (he doesn't want to think of it as a habit, a routine, as something he takes for granted, because he knows all too well how easily the things you take for granted can be taken away), a bright spot to look forward to while he's catching up on paperwork or slogging through one of Stiles's allegedly healthy yet frequently tasteless meals or tramping through the woods to investigate yet another mauling.
Tonight, at least, it's nothing so inexplicable. He stands beside the wreckage of a late-model SUV and bites back a sigh as he looks down at the bodies. It's a couple, probably in their mid-twenties. They look terribly, heartbreakingly young. It makes him feel painfully, helplessly old.
While his deputies stake out a perimeter around the scene, he pulls out his phone and calls Melissa.
"Looks like I'm going to have to take a rain check," he says when she answers. "There was an accident out on Crabtree Road. Two fatalities. Looks like I'm going to be here for a while."
"Why don't you come by when you're done?"
He wants to, but--"It's probably going to be late."
"It's just ziti. I can keep it warm." She sounds like she means it. "I start on second shift tomorrow, so I can sleep in."
And there's a distracting thought--Melissa soft and warm in bed with late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. Not that he's actually had the experience. Not that he thinks he's ever going to, though over the past few months he's started to want to, which isn't something he ever really expected (or, to be honest, wanted) before. But his wife's been gone for years and Melissa's husband isn't coming back either, and she's a good looking woman who's done a damn fine job raising her son alone, and no one knows better than he does how hard that is, and how nice it would be to have someone to share it with.
When the boys were younger, he'd entertained the notion occasionally, usually after one too many belts of whiskey, and then laughed at himself for coming up with ridiculous Brady Bunch fantasies. He hadn't been ready and she'd never shown any interest, so he'd stopped, mostly.
But then weird things started happening again, and Stiles started lying to him more often than not, and he knows (even if he can't prove) that the two are related. And if Stiles is involved, Scott must be, too, and for all their dumbassery, they're good boys. After what happened at the station house (and then later), he'd offered to have a talk with Scott if Melissa thought it was necessary (she hadn't), and that had turned into dinner, which had turned into a weekly date. Not that he thinks of it as a date--at least, he hadn't until now.
"You still there?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says, faintly embarrassed; he can feel his face heat and is grateful it's dark enough that no one can see it. "Yeah, okay."
"Just call when you're on your way."
"Will do." He hangs up before he says something stupid.
*
It's two hours before they get the scene cleared. The aggressive mist has turned to rain and now the chill feels like it's settled into his bones. Part of him just wants to go home, make sure Stiles is still breathing, and then crawl into bed. The other part of him wants to see Melissa, maybe talk to her long enough to wipe away the memory of mangled bodies for a little while.
He decides to split the difference; after he calls Melissa, he checks in with Stiles. There's a lot of fumbling noises when Stiles answers, and some heavy breathing, and okay, he really doesn't want to know what he's interrupting so he says, "I'm having a late dinner with Melissa McCall. I'll see you when I get home." He hopes the you better be there is implied.
"Be safe! I won't wait up," Stiles says and hangs up before he can respond.
He glares at his phone since he can't glare at Stiles, even though he's already cataloguing the contents of his wallet and the glove compartment of the car and coming up empty. He hasn't bought condoms in years, though he's pretty sure Stiles has a supply (more wishful thinking on Stiles's part than anything, or maybe he just prefers to believe that).
Not that he's going to need one tonight.
He swipes a hand across his face and focuses on the road in front of him until he reaches the McCall house and pulls into the driveway.
She opens the door, haloed by the warm light of the house, and he smiles at the sight.
"Hi," he says.
"You look like a drowned rat." There's affection in her voice when she says it, though, and if he's not imagining things, maybe more. "You can leave your boots by the door."
He hands her the bottle of Merlot he'd stashed in the car and then forgotten about when the call about the accident came in. "Hopefully this makes up for my lateness."
She looks at the label and hums in approval. "That just might."
He hangs up his wet coat and, after a moment of watching her hips sway as she heads back into the kitchen, he shucks his boots (thankfully, she doesn't see him hopping around on one foot like an idiot). He heads towards the kitchen and finds her taking the ziti out of the oven. He takes a moment to watch that, too.
She straightens up, puts the tray of ziti on the counter, and gives him a knowing look, eyebrows raised. "Are you staring at my ass?"
He chokes out an embarrassed, "Yes."
She nods. "It's okay." She grins, then. "It's a fine ass."
He grins in response. "Yes, yes, it is." He turns away to open the bottle of wine, and they move around each other in the kitchen like they've been doing it for years, and okay, that's because they have, but something's changed tonight, and he can't help but be glad and just a little nervous about it.
He talks a little about the accident while they eat, because she's an ER nurse and she's not squeamish, and because she understands, maybe better than anyone else he knows, how rough it is to not be able to do anything for the victims except tell their loved ones they're gone.
He eats two helpings of ziti, and between that and the wine and the warmth in Melissa's eyes, the last of the lingering chill of the evening dissipates. He leans back in his chair and sips his wine and laughs as she tells him the latest gossip about two of the doctors at the hospital.
"It's a regular Grey's Anatomy over there," she says, and he doesn't even pretend not to know what she's talking about, though Stiles mocks him whenever he comes across the episodes on the DVR.
He helps her clean up afterward, and she's moved on to telling him about the latest disaster in Scott's love life. "I told him that he's young and there will be plenty of other girls if this one doesn't work out, but he's sixteen, you know? He thinks it's Allison or no one."
"It's hard to move on when you lose someone you love," he agrees. "But everyone does eventually."
Melissa swings the dishwasher door shut and leans against the counter. She cocks her head and looks at him thoughtfully. "Do they?"
"They do." He comes to a decision he's been stumbling towards all night and takes a deep breath. "Even me." He leans in and kisses her, one hand on her hip and the other on her cheek. Her mouth is warm and tastes of wine and tomato sauce, and she feels soft and delicate and strong pressed up against him, breathing into his mouth.
His heart beats like the fluttering of wings and he feels young again as they make out, pressed together between the fridge and the dishwasher, and he doesn't know how long it's gone on when the front door slams and Scott yells, "Mom, I'm home."
They spring apart like naughty teenagers, laughing and blushing, and she keeps hold of his hand even as they put some distance between them.
Scott comes into the kitchen and grins. "Hi, Sheriff. I hope you guys left me some ziti."
"It's in the fridge," Melissa says, and Scott practically dives for the refrigerator door. "I'm going to walk Sheriff Stilinski out." She wraps a hand around his elbow and leads him out to the foyer, where he stumbles into his boots and shrugs his coat on, which takes a lot longer than it should because she keeps leaning in to steal kisses and completely discombobulate him. He has a faint, likely forlorn, hope that Stiles will be just as oblivious as Scott when he gets home.
"Thank you," he says, giving her one last, lingering kiss before he opens the door. "For everything."
"You're very welcome," she answers. "We should do this more often."
"Yes," he says. "A lot more often." He stumbles out into the rainy night with a stupid grin on his face and a warm feeling in his chest.
end
~*~
Feedback is appreciated.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/539272.html.
people have commented there.