Chapter Three

Date Night

Sam and Dean spend all weekend searching for the vampire. They wander around the campus in every direction they can think of, seemingly at random. Sam is on his computer at practically every moment, looking for evidence of a third attack and researching plausible lair locations.

Dean contributes by eating his weight in pie. He claims he's gathering eye-witness accounts, but Sam is skeptical of his true motives.

Saturday is a complete bust. All they end up with are sore feet and mild cases of dehydration. Dean doesn't even enjoy his bacon cheeseburger that evening, that's how upset he is, and they don't go to bed until 3am, having spent all night wandering the streets.

The next day, Dean wakes up grumpy and out of sorts. He glowers at everything when Sam opens the door and lets the strong sunlight pour into the room. Sam is obnoxiously awake and probably has been for several hours. He tosses a paper bag onto Dean's bed and disappears into the small bathroom.

Dean sits up slowly, knocking a grinning, cat-shaped pillow to the floor, and drags the white bag towards him. Not awake enough to open it properly, he rips it in half, and a chocolate donut with sprinkles falls onto his bed. He smiles for the first time and crams the whole thing into his mouth.

Sam comes out of the bathroom and raises an eyebrow at the pile of crumbs on the mattress. Dean stares at him grumpily.

Two hours later, Dean is finally ready to go. He spent half of that time teasing his hair into the perfect spike while Sam sat at the dining table, tapping his fingers. Dean throws his brown jacket with the high collar on and tucks his gun into his waistband.

"Let's go then," he sighs.

"Took you long enough," Sam gripes, heaving himself up from the chair. He grabs the olive-green duffel bag by the door and tosses it over his shoulder. The duffel contains their machetes, several clips of ammo, a bottle of lighter fluid, and a container of salt. The Hunter's Basic, Essential Kit.

Dean locks up, a look of disgust on his face when he shoves the cat key into his pocket.

They begin their aimless wandering again, their search grid a couple of blocks wider. Lunch comes and goes uneventfully and fruitlessly (though it probably really should've been considered dinner).

"Maybe we should go talk to more people," Sam says, digging around in his plastic to-go bowl for the last piece of chicken in his salad.

"I'm too grumpy to talk to anyone," Dean snarls, angrily eating his cheeseburger.

They toss their trash away and keep walking, exploring new neighborhoods further and further from the center of campus. The shadows lengthen as the sun sets, and Dean kicks at all the stones unfortunate enough to fall into his path. The city darkens fully, and people disappear inside their houses. The street lamps beat down upon their heads, their only source of illumination in the grey streets.

And then they have an amazing stroke of luck.

Sam rounds the next corner first, and his leg shoots out to the side, stomping on Dean's foot before Dean can send another rock skittering across the street. Dean looks up at him reproachfully, but Sam shoots him a glare and holds a finger up to his lips. Then he nods up the street.

Dean follows his gaze, and a grin spreads across his face before he can stop it. The vampire is lounging against a wall at the far end of the road, looking just like Stiles described him. Sam pulls a campus map out and unfolds it, peering down at the lines as if he's lost, and Dean joins him, positioning himself so he can whisper in his brother's ear.

"That's our vamp," he says.

"Yes, I can see that," Sam replies, lifting the map up and spinning it around.

Dean glares at him.

"What do you want to do?" Sam asks.

"We could take him out now." Dean points at a random spot on the map, an excited expression coming over his face like he's found what they're looking for.

Sam folds up half the map and brings it closer to his face to squint at it. "Too risky. We should follow him back to his nest."

"Dude, why'd you even ask me if you already had a plan?" Dean hisses, kicking Sam in the ankle.

Sam pointedly ignores him. He tucks the map away in the inside pocket of his jacket so it will be in easy reach just in case they get "lost" again. At the same time, the vampire pushes off the wall and sets off down the street, quickly disappearing around a corner.

Dean slaps Sam on the arm. "Dude, come on."

They hurry after their prey, pausing at the corner to make sure he's not looking back in their direction, but the vampire seems unconcerned. He walks with a swagger, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. His greasy ponytail trails down his jacket, too heavy for the wind to lift.

The vamp leads them on a merry chase through the city for the entire night. The route he takes twists and turns with no discernable pattern or destination, so Dean worries that the creature knows they're there and is just waiting for an opportune moment to attack, but he never pauses, and he never looks back. He seems to be searching for something, another victim, perhaps, but he doesn't find anything – or anyone.

They walk for hours. Sam and Dean stroll along as casually as they can so they don't attract the attention of the other people they pass. The number of civilians they see shrinks with every street, then they move into an industrial neighborhood, full of warehouses and dotted with factories that belch smoke into the black sky that has become tinged with red without either of them realizing it.

The vampire begins to move more quickly, and Sam and Dean match their step to his. They glance at each other, and Sam's hand tightens on the strap of his duffel. Without warning, the vampire stops before a large warehouse. Sam and Dean fling themselves around the nearest corner, flattening themselves against the wall, and Dean pokes his head out just far enough to see what's going on.

The nest is an abandoned building. All of the windows are either boarded up or covered with thick layers of newspaper on the inside, and the bricks are grey and dirty and streaked with rain water, and a thick chain is looped around the door handles, secured by a large lock.

The vamp pulls a key from the pocket of his leather jacket and unwinds the chain, letting it spool to the ground. A grinding squeal fills the air as he pulls the door open and continues until he's stepped inside and locked himself in.

Sam checks the time on his phone. "It's 4:30. What do you want to do?"

"Full sunrise is in about another hour," Dean says, eyeing the sky. He bites back a yawn. "Might as well go in when it's fully light and take this motherfucker out."

"We could come back later today or tomorrow morning, when we're rested."

"No, I want to get this over with."

Dean wants to finish this hunt now partially because he's tired and partially because he told himself he wouldn't text Stiles until their business was over. He really wants to text Stiles, though he's not entirely sure why. There was something pure and innocent about him when they met at the party on Friday night. Dean doesn't see a lot of innocence in his life, and it was refreshing.

"Okay," Sam says. He drops the duffel to the ground and crouches down beside it. The sound of the zipper is loud in the still, pre-morning air, but there's no one but them around to hear it. The sides of the bag fall open to reveal a jumbled pile of machetes and hand guns. Sam pulls the blades out and passes one to Dean who tests the edge against his thumb, finding it sharp. Sam also takes two syringes filled with a dark, red liquid from the bag, careful to keep the sharp needle pointed away from himself.

"Dead man's blood," he says as he holds one out for Dean to take. "Just in case."

Dean puts his syringe into one of his thick jacket pockets. Then he settles himself down beside Sam and leans up against the wall to await the sun.

Sam has to nudge Dean several times before his brother finally comes awake. Dean lifts his hand to ward off the bright sunlight that's filtering through the thin cloud cover to coat the streets. "What time is it?" he groans, mouth tacky and gross-tasting, his back sore.

"Just after seven," Sam answers. "Are you ready?"

Dean nods, but it's a struggle to get himself upright. He ends up braced against the wall with the edge of his machete tilted dangerously towards his knees.

Shaking the last of the sleep from his head, he follows Sam around the corner and down the street towards the vamp's nest. The chain is still pooled on the ground in a heap, the lock on top, but Dean figures it's secured on the inside somehow.

"Look at this." Sam tugs on Dean's sleeve and points up the side of the building towards a window with a broken bottom half. A thick, black cloth shivers slightly in the wind. "I'll boost you up, and then you can come let me in."

"I'll Rock-Paper-Scissors you for it," Dean suggests, and Sam scowls at him.

"No. You're slightly smaller than me, so it'll be easier for you."

"By three inches," Dean protests on principle, but he shoves his machete through his belt anyways.

Sam crouches down beside the wall and laces his fingers together, watching as Dean takes a few steps back and eyes the distance between the ground and the window. He runs towards the building, gathering as much speed as he can in the short span, and jumps, planting one foot in Sam's waiting hands. Sam stands up in an explosion of movement and flings his arms upwards, propelling Dean into the air. Dean stretches out his arm, and his fingers catch on the windowsill. He throws his other hand up just as his body slams into the wall with a thud that drives the wind from his lungs.

There's no time to hang there and regain his breath, though. Dean pulls himself up, muscles straining, and tumbles into a dark room. The floor feels like cold cement beneath his hands, and he pulls a flashlight from his pocket, cautiously shining it around. He's fallen into a small office above the main floor of the warehouse. There's a barren desk across from him, and a set of filing cabinets lined up against one wall.

Dean adjusts his machete as he stands and moves towards the door with soft steps. On the other side of the office, he pauses to listen for signs that the vamp is moving about. The silence settles on his shoulders like dirt poured in a grave, and the beam of his flashlight fades away to nothing before reaching the far end of the warehouse.

He spots a door marked 'Stairs' about ten feet to his right and moves towards it, wincing when his boots ring slightly on the metal catwalk. The door opens quietly under his hand, and he hurries down the narrow staircase, sliding out into the dark main room. A slim slice of light leeches in from underneath the door, but it doesn't make it more than a few inches before the blackness swallows it.

Dean hurries across the floor until he's standing in front of the double doors. He tests the handle carefully, and to his great surprise, it moves easily beneath his hand and clicks open. His eyes widen with surprise.

No. Fucking. Way.

Right before he goes to shove the doors open, he remembers how it squealed and bellowed, and he stops. "Sam," he hisses through the split down the middle.

"Dean?" Sam's voice slides back to him.

"The door was open the whole fucking time," he grumbles.

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not kidding!"

"Then hurry up and open it," Sam urges.

"I can't. It makes noise, remember?"

Sam falls silent, and Dean hunts around for a miraculous can of oil to use on the hinges. Stranger things have happened in their adventures. The cement floor around him is covered in dust but nothing else, and he sighs. "We'll just have to do it," Sam says finally. "We'll throw the doors open and leave them, so the sunlight disorients the vamp."

"Alright," Dean agrees. "Just let me get out of the way."

He steps back and to the side, replacing the flashlight with his machete, and looks deeper into the warehouse so the light won't blind him when the doors open. He hears Sam's quiet countdown, and then a grinding screech wrenches at his ears. The sun spills into the room, bright and broken by Sam's large, quick shadow. Somewhere, the vampire curses, the echo distorted by the large space.

Sam and Dean split up and run into the depths of the warehouse, the sun at their backs lighting the way. Twenty feet in, storage containers start to appear, towering several feet over Dean's head. He skirts around them, mind working to figure out where he would make his bed if he were the vamp. Probably towards the center of the warehouse, among the containers.

When a path opens up between the metal boxes, he turns into it, and the maze quickly swallows him up. "Hey, freak!" he yells, voice bouncing off the sides of the storage containers. "Breakfast is here!"

He hears someone snarl angrily as he rounds another corner, but he can't pinpoint which direction it comes from.

"I taste fucking great!" he adds.

Only his instincts, honed by years of life or death situations, save him. A little bit of sunlight filters over the top of the storage containers and flows to the ground, and in it, he sees the barest flicker of a shadow. He throws himself to the side, spinning so his back bangs into the side of a box. A dark shape flies past him and twists around when it hits the ground, disheveled hanks of greasy, black hair falling across its face.

The vampire's eyes stare at him from inside sunken sockets, and the creature bares his teeth. His white tank top reveals lean limbs corded in muscle and inscribed with pale blue veins, and his fingers are curled into claws.

"Dude, haven't you ever heard of shampoo?" Dean quips as he shifts his grip on the handle of his machete. "I bet my brother could recommend a good brand to you.

The vampire growls something that might have once been words and flings himself in Dean's direction. Dean pushes himself off of the container and tries to dodge around the outstretched hands, but the space is too small, and the vampire catches the back of his jacket.

Suddenly, Dean is airborne, flying backwards, away from the vamp. He slams into a storage container with a deafening bang and crumples to the ground, machete lost somewhere along the way. He groans as flashes of light pierce his vision, and his head throbs.

"Dean!" he hears Sam shout, but he can't tell if his brother is nearby or lost somewhere within the maze.

Dean shakes his head to clear it. Pain jabs through his skull, but the white lightning bolts recede, and he can finally see the angry vampire stalking towards him. Sam is nowhere in sight. Dean struggles upright, casting around for his fallen machete. It lies halfway between him and the oncoming vampire.

Dean slips his hand into his pocket and grips the syringe of dead man's blood. He pulls it out slowly, keeping it tucked behind his leg and out of sight. Eyes locked on the vampire, Dean rushes forward. The creature breaks into a run as well, and Dean drops to his knees, sliding towards his weapon. They collide right as his fingers brush the hilt, and the machete is knocked away from him. The vamp's teeth snap at his face, but Dean manages to wedge one forearm under his chin, and he wildly stabs upwards with the syringe. The long needle sinks into the vamp's pale neck, and Dean jams his thumb down on the plunger, shooting all of its vile contents into the creature's vein.

The vampire goes rigid for a moment before all his muscles give way, and he collapses on top of Dean. He groans in annoyance and shoves the creature off. The vamp tries to resist, but he has no control over his limbs, and Dean rolls over with another grunt, dragging himself to his feet.

In that moment, Sam rushes around the corner, eyes wild and hair running away from his head. "Are you okay?" he demands.

"Freaking awesome," Dean says darkly. He stumbles across the floor and retrieves his machete, swinging it through the air and listening to the whine. "Let's end this."

He walks back to the vampire who stares up at him with hateful eyes and a smile full of teeth. "Can it," Dean tells him, and with one great swipe of his blade, he cuts the vamp's head clean off.

A geyser of blood erupts from the stump, splashes across the walls, and spills over the floor. Dean steps back just before it reaches his boots. The vampire's body twitches a couple of times as the last dregs of blood pump out of the veins.

Dean wipes his blade off on the vamp's jacket and then looks over at Sam. "Well, that was just a great, big ball of fun."

"Let's get out of here."

They gather up the body and the head, and bundle them both up in a large piece of tarp that they find by the door. They manhandle the package out the door, and Dean kicks it shut behind them. They hurry through the quiet streets, trying to look like workers transporting goods, until they come to a grey river that cuts through the industrial district. Sam checks up and down the street and sees that it's empty, so the two of them lift the decapitated vampire over the railing and dump it into the water. It hits with a loud splash and disappears from sight almost instantly.

"Back to the motel?" Sam suggests.

Dean nods in agreement.

They make their way back to the motel, hands stuffed in pockets and heads bowed. When they arrive, Dean goes straight to the shower. There's no real blood on him, but he still feels like he can smell it. He turns the water off and walks back into the room in nothing but his boxers. He falls face first into bed as Sam takes over the bathroom.

Dean wakes up three hours later and immediately goes for his phone. It's nearly one in the afternoon. He types up a quick message to Stiles and hits send.


On Saturday, Stiles checks his phone over 300 times. Jacob counts. They spend all day studying together in the library, leaving their books spread out across the table when they head to the dining hall for a quick lunch. Jacob snorts when he sees Stiles pull his phone from his pocket.

"Why don't you just text him?" he demands. They pause to let a car race by before crossing the street.

"I don't have his number," Stiles says sheepishly. He tucks his phone away and ignores the aghast look Jacob gives him.

"How do you know he'll actually text you?"

"He said he would."

Stiles doesn't know the protocol for how long you wait before contacting someone you've met for the first time. He doesn't know if it's a following day kind of thing, or if you wait for a few days so you don't seem too eager. The uncertainty is making his ADHD flare up, and he can't stop tapping his fingers against his leg.

He sets his phone by his plate while he eats, keeping one eye on the lookout in case it lights up, and he makes sure it's in view when he and Jacob return to the library. Jacob eventually stops questioning him. The text in his book dances before his eyes, and Stiles has a hard time remember what he's supposed to be doing.

After dinner, he and Jacob head back to their dorm and part ways. Stiles locks the door behind him, tossing his backpack onto the floor by his bed. He flops down at his desk and pulls his computer towards him. He promised Scott that he would call tonight. Stiles opens up Skype and checks the time, figuring that Scott should be free by now.

He clicks on the little green phone and leans back in his chair, the sound of computerized ringing filling his room. Scott picks up after the fourth tone, and his boyish face fills the screen, slightly distorted by Stiles' poor Internet connection but grinning.

Stiles feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders, and he grins back. "Hey, Scott."

"Stiles!" Scott's voice lags a second behind his lips. "How are you, man?"

"Swamped with work," he groans.

Scott throws back his head and laughs. "Me too, though I can't imagine my workload is anything like yours."

"You never do your work, anyways," Stiles says jokingly.

Scott assumes a hurt look. "I do to!"

"Su-ure." Stiles drags out the syllable and laughs, and Scott rolls his eyes at him. "How's the Pack?"

"The Pack's good," Scott answers. "Derek insists on sneak attacking me every time I go over to his house, and that's getting annoying, but it's good for the Betas."

"No supernatural beasties have come a-prowling?"

Scott shakes his head and then pulls a piece of pizza out of nowhere and starts eating it. "Surprisingly, no. It's been quiet this year."

It's moments like these that make Stiles feel like he was the magnet that drew darkness to Beacon Hills, not the Nemeton tree. He doesn't let it show on his face, though, but cracks a smile again. "Well, that's good."

"Dude, I saw the killings on your campus on the news." Scott's face becomes serious, and he leans forward, peering intently into his computer. "Have you–?"

"I haven't looked into them," Stiles interrupts quickly. "The police can handle it."

"Okay." Scott doesn't press, and Stiles changes the subject.

"I went to a party last night. It was a Halloween in April theme."

"Did you have fun?" Scott asks through a mouthful of pizza.

"Yeah. Actually, I gave my number to a boy."

Scott drops the slice and claps his hands to his cheeks, mouth popping open and giving Stiles a view of half-chewed pizza that he doesn't need to see. "You did?! Has he texted you yet?"

"Not yet." Stiles looks down at his fingers and tangles them together in his lap. "Is that normal?"

"Totally normal," Scott reassures him. "He's probably just busy. You'll hear from him soon."

"I hope so." Stiles flushes and starts to change the subject again, but Scott beats him to the punch.

"What's his name?"

"Dean."

"Oooo." Scott waggles his eyebrows, and Stiles wants to reach through the computer screen and smack him.

"How's Derek?" Stiles asks hesitantly, and he feels the tips of his ears heat up. He doesn't know why he's so embarrassed. What he really wants to ask is does Derek ask about him? They haven't talked much over the past year, because Stiles is too awkward to call him, and Derek doesn't call or text people, period unless it's an emergency.

"He's really fallen into his role in the Pack. He's whipping the Betas into shape." Scott pauses. "I think he misses you."

Stiles is pleased to hear this, and that makes him blush even more.

"Oh, Stiles, I have something crazy to tell you!" Scott exclaims, and Stiles cocks his head curiously. "I've told you about my new chem teacher, right?"

Stiles nods. "Dr. Crowley."

"Right. On Friday night, my mom made me go to Parent-Teacher Conferences with her."

"Does she know you're a senior?"

"Apparently not. Anyway, she met Dr. Crowley for the first time, and when I got back from a Pack meeting, she told me that he had called and asked her out! To dinner! On Monday night!"

"What? That's hilarious…that's horrible. Very horrible," he amends when he sees Scott's stricken face. "Definitely a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportion."

Scott nods vigorously. "I have to go to his class on Monday! What do I say to him?"

"Have her home by ten?"

That earns him a withering look. "What if it goes terribly, and I have to face him on Tuesday? Or even worse, what if it goes well, and they actually start dating?"

"Scott, calm down," Stiles says, a bit thrown by their sudden role reversal. Usually, he's the one freaking out, and Scott has to talk him down rationally. "You're thinking too far ahead. Don't worry about it."

"You're right." Scott takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly "Thanks."

"You have to keep me posted, okay? I want to know all the details."

"Alright," Scott promises. He glances away from the screen for a moment and picks up his discarded pizza. "I should go. I've got a whole chapter to read in my chemistry book."

Stiles grimaces. "Good luck. Talk to you later."

He hangs up first and closes his computer. A smile flits his face. Scott will become a total wreck if Melissa McCall actually starts dating his teacher. Stiles gets ready for bed and turns out the light. As his eyes slip shut, he wonders if he can get away with goofing off tomorrow instead of doing homework. His phone lies right beside his head.


Stiles decides to text Derek Sunday morning. While he waits for a reply, he watches an unhealthy amount of Netflix and plays video games. Stiles' reflexes are impeccable and his fingers rock steady, despite what his ADHD would have other people believe.

Derek replies five hours later with a one-word reply – Good. Derek likes to use perfect grammar when his messages aren't filled with autocorrect errors, so Stiles has decided that he's actually a seventy-year-old man in disguise. Stiles tries all day to engage Derek in conversation, but he never gets a reply with more than three words in it, and it always comes at least thirty minutes after Stiles sends his message.

Around dinnertime, Stiles gives up. Dean still hasn't texted him, and Stiles starts to feel nerves clawing at his stomach. Dean is so much older than him, and he's probably realized that it's not cool for him to associate with a weedy, little freshman like Stiles. That night, Stiles forces himself to put his phone far away from him, so he won't wake up every five minutes to check it.

Stiles only has two classes on Monday, and they are both over before noon. Afterwards, he heads to the library to make up for all the work he didn't do yesterday. He buries himself in his books and tries to forget about Dean.

And then his phone buzzes.

Stiles' head snaps up, and his hand descends on his phone instantly. There's a message from an unknown number waiting for him when he unlocks the device, and he opens up the text with shaking fingers.

hey stiles its dean.
sorry this took so long my brother and i had to finish up a job.
would you like to get a drink with us tonight to celebrate?


Scott wakes up on Monday morning with a feeling of dread in his stomach. He takes as long as he can getting ready, glad that his mother left early to get to work. He sticks a bagel slathered with cream cheese in his mouth and walks outside to his bike. He forgoes his helmet this time so he can eat his breakfast as he rides to school, swallowing the last bite as he pulls into the parking lot.

Allison and Isaac wave at him from the front entrance, and he jogs up the stairs, wondering if his face is as green as his stomach feels. Allison pats his back comfortingly as they slide through the doors and into the crush of students. He'd called them both right after his mom had dropped her bomb and spent over an hour panicking as they listened.

"At least you have chemistry fist," Isaac points out. "That way you get it over with."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Scott mutters.

Allison and Isaac pass him off to Lydia since she's in AP Chemistry with him, and they wave goodbye, disappearing down the hallway. Lydia flips her long, strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and gives him a look. "Are you sick."

"No. I just don't want to go to chemistry."

"Because Dr. Crowley is taking your mom out tonight."

Scott glares at her even though everyone in the Pack knows that's a dangerous pastime. "Yes. Thank you for reminding me."

"You're welcome." She gives him an angel-faced smile.

Scott hunches his shoulders and ducks his head when they enter the classroom, making sure Lydia is between him and Dr. Crowley's desk, and he sits in the chair behind her, standing his textbook up and hiding his face behind it.

"You're such a wimp," Lydia tells him without turning around, and Scott ignores her.

Dr. Crowley gets up from his chair, dressed in another dark suit, and walks around his desk to stand in front of them. "Because I am a kind and…loving soul, we are going to spend today reviewing for Wednesday's test, rather than move on to something new."

A sigh of relief ripples around the room, and even Lydia's shoulders relax. Dr. Crowley's tests are harder than defusing a nuclear bomb in less than thirty seconds. It's as if he wants them to know what Hell is like.

Dr. Crowley is one of those teachers who likes to speak quietly in order to force his students to pay attention, so Scott finally puts his book down, though he makes sure his face is hidden by Lydia's back at all times. The hour drags by. Scott's leg jiggles constantly under his desk, and his wolf hearing seems to have gone a little haywire due to stress, because he can hear the teacher in the classroom down the hall talking about enzymes.

When the bell finally does ring, he jumps up violently and knocks his textbook to the floor. The thud makes the whole class turn to look at him, and Lydia's face says she's wondering how the hell he's alive after all these years. Scott's head turns into a volcano.

He hides behind the other students as they stand and make their way to the door. He's nearly there, nearly free, when Dr. Crowley calls out to him. "Scott, could you stay a moment?"

Lydia laughs at his panic-stricken face and flounces out of the room, hips swaying in her flower-print dress.

Scott turns slowly. Dr. Crowley has returned to his desk and is sitting with one arm draped languidly across his knee. "Don't look so nervous, Scott," he says. "I just wanted to ask what type of restaurant your mother likes."

"Oh." Scott stuffs his hands into his pockets, the back of his neck hot. "Well, she likes Chinese food. Also Thai food. And Italian. Actually, she likes pretty much everything except Mexican."

"That narrows my options down," Dr. Crowley says drily.

Scott doesn't reply, just keeps rocking back and forth awkwardly.

"I also want you to know that no matter what happens tonight, it's not going to effect my grading of your test."

"Okay," Scott replies, because that seems like the expected answer.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Dr. Crowley dismisses him, and Scott bolts from the classroom, a pit of relief opening up in his stomach.

The rest of the day passes much less disastrously, though he can't stop thinking about the coming night. Should he be at home when Dr. Crowley comes to pick his mom up, or should he make sure he's out of the way? He can very easily go spend the night at Allison's.

He makes his decision by the time the final bell rings. He'll make sure he's home, but he'll stay out of the way. And he'll keep his phone by his fingertips the whole night, just in case his mom needs a bailout.

Allison, Isaac, and Scott leave school together and make their way through the streets to the woods. It's become their after school ritual. They wander the trails for a few hours, talking or practicing their skills. Sometimes, Allison will store her crossbow in the trunk of her car and will pull it out for target practice, while Scott and Isaac chase each other around in their wolf forms. Today, Allison brings her set of silver throwing knives, and when they find a wide, open clearing, she sets about burying them into tree trunks up to their hilts.

Scott returns to his house just after six to find Melissa racing around in a mild state of panic. She's trying to juggle her shoes and her purse, and she only has one earring on. She's wearing her black, sleeveless dress, but there are three other outfits draped across the kitchen table; one of the sleeves is perilously close to a candle flame.

"Woah, Mom, slow down," Scott says when she nearly bowls him over. He grabs her arm and pulls her to a stop, effortlessly taking her shoes and purse from her hand. "What's the matter?"

She looks at him breathlessly, cheeks tinged pink. "I don't know what to wear, and I don't know where my other earring is, and he's going to be here soon, and I–!"

"Mom, you look great," Scott interrupts. "Why don't you sit down and put your shoes on, and I'll go see if I can find your earring."

Melissa takes a deep breath and nods, and when Scott releases her hand, she goes to the kitchen table and sits down. Scott heads upstairs and enters her bedroom. Melissa keeps her jewelry box on her dresser, tucked up next to her mirror, so Scott opens it up. He roots around inside and finds Melissa's missing earring beneath her tangle of rings.

He hurries back to the kitchen to find that his mother has completely dismantled her purse, and its contents have replaced the clothing on the table. The clothes now lie in a crumpled pile on the floor.

"I found your earring," he says, holding it out. "What are you doing to your purse?"

"I'm trying to make sure I have everything." She takes the earring form him and threads it through her ear. "Do you think I'll need a flashlight?"

"No," Scott answers. "You're just going on a date."

He pulls her clutch from her hand and sweeps all her things back into it. Lip gloss, tic tacs, hand sanitizer, and a fistful of loose change tumble past his fingers. He tosses a pen, her wallet, glasses sleeve, and compact in after them.

The doorbell rings, and a panicked look stretches over Melissa's face. Scott hands her the clutch, giving her a reassuring look. "Ready?"

She shakes her head. "Will you get the door? I need a second."

Scott agrees, even though he doesn't really want to. He takes a deep breath as he reaches the door and then pulls it open. Dr. Crowley stands there with his hands in the pockets of his knee-length, black coat. He inclines his head when he sees Scott.

"Hello, Scott," he says, a faint smile on his lips.

"Hi," Scott replies. He hesitates. "Come in. I'll tell my mom you're here."

He steps back to allow Dr. Crowley to enter and turns away, returning to the kitchen. "Are you ready?" he asks Melissa quietly.

His mother takes a deep breath, checks her reflection in her compact one last time, and stands, straightening her dress. She sweeps out of the kitchen, smiling at Dr. Crowley when she sees him standing in the entranceway. "Fergus, hi," she says.

Scott almost chokes on his own spit. He forgot that Dr. Crowley's first name is Fergus. It's literally the funniest name he's ever heard.

"Actually, I prefer Gus," Dr. Crowley reminds her, smiling.

Melissa turns red. "Oh, that's right. You told me that on the phone. I'm so sorry!"

"Don't worry yourself," Dr. Crowley tells her. "It's not a big deal. Shall we go?"

Melissa shakes herself slightly and nods. She pulls her blue coat from its hook, and Dr. Crowley helps her thread her arms through the sleeves. Scott watches with his arms folded across his chest.

At the door, Melissa turns and looks back at him. "There's money on the table if you want to order dinner, okay?"

"Okay," Scott agrees. "See you tonight."

"I love you." She gives him one more smile. Dr. Crowley rests his hand on the small over her back as they leave the house, and then the door swings shut.


Hi Dean I would love to

Stiles hits send, butterflies churning in his stomach. It doesn't take long for Dean's reply to pop up on his screen.

awesome! do you know sullivans bar?

Relief floods his stomach. Sullivan's Bar is one of the few places on campus that consistently lets students in without carding them. He replies,

Yeah! Its a popular hangout place

how does 8 sound?

He checks the clock as he waits. It's after one; plenty of times to get ready.

8 sounds great! Looking forward to it!
:D

Stiles stuffs his phone into his pocket and gathers up all his things, jamming them haphazardly into his bag. There's no way that he can study now that he has this date-thing looming over his head. He hurries out of the library and back to his dorm, tossing his things onto his bed without really stepping into the room. Instead, he crosses the hall and begins banging on Jacob's door.

The sound of muffled cursing comes from within. Then the door swings open, and Jacob's head appears, hair sticking up randomly, blinking in the light. "What?" he snaps.

"He texted me!" Stiles pushes his way into Jacob's room.

"Come in," Jacob mutters at his back. "Who texted you?"

"Dean! The guy from the party!"

Stiles turns around just in time to see Jacob roll his eyes knowingly and shut the door. "Ah, yes. The text you've been obsessively checking your phone for all weekend."

Stiles flops down on Jacob's bed. "I need your help getting ready."

"What time is this date?" Jacob asks, knocking Stiles' shoes off the rumpled covers.

"Eight."

"That's not for seven hours! What are you doing here?"

"I'm not entirely sure it's really a date," Stiles continues, bypassing Jacob's outburst. "His brother is going to be there, too."

Jacob sits down on the edge of the bed, by Stiles' hip. "That's weird. Do you know why?"

"He said they just finished a job and are going out to celebrate."

"Let's call it half-a-date," Jacob suggests. "Which is better than not-a-date-at-all."

"You're right," Stiles sighs. "What do you think I should wear?"

"What's wrong with what you've got on?" Jacob's voice is more than a little sarcastic.

"Nothing, I guess."

"I'm glad we got that figured out. Now get out of here; I want to go back to sleep."

Jacob stands up and drags Stiles off the bed by his foot. Stiles spills to the floor and lets Jacob help him get upright. "Thanks. Sorry for disturbing you."

"Don't worry about it." Jacob claps him on the shoulder. "I expect to hear all about it tomorrow."

"Deal."

Stiles lets himself be ushered from the room and returns to his own space. Slowly, he empties his bag and puts all his books away. Then, simply wanting to kill time, he tidies everything else up. The piles of dirty clothes finally go into his hamper, and he makes his bed as well. He reorganizes his shelves and clears the top of his desk of all the miscellaneous junk that's accumulated over the months. He also vacuums, though he receives a very disgruntled text from Jacob telling him to knock the noise the fuck off.

He finishes up quickly and stows the vacuum, looking around his now practically gleaming room with his hands on his hips, feeling impressed with himself. Unfortunately, it hasn't killed as much time as he would like.

Stiles can't bear the idea of staying inside, though, so he transfers his wallet and keys from his backpack to his pocket and sets off on a walk. He stuffs a pair of earbuds in and turns the volume up until the bass practically makes his head pulse. He wanders around campus aimlessly for about an hour and then finds a bench in a nearby park, deep green from the recent rain. Stiles pulls up a book on his phone and lies down, holding the screen up before his face, his eyes flicking across the tiny letters.

At dinnertime, he rolls back to his feet and walks over to the dining hall. He finds that his friends have already chosen a table, and he claims a seat between Jacob and Sarah. Sarah looks a little strained and pale. The full moon is tomorrow night, Stiles realizes. Luckily Sarah has never seemed to have any issues with her control, so Stiles hasn't had to confront her about it.

When he comes back with food, Sarah elbows him in the ribs and gives him a knowing smirk, and, astonished, Stiles turns to glare at Jacob. "You told!"

Jacob shrugs, not looking terribly apologetic. "It was too juicy to pass up."

"I hate you."

Jacob simply cackles, and Stiles ignores him for the rest of the night. They drop their dishes on the conveyor and head out into the falling night. Stiles checks his phone as he jumps down the last step and sees that it's nearly time to meet Dean. "I'll see you guys tonight," he says, and the others wave goodbye.

He heads up the street in the opposite direction as his friends and weaves his way through the city until he reaches the edge of campus. Sullivan's Bar sits on the corner, a squashed brick building with windows full of green, neon lights between two glass and steel business complexes.

Stiles stops at the end of the street, nerves churning in his stomach like a thousand insects clawing up through the dirt. He checks the time again, and the clock reads a minute to eight. He waits until the minute turns before he starts walking again. A bell rings when he pushes the door open and steps into the well air-conditioned room. The host glances up from his phone and nods at Stiles, unconcerned by his apparent youth. Stiles looks around the bar, stuffing his hands in his pockets and pulling them out again to clasp them in front of him or rub them up and down his pants.

He spots Dean sitting at a round table in the corner with the tall, long-haired man. He notices Stiles almost instantly and raises a hand in greeting, a broad smile breaking out on his face. Stiles gives him a strange hand-jerk wave in reply and crosses the floor. He slides into the last empty chair, smiling and shoving his hand through his hair. "Hi."

"Hey, Stiles!" Dean's voice is bright. "I want you to meet my brother, Sam."

"Hey." Sam stretches a hand across the table, and his palm is rough and covered in callouses. His smile is the sincerest Stiles has ever seen.

He struggles to figure out how to start a conversation. For all his incessant talk, he's never been terribly good at talking to strangers. "What was the job?" Stiles asks finally. A waitress swings by and deposits a pitcher of amber liquid and three glasses on the table. Stiles nods at her in thanks.

Dean leans forward and begins to pour the drinks. "We were helping an old friend restore a car," Sam says.

Dean slides a glass across the table to Stiles, and he wraps his hands around it. "What kind of car was it?"

"A '62 ford truck."

"Wow, that's so cool." Stiles takes a drink, and the beer is of far better quality than anything he's ever had at a party.

"It took us about a month," Sam says. "It was a really great job."

"And how is the article?" Stiles asks, looking at Dean.

"Hm?" Dean glances up from his beer, a white foam moustache on his upper lip. "Oh, the article's going kind of slowly. I've been having trouble choosing an angle."

"What's the problem?" Stiles asks, wondering if there are pretzels anywhere.

"It's like you said at the party. Kevin was a loner. I can't get a good fix on who he was. I don't want to portray him in the wrong light."

"That's tough," Stiles agrees.

And we still don't know much about the suspect. The police won't release any details to us."

"What are you going to do?"

Dean shrugs and finally wipes away his foam moustache. "I think I'll write up the facts only and wait until something else comes to light to do a profile."

"So, Stiles," Sam says. "You're a freshman here?"

Stiles nods, nearly choking on his next sip of beer.

Sam graciously pretends not to notice. "Do you know your major yet?"

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, and it burns on the way down. "History. Specifically folklore."

Impressed looks spread across both their faces, and Dean starts to shrug off his jacket. Stiles is instantly captivated, though he tries very hard to keep it from seeming too obvious. Dean wears a light grey, V-neck shirt, and his biceps stretch the fabric in the same way that Derek's do. He has black tattoos swirling up and down his arms. There are four thick, black bands circling his right forearm, spaced evenly apart, and when he turns his arm over, Stiles sees a tiny pair of delicately etched, stylized angel wings just over the veins on his wrist.

On his other arm, a sleeve marches up from his elbow and disappears into his shirt. Stiles can make out the edges of a bunch of swirling symbols that he doesn't recognize entwined around each other. A few black tips poke up from under his collar.

"I love your tattoos," Stiles says, his hand twitching as if it wants to reach out and run his fingers along the black lines. "I've always wanted to get one."

"Why haven't you?" Dean hangs his jacket off the back of his chair, and Stiles watches the way his muscles move.

Stiles shrugs. "I don't know. I can't quite pinpoint what image I want."

"What's important to you?" Dean asks.

Stiles leans back and thinks. What is important to him? The Pack, obviously, but he's not about to get Scott's dumb upper arm tattoo. "Maybe I would get a wolf paw print," he says, warming to the idea as he speaks it.

"That sounds cool," Sam says, flashing that perfect, sincere smile of his. "Where would you get it?"

"My shoulder maybe. Or just below the inside of my elbow."

"You should do the inside of your elbow," Dean suggests. He glances around briefly and waves a waitress over, asking her if she'll bring them some pretzels or something. "People don't do that as often, so it will be more unique."

Stiles looks at the inside of his arm and pictures the tattoo there, the tips of the toes pointing towards his wrist, liking what he sees. "Where would I go, though?" he asks, feeling a little dismayed. "Aren't some tattoo parlors super sketchy?"

"That's true. You have to be careful." Dean rubs at his chin. "I'll look around for you. I know the markers of a good parlor. When I find one, I'll let you know."

A massive grin splits across Stiles' face. "That would be great!"

Their bowl of pretzels arrives and immediately, Dean's hand descends into it, his fingers deftly popping them into a mouth one by one. It reminds Stiles a little of Scott. He also sees a smattering of thin scars on Dean's knuckles and the backs of his hands, and when he glances over at Sam, he sees them there too. "Are these scars from your mechanic jobs?" he asks.

Dean and Sam both look at him with surprise and then glance down their hands. "Yeah," Sam says, the faintest hesitation in his voice. "Most people don't notice them."

"I have ADHD, so I tend to notice a lot of weird things," Stiles says, laughing awkwardly. He leaves off the part where he learned to notice everything so that the small details don't get him and the Pack killed. He changes the subject. "Where are you guys from?"

"Lawrence, Kansas, originally," Sam answers, because Dean currently has ten pretzels stuffed in his cheeks. "But we move around a lot."

"Why?" Stiles asks, intrigued.

"We go wherever there are jobs," Sam says.

Dean finally swallows. "And we never really liked staying in one place."

"What about you?" Sam asks.

Stiles pulls the bowl of pretzels towards him, ignoring Dean's betrayed and scandalized look. "Beacon Hills, California." The pretzels are slightly stale and very salty, so he pushes them back towards Dean.

"Never heard of it," Sam says, shaking his head slightly.

"It's on the smaller side," Stiles explains.

"Chicago is a long way from California," Dean points out. "Why such a big move?"

Stiles shrugs. "I just…needed to get away."

"I get that," Sam says, sounding a little bitter, and Dean gives him a look that says something Stiles can't quite pinpoint. He decides not to ask, figuring it to be personal. He stares down into his glass, running his finger through the condensation collected around the sides.

"I actually graduated early," he continues. "I had all my credits done, so I figured, why not get out early?"

"Did you have to leave all your friends behind?"

"Yeah, that part was hard, but they're all really supportive."

"You'll see them this summer, won't you?" Dean asks.

Stiles brightens at the thought. "Yeah! I'm looking forward to it!"

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket. Puzzled, Stiles pulls it out and sees Jacob's number on the screen. He looks up at Sam and Dean apologetically. "Sorry, give me one second."

They nod for him to go ahead, and Stiles presses the green 'Answer' button. "Jacob, hey, can I call you back, I'm–"

"Stiles, I need you to get to the dorm right now," Jacob's panicked voice interrupts him. "Sarah is freaking out, and I don't know what to do."

Sties spine turns to ice, and he almost falls from his chair. "I'll be right there. Try to keep her calm."

He hangs up before Jacob can respond and stuffs his phone in his pocket. "I'm sorry, I have to go. One of my friends is in trouble," he explains as he stands up, patting his jeans to make sure he still has his wallets and keys.

"Do you need any help?" Sam asks, sounding concerned.

Stiles quickly shakes his head. He doesn't need a bunch of humans in the room while he's trying to calm a moon-stricken werewolf. "No, I can handle it. Thanks for the drink. I'll text you."

He bolts from the restaurant, and as soon as his feet hit the pavement, he starts to sprint and doesn't stop until he reaches his dorm building. He pelts up the stairs, skidding around the corners. Jacob stands outside Sarah's door, looking lost. He lifts both his hands and shrugs when he sees Stiles. "She kicked me out."

"Stay here," Stiles orders. He carefully eases the door open and slides into the room.

Sarah is curled up on her bed, fists clenched into balls, though Stiles can still see the edges of her dark claws, and her hair is wild. Her head snaps up when she hears Stiles' footsteps, and she bares her fangs, eyes glowing blue.


Gus's hand radiates heat even through her jacket as he rests it on the small of her back and leads her down the stairs. His car sits in her driveway, a bright red, two-door sports car with black accent marks. "Wow," Melissa says "How do you afford that car on a teacher's salary?"

Instantly, she regrets the question – great way to start a first date, Melissa – but he laughs it off, the sound low and gruff like his voice. "I inherited some money from my parents," he explains.

"What kind of car is it?" she asks, unsure if its one of those really common brands that she's supposed to know but doesn't.

"A Jaguar F-type," he says.

That means nothing to her. "It's very cool."

"I think so." He opens the passenger door for her, and she slides into the black leather seat, the fabric already warmed by the sun. Melissa settles her clutch on her knees as Gus shuts the door and walks around the front of the car to his side.

The car purrs to life when he turns the key, humming beneath her. "I thought we would go to Giovanni's," he says.

Her stomach rumbles. "That sounds fantastic."

They pull out of the driveway, the car moving more smoothly than any other Melissa has ever been in. Gus drives with one hand on the wheel and the other elbow resting on the ledge of his window. Melissa switches between staring at the passing scenery and staring at her hands, because she can't remember what she's supposed to do. It's been a long time since she's dated.

"You'll have to forgive me," Gus says, guiding the car around a curve. "I haven't been on a date in a while, so I'm a little rusty."

"I'm in the same boat," Melissa laughs, relieved. "We can be awkward together."

Gus turns to smile at her briefly and looks back at the road. The lights of Beacon Hills' small downtown pop up before them, and they get lucky, finding a parking spot right in front of the restaurant. Giovanni's is an upscale, Italian restaurant. An iron railing encloses the outdoor seating patio, and a long string of white lights circles around the edges. The letters on the sign curl in elegant cursive, thick, black lines enclosed by red. The front wall of the restaurant is all windows, and a warm glow spills out, staining the sidewalk.

Gus turns his car off, and Melissa opens her door, climbing awkwardly out of the low seat. Gus offers her his arm, and she slips her hand through his elbow. The hostess greets them as they enter, and Gus requests a table for two. She checks her tablet, fingers moving rapidly, and motions for them to follow her. They weave through the wooden tables to the back of the restaurant, and the hostess sets two menus down on a booth table with high, red-backed seats.

Melissa sits down, setting her clutch beside the wall, and smooths her napkin across her nap. Gus unbuttons his jacket and folds it neatly beside him. A waiter with carefully slicked, black hair comes by and fills their water glasses from a large pitcher. He pulls a pad and pencil from his pocket. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Cabernet Sauvignon, please," Gus says.

"Oh, white wine," Melissa requests.

"What kind?" the waiter prods politely.

"Uh, Pinot Grigio? That's a thing, right?"

"Yes." The waiter scribbles on his pad. "I'll get those drinks in for you right away."

Melissa glances over at Gus as the waiter leaves. Their eyes meet, and she quickly looks back down at her hands. "You don't have to be nervous," Gus promises, smiling. "I promise I won't bite or turn into smoke."

Melissa really likes the sound of his voice. She's always had a thing for accents. She tucks a wayward curl behind her ear. "Right. I guess we should start this date."

Gus laughs. It's a quiet, low sound. "I think that's usually what happens at this point."

"So, where are you from?" That seems like a good place to start.

"Scotland," Gus answers. "My mother and I moved to the States when I was in my teens."

"What about your father?"

"He was never in the picture."

The waiter arrives with their drinks, saving Melissa from her embarrassment. Immediately, she takes a sip of her wine, and then she opens her menu and stares down at it, skimming the list of pasta and different meat dishes.

"Have you ever been back?" she asks.

"No. There's nothing there for me. I think I'll get the filet mignon. Have you decided yet?"

"The chicken fettuccine alfredo sounds good."

"You're going to have to share," Gus warns, smiling a little, and Melissa can't help but grin back. She's noticed that Gus has a slight resting angry face, but his smile breaks the clouds and captivates her. "Where are you from originally?"

"Here," Melissa says. "Born and raised."

"You never wanted to leave?" Gus sounds like he doesn't quite understand the concept.

"Nope." Melissa shrugs. "I've always liked it here, and when Scott was born, I decided it would be a great town to raise him in. I've got a great job, too, so why leave?"

"Are your parents here?"

"They actually moved away when I graduated high school," Melissa answers, laughing. "They live in Seattle now."

"Do they visit much?"

"Twice a year, maybe. And you? Do you see your mother often?"

"No. I haven't seen her in years."

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Melissa takes another sip of wine. "You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."

"We never got along," Gus says, running his finger around the rim of his glass. "As soon as I was old enough, we went our separate ways."

The waiter comes back and offers them a smile. "Ready to order?"

They nod and tell him what they want, watching as his pen scratches across the pad. Gus gazes across the table at her, the corner of his mouth quirked up. Melissa blushes when she notices. "What?" she asks.

"Nothing. You're just beautiful."

Melissa ducks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. "I – thank you."

"When was the last time you dated?" Gus asks. "I know that's a first date violation, but I have to admit, I'm curious. A beautiful woman like you should have to fend off suitors from all directions."

"You're so cliché," Melissa giggles, and Gus assumes a look of hurt, clapping one hand to his heart.

"Me? Cliché? Never."

Melissa rolls her eyes. "If you must now, working and raising a son don't leave much time for a personal life."

A basket of bread appears in front of them seemingly out of nowhere, and Melissa takes a piece, turning it over and over in her fingers.

"You work at the hospital?" Gus says. He selects an end piece and picks up his knife, deftly slathering butter across its face.

"As a nurse," Melissa answers. "My schedule is crazy and can change at the drop of a hat."

"I'm glad nothing came up tonight."

"Don't worry," she promises. "If something had, I would have made someone else take care of it."

Gus smiles again, and wipes his fingers on his napkin. The white cloth is stark against his black suit. "Tell me, are you going to actually eat that piece of of bread, or just hold it in your hand for the rest of the night?"

Melissa jumps and looks down, and sure enough, she is still holding onto the slice of baguette. Flustered, she sticks the whole thing in her mouth, realizing quickly that it's too much to chew all at once. Her cheeks puff out, and she holds on hand over her lips, terrified that she'll accidentally flash Gus the beautiful sight of half-chewed food.

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," Gus says when she's swallowed, grinning to show that he's joking.

Melissa drops her face into her hands to hide her blistering cheeks. "I'm so bad at this."

"I don't think anyone's good at first dates," Gus reassures her.

She peeks at him through her fingers. "You promise I'm not making a total fool of myself?"

"Just a slight fool of yourself," he says, reaching out to pull one of her hands away. He doesn't let go when their hands reach the table, and his palm is warm, almost hot. Melissa blushes again, though this time, it's not from embarrassment.

Their food arrives then, and Gus lets go of her hand so she can arrange her silverware. Her bowl is wide and steaming, the creamy scent of cheese wafting up off of it. Gus's steak glistens redly, sitting in a pool of its own juices, and guarded by fluffy mashed potatoes.

"Would either of you like another drink?" the waiter asks.

"No, thank you," Melissa says, and Gus nods in agreement. "I'm still working on mine."

She digs in as soon as the waiter is gone, and Gus picks up a large, serrated knife. It parts the flesh of his steak easily. The fettuccine alfredo is as delicious as it always is. The noodles are just a little chewy, and the sauce is thick and smooth against her tongue. The pieces of chicken are tender and juicy, seasoned to perfection.

"May I?" Gus's fork hovers over her food.

"Only if I can try a piece of your filet mignon."

"Deal." He cuts off a corner and deposits it in her bowl, so she lets him twirl some pasta around his fork and take it away.

She pops the meat into her mouth. It tears easily beneath her teeth, boldly seasoned, though it's a little too rare for her taste.

"Maybe I should have gotten that instead," Gus says, wiping a drop of sauce from his lip with his thumb.

Melissa pulls her plate closer to her. "Mine."

The meal passes smoothly, and Melissa realizes with a start that this is the most fun she's had in a long time. She's a cynic, always expecting that first dates will be unavoidably awkward, but Gus is charming and funny without seeming to try, and he actually listens to her when she talks.

Their bill comes too soon, and Gus immediately pulls out his wallet. The look he gives her silences any protest before the thought can be formed, so she lets him pay. Honestly, she can't really afford Giovanni's

"Would you like to go anywhere after this?" Gus asks. He sticks a black credit card into the bill holder and props it up at the end of the table.

"Normally, I'd say ice cream," Melissa groans, leaning against the back of the booth and resting her hands on her stomach. "But I'm so stuffed right now that I think I might blow."

"I take it a walk in the park is out, too?"

Melissa nods. "Definitely."

"Alright. Then next time, we'll do ice cream and a walk." He says it casually, but Melissa's heart nearly stops. She bolts upright, upsetting the contents of her stomach.

"You want to go out again?"

He looks at her, puzzled. "Of course. Don't you?"

"Yes!" she blurts before he can get the wrong impression. "I do!"

"Then it's settled." He accepts the returned bill from the waiter and scrawls his signature across the receipt. They stand up together, and Gus takes her hand as they walk towards the door. She tightens her fingers around his, liking the way it feels.

Gus drives her home, letting her rifle through his music collection, though she's unimpressed by his choices. "All you have is classical music!" she protests.

He shrugs. "I like it."

"I'm going to broaden your horizons," she promises. "Prepare for your musical education and conversion."

They pull into the driveway of her house, and Gus walks her up to the front door. They pause on the porch. He doesn't let go of her hand. Slowly, Gus leans in, and Melissa meets him halfway, his hand slipping into the small of her back so he can pull her closer and deepen the kiss. His stubble is scratchy against her cheek, but his lips are soft. Melissa had forgotten how nice it felt to get kissed.

Scott's panicked shout breaks into the moment. "Mom – OH GOD WHY? MY EYES!"

The door slams shut, and Melissa pulls away. "I guess that's my cue."

"I'll be very surprised if I see him in class on Monday," Gus laughs.

"Sorry," she says. "We'll work out a signal so that doesn't happen again."

"Alright." He gives her one last kiss on the cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay." Melissa waves goodbye and watches him return to his car and drive off before heading inside and closing the door.


A/N - Please leave a reivew!