Title: Hearts In Unexpected Places
Author: Reinamy
Pairing: Melissa McCall/Derek Hale
Warnings: Post-S1 AU, language, age disparity, species disparity, mature-ish content.
Summary: It starts because Scott is a worrywart and Derek is too noble for his own good, and then it unravels from there. Meanwhile, Melissa is just trying to figure out when her life started spiraling out of her control.
Author's Note: My second TW fic, written because I love the idea of these two together. This is set when Scott & co. are in their freshman year of college, and it's canon-compliant up until the end of S1. At any rate, I won't get too into any canon-specific supernatural drama since this is primarily a Melissa/Derek romance fic. (insert fangirl squeal.) Anyway, please enjoy my first, and hopefully not last, foray into Merek.
P.S.: I was experimenting with present-tense and minimalist "prose" when I wrote this. Hopefully it turned out alright. Let me know if it's too, well, threadbare, and I'll flesh it out some.
P.P.S.: Do you know how strange it is to write a romance fic where the protagonist shares the same name as your little sister? Then imagine said sister peering at your screen and asking what you're writing and why she's in it. Can you say: awkwaaard.
Hearts In Unexpected Places
I.
Melissa opens the door, levels a look at the man shadowing her doorstep, and sighs.
"Derek?" she asks, probably a little too longsuffering to be considered polite. Not that anyone can blame her. Wherever Derek seems to be trouble tends to be lurking around the corner. Melissa only barely restrains herself from peaking over his shoulder to see what threats might be charging their way.
"Scott," Derek says simply, like he's answering her question. It takes her a moment to understand and when she does she rolls her eyes.
Scott. Of course.
"Uh-huh. Well, as you can see I'm fine," she says. She fully expects Derek to grunt at her and leave, and she's a little (okay, a lot) surprised when he doesn't.
"Is there anything else?" she asks slowly.
Derek inhales deeply. "Something's burning."
Melissa stares at him. "What are—" she freezes, remembers the stir fry cooking on her stove top, and turns on her heel with a curse.
She rushes into the kitchen and her mouth falls open at the sight of a fucking inferno licking the paint off her ceiling. She waves her hand in front of her face, trying to stave off the smoke, and is about to rush inside for the fire extinguisher when a pair of hands holds her back.
She stumbles as Derek moves past her, walking into the grey kitchen like the smoke doesn't even bother him though she knows it has to. His werewolf senses must be wailing.
Derek grabs the fire extinguisher from under the cupboard—and she tries to not to be too disturbed by the fact that he apparently knows his way around her kitchen—and starts shooting it at the flames. The hissing sound it makes, combined with the furious crackling of the fire, makes her want to clap her hands over her ears. She doesn't dare to, though, not when Derek might need her help.
The extinguisher coughs a final white puff and then dies, and Melissa stares in horror as Derek snuffs the last desperate sparks—and shit, that was her favorite towel, too—with his hand.
The silence that follows is almost deafening.
It takes a moment, but then Melissa's rushing into her kitchen, eyes tearing up from the smoke, and grabbing Derek's hand.
"What were you thinking," she snaps, observing the angry blisters and burned skin of his palm. "Christ, Derek, come on, we've got to get this under water, shit, this should be healing already, right?"
She's babbling. She knows she's babbling, and it's humiliating. She usually has a lot more composure—has to, considering it's part of her job description—and normally she'd just perform basic first aid before whisking the injured person away to the emergency room but she can't exactly do that considering he's not human. So she has to wait, and Melissa hates waiting when there's something she can be doing to help. It goes against the nurse in her.
It doesn't help any that serious burn injuries make Melissa queasy. She was on call the night that Peter Hale was brought into the hospital after the Hale house went up in flames. She still has nightmares about the sight of his boiling, peeling flesh, dark red with blood and singed meat. She'd still been a young nurse, then, fresh out of school with little experience to speak of.
She remembers going home that night, sneaking into her son's bedroom, and crying herself to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. She'd come very close to saying "to hell with it" and switching careers again.
By the time they reach the sink Derek's hand has started to heal. She watches, fascinated, as his flesh begins to stitch itself together. The blisters eventually recede and the redness of his skin pales to a natural pink.
"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to seeing that," she says, remembering the time Scott accidentally dropped a knife on his foot and the two of them had sat down together to watch it heal.
Derek grunts, and Melissa realizes she's still holding his hand and promptly drops it.
She clears her throat.
"Thanks," she tells him. She would blame him for being the one to call her away from the kitchen in the first place, but Melissa knows herself. If it wasn't Derek it would have been something else. When it comes to her work she has the patience and concentration of a monk, but for some unknown reason it just doesn't transfer over to her cooking.
Derek's expression is as blank as ever. "It's no problem," he says, and then turns around and stalks away.
Melissa almost rolls her eyes at him. She follows him out of her burnt kitchen (she doesn't want to think about how much she's going to have to pay to get the paint redone…and possibly buy a new stove), into the hallway, and to the foyer.
"So I guess I should expect a panicked phone call from Scott, huh?"
She thinks that might be a hint of a smile, but she can't tell for sure.
"I'll take that as a yes," she sighs. She's already accepted the fact that Scott's probably more protective over her than she is of him (and that's really saying something), but that doesn't mean she has to swallow his constant worrying.
If her kid weren't so damn cute, and if she didn't find his fretting over her so adorable, she would have slapped him over the head for it a long time ago.
Derek nods at her once and walks out. He turns around just as he makes it down the steps and cocks his head.
"The pipe beneath your kitchen sink just broke," he says suddenly.
Melissa stares at him for a moment, then closes her eyes and rubs her hand over her face with a groan. Seriously, her life.
When she opens her eyes again Derek is gone. She looks around in confusion before shaking her head and reaching for the open door.
"And that's not creepy or anything," she mutters, slamming it shut.
She has some phone calls to make.
II.
The next time he rings her doorbell Melissa is soaking wet and pissed.
"Yes, Derek?"
"Scott," Derek answers.
Melissa has a feeling that this is going to become a thing.
"Well, as you can see I'm fine."
Derek looks down at her wet clothes and the puddle forming under her bare feet and raises his brows at her. It's so condescending that Melissa wants to pluck them.
"I'm alive," she corrects, and gives Derek a pointed look.
He doesn't move.
"What now?" she asks tiredly. "Is there another fire destroying my kitchen? Did the roof above my bedroom collapse? Is there another infestation of Brownies in my attic? What?"
Derek shifts and looks distinctly uncomfortable. "If…" he starts, clears his throat, then continues, "I can have a look. At the sink. If you'd like."
Melissa quirks an eyebrow at him, and he looks down and glares at the floor.
So Derek Hale does get nervous. Will wonders never cease.
She stamps down on the very independent part of her that wants to reject his offer—she can very well do it herself…eventually—because the more rational part of her, the part that realizes how miserably wet she is, how sore, and how done she is with this stupid broken house and idiot plumbers who don't know what the hell they're doing, well, that part just wants to take a hot bath, eat a nice dinner, and get to bed early for tomorrow's morning shift.
Melissa opens the door wordlessly, and after a moment Derek steps inside.
He follows her into the kitchen, eyes no doubt jumping to the clean, burnt-free paint. Too bad the same can't be said for her oven.
The cabinet under the sink is open and there's a noticeable stream of water pouring out. She has towels and blankets spread on the floor in front of it, but it's barely accomplishing anything. The items are already completely soaked through and the water's spreading fast.
All because Bart McEvoy doesn't know how to do his fucking job and can't be assed to fix the problem he caused on "the Lord's day".
If Melissa's tiles are ruined because of this she's going beat Bart with them the next time she sees him.
"Tools are right there. Have at," she says, and then goes over to the stove to stir her soup, ignoring the water on the floor.
She watches from the corner of his eye as Derek shrugs off his jacket and places it over the table. He bends down, rummages through the tool box, and disappears inside the cabinet.
Melissa returns her attention to the soup. After a while she turns off the fire, dips a spoon in, and dares a taste.
Her nose wrinkles and she cringes.
Frozen dinner it is, then.
She lifts the pot to the back of the stove, slides the lid on, and glances at Derek. He's still inside doing lord only knew what. The leaking seems to have lessened some, but Melissa doesn't want to jinx it so she stays quiet.
"Mind if I take a shower?" she asks.
"Go ahead," comes the muffled response.
Melissa goes.
III.
When she comes back downstairs, warm from her shower and the dryer-warm clothes she slipped into, it's to find Derek gone.
Her sink is no longer leaking. The wet blankets and towels are piled into a bucket and the floor's completely dry. Her tool box is closed, set on the floor beside the jacket-free table. Melissa blinks and moves forward to investigate.
She immediately notices something else amiss and her gaze returns to the direction of the stove. It takes her a while to realize that the pot's been moved and she walks over hesitantly. Warily, Melissa removes the lid and peaks inside.
That's definitely not what Melissa had left in there.
For one thing, it actually smells good.
For another, it's no longer green.
Melissa debates with herself for a moment, but eventually her rumbling stomach wins out and she spoons a bit of the liquid out and takes a tentative sip.
She closes her eyes.
"Mm," she moans, reaching over to grab a clean bowl.
She doesn't know what Derek did to the soup, but she's not about to complain seeing as how she can actually eat it now.
Melissa pours herself a generous amount and walks out of the kitchen, spoon still in her mouth. She plops onto the living room couch, sets the bowl down onto the table, and fishes for the remote between the cushions.
She's going to have to thank him, she thinks, burrowing into the couch with the bowl in her hands and The Time Traveler's Wife playing on the television.
She'll do it the next time he comes, because she has a feeling that there is going to be a next time.
She finds herself not being as bothered by this as she probably should be.
IV.
The first thing Melissa says when Derek returns two weeks later is, "You wouldn't happen to know how to repatch a roof, would you?"
Which is how she finds herself on the back porch twenty minutes water, watching Derek Hale hammer and nail some brand new tiles onto the edge of her roof. There'd been a pretty devastating storm two nights ago, and on top of a broken window in her son's bedroom, certain sections of the roof had fallen victim to the elements. Probably some lightening too, if the scorch marks are anything to go by.
Melissa leans against a tree and watches. Derek is once again wearing an altogether too-tight undershirt (which Melissa wants to roll her eyes at because seriously, it's November, Jesus) and pants that look like they were actually painted on. She feels a little bad for ogling a man nearly half her age, not that it stops her. Melissa can't remember the last time she's seen such an attractive male.
Well, she can, actually, but for her own sake of mind she chooses not to. There's nothing quite like knowing you once dated a psychotic werewolf cum serial killer, after all.
Melissa shudders and glares at the ground.
That's a whole can of worms that she doubts she'll ever be ready to open.
There's a loud thud, and she looks up to see Derek standing there, a stack of the old boards under one arm and large tool box in the opposite hand.
She looks up, takes a few steps back, and nods in appreciation. It looks good.
"I can't thank you enough, Derek," she says.
Derek shifts and shakes his head. "It's no trouble."
Really, now that Melissa's been spending actual time with him outside of life and death situations she's beginning to see how awkward the guy is.
He kind of reminds her of the Sheriff, only more broody and growly. And way more intense.
She pointedly doesn't think about how better built he is, too.
"You want to come in to eat something? I was in the middle of making dinner," she offers.
Derek looks like he'd literally rather do anything else.
She scowls at him. "It's just pasta. No one can mess up pasta."
V.
No one except Melissa McCall, apparently, because when she goes to taste it (and really, she's just being stubborn at this point; the sight alone should be enough to clue her in to the fact that it's just not edible) she silently gags and lets it fall out of her mouth and onto a napkin.
She looks up and sees Derek's mouth twitch, but it's immediately hidden behind that wall he probably thinks is an actual expression.
"I don't understand how this always happens," she mutters forlornly, poking the stiff sludge in the pot. She even referred to an actual recipe this time and everything.
"I guess I'm going to have to recant the dinner invitation," she says eventually, lifting the pot and pouring the thing inside into the trash bin. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Derek says quickly. Too quickly, if you ask her.
Melissa's too disappointed to feel overly upset. She'd really wanted pasta.
She sighs, gives one last mournful look to her ruined dinner, and then closes the lid. She tosses the pot in the sink, squeezes some detergent in, and begins filling it up.
"I can—I can help, if you'd like."
Melissa looks up, startled.
"I'm sorry?" She can't have heard that right.
Derek's staring grumpily at a point over her shoulder. "I can… make some pasta. If you want."
Her eyebrows shoot up and she thinks she might be gaping a little.
"I don't have to," he says quickly, glancing at her and then away again. "Just. You look disappointed, so." He fidgets.
How did she ever miss how utterly adorable (-ish) Derek Hale apparently is?
Melissa ducks her head to hide a grin and nods. "You sure? I mean, I'd appreciate it, but don't feel obligated or anything. You already fixed my roof." And her sink. And put out a fire. And technically fixed her dinner the last time, too. Jesus, put that way…
Derek shrugs. "I don't mind. I—I like to cook."
Derek Hale, resident Alpha werewolf and overall bad boy, likes to cook.
Seriously, will wonders never cease.
"Then go right ahead," Melissa says, and plops down at the table to shamelessly watch. Derek gives her an embarrassed look, probably hoping she'd beat it and leave him to it. Yeah, not a chance, wolfman. As if she's going to miss this.
Derek sighs, probably admitting defeat and wondering if he can take back his offer, but doesn't walk out like a part of her expects. He cleans the pot in the sink, fills it with water, and then places it onto the stove. He turns the fire on low, then begins going through the cupboards and collecting supplies.
Melissa is, without a doubt, fascinated.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Derek's capable of cooking. The upgraded version of the soup she made was practically a work of art. Still, nothing quite prepares her for how effortlessly he seems go about it. He handles the cookware with ease and chops vegetables like it's his job. Melissa watches as he quickly dices the onion into perfect cubes and feels a tiny shred of shame that her onions always end up looking like she took a weed whacker to them.
Derek reaches into the top cabinet for a pan and starts tossing different herbs and vegetables on top of whatever it was he'd been beating into a bowl. She eventually realizes that it's tomatoes, and holy shit, he's making tomato sauce from scratch. And she'd been about to tell him that she had a jar of Prego in the cabinet, too.
Within minutes the most delicious smells are spreading through the kitchen and Melissa's mouth is almost watering as Derek drains the pasta.
To distract herself from leaping across the table and eating from the goddamned pot, Melissa clears her throat and asks, "So who taught you how to cook?"
Derek's shoulders stiffen, and Melissa thinks back on her words and grimaces.
"My mother," Derek says after a while. She can barely hear him over the sizzling of the pasta sauce and the scraping of the spoon against the pot.
She clears her throat. "Talia was a good cook," Melissa murmurs carefully, remembering the pies and muffins the woman used to sell at fairs.
"Yeah." The tension doesn't leave his shoulders.
Melissa sighs, leans her hand against her palm, and waits.
Five minutes later, a huge plate is being set in front of her. There's the pasta, but above it is a thick, chunky sauce with visible herbs, minced garlic, grated parmesan cheese, and sautéed mushrooms. There's even a parsley leaf on the side for decoration. Melissa didn't even know she had parsley. Hell, she didn't even know she had mushrooms. Or cheese, come to think of it.
Her ineptitude in the kitchen is making a lot more sense now.
Melissa spares enough attention away from her plate to notice that Derek didn't serve himself one. She frowns at him.
"You are going to eat, aren't you?"
He clears his throat and doesn't look at her. "I wasn't intending to, no."
"Why?"
Derek hesitates. "I just. I'm not that hungry. I can eat at home. Later."
"Or you can sit your ass down and eat the food you just cooked now. Unless there's a reason you're not feeling too keen on eating this."
She looks down at her plate dubiously. Thing is, she's hungry enough that that might not deter her from eating it anyway.
"Of course not," he says, and that's the closest to scandalized Melissa has ever heard him. She laughs.
"Then sit down, Jesus. You're making me nervous."
Derek huffs, but goes and gets a plate for himself. He sets it down across from her, sits, and quite literally begins to shovel it down his throat.
Not hungry her ass.
Melissa would comment on his lack of manners, but she's too busy inhaling her own plate to form the words.
They don't talk as they eat, but it's mostly comfortable. Derek leaves quickly, though not without washing their plates first (Melissa never thought she'd ever think it, but it might not be such a terrible thing if Derek rubbed off on Scott. Just a little). Melissa sees him out and watches as he hops into his Camaro—which he deems to bring this time, and good for him for realizing that normal people don't leap through trees or whatever it is he does—and speeds away.
Melissa watches for a while before stepping inside and shutting the door.
VI.
Her conversations with Scott go like this:
"Are you sure you're okay, mom?"
"Yes, Scott."
"Because I'm only three hours away and if there's something wrong—"
"I'm fine, Scott."
"You're not working too much, are you? Mom, you have to remember not to work too much, you're getting older and—"
"Excuse me!"
"Stiles was telling me what overworking does to your heart, and mom, you work too much and are you eating alright? No really salty foods or anything because Stiles said—"
"I'm gonna kick Stiles' ass—"
"That it's bad for your blood pressure and—oh! Mom, there hasn't been anything weird happening in town, right? No evil supernatural creatures or anything? Because Derek didn't say anything but you know how Derek's like, he never says anything important until it's too late, but mom, if you think something's wrong you have to call Derek, okay? Do you even have his number? Or Mr. Stilinski—he'll make sure you're safe—"
"Jesus Christ, Scott, shut up."
"…"
"Now, are you alright? With your classes? They aren't too hard are they, honey? You've been going to tutoring for Chemistry, haven't you? And how's your roommate? What's his name—"
"Brian."
"He's been treating you alright? And you've been making friends, haven't you? Stiles told me you guys went to a party last week—"
"I'm gonna kill Stiles—"
"And that you left with a girl. Honestly, hun, I don't care as long as you're being safe and smart, alright honey? Not that I want you sleeping around—"
"Oh my god, mom, I'm not—"
"But I know how things get in college, and all the need for experimentation, but I just need you to be safe—"
"Someone please kill me."
"And have you been eating alright over there? You don't need me to send you food or anything, do you?"
"Oh please, don't!"
"What's that supposed to—"
Every time.
VII.
Melissa hates the world.
She just got out of a 12 hour shift and wants nothing, absolutely nothing more than to go home, crawl into her bed, and die for a couple of hours. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently someone up there thinks it is because her car breaks down smack in the middle of a barely used road five minutes after it starts raining cats and dogs. Her phone dies shortly after.
Melissa doesn't even bother trying to get out and see what the problem is. She knows about as much about cars as she does astrophysics. That is to say, not much.
Also, she's near the woods, and if it's one thing she's learned since finding out that her son's a werewolf it's that bad, life-ending crap tends to happen in the woods during the middle of the night. And Melissa has no intention to of being bitten, mauled, eaten, sacrificed, body swapped, abducted, haunted, shot, drugged, and-slash-or just plain murdered.
So she sits there, freezing because the heater broke a week ago, straining her eyes in the dark to see if headlights might be approaching. Not that she expects there to be. It's two o'clock in the morning on a weekday in November on a barely used road.
Seriously, her life.
After twenty minutes of shivering, glancing hopefully at her phone (because Melissa is nothing if not irrationally optimistic), and squinting into complete darkness, she finally gives up, kicks off her shoes, and prepares for a long night of uncomfortable sleeping.
She's just about to drift off (she is a nurse, after all—she can fall asleep almost anywhere) when something knocks against her window and she jumps.
She looks up to see Derek creepily peering into her window and she rolls her eyes. Of course.
She rolls down the window.
"Fancy meeting you here."
Derek huffs. "Need a ride?"
"Please," Melissa says. She leans down to put on her shoes, grabs her purse from the seat next to her, rolls the window back up and opens the door.
It's still gushing, and she winces at the thought of having to be in it even if only for a few seconds. Derek's disappeared again (figures), but she sees his car only a few feet away, door already slightly parted, and prepares to bolt for it. She steps out, expecting to be immediately drenched, and startles when it doesn't happen.
She looks up and Derek's holding an umbrella up for her.
Well.
"Thanks," she says again, sagging with relief. It's freezing outside, and knowing her luck she'll probably end up getting pneumonia.
Derek grunts and walks her over to his car. He doesn't pull the umbrella away until she's seated fully inside, and then closes the door and goes around the other side.
Melissa all but melts into the seat. The car is warm, and the seat is surprisingly soft.
If someone were to tell Melissa right now that Derek is the Second Coming, she might actually believe them.
"Your house?"
"Yeah, thanks."
They drive in silence.
After a while when it becomes obvious that Melissa is in serious danger of nodding off, she turns to Derek, whose profile is stark against the darkness of the car, and asks, "So what were you doing out here anyway?"
Derek glances at her, and then looks back toward the road. "Couldn't sleep. Went for a drive. Noticed your car."
Melissa looks at him dubiously. "In this weather?"
There's a moment of silence and then, "I like the rain."
Melissa holds back a snort. Of course he does.
It doesn't take long to reach her house, but that might be because she'd ended up drifting off at one point. Derek hands her the damp umbrella just as she opens the door, and she's about to step out when he suddenly says, "Your car. I'll check it out as soon as it stops raining, see if I can fix it. If I can't I'll call a pick-up."
Melissa turns back and gives him a tired, relieved smile.
"So you fix cars too, huh?"
It's hard to tell in the dim light, but she thinks he might be blushing.
"A little," he admits, grudgingly, like it's something to be ashamed of.
"You really are quite handy to have around," she tells him, laughing.
She's serious, though. It makes her wonder just how much Derek has done for all of them, and just how much of it has gone overlooked.
"Thank you, really," she says abruptly. Derek's eyes widen a little, and she notices that they look grey now. Last time she saw him she thinks they were green. "I really do appreciate all the help. I know Scott probably told you to keep an eye on me, but I doubt this was all in your job description, too."
Derek ducks his head and yup, that's definitely a blush.
She leans forward, pats his arm gently, and gets out of the car before his interior becomes too wet and he changes his mind about checking out her car.
"Night, Derek."
"Good night, Mrs. McCall."
When Melissa dreams that night, it's of a large body with bright grey eyes looming over her, protecting her from the rain.
VIII.
Melissa's dressed and halfway through her lunch when she remembers that her car is still stranded out on the road and she has absolutely no way to get to work. Shit.
She's going through her phone, seeing if there's anyone she can call to pick her up, when someone knocks on her door.
Frowning, she goes to open it and—
"Derek?"
"I couldn't fix your car," he says immediately, "but I called for a pick-up and the guy, Morty, said it's your engine. It should be fine to pick up tomorrow morning. It's at Mason's garage."
Well, at least that's one thing solved.
"Thanks, Derek. You really didn't have to."
He grunts noncommittally.
"If that's all I—"
"I can take you to work. If you need someone to."
She blinks. "No, it's alright, I can find somebody—"
"It's fine. I don't mind."
"Oh," she says. "In that case…"
"I'll be waiting outside when you're ready," he says, then walks away. Just like that.
Jesus.
Melissa doesn't have to leave for another half-hour, but he's doing her a favor and she really doesn't want to keep him waiting for so long. So she shovels down her bagel and coffee (nearly vaporizing her taste buds in the process), grabs her purse and jacket, and leaves.
She locks up after herself and hurries to the car. She breathes a sigh of relief when the door closes behind her because it's so warm.
She really needs to do something about getting her heater fixed. After her engine.
She's honestly surprised she isn't swimming in debt already (though it's a close thing).
Derek starts the car without a word and pulls out onto the street. She glances to the side in time to see Mrs. Withers point at their car and whisper something to her husband and rolls her eyes as they pass them.
Bunch of nosy busybodies.
"So what is it that you do?" Melissa finds herself asking.
She glances to the side in time to see Derek's lips pull down in a frown.
"Work-wise, I mean. Or school-wise. Scott mentioned something about online classes?"
Derek's silent for a long while before he eventually says, "Yeah. Master's in accounting."
Melissa can't stop her eyebrows from shooting up. "Seriously?"
He looks embarrassed. "Yeah."
"Talk about covering all your bases. Jesus. You really can do everything," she says, only half-joking.
Derek snorts. "Not hardly."
"You cook, you clean, you can fix leaking pipes and patch up roofs and fix cars—though I haven't seen any proof of this yet (she winks)—and apparently you can manage money, too. You're going to make someone a very happy wife, some day."
Derek chokes. His gaze swivels to her, and then back. His ears are definitely turning pink.
Melissa thinks she's just discovered another hobby.
It's a good thing she's accepted the fact that she's a horrible human being already.
"Why accounting, though?" She has to ask because she just doesn't see it.
A long, long time passes before Derek says, "After the fire, we. Laura and I. There was a lot of insurance money. Bills. When we moved we had to do everything for ourselves. Rent, utilities, education costs, expenses. Laura. She wasn't good at handling money. Couldn't budget to save her life. I always liked math so…" he trails off, grimly.
Melissa stares at him silently. "I see," she says, trying not to imagine it—imagine a sixteen year old little boy and his eighteen year old sister lose everything they have and then pick up and try to start over in an entirely new city, all by themselves.
Melissa's not even going to think about what happens to them when they return to their hometown five years later.
She inhales deeply. "Must have been hard."
"Yeah."
Another five minutes pass before Melissa asks, "Do you like it, though? Accounting?"
Derek shrugs. "It's…fine. Something to do."
"You ever consider working?"
"It's not like I need to," he says gruffly.
"Probably not," Melissa concedes, "but it's something to do. Scott seems to be under the impression that you sit at home all day and glower at walls," or run around in the woods murdering innocent bunnies, but she's not going to tell him that, even though he probably knows—it's not as if her son has much of a filter where Derek's concerned, "and while I highly doubt that, you still look like you might have too much time on your hands."
Derek grunts. "Not really."
"Oh?"
"The work is vigorous. It takes up most of my time. And. When I'm not doing that I'm renovating the house."
Melissa pauses. "The Hale house?" she asks uncertainly.
"Yeah."
"Scott told me you moved into an apartment downtown, though." Which apparently has a huge hole in one wall.
"I did."
"Do you plan to move back?"
Derek shrugs. "Don't know. I'll figure it out when I'm done."
Melissa really hopes he doesn't, though.
They make it to the hospital in record time, which is disappointing. She has forty-five minutes to kill and she figures she'll spend it in the cafeteria, contributing to the inches on her waist. The horrors of getting older.
"I really appreciate the ride," she says.
"I don't mind."
"See ya, Derek."
She's closes the door and begins to walk away when Derek calls her name.
"What time do you get off work?" he asks.
She frowns. "Nine o'clock. Why?"
"I'll be here," he says, and then drives off.
Melissa stares at the retreating car until it's a little speck on the road, and then bustles inside, out of the cold.
IX.
Work's a bitch, and when Melissa finally leaves that godforsaken hellhole (she loves her job, really) it's nearly ten-fifteen.
A part of her hopes Derek isn't waiting outside for her because there's nothing quite like showing your gratitude to someone by making them wait for you an hour longer than they expect.
She's not at all surprised to find him waiting in the almost-empty parking lot, sitting on the hood of his car like it's forty degrees warmer, his nose buried in a book.
"How to Kill a Mockingbird?" she reads aloud as she approaches. "I always thought it was boring."
"It is," Derek says, snapping it shut.
He doesn't tell her "you're late." Doesn't even look at her like he's annoyed or tired of waiting. In fact, he looks like he might be a little pleased to see her.
Melissa thinks she's looking too much into it, though.
"Sorry for making you wait. We were short on staff and I basically had to fight my way out of there."
"It's fine." He looks at her for a long moment and then ducks into his car.
Melissa notices that his eyes are blue today.
She settles in beside him, snaps on her seatbelt, and drums her fingers against the dashboard.
She feels nervous for some reason. Doesn't know why.
They make it to Mason's in twenty minutes. It's a quiet ride, comfortable, and Melissa wonders when she started feeling so at ease with Derek Hale.
"Thanks for the ride," she says, unbuckling her seatbelt.
When she looks at Derek he seems nervous. He bites his lip and scratches the side of his face.
"You're welcome."
Melissa feels the corners of her mouth twitch up into a grin. "Now that's a proper way to respond to thanks."
Derek glares and ducks his head. Melissa chuckles, amused.
"See ya, Derek. And once again, thanks a lot." She slams the door close and jogs into the garage, clutching her coat tighter against her neck.
She notices that Derek doesn't speed off again until she's safely inside.
"Melissa!"
Melissa looks up to see Mason, the owner, waving at her from behind a desk.
She smiles. "Hey, Mason. How's it been?"
"Same old, same old," he says, waving his hand dismissively.
"How's Lisa?"
He rolls his eyes. "As much a tyrant as ever."
Melissa laughs. "Still keeping you on your toes, then."
"Always," he says with a bushy-eyed wink.
Melissa feels a little pang of envy. She always does when she sees older couples still getting along. She had thought she'd have that, once. Thought she'd marry a good man, have kids with him, and then they'd grow old together.
She'd had it for a while—at least until Rafael decided he couldn't "do it" anymore (it being adult responsibilities) and left to go "find himself", whatever the hell that meant.
There's a huge part of Melissa that doesn't want it anymore. Doesn't want to put her faith in someone only to have them let her down.
A much larger part of her wants it so badly it hurts.
"And Amie and George?"
Mason's eyes practically glow as he waxes poetic about his two children, one of whom is working at some legal firm in Seattle, and the other snapping photos and journaling about inequity in third world countries.
"So how is it?" Melissa asks when Mason finally winds down.
"Perfectly fine. Just a faulty wire within the engine, nothing serious."
And now for the hard part. "And the cost?"
Mason frowns at her, one hand coming up to rub at his beard.
"It's been paid for already."
"What?"
"That fellow who brought it in? Jared or David or whatever—"
"Derek," Melissa interrupts.
"Yeah, him. He paid for it."
Melissa knows she must look stupid just staring at him, but she can't bring herself to stop. "He… he paid for it?"
"Yes'm. To fix the heater and one of your spark plugs, too."
Melissa's fully gaping now. "How much was it?"
Mason shrugs. "Don't remember," he says, but if the sly look he's giving her is anything to go by he certainly does.
"Did he say why?"
The look Mason gives her is one part pitying and one part disbelieving. There's also a touch of amusement in there, she thinks, but can't for the life of her figure out why.
"Like mother like son," he says woefully, and Melissa glares at him.
"Haven't you ever heard the sayin' don't look a gift horse in the mouth? Sheesh. If someone covered the cost of my bill every time my truck broke down I'd be kissing 'em, not frettin' about it."
"I'm going to tell Lisa that," Melissa threatens.
Mason grins brightly. "She's the one who pays for the bills!"
Melissa shakes her head. She signs some paperwork and hauls her car out of the garage. The stuttering sound it used to make is gone, and best of all, she has heat. She turns it up as far as it'll go and relishes in not freezing to death inside her own car.
There's no way in hell she forgets about the fact that Derek Hale covered the repair costs. When she gets home she looks all over Scott's room for the man's phone number, and when she doesn't find it sends her son a text.
Scott: y do u want dereks number?
Melissa: there's a weird werewolf creeping outside my house.
Scott: OMG R U SERIOUS
Melissa: no. just give me the damn number, scott.
Scott: that wasnt funny!
Melissa: 10, 9, 8
Melissa: 7, 6, 5
Scott: fine! all you had to do was ask, jeez!
It's a little past midnight, and were it anyone else Melissa wouldn't dare call, but it's Derek and she has a feeling he might be up anyway.
She's not surprised when he picks up on the third ring.
"Mrs. McCall, what's wrong? Is there a problem? Are you in trouble?"
Melissa rolls her eyes.
"It's really a surprise that you and Scott don't get along better. You two are both complete worrywarts."
There's a muffled sound of relief, and then the clearing of a throat before Derek says, "Um, what is it, then?"
"You paid for my car repairs." She says flatly.
Silence.
"Why?"
More silence.
Melissa sighs. "Tell me how much it was so I can pay you back."
"That's not necessary," Derek says quickly.
"No? Then why'd you do it?"
Silence.
Melissa groans. "Oh my god, you're even worse on the phone than the Sheriff, and that's really saying something."
More silence.
"Jesus Christ, you're incorrigible. Look, Derek, I don't know why you did it but I appreciate it, okay? I do. But I can take care of myself. I don't know what the hell Scott's been telling you, but—"
"He hasn't been telling me anything," Derek blurts out.
Melissa makes a sound of disbelief. "Really?"
"Really."
"Then why?"
Silence.
Another sigh. "I've been taking care of myself for years. I don't need someone deciding that I'm suddenly incapable of it."
"That's not—"
"Then tell me why."
There's another period of silence and Melissa is seriously about to hurtle her phone when Derek makes a weird noise and says quietly, "I just…wanted to."
There's another but why on the tip of Melissa's tongue but she bites it back.
"You make absolutely no sense," she says instead.
"Sorry," comes the meek reply.
She huffs out a laugh. "Goodnight, Derek. And…thanks, I guess. Just don't make a habit out of it or I'm going to have to kick your ass, alright?"
"Yes, Mrs. McCall."
"Melissa."
"What?"
"Call me Melissa."
"Oh."
Melissa snorts. "Good night, Derek."
"Night, Mrs-Melissa."
She shivers a little at the way he says her name, but chalks it up to it her not being used to it.
Derek hangs up first, and Melissa stares at her phone for a long moment before she plugs it in to charge and sets it on her nightstand.
Melissa burrows under her pillows and closes her eyes. It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
X.
Melissa wakes up abruptly the next morning.
Oh, she thinks. Oh.
She gets it now.
Holy shit.
XI.
Thanksgiving comes and goes, much to her disappointment. She manages to get three whole days off and spends nearly every second of it with her son.
She's not ashamed to admit that they hugged for a good ten minutes when he finally arrived, and probably a good fifteen when he had to leave again. There might have been a few shed tears, too.
Her son really is the best.
November gives way to December and at a drop of a hat it suddenly turns freezing. As in, Melissa goes outside with as many layers as she's able to walk in and she still feels like it's not enough. God, she hates the cold.
It's been snowing a lot, which means a lot of snow-related injuries around town, which means things are extra hectic at work. They're all being worked like dogs, though the nurses especially (like always), and by the second week of December Melissa's already regretting all her life choices and contemplating asking Derek to kill the head nurse and bury her body in the woods.
Speaking of Derek.
Melissa hasn't seen him once since her little revelation (one which she still thinks is ridiculous, but she's not willing to rule it out entirely). She doesn't know if she's glad about this or not.
On the one hand, how can she face him knowing that he might—might—have a crush on her?
On the other hand, Melissa's almost sickeningly curious. Which she knows she shouldn't be considering Derek's nearly half her age, but it's been a long time since anyone who wasn't married or over the age of sixty has shown the slightest bit of interest in her, and certainly not someone so good looking.
Which he is. Really good looking.
But that's not the point.
Melissa curls her fingers over her cup of coffee and leans back against her couch. A Long Kiss Goodnight is playing on the television, but she can't bring herself to pay attention to it despite it being her favorite movie. Her mind keeps returning to Derek Hale and the fact that he might, just might have a crush on her.
All clues seem to indicate that it's the likeliest reason for his behavior throughout the past few months. Fixing her pipes, mending her roof, cooking for her, playing chauffeur when her car breaks down, paying for her car repairs…not to mention Mason and his—now that she's thought about it—overt hints and innuendo.
It makes sense, but at the same time it just doesn't.
Melissa's forty-two. She's divorced. She has an nineteen year old son.
It wouldn't work even if she wanted it to, which she doesn't. She's awesome, but Derek can still do a hell of a lot better than her.
He should be with someone younger, for one thing. Someone closer to his age. Someone without the (wonderful) baggage of an awesome kid or a jackass ex-husband. Someone without enough trust issues to fill the Grand Canyon and spill over.
But mostly, he should be with someone his own age.
It's stupid, but Melissa closes her eyes and tries to imagine it. Tries to imagine them together.
She exhales deeply and pictures Derek—gorgeous, fit Derek—waking up beside her in the morning. Before Scott went off to college she probably would have only imagined him staring stonily at her from across the bed, but now that she's gotten to know him a little better, now that she's had time to realize how sweet he is, if still kind of grumpy, she pictures him scrunching up his eyebrows in an adorable way and frowning at her because he's not a morning person at all. He'll say "Good morning," gruffly, but he'll pull her against him and tuck her against his chest.
She'll try to make him breakfast. Try being the operative word. He'll step behind her and wrap his arms around her waist and she'll feel his silent laughter as they stare at whatever disaster she's managed to concoct. He'll mock her, and she'll get angry, but he'll make her apology chocolate-chip pancakes and she'll forgive him because everyone knows that a way to a woman's heart is through her stomach.
She'll moan about having to go to work and about envying lazy slackers and he'll lean her against the wall and slant his mouth over hers just to shut her up. It'll work, and she'll be forty minutes late for work because she won't be able to stop kissing him, stop running her hands up and down his back, stop pressing against his evident interest.
She'll go to work chipper, and come home to find him waiting for her, dinner ready. He'll kiss her and tell her "welcome home," and after they eat they'll retire to their bedroom and make love until neither of them can move.
Melissa doesn't realize she's crying until she rubs a tired hand over her face once the credits start rolling a good fifteen minutes later.
XII.
There's a basket sitting on her front porch when she goes outside to retrieve the Sunday newspaper. A basket full of muffins.
She stares at it blankly for a long time before bending down to poke at it. There's a note attached, and she turns it over and reads, —DH.
Derek Hale.
How she missed this for so long she has no idea. It worries her that her son might actually have gotten his obliviousness from her. Worrisome, indeed.
Melissa sighs and lifts the basket. Later, when the sight of the muffins overrules her conscience, she reaches inside, grabs the topmost one—blueberry, she thinks—and takes a large bite.
She almost whimpers.
Life isn't fair, she thinks, after she demolishes it and moves onto a second.
And then she scolds herself for acting like a high school girl.
Grumbling, she takes the whole basket into the living room and pops Life As We Know It into the DVD player. Katherine Heigl always manages to make her feel better.
XIII.
There's a warm cherry pie on her porch three days later. She doesn't bother having an inner battle about whether or not she should eat it, all things considered.
She takes one bite and starts scarfing it down. The pie doesn't last a day.
XIV.
She sees him two days after what she inwardly refers to as "The Pie Binge", and he scares the ever loving shit out of her.
She's driving home from work, down the same deserted road her car broke down on weeks ago when sees him running towards her, naked.
Okay, well, he still has his pants and shoes on, but he doesn't have a shirt and it's December, for fuck's sake.
"What are you doing," she snaps, getting out of the car.
Derek looks up at her in surprise and slows to a jog, stopping a few feet in front of her.
"You're naked," she accuses, "and it's December."
Derek frowns at her. "I'm hot."
"You're…" she says incredulously, observing his face carefully before glancing down at his torso.
Is he actually sweating?
"You're running for sport without a shirt in the middle of December when there's still snow on the ground," she says faintly, closing her eyes.
"Werewolf," he says, like that explains everything.
Actually, it kind of does.
Melissa sighs heavily and looks up at him. She shivers. Just looking at him makes her feel like she's catching frostbite.
"Please let me take you home, alright?" It's not really a question. "I know you have all these werewolf powers and weird internal heating and whatever, but I'd personally feel a lot better if I knew that you weren't running naked in the middle of the road right before a snow storm is due to hit."
Derek looks confused, like he can't quite fathom why she cares.
Melissa rolls her eyes. "Just because Scott can heal doesn't mean I want to see him slice his hand open, get it?"
Derek nods slowly, still so obviously uncertain.
Melissa pats him on the arm, marvels at how warm he is, and ushers him inside.
She shivers as she closes the door and straps herself in. The cold seeped into the car while the door was open, rendering the heating useless, and it's going to take a while for it to have any effect.
"I'm surrounded by weirdos," Melissa mutters, rubbing her gloved hands together. She hates when her hands are cold. She glances at the crazy person at her side and asks, "Where to?"
Derek's looking at her intently. "I can run back," he insists.
"Try it and I'll run your ass over," she says sweetly, blowing air against her hands.
He snorts. "The Hale house, please."
Melissa doesn't question. She nods, and after one last attempt for warmth via hand rubbing, reaches for the steering wheel.
Derek intercepts her and catches her hand with his own. He pulls off her glove, sets it down on the cup holder, and cups her chilled hand between his.
Warmth immediately envelops her hand and surges up her arm. Melissa gasps and wraps her fingers around him, desperate to soak up as much heat as she can.
"You're so warm," she says wondrously.
Derek reaches over takes her other hand. Wraps them both with his much larger ones.
Melissa's skin tingles where they touch.
"Werewolves tend to run five to seven degrees hotter than the average human," he says quietly, palms softly massaging her skin, "and Alphas moreso, especially after vigorous exercise."
"You must be an idea bed partner during the wintertime," Melissa says distractedly, eyes all but falling shut.
Derek makes a strange noise, and when she looks up at him it's to find him staring at her with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
"You alright?" She asks, concerned.
He nods quickly, looking away towards the window.
And then Melissa remembers what she said and wants to kick herself.
Wow, she really is the world's worst human being. Or at the very least in the top fifteen.
"Sorry," she mutters, pulling her fingers away. The heat's circulating just fine now and she's no longer shivering, but her hands still feel cold when she rests them against the plastic covering of the steering wheel. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"It's fine," Derek says shortly. He doesn't look her way.
Melissa sighs. "Sorry," she says again. She adjusts the mirrors and presses the engine. "It's straight up, isn't it? And then…somewhere to the right?" She's never been to the Hale house, has never had a reason to.
"Yeah," Derek says, looking straight ahead now. "I'll let you know when to turn."
Melissa nods and starts driving. It takes her almost twenty minutes to get there, and she can't believe he ran all this way without a shirt.
"Next time you decide to go frolicking in the snow, wear a shirt, would you? I don't care how hot you run, that can't be good for you."
"Why do you care?" Derek says bluntly, surprising her.
Melissa sits back and stares at him. "What do you mean?"
"Why do you care whether or not I choose to run in the snow shirtless," he elaborates.
"That's…kind of obvious, Derek." Melissa says, slowly.
"Really."
"Yes, really." She says, mimicking him.
They stare each other down.
Derek eventually crosses his arms over his chest and Melissa can't help but glance down to watch as the muscles ripple and his biceps flex. She's seen him shirtless plenty of times before (usually when he's bleeding, of course) but she's never noticed how smooth his skin is. There's a light brushing of chest hair among his pecs, and a darker trail that runs down past his navel, but he seems surprisingly soft. His arms are a little hairy, too, but she doesn't think it'll feel rough to touch. No, she doesn't think so at all.
His adam's apple bobs and Melissa finds herself studying his shapely jaw. He has stubble, he always has stubble, but he wears it well, and that's not something Melissa says often, usually of the preference that men should be as clean-shaven as possible.
Derek's chin is strong, his jaw and cheekbones sharp, his lips shapely thin. He has a narrow nose and too-thick eyebrows and ears that probably got him teased as a kid.
And then there's his eyes.
They're a pale green right now, sharp with something Melissa can't define. They shimmer as his gaze flickers across her face, the car light catching on them and making them shine.
Her heart's pounding, and if she's nearly deafened by it she can't even imagine what Derek must be hearing, doesn't even want to know. Melissa licks her lips and her heart, almost impossibly, speeds up even faster when Derek's gaze drops down to her mouth.
Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and gooseflesh are breaking out across her skin.
She swallows and opens her mouth to say—she doesn't even know what, has no idea what can possible by said at this moment, not that she has time to come up with anything anyway because Derek's suddenly leaning forward and pressing their lips together.
She's imagined this so many times in her head. Imagined cupping his face and pulling away with a sad, apologetic smile. Imagined turning her face away and shaking her head. Imagine whispering "We can't," and "I'm sorry," against his lips.
She never stopped to think about what would happen if she grabbed him by the side of his face and pressed him closer to her. Never imagined her moaning into his mouth and slipping a tongue inside.
Derek's making these soft, needy noises that are shooting fireworks down her spine. Melissa's no better. Every swipe of his tongue against hers, every scrape of teeth, every suction of lips, every brush of stubble, makes her lean into him even further and groan. Her heart's beating an angry tempo against her chest and her head's swimming with the overwhelming feeling of desperate kissing and oxygen deprivation.
She pulls away to gasp for air and gets about a second to catch her breath before Derek's pulling her in again and, oh god, it should not feel this good.
Melissa rubs her hands up and down his arms, over his back, down to his waist. The angle they're in is uncomfortable and she's probably going to have back pain forever but she can't bring herself to care, not when Derek's sucking on her tongue like it's candy and his fingers are brushing the underside of her too-sensitive breast.
It's fucking intoxicating is what it is, so when Derek finally pulls away Melissa moves to follow him, eyes trained on his red, swollen lips.
"Melissa," he rasps, voice gravelly, and the sound shoots straight down to the junction between her thighs.
"Not here," he says, and the way he says it, words rough like they're being dragged forcefully from his throat, the edges tinted with what might actually be fear, is what draws her up short.
Melissa freezes.
She leans back and stares at Derek, eyes stupidly wide.
"Shit," she says. Then, "shitshitshit."
She watches as Derek's face falls, then goes absolutely blank. He leans back and shakes himself a little, staring at her.
"I shouldn't have," Melissa says hoarsely.
It's slight, but she sees his flinch. She shakes her head quickly. "Shit, Derek. It's not you, okay? It's… shit. I'm too old for you, kid."
Derek. Literally. Growls at her.
"I'm not a kid," he snaps, eyes blazing.
"No," she admits. "No, you aren't."
He stares at her hard for a long moment before finally nodding and leaning back.
Melissa releases some of the tension she hadn't even realized she's been holding.
"Derek," Melissa tries again, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I shouldn't have done that. I'm still way too old for you and…"
Derek doesn't give her a chance to finish. He just opens the door and walks out.
Melissa stares after him until he disappears inside the dark, partly renovated house (the house where his entire family was burned alive, she tries not to think), before dropping her head into her hands and cursing.
"Fuck," she whispers.
XV.
Time slows to a crawl. At least, that's what it feels like post-The Event, as she's taken to calling it. It used to be post-kiss, but the 'k' word drudges up memories that Melissa doesn't want to think about, mainly because she knows she should feel regret, and does to some extent, though not for the reasons she should.
Does she regret kissing him back? Sort of. Okay, not really, no.
Does she regret giving him some half-assed rejection that made him literally flee into pre-storm weather to escape her? A resounding yes.
In the days that follow The Event, Derek makes himself scarce, and Melissa is honest enough with herself to admit that she misses him. At home she keeps an ear out for a knock at the door, at work she keeps it on her phone, and when she's on the road her eyes are never quite where they're supposed to be, furtively looking out for half-naked men and sinful black cars.
And then she goes home and berates herself because of course Derek isn't going to be hanging around anymore. She rejected him. She tells herself that she doesn't have a right to feel hurt by his disappearance act, but that doesn't stop it from happening. The same way she tells herself that pushing him away was the right thing to do, even though it feels the furthest thing from it.
You're just lonely, she tells herself when she leaves for work one day, keys jingling as she locks the door. But it doesn't ring true. She's lonely, yes, but is that all there is to it? The crux of her attraction, the reason she feels so drawn, why she's been going to bed each night for the past fortnight asking herself if she'd done the right thing?
Because she's lonely?
She pushes the thought from her mind as she walks down the porch and towards her car, not inclined to pursue the thought further just in case she might not like what she finds.
Melissa can deal with loneliness. She and it are bosom friends.
What she can't deal with is the alternative—that loneliness might not be driving her emotions, but something else.
XVI.
"Is everything alright, Mel?" the Sheriff asks four weeks after The Event.
They're sitting at Little Italy Café, a quaint coffee shop smack in the center of Beacon Hill's sole hospital and the police station. John is the one who hauls her here after he bumps into her while she's getting off a nine hour shift that ended at 7:00 a.m., and since she's too winded to sleep, and too exhausted to resist, she goes.
One whiff of the owner's ambrosial brew and Melissa is cradling the tea cup like a lover. She's about to sing a sonnet to it, but John puts a stop to it before it gets that far, asking her if she's alright.
"Exhausted," she admits after taking a deep swallow. "Every time my name is added to the graveyard roster I mourn my life choices and contemplate tossing my career away to join the circus. Or teach. Not that there's much of a difference between the two, I'm sure."
John laughs, and it's as warm as the cup she's holding between her hands. The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkle to match his crooked smile, and wistfulness sweeps through her, strong like a current.
Why couldn't she have fallen in love with him? They would have been perfect together—nearly the same age, both widows (or her as good as), both with teenaged sons who happened to be best friends…it just makes so much sense, the two of them. John is a good a man, a great man, and she would have been content with him.
Content.
The Sheriff takes a sip of his own coffee, lathered in whipped cream, and a dollop lands itself on the tip of his nose. He doesn't notice, and Melissa simply watches for a moment, playing a game with herself to see how long it takes him to realize it. A minute thereabout, and he mock glares at her as he wipes his nose clean, then attempts to fling a splotch on her hand. She bats him away and hides a smile behind her cup.
Content. There's that word again, lingering between the two of them like pillow between partners. They would be content, and nothing would change between them. They'd be as they are now, close friends, only with the extra benefit of intimacy. Sex.
Melissa doesn't want that, and she doesn't think the Sheriff does, either, which is why he probably never made a move on her despite her knowing he finds her attractive.
He wants something like he had with his first wife—romance, and passion, and a fire that never goes out no matter how much time passes, only drops to a low simmer that lasts a lifetime. Love, the kind that doesn't hackney from familiarity, only grows.
She wants that, too. Wants what she's never had. Wants to experience that kind of love herself.
No, neither of them will be content with contentment.
"Melissa?" John says, setting down his croissant before it reaches his lips. His sky blue eyes are narrowed with worry. "Melissa, what's wrong?"
She's prepared to lie. Can feel it unfurl at the tip of her tongue. Which is why she doesn't understand why the first thing to leave her mouth is, "I'm in love with Derek Hale."
They both freeze. The world freezes, brought to a still by six words she's never imagined herself saying outside the depths of her heart, where they've been lying in wait for her to come to terms with them and accept the language as her own.
"Oh god," she says, breath whooshing out of her as everything clicks into place. "I'm in love with Derek Hale. Jesus. Jesus."
She buries her face in her hands, neither wanting to see John's expression nor her own reflected in the mirror behind his head.
Melissa is an intelligent woman. She knows this, and yet, in that moment, she feels like the stupidest person alive.
John clears his throat. There's a clank, a cup rising, a slurp, liquid courage, and then another clank as the cup is set on the plate. Wash and repeat. Wash and repeat. Melissa doesn't know how long she sits there, quietly hyperventilating in the pseudo safety of her palms. She considers suffocating herself, but no, John will save her. If he hasn't keeled over from shock, that is.
She peaks at him through a gap in her fingers, sees him staring at her, and shuts the blinds with a barely restrained meep.
"Melissa?"
"Don't tell me," she says, words muffled by skin. "I know. I know. Oh my god, I don't know. What the hell is wrong with me? Do you think I'm crazy? Of course you think I'm crazy, I think I'm crazy."
"Melissa," John repeats, and carefully pulls her hands away. What he finds is a woman on the verge of tears, eyes wet with them, frustration carving grooves between her brows.
"This is…" he trails off, visibly grasping for words.
"I know," she moans, and tries to hide her face again, but he doesn't let her. Keeps them trapped in his as his fingers massage her knuckles. It's soothing, comforting, and they lose a bit of their trembling.
"How did you…I mean, I wasn't even aware that you two…"
She searches his face for repulsion but finds none there, only confusion with a sharp edge of incredulity. Bolstered by his lack of contempt, she licks her lips and tells him everything. The first time Derek dropped by, and the second, and the third, all leading to a number she lost count of long ago. How he fixes things around her rickety house, including her cooking, and leaves desserts on her porch, still warm. That he acts as her chauffer when her car breaks down, and sneakily pays for the bill but refuses to be repaid, and has to be browbeaten just to say you're welcome when someone thanks him for something, like he isn't used to it, or doesn't think he deserves it, and how that makes Melissa want to smack everyone who's ever treated him like he was less than, including herself.
What she doesn't tell him is that his ears are the most adorable things she's ever seen (next to Scott's crooked jaw), and they turn pink when he's embarrassed. That they're second only to his smile with his weirdly sharp teeth. Doesn't tell him that one heated look from him makes her want to drop her panties and ravage him, and that he sometimes gives her these looks when he thinks she isn't looking that makes her heart want to beat out of her chest. Doesn't tell him that his kiss feels like flying even as his hands on her anchors her, and that she could get lost in his ever-changing eyes, wondering what color she'll be exposed to next.
The silence stretches between them for a long time when she finishes speaking, and she pretends to be absorbed by the dredges in her coffee cup. So encompassing is the silence that when John breaks it, she jumps.
"If he hurts you, I will shoot him with wolfsbane and bury his body in the woods where no one else will ever find him again."
She blinks, opens her mouths, closes it, blinks, tries again.
"Are you—"
"You're a grown woman, Melissa. You hardly need my blessing."
She scoffs, because that's definitely not what she's been egging for, best friend or no.
"Your opinion is what I was going for," she says dryly, meeting his gaze steadily for the first time since her confession.
"No," John corrects her with a small smile, "you want me to point out all the reasons why dating Derek Hale is a terrible idea. And I can—boy, can I—but, see, I know you, Melissa. You're practical. You've likely already thought of them all yourself." He smiles a boyish grin that makes her stomach tingle with warmth. "You just have to ask yourself if he's going to be worth it, and whether you can forgive yourself for not giving it a chance."
"When did you get so smart?" she asks hoarsely. Almost accusingly.
"Hey now," he says, flicking her hand. And then, "That's exactly what my mother told me when I wasn't sure if marrying Halle was a smart thing to do. Not because I didn't love her—but because I loved her too much."
"Mama Sheriff was a smart woman," Melissa murmurs to herself, thinking over his words.
John laughs wistfully. "She certainly was."
After a moment Melissa manages to ask the one question that's been weighing heavily on her mind. She whispers, "What if it ends badly? Like it did with…"
Us, she doesn't say, but she knows her friend gets it, and is relieved when he doesn't get angry for drawing his own tragedies to the podium.
"I think," he enunciates slowly, pursing his lips, "that, if the other person is really that special, it's worth it, no matter how it ends."
XVII.
Melissa is hunting.
After hassling her son for Derek's apartment number (which he only gave because she threatened to head out over there and embarrass the hell out of him), she drops by to find it empty. She considers that he might be inside ignoring her, but one tug at the knob and the door swings open, and after a quick sweep of the apartment (particularly the hole in the wall, which she's been curious about), she leaves, reminding herself to berate him later for leaving the door unlocked.
The Hale house is her next visit, and it takes a while to find. She's never been there before, and the one time that was about to change, well.
Deep in the center of the woods, obstructed by groves of trees that scrape the sky and encircle the structure like a dome, sits a skeleton of a house.
Melissa can see what Derek meant by renovating, but it's obviously been slow going, and for the most part the house looks like something out of a Freddy Krueger movie. In fact, she wouldn't be surprised if the latest one was filmed right here.
The house is empty. She circles it once, not daring to step inside lest her bad luck makes itself known and the house falls on top of her (a vision of her legs sticking out from beneath the house like the Wicked Witch hits her with startling clarity, and she shakes the thought away), and that is all she needs to know that Derek is probably not there.
She hikes back onto the road, out of ideas. If he's not at his apartment or family home, where could he be? The answer is simple: anywhere. Beacon Hills might be a small town, but it's not that small. It's even bigger when the person you're looking for is a werewolf who could be sitting at a café just as easily as he could be taking a jog deep inside the woods.
With a sigh—though whether it's out of relief or disappointment, she's not sure—she climbs into her car, fastens the seatbelt, and turns the ignition key. Glances around her, then drives.
All the way to her house, all she thinks about is the Sheriff's words, his voice like an echo in her ear.
Is Derek Hale worth it?
She doesn't have to think about it because there's nothing to think about. The answer's yes. Derek's worth putting herself out there again after her string of failed relationships, worth stringing her heart on a line and hoping the rope doesn't snap, worth the chance to try.
But more than anything—she's worth it, too.
She doesn't know what he'll say or how he'll react. A lot can happen in a month, especially when wounds are left to fester. He could have changed his mind about her, could have taken her words about their age difference to heart, could have realized that attempting something with the mother of your ally-of-sorts probably isn't the smartest thing to do.
She knows this, but she'll give it a final shot anyway, because in the few short months they've gotten to know one another, Melissa has felt more than she's felt in a long time. Felt it fill her up on the inside and blanket her on the outside. Felt it existing like a living, breathing, moving thing inside her chest.
One shot, but she owes it to the both of them to take it. See where it hits.
XVIII.
When Melissa pulls into the front drive, she is not expecting to see Derek Hale sitting on her front porch, back against a beam, staring in her direction. She's so startled that when the car slows to a stop she just sits there, blinking, trying to figure out if he is a product of her wishful thinking. But no, he must be real, because she can never, ever recall Derek wearing those clothes, even in her raunchiest imaginings, which is a damn shame. Melissa needs to have a serious talk with her subconscious, because clearly it's doing a subpar job.
Just get out of the damn car, she tells herself, and does.
Slowly, Melissa walks up the short driveway, stopping when there's about a foot between her and the bottom stoop. Whatever courage was coursing through her when she was searching for him has deserted her, and in its place is an uneasiness that sets her teeth on edge.
She takes a deep breath, which is a difficult feat beneath the gravity of Derek's heavy, secretive gaze, and steps forward. Doesn't stop until they're level with one another. On even ground.
"Hi," she says, trying to hide how nervous she feels. Then she remembers that Derek's a werewolf and will hear it, probably smell it, regardless, as thinks fuck it.
"Hi," he repeats stiffly, eyes fixed on her, then away, only to return like it can't be helped.
She takes courage from that, bites her lip and says, "I've been looking for you."
A blink of surprise, but it's short-lived. "Why?"
She almost rolls her eyes but manages not to. "Why do people normally look for other people? To talk to them, obviously. Just because you're a werewolf doesn't make you exempt."
Melissa will swear in front of a jury that the the corners of his lips twitch.
"Why?" he asks again, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. They're slacks, and so snug fitting they look like they've been tailored to fit. Much like his shirt, which is a bottle green button down that reflects the color of his eyes.
Melissa swallows. Why, indeed.
You're a grown woman, she reminds herself. Not a teenage girl with a crush.
Thank god, she adds belatedly, then forces herself to focus.
"I wanted to apologize."
At once his face shutters.
"Oh," he says. Clipped. Detached.
Melissa barrels on. "I shouldn't have said what I did about you being a kid. I also shouldn't have insinuated that you didn't know what you wanted. That wasn't my place."
Something flashes in his eyes that she cannot define. "Is this why you were looking for me? To apologize?"
Take a shot, her mind whispers and she says, "I wanted to ask you on a date."
Derek's eyes widen in shock, then narrow, green irises suddenly becoming imbued with a crimson hue. "I don't need a pity date," he says, voice a low rumble that erupts from deep within his chest.
The sound sends sparks of desire down her spine, but she purposely ignores it, choosing to focus on the annoyance that's coiling in her gut instead. "Do I look like the type of person who'd give out pity dates?" Melissa demands, the threat in her voice like a knife which edges gleam in the sun.
Derek, alpha-almighty, takes a step back away from a forty-two year old human woman with a short stature of a 5'3". "N-no, of course not!" he hurries to say, eyeing her like she was the wolf about to tear his throat out at any moment.
Good. Scary alpha werewolf he might be, but if they get involved, she has no intention of baring her neck to him like a submissive dog.
"Glad we're on the same page, then," she says, unfolding arms she hadn't even realized had been crossed.
Derek clears his throat and shifts where he stands. "A…date?"
"That's the idea," she says with more ease than she feels. She feels like fireworks are going off in her stomach, and nervously wipes her damp palms against her cardigan, wondering where that awesome alpha woman from earlier has run off to.
"Oh."
Her lips twitch. That is such a Derek response. And with that thought, some of the tension and anxiety fades away to something bearable . This is Derek—awkward Derek, who doesn't know how to accept thanks, who blushes to the tips of his ears when he's embarrassed, who looks like a kid when he allows himself to smile. She knows this Derek. Why is she acting like he's some stranger she's never met before?
"Wolf got your tongue?" she teases, relaxing further when he barks a laugh and scratches the back of his neck.
"That was corny," he insists quietly, staring at a point above her shoulder.
"What can I say? I'm Scott McCall's mom. He has to have gotten it from somewhere."
Derek's nose scrunches in the most adorable way, and Melissa lets herself admire it for a moment before she steers the wayward conversation back on track.
"Are you going to give me an answer, or are we going to spend the rest of the day flirting on my front porch? Not that I mind," she adds, pretending she doesn't notice the way he flushes, or the way her own heart races at her boldness, "but inside would be a better place to take this since, y'know, it's not winter there."
A heartbeat of silence, and then, "Why?"
"Why?" Melissa echoes, tasting the word.
He looks at her intensely, eyes shifting to a pale hazel as the sunlight hits them. "You said you were…bothered by the…age thing. Why now? What changed?"
Uncomfortable, Melissa licks her lips and forces her eyes not to stray. "I realized," she says slowly, pausing to swallow, "that it's…not important. Not if it doesn't bother you. And that I…well, I like you," she shrugs helplessly, losing the battle and letting her eyes fall to the floor. "A lot. It seems like a stupid thing to toss away just because of the…age thing.
"And you're worth it," she adds before she can chicken out. She feels the words travel from her heart to her voice box. "And I didn't want to regret missing out on something great."
One second. That is all the time she has to catch her breath before she's being pulled into arms that tighten around her like plier ends. Another second to gasp, then it is swallowed by the lips crushing down on hers.
A moan, though she isn't sure from whom it originates. The second one is definitely hers though, come to life when Derek grips her face in his unbearably warm, unbearably large hands and deepens the kiss, lips claiming, tongue tracing a line of fire wherever it touches.
"Melissa," Derek groans into her mouth, a needy thing. He says it again along her jaw, her neck. Whispers her name as he trails his lips to her ear, where her name rings like a litany of a prayer.
She keens, a guttural, whining sound she can't believe comes from her, and forces his head to the side, needing more of than sinful mouth. Derek obliges, and she eases his mouth open with her tongue and slips inside, first trailing the sharp ridges of his teeth, then the roof of his mouth, his gums, and finally entwining with his own tongue, which is hot and heavy and a pleasurable indicator of good things to come.
His hand falls from her face and folds around her waist, before lifting her up. She gasps in surprise and instinctively wraps her legs around his hips, and god, that feels good. It feels even better when he walks her backwards to the door, and rather than search for keys like a normal person, breaks the knob and shoves it open.
"You're going to pay for that later," she pants into his mouth, then resumes their frantic, searing kiss, blindly tossing a hand back to shut the door.
When Melissa breaks to breathe again she is in her bedroom, and spends a second wondering how they hell they had gone to the other side of the house and up a flight stairs without her noticing. Soon after the thought is consumed by fire when Derek eases her onto the bed and whispers in a timbre that shoots straight to her groin, "Can I touch you?"
"I'll kill you if you don't," she pants, arching into him when a hand falls over her breast and squeezes. It's delicious.
"Then I'd better comply," he murmurs, crawling over her, straddling her thighs with his knees, towering like the magnificent presence he is.
"We can go slower. If you'd prefer. We can wait if—."
"No, we really can't," Melissa denies, sitting up just enough to pull her shirt up over her head, revealing a lacy white bra because just in case.
Derek's eyes burn crimson as they roam over her greedily, desperately, making the skin his gaze touches sear like a firebrand against her flesh.
"You are so beautiful," he tells her, fingers curving around one breast, pressing, thumb circling around the pebble that peaks from the thin material. She drops her head and moans, feeling like her blood has been swapped with lava, feeling it course through her and send her entire being aflame.
Derek is devastating. It has been so long since she's last been touched like this—intimately, yes, but like she is something precious, too, and desirable. That's how the touch of Derek's warm skin and warmer gaze makes her feel. Like she is desired, despite being a forty-two year old mother with a love of sweets.
"Derek," she says. It is a sigh, a question, a plea, and a promise all rolled into one simple word.
And best of all is when Derek captures her hands from where they've been roaming over his chest, holds them over her head, and answers.
XIX.
Her conversation with Scott goes like this:
"—and that's about it. It's still the beginning of the term so not much is going on, you know? Though that's bound to change once Stiles gets back. Anyway, not that I mind you calling me whenever—because honestly, you don't call enough! How am I supposed to know you're alright if you don't call?—but yeah, anyway, was there a reason you called so late?"
"Um…I had something I wanted to tell you, actually."
"…Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like this?"
"Because you're paranoid and overprotective?"
"Stop changing the subject! What's going on? Are you alright? Nothing weird has been happening over there, right? You'd tell me if there was, right? Because I'd—"
"No, Scott, nothing like that. I promise."
"Oh. Then what is it? Did…did you get fired?"
"No, I didn't get fired!"
"Did someone die?"
"No one died, Scott. Jeez, how did you end up so morbid?"
"Stiles."
"Sigh. Of course."
"So what is it?"
"…"
"Mom?"
"Scott, honey, I'm seeing someone."
"…"
"Scott?"
"Oh. Um. I mean, that's good. That's good! I'm happy for you, I really am. Um, he's not related to the supernatural or anything, right? And did Sheriff Stilinski do a screening on him? Because—"
"Scott!"
"What? I'm just trying to make sure you stay safe! Do I know him? Is it serious?"
"…You know him, and yes, it's serious. Very serious."
"…H-how serious?"
"Like…asking me to marry him serious?"
"…"
"Scott, honey?"
"Oh. You said yes? But…you didn't even tell me you were dating someone, mom!"
"I'm sorry, baby, I should have—"
"Wait! You said I know him! Who is it?"
"…"
"Mom, you're freaking me out."
"It's, um, Derek Hale, honey."
"…Heh. That's not funny, mom."
"Good thing I'm not laughing then, huh?"
"…Mom. Please tell me you're just messing me with me."
"Sorry, kiddo."
"You're serious."
"Yup."
"You're dating Derek Hale."
"Mm-hmm."
"You're going to marry Derek Hale."
"Yes, Scott."
"…My Derek Hale?"
"Mine now."
"…"
"Scott?"
"WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? MOM, I THOUGHT YOU SAID THE SHERIFF SCREENED HIM! HE WOULD NEVER HAND YOU OVER TO HIM IF HE DID! MOM, YOU CAN'T, DEREK'S DANGEROUS, HE'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU, HE'S NOT—"
"—Your mother went to take a bath. She figured you'd calm down eventually and then you could talk again later."
"…Derek?"
"Obviously."
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY MOM'S HOUSE AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT YOU—I'll KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD—"
"Hn. That's a shitty way to talk to your future step dad, Scott."
"…S-s-s-s-s-st-st-st-st-step-p-p-"
—Beep.
The End
Author's Note: I'm not all that fond of that final scene so I may end up rewriting it. Also, I apologize for the lack of smut. Ya'll can blame the restrictions on this site for that.
Anyway, I really hope I did this lovely pairing justice. Thanks for reading, and don't forget to drop a comment on your way out. Ciaossu!