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“If I knew, I’d’ve moved Scott the hell out of here six months ago,” Melissa tells him. “God, Melissa, what the hell is going on.” The glasses clink in his hand Melissa notices in a way that is meant to be friendly but ends up being too interested that he can fit both of the shot glasses so easily into the curve of one palm that they disappear almost entirely.
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“Trust me,” Melissa assures him, kicking the door shut behind him, “I don’t want to talk to my seventeen-year-old or anyone else about his sex life, although I am moderately relieved now that it involves aggressive pining instead of actual sex.” “I can’t really care about Scott’s romantic problems, Mel.” “That girl,” John begins, and then he sighs. “Scott’s currently out, probably sitting on Allison Argent’s roof waiting to be shot.”
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“Come on in,” she says, elbowing the door back and stepping inside.
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From five to 7:30 I knew he was a serial killer, and then at 7:30 we had a serious discussion about werewolves.”Īs far as Melissa knows, Stiles hasn’t been bitten by anything more severe than a mosquito so his problems are at most werewolf-adjacent, but she knows that real friends don’t downplay parenting issues. “Well,” John says, “I was fairly certain my son was a serial killer until 5 PM today. “He told you,” Melissa says, and she sighs and leans against the doorframe. John and Sasha had done it for her after Steve had left John had taken Scott and Stiles to see the new Pokémon movie, which had, according to Sasha, earned him six months of unquestioned sexual favors, and Sasha had come over to help Melissa drink an entire bottle of Bacardi margarita mix and light on fire whatever Steve hadn’t taken with him in his ignominious flight from Beacon Hills. She hasn’t heard him sound like this in years, not since right after Sasha died, when Melissa had picked up Stiles from where he’d been sleeping in a snotty pile of flannel on John’s couch and driven him back to her house, so Stiles could play emotionally-repressing video games with Scott and John could get drunk without having to worry about his kid. He sounds the kind of calm that a person gets before they’re wrecked. “John,” she says, and he grimly hefts the bottle. When she gets a good look at John’s face, thoughts about his shoulders dissipate abruptly. Melissa is hardly the only woman in town who has inappropriate feelings about John Stilinski’s shoulders, but she is the only woman who had been best friends with his wife, so she generally tries not to be embarrassingly obvious. He’s still in his uniform and there’s blood speckled up the khaki stretched across his shoulders. “Hey,” he rasps, standing just outside of the swing of the screen door. John shows up at her door on a Friday night in September with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses.