ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS

Melissa McCall pressed the start button on her dishwasher, another day at its end. She turned and surveyed the kitchen. Everything was put away and ready for breakfast tomorrow; only, she sighed, the extra twenty-four hour shift she'd volunteered for this month started at 6:00 am tomorrow.

Scott would be on his own for breakfast and dinner tomorrow. She'd give him money for lunch and he could have something, probably pizza, delivered for dinner. She had credit with all the restaurants in the neighborhood that delivered for just such nights. And since it was likely to be pizza, this meant, almost assuredly, that Stiles would come home with Scott for dinner. Even without the lure of pizza, the odds were still high that there'd be two at her house for dinner tomorrow. Stiles's dad was deep in the investigation of the serial killer who had suddenly appeared in Beacon Hills. Every night this week had been a late night for him.

John Stilinski had tried to alter his schedule as much as possible after his wife's death to give his son more of his time. The job of Sheriff didn't accommodate itself to the needs of a single parent. As a result, in the first year after Stiles lost his mother she'd gotten frequent embarrassed phone calls from John asking if Stiles could have dinner with them. Often Stiles had already been at their house hanging out with Scott; but other times she'd driven over to the Sheriff's home to retrieve Stiles from that big, echoing, empty house. Not a few times over the years it had been dinner and an unplanned sleepover that she had provided.

Melissa was glad that she no longer heard embarrassment in the Sheriff's voice when he had to asked for help. The Sheriff was able to let go of his embarrassment when he became able to accept that there would always be a place for Stiles in her home. He'd finally come to accept that she loved his weirdly wonderful son as much as he did. As a result, Stiles had had a change of clothes hanging in the guestroom closet and his Yoda toothbrush in Scott's bathroom for years.

The emotion that had replaced embarassment in Sheriff Stalinski's voice, guilt, was sadly familiar to Melissa. She understood the guilt he felt as a single parent: the conviction that he wasn't giving his son all the time and love he needed. Guilt and Melissa McCall had been constant companions since Scott's dad left.

Melissa had refused politely but firmly all of John's offers of money for his son's food. Finally he'd stopped asking but two years ago gift cards for neighborhood restaurants began to arrive anonymously in the mail. She hadn't been fooled and had considered returning them to the Sheriff. What she was doing was her way of helping out a friend, not something she wanted to be reimbursed for.

She liked to remind John that he had had been able, a few times, to reciprocate by feeding Scott or having him overnight when their situations were reversed. But when the boys entered high school her resolve melted. The reality of feeding two teenage boys caused her to reconsider. Now, thanks to the Sheriff, she knew that the boys would always have a hot, if not home cooked, meal even on the nights she couldn't make it home in time to cook.

Tonight the boys had made it home before her and between them had miraculously remembered to put the casserole into the oven and turn it on. (Her babies were growing up.) While the boys had enjoyed what Stiles referred to as their "decompression" time, Melissa had sliced the garlic bread she'd picked up on the way home, tossed it into the oven to warm, and begun to cut up fruit.

And because not everything had to be healthy, she'd also bought chocolate chip cookie dough at the store. Melissa had slipped a pan of cookies into the already hot oven just as they were sitting down for dinner. It meant that Stiles wouldn't leave right after dinner; but she liked chocolate as much as either of the boys.

She definitely needed to remind Scott about tomorrow when she went upstairs. He probably had not heard her tell him at dinner about tomorrow's work schedule. Tonight, however, he had an excuse better even than being a teenage boy: Stiles Stilinski. Dinner conversations with Stiles tended to be chaotic, confusing, a kaleidoscope of craziness but never dull. Melissa smiled at her alliteration. Stiles would have approved

Melissa wiped her hands and hung the dishtowel on the handle of the oven door. It had been a good day for all that tomorrow held a double shift. Melissa hated that she had to leave Scott alone once again. She told herself that he was older now and didn't need her as much anymore, and that the final installment of their property taxes was due by the end of next month. Scott understood why the extra shifts were necessary. She knew that but she also could recognize a rationalization even when she was the perpetrator of it.

Life had been simpler when she only had to feel guilt about turning him into a latchkey kid; or inadequate when he needed help dealing with his failure to make first line on the lacrosse team; or panic when trying to get him through the pain of his first love. These topics, at least, had been chapters in the parenting-for-single-parents books she'd read. But failing at any of these things was never going to get Scott killed. It made her stomach churn to think about what he had to deal with and her helplessness in the face of it.

The storm that had raged for hours over Beacon Hills seemed to have worsened again. The kitchen windows rattled in their frames from the force of the rain beating against them. Her nightly guilt trip was interrupted by a flash of lightning that illuminated the kitchen. The accompanying thunder clap shook the house.

It was a terrible night to be out. Melissa was glad that she had insisted Stiles leave after he'd finished his milk and cookies. The thought of anyone being out on a night like this made her shiver. She was grateful that Scott was at home upstairs, safe and studying (and what a wonderful and unexpected thing that was.) She needed to remember that some good things had come from all this weirdness.

Melissa turned off the lights in the kitchen. She checked that the dining room was in good shape as she walked through it to the living room. Surveying the living room critically in the aftermath of the boy's "decompression" time, she decided that it merely had a homey, lived in look and was not, in any way, in need of straightening up. Certainly not tonight, she needed to remove her shoes and get off her feet.

Intending to close the drapes, Melissa was crossing over to the couch in front of the picture window when the lights flickered and went out. She couldn't resist pulling back the sheers and staring out into the darkness that enveloped her street. As she drew back from the window another bolt of lightning illuminated the night and momentarily blinded her. Her eyes slowly readjusted from the flash but an after image lingered. It reminded her of something.

As she blinked owlishly into the night, the lights in the house and the streetlight in front of her house came back on. Her vision came slowly back into focus along with the memory it had triggered. It had been a memory of the poster for the play, "Death of a Salesman," the picture of a man, defeated and hopeless, standing under a streetlight with a suitcase. With her sight restored she realized that there was a man, out in the middle of this terrible storm, standing under the streetlight in front of her house.

She dropped the sheer and went to the front door. Peering through the window by the door she saw he was still there, coatless, without a hat. He had to be freezing, she thought. She never considered calling Scott but instead turned on the porch light and opened the door. The wind's ferocity had diminished but not the rain which still poured from the dark, boiling clouds. She could hear the gutters at the eves of the house rattling as they tried to deal with the volume of water pouring off the roof.

Melisa stepped out onto the porch and a gust of wind caught and slammed the screen door behind her. She hugged her chest against the cold rain that the wind blew onto the porch. The man didn't respond to the porch light or the sound of the slamming door.

Melissa walked to the railing and stared into the night. She saw that it wasn't an old man standing under the light. The stranger was a tall, slim, young man dressed only in a white t-shirt and jeans. There was something familiar about him. She remembered him. It was the boy from the motorcycle accident at the beginning of the school year, Scott's friend, the one who was like Scott, a werewolf.

"Isaac?" She called hesitantly, uncertain if she had remembered his name.

The boy's head came up. He looked toward the house but didn't move out of the pool of light surrounding him.

God, are they like vampires and need a special invitation she wondered? She called again more loudly. "Isaac, come here!"

The boy walked slowly, it seemed to her, more like someone approaching an unpleasant but unavoidable fate than someone escaping from a brutal storm. He climbed the stairs and Melissa held the door open for him so there'd be no doubt that he was welcome.

Isaac stopped before entering the house and to her amazement made a determined effort to scrape the mud from his shoes before entering. Even after seventeen years, she knew that neither Stiles nor Scott had yet grasped the function of the mat at her front door. And yet this poor drowned rat of a kid thought it was important to clean his shoes before entering her house. Scott had been vague about the abuse Isaac had suffered at the hands of his late father. Melissa thought they should have another discussion on that subject. Scott didn't get to protect her from the unpleasant details of his new life.

The boy entered ahead of her and Melissa closed and locked the door. She turned to inspect her late night guest. Water was running down his face from his fair hair and his shirt and jeans were plastered to his body. He swiped the hair back from his face.

A puddle started to form at his feet. Melissa noticed and Isaac followed Melissa's eyes. A look of horror suffused his face as he took in the growing pool. He spun on his heel, frantically looking for some place to go.

Her first reaction to his response was amusement but the humor of the situation quickly turned to concern as Melissa realized that his distress was real and increasing. Melissa placed a hand on the boy's arm in an attempt to reassure him. The trembling stopped. Isaac's body stiffened. His blue eyes went wide, darting from side to side.

"Breathe, Isaac!" Melissa squeezed his arm. "Breathe. It's okay, honey. You haven't done anything wrong. You're not in trouble."

"I'm not?" The question was spoken softly, in disbelief, as though if Isaac said the words in his normal voice he'd wake from this dream where you didn't get punished for making a mistake into the real, horrifying world where mistakes sent you down to the basement for punishment. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the water on the floor.

"You're drenched. Let me get you a towel, Isaac." Melissa stroked his arm as she spoke. His head came up slowly. He studied her face, uncertainty in his eyes. She smiled up at him but had to look away so he wouldn't know that she'd seen that not all the water streaking his handsome face came from the rain.

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come." Turning toward the door, Isaac tried to pull away from her. "I should go."

Melissa's hand closed around his bicep. Gripping his arm she found was like grabbing a tree trunk. She could no more have stopped him than she could have bent the trunk of a tree. The realization came to her that this would be how it would be with Scott now if she ever tried to restrain him. But she refused to let go and the gentle resistance of her hand was enough to cause him to pause. He cocked his head, a question in his eyes.

"Isaac, a little water won't hurt anything." She looked up into his eyes trying to find the right words. "You wouldn't believe what Scott has brought into this house." She saw his face relax a little and a tentative smile touch his lips. "And don't even ask what disgusting things Stiles has found to step in before he walked across my floors." Melissa indicated the floor with her hand. "A little water, it's a non-event." The smile that spread across his face made Melissa's heart melt.

"So…?"

Isaac's face turned serious. "I need to talk to Scott, Mrs. McCall."

A rumble of thunder shook the house and Melissa glanced toward the door.

"But it's probably too late." The echo of defeat in his voice made Melissa think Isaac wasn't talking about the hour. "I should go."

Melissa still had a grip on Isaac's arm and had no intention of letting him go that easily. She gave the boy a questioning look. "Is someone picking you up?"

"What?"

"Is Derek picking you up?"

All the progress she'd made with him vanished as the animation drained from Isaac's face. He's going to lie to me she thought or, at least, not tell me the whole truth. Isaac was no better liar than Scott.

"Scott said you lived with him." Melissa explained, wondering what was going on behind his mask.

"Scott was wrong." Isaac introduced her to the dark, bitter version of the smile that had delighted her earlier. Isaac seemed to feel the need to elaborate. "It didn't work for…me."

"Then how did you get here?

"I walked." He said.

"From downtown?" Melissa knew from Scott's description that Derek had a loft in the old warehouse district downtown. Isaac would have had to walk more than ten miles to get here.

Isaac's eyes were shiny. "It's not that far." He offered offhandedly.

Melissa knew nothing about pack etiquette or werewolf sociology but the human boy standing in front of her was in pain and needed her help.

"Okay, Isaac. Scott's still up studying. His room is the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. Go on up."

Isaac breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the stairs, the duffel still in his hand.

Melissa stopped him with a question. "Isaac, do you have clothes in that duffel?"

He looked back at her. "Yes."

"Clean clothes?" Knowing her own son, she felt the need to clarify that point. He nodded.

Good, she thought, he's dropped the "yes, mam" and "no, mam" stuff. He's relaxing. She appreciated the old fashion courtesy of his responses but not the fear that had conditioned them in him.

"Across the hall from Scott's room on the left is his bathroom and next to it is the linen closet. When you've asked Scott your question," Isaac gave her a suspicious frown. "I want you to grab yourself a towel and washcloth and take a hot shower. Get into some dry clothes and come back down here." Melissa gave him a knowing look. "You've got to be hungry. Tell Scott to come down, too." She rubbed her hand across her forehead. "I probably have enough food in the house to feed four teenagers in one day."

Isaac was halfway up the stairs when Melissa's voice came up the stairs. "Isaac, tell Scott it's okay with me."

"Mrs. McCall?" He asked puzzled.

"He'll understand, Isaac."

As she walked toward the kitchen, Melissa ran over in her mind what she had on hand to feed the boys. The wind had picked up outside and the rain was beating against the windows again. She shivered but told herself that the boys must have turned down the thermostat earlier in the evening. She'd check it before she went up for the night.

Melissa opened the refrigerator. Isaac needed something hearty. Werewolf or not, his arm had been cold to her touch. A human would have had hypothermia after the night Isaac had had. Probably protein would be best, she guessed. Suddenly, as she considered the possibilities in her refrigerator, she began to laugh. She had to hold on to the door until her laughter subsided. When she had regained her composure she listened intently and was reassured by the sound of the shower running upstairs.

Melissa McCall had thought her days of being a den mother had ended when Scott lost interest in the Boy Scouts. Now she found herself den mother to a Wolf Pack again. God, the two young men upstairs would be so humiliated if they knew what she was thinking.