The doorbell ringing at nearly one in the freaking morning is so not what Melissa McCall needs. Picking up the baseball bat leaning against the wall, she heads downstairs and stops in front of the door.
"Who is it?" she yells through the door, every ounce of anger and exhaustion seeping into her tone.
"Uh, um, it's S-Stiles."
Sighing in both relief and exasperation, Melissa rests her forehead against the door briefly before unlocking it to see a worn-out looking Stiles standing there. Worn-out probably doesn't even begin to cover it actually. He has dark bags beneath his eyes like he hasn't slept in weeks, his hair is sticking up in every direction like he's been running nervous hands through it, and he is still currently in his pajamas. He isn't even wearing shoes.
"Come in, come in," Melissa says, urging inside quickly.
He doesn't budge.
"Um, is Scott – is Scott here?" he asks nervously, an edge of desperation in his voice.
"Oh, honey, he's out with Isaac."
"Oh."
His face falls quickly and he looks about a half-second away from crying.
"Sweetie, come in," she urges again, grabbing his hand this time and pulling him inside.
Once she shuts the door again and locks it she carefully maneuvers him to sit on the couch. She hurries off to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, hoping it might somehow help. She returns quickly and hands him the glass when he looks up at her. His hands are shaking so badly, though, that he only manages to keep a hold on the cup for a few seconds before he drops it. Picking up the glass, Melissa heads into the kitchen to set it on the table and grab a towel. She heads back into the living room, crouching in front of Stiles to soak up the water. Feeling his eyes on her, she looks up and immediately realizes his distraught expression.
"It's okay, sweetheart," she soothes.
"I didn't mean to," he says earnestly.
"I know you didn't, Stiles. Don't worry about it, okay? Water doesn't stain," she says reassuringly before returning her focus to the wet carpet.
"I'm sorry," he says, sounding near tears – and that instantly gets her attention. "I'm so sorry."
And she knows they are no longer talking about the spilled water.
Moving quickly to sit next to him on the couch, she places a gentle hand on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly.
"Well, I'm not Scott, but - " she breaks off when he turns to look at her, bambi eyes brimming with tears, "-but you can talk to me, Stiles. You can always talk to me."
That's all it takes for Stiles to break into a sobbing fit, tears streaming steadily down his sunken cheeks. The scene was heartbreaking, Melissa hadn't seen him cry like this since his mother's death. Placing her other hand on the middle of his back, she gently encouraged him to lie down, his head on her lap.
"It's my fault she's dead," he manages between sobs.
"Oh, honey, no," she says as she cards a hand through his disheveled hair, her other hand rubbing soothing circles into his back.
She continues murmuring comforting words to the boy who is like a second son to her as he weeps into her lap. Eventually he wears himself out, not exactly surprising since she figures he hasn't been getting much sleep. He falls asleep with his head pillowed on her legs and she is tempted to call his dad, but glancing down and seeing how young he looks when he sleeps, she can't bring himself to move on. She'll call the sheriff later, right now she'll let Stiles sleep – God know he needs it – knowing that she would trust the sheriff to do the same for Scott.