2015.08.17 - Sometimes It Takes a Mom--Or, An Extended Metaphor about Life, Complete with Bleeding--Or, Man, These Onions Are Really Getting to Me

**Emitter:** N/A

*Melissa McCall moms up when Stiles needs some surrogate parenting. Heartwarming ensues.*

August 17, 2015

The McCall Residence, Beacon Hills

It's a rare occurrence these days, but for once in the past week, Melissa's car is actually parked outside her actual house, where she actually likes to sleep, despite having been on that tiny cot at work for the past few nights. That being said, she's not actually sleeping. The woman's shift ended only a few hours ago, and the coffee's still pumping. Instead, there's the smell of... actual baking. It smells like pie. Apple pie. Actual apple pie. Look: Melissa doesn't get to 'actually' enough in her life these days, so she makes up for it in large doses all at once. Like right now, she's in her actual kitchen, ingredients half-open and spread about everywhere. Even the dining table is just covered with cooking potentials, including fresh veggies and thawing meat. It's like she knows the respite could end suddenly and so she has to get all of her cooking for the next week done right this very minute, lest it never get done. She's hasn't gone so far as to wear a 'best cook' apron or anything so domestic, but she is wearing a pair of worn for-housework jeans, and a lightly-colored blouse, like she expects the flour to get just *everywhere*. (And, sadly, it has. There's even a little in her dark hair.)

The sound of a car--a familiar car, for those who know Stiles' piece-of-junk Jeep well--pulls up and stops in front of the house. The sound of the door slamming follows, and shortly thereafter the front door opens, and Stiles himself appears. (Knocking? Not since he had a key made! Come on.) Of course, he was expecting to find Scott here--not Melissa--but the smell of cooking hits him like walking into a solid wall of goodness. He wanders in, calling out, "Hey, anybody home? Just me!" And when he sees the state of the kitchen, he boggles a little. "Whoa. Is it Thanksgiving already?" the quip just slips out. Honest.

That's a sound Melissa has known well for years. And given she already knows Stiles has a key (who gave him that, anyways?), she doesn't stop to open the door. Besides, since when has Stiles ever been stopped by a closed door? "Hey, Stiles," she says, patting befloured hands on already befloured jeans, and moving between ingredient 'stations' for lack of a better word. They're more like ingredient piles, a perplexity of organization only Melissa herself can make any sense of (if even she can). "No." She levels a sideways, unamused-but-not-really glance his way. "Look, if you're just going to stand there and gape, I'm drafting you to help cut vegetables." Promptly, she picks up and walks over a cutting board and (she hopes she doesn't regret this) a sharpened knife. "Chop, chop."

Stiles' eyebrows pop up in surprise, but he gives a mild shrug and a *Who am I to argue?* sort of facial expression, then shrugs out of his flannel, draping it over the back of a chair, and goes to wash his hands. (See? He wasn't born in a barn after all!) Once he's suitably de-germified, he goes to stand by the table and do as instructed. "Like, how small should the pieces be? My culinary skills don't really extend very far past making breakfast." A beat, "And, well, mac'n'cheese. Because duh." He seems upbeat enough, but there's also a pensive air to him as he starts to sort through the veggies. After a moment, he does remember to ask, "Oh, hey--is Scott around?"

It was turned down low, so Stiles likely didn't notice it initially, but there's some chillout music wafting around in the background with just enough pep to keep one from falling asleep, but without ruining the relaxing element. "Diced," Melissa says, after having watched Stiles like a judgmental mother hen, hands on her hips and everything, to ensure he followed appropriate kitchen etiquette. He does, so kudos. "I'm making desserts, chimichangas, taco filling, and some experimental fiesta rice I'm kind of creating as I go." Swiftly, she points a finger menacingly in his direction. "And if you want any of it, there'll be no comment about potential damage to your GI tract, buddy." She makes a little circle with said finger in the air, indicating his torso along with a bit of sass, and then turns around to get back to her tortillas. "Scott's not here. His laundry was put away, which you know, almost never happens, so he was probably feeling a little broody. I'd give him a little bit to work things out. You know him; he'll come around."

Stiles raises the hand not wielding a knife and says with absolute solemnity, "I solemnly swear not to snark about the food of anyone who is cooking a meal I get to eat." A beat, and he amends, more truthfully, "Well. At least, not *yours*." He knows Melissa can cook. After all, he's been here often enough over the years, and it's *way* better than the bachelor-style cooking that happens at home (when it's not take-out). At the mention of Scott, though, he lets his shoulders sag slightly and gets a look of thoughtful concentration. Perhaps with a pang of not-quite-masochism, he snags an onion and sets about slicing into it. He's far from an expert in the kitchen, but he *can* dice vegetables without causing bodily harm or botching the job. After another moment, he says quietly, "Actually, good. Um... I was kinda hoping to talk to you. About stuff."

Melissa had already begun to look over her shoulder suspiciously until Stiles adds his amendment. When dealing with the forces of Stiles, *be specific*. "That's what I like to hear," she says, the teen's culinary doom should he renege on that oath made clear with her lazer mom-vision. She's watching you. Already the smells of aromatic, delicious things have begun to fill the kitchen and environs--that's a pretty damn well spiced apple pie: cinnamon, nutmeg, even a little clove. Why she chose apple pie along with a largely Mexican fare is anyone's guess, but given she's already reaching for a wine glass, it's probably best not to ask. "You don't see this," she says, spinning a finger at the glass, and then breaking into her special box wine in the fridge. Nope, nothing classy on her budget. After a sip, a relaxed sigh, and puff of air to toss a bit of hair from her face, the glass is set aside, the tortillas set to fry, and mama McCall turns again towards the teen, leaning a hip against the counter. "Sure--what's on your mind?"

Stiles can't quite suppress the smirk that settles on his lips at Melissa's wine-"sneaking," but he gives his head a shake. "No, ma'am. All I see are the onions making my vision all blurry." And there's just something about standing in a kitchen with a mom--and being honest, the closest maternal influence Stiles has had in years--while baking and other food preparation is going on. It speaks to the suburban American spirit in him almost as much as Mexican food with apple pie does. *Very* California. But when prompted to speak, Stiles exhales a slow sigh through his nose. "God," he half-murmurs. "*So* much. Some of it's, like... personal crap that I won't bug you about." He freezes for a moment and has to very pointedly re-activate his brain-to-mouth filter. Stiles lets that slip way too readily. He tries to cover this by clearing his throat, then tries again. "Anyway, like... I wanted to ask you about a... kind of pack thing. But I think you'd be a better person to ask than Scott. Because you're, well... you know what it's like. Being only human." And if the knife cuts a little more sharply on that word, it's clearly just a coincidence.

Melissa promptly sighs, lets her head droop, and holds up a finger. It's almost like, record scratch, hush yourself, here's a schoolin' comin'. She inhales slowly, reaches for her wine glass, and then lifts her head back up to affix Stiles with a serious look--full of affection, though; he can hear it in her voice. "Alright, Stiles. First: Awkward comments about your dad aside, you're like my step-kid. You've been best friends with Scott for how long? People could call you brothers and they wouldn't really be wrong." She takes a sip of her wine, still holding up her finger. "So if you need to talk to about something, you don't need to dance around the issue. That said," the finger starts to wag in time with her words, "there are some things I Do Not need to hear about." Melissa points at herself, then points at Stiles, working a Knowing Expression that weighs heavy on her brows. "You're a smart kid. I think you can figure out what." Then, after another sip. "Second, look: I'm not going to belabor the point, but this 'just human' thing? Stiles, without you, that pack would have no anchor to reality. Your 'human' perspective grounds them and helps keep them sincere; keeps them honest." Of course, she chuckles a little at that. Stiles and honesty. "No, the irony does not escape me." She then turns to fetch a glass. "Ok, I'm done parenting. You want anything to drink?" She motions for him to continue with a little gesture as the glass is in hand.

Stiles looks over at Melissa with his mouth hanging slightly open and an expression of moderate surprise on his face. He didn't quite expect things to get quite so real quite so fast, but then... well, it's Melissa. She's got that ability to cut through the crap. It's one of the things he most admires about her. A crooked little smile tugs at his mouth, and he admits, "Some of it *is* stuff you *don't* need to know about. And..." he gives a heavy sigh, shaking his head, "The mom-friendly version is: I came out to Scott as bi this week, I'm having to figure out relationship stuff, and my dad doesn't know." He gives a little shrug, and the fact that he admits this all so easily to Melissa... really does say something. "But don't worry. I'll take the gory details to my grave." He can't keep the smirk off of his face. And while the *human stuff* is actually what he wants to talk about, he doesn't try pushing ahead yet... just in case this turns out to be more of a Thing than he expects it to.

There were probably an assortment of other life lessons headed Stiles' way, but instead, Melissa... pauses. "Oh!" she exclaims, still smiling, but shaking her head a little like she has something to say, but can't *quite* figure out how to say it. "Sooo." she says this slowly, moving the aforementioned glass up and down a few times, then out in front of her. "Glass of water." Right. She does that. "So." she says again, a little more quickly this time, as she fills the glass in the sink, nodding, like suddenly it all makes sense. "You're into Scott." This is a statement. Well, he *did* say he was looking for Scott. And Scott *had* been a bit broodish. What's a mom to think? She turns around with the glass of water, walking it over to Stiles with that smile still there! "That's ok! It's fine! I'm really happy you could tell me." She hands the glass to him, expectantly, like, he can't have alcohol, but he really should drain *something*.

Stiles doesn't react too much to Melissa's initial response. "Oh" and "so" aren't exactly "Get out of my house, you little deviant!" Besides, he really didn't figure she'd have an issue with it, so all is well on *this point*. ...Right up until he realizes he's given her the wrong idea entirely. It's one of those times when Stiles' tendency to physically overreact works against him, and he looks up in shock at *just* the wrong moment, so that as the knife comes down, his eyes averted, he sputters to respond... and slices very neatly right into his index finger. This, of course, prompts a most (in)appropriate shout of, "...Shit!"

"Oh god, Stiles!" It's both concern and admonishment all wrapped up into one neat little package. Melissa fumbles with the glass for a moment, trying to find a place to put it neatly with ingredients all over, but just gives up after a second and slaps it on the table, water sloshing everywhere. She then rushes into the kitchen to get a clean hand towel. "Just, don't move, Stiles," she says, grabbing his hand and then temp-bandaging the finger by wrapping it up tightly. "Just hold that there. And I'm serious--," the Finger comes back out. "We're not done." And then she's off again to fetch some proper medical supplies from one of the bathrooms. It allows Stiles a moment of quiet thought, soothing chillout music in the background, amidst the fresh scent of... apple pie. The metaphor is daunting. Mercifully, Melissa is back tout suite with her kit and unwraps the now-a-bit-bloody makeshift bandage so she can see to the cut properly. She *knew* she shouldn't have given him that knife. "Stiles, I swear to god, you are running down the road of making me never trust you with... Jesus, *Things*." It doesn't appear the wound is terribly deep, however, so the nurse gets right to disinfecting. Crisis averted, she glances up expectantly, lifting her brows and again shaking her head a little, not quite exasperated, but not far. "Well? Is it Scott?" She plucks an actual bandage from the medical kit and gets to applying that, regardless of whatever Stiles says next. Do no harm and all.

True enough, the wound isn't bad. It bleeds enough to look scary, but it's really just a shallow slice along the tip of his finger. Stiles is shocked enough to shut up and do as he's told for once, applying pressure and letting Melissa take care of things... and in truth, he's quite grateful for it. Talk about your shocking metaphors for your own human limitations. At her admonishment about *things*, he turns quite red and says, "Sorry. I just... I freaked a little. It slipped." He draws another deep, bracing breath, and explains, "It's *not* Scott. It probably could have been, once, if he'd felt that way... but at this point..." he trails off, shaking his head, unable to take his eyes off Melissa's hands as she works, so efficiently taking the situation in hand and patching it up. "No, you were right. Scott's like my brother. And he was really supportive, and... it was good. As usual, he was... he was a really good friend about it." For whatever reason, though, it's only as he says this part that emotion creeps into his voice, his throat feeling weirdly thick. And his eyes are only stinging because of the onions, right? (And speaking of stinging, *gawd*, why did he have to cut himself while cutting *onions*?)

"Oh, thank god," Melissa says, slapping the bloodied towel onto the table so it can soak up some of the watery mess, and runs a hand over her forehead and into her hair. She walks back and forth a little, sighs audibly, but holds up a hand before Stiles has the chance to feel badly about it. "That's not about you," she says, shaking the extended hand, and still running the other through her hair. She looks weirdly relieved and yet still anxious all at once. "I mean, if that's how things had worked out, I would have been totally supportive. It just would have meant I'm an awful mother for being completely blind to my kid's needs and I just... need my wine." With purpose, she marches back into the kitchen, but without even turning around, she manages to point at one of the chairs by the table, indicating Stiles should sit. "Sit." She says, just in case that wasn't clear. Nabbing the wine glass, she takes a long, wonderful, god is it wonderful, sip of the stuff, and... that wasn't a sip because then it's gone. "Ok," she says, more calm, walking back over with a fresh glass of water, which she offers Stiles as she, too, takes a seat. "This is about you," she says in her mother voice, reaching for his wounded hand to press gently, warmly, and sympathetically between her own (naturally taking care around the cut). "Honey, I'd never think less of you because of something like this. You know I'm here for you. If you need to let it out... just let it out." Her hand reaches for his head, which she gently strokes, allowing him to lean it against her shoulder if he needs to.

Stiles follows Melissa back into the kitchen, keeping his injured-and-tended hand elevated, and reaches to help clean up the mess as best he can. And her reaction actually makes him sink back in the chair, just... laughing softly. He glances up, eyes bright, and says, "You are so awesome. I mean, I don't... I don't *think* my dad would judge me, or anything, but... just... best reaction. I mean, I'm not exactly a pro at this coming out stuff, but I read a *lot* online. And Scott's really lucky you're as cool a mom as you are." He pauses, blinking, and raises his injured hand slightly as if to say *Hang on a second*. "Not that Scott's bi. Or gay. Or--as far as I know--anything other than heterosexual. I mean, he and Allison--!" He cuts off, eyes wide, and makes a little choking sound. Grimacing as he tries to recover, he finishes, "--had, to my knowledge, a perfectly healthy, responsible, and completely appropriate relationship. With absolutely nothing going on that would be cause for shock to a very kind and understanding mother."

There comes a point where Stiles' words just keep tumbling out, like a flood breaking through a dike, and few earthly forces can stop it. Melissa's hand is one of those forces. She promptly pulls it from Stiles' head to press it against the teen's lips, at which point she says, seriously, but amused, "I get the picture." Once it's clear Stiles has regained control of his verbal faculties, she drops her hand, but can't stop herself from laughing. "Honestly Stiles, you are your father's son. He'll probably freak like you did, and then get over it. He just wants you to be happy, just like I want Scott to be happy--however that works out for him." Melissa glances at the previous travesty of glass-and-water, simply shaking her head. "Minus all the gory details, like you said. But. I'm glad you think I'm alright." She pats his unwounded hand, smiling. "No parents are perfect, but we try." That said, she stands again, because the tortillas need to be dealt with before they burn. "I'm going to trust you can finish your chopping without any more self-maiming," she says pointing two fingers at her eyes, than at him. As for a segue into the other thing Stiles wanted to talk about, she lets him make that leap, just in case he isn't finished.

It's not often that Stiles is shushed in quite so overt a way--unless it's Derek, but that's more likely to involve a smack to the back of the head or something--but it's quite effective. He's still a bit flushed, but he smiles gratefully enough. Getting back to the vegetables after making sure to clean up the mess--that's part of an onion they won't be using--he makes sure to go and wash the knife, then returns to his chopping with an upbeat little "Yes, ma'am." Then, just as he's preparing to cut another onion... he sets down the knife and turns back to her.

"Um. Actually. That wasn't even what I wanted to talk about. It *was* the human... thing." He draws another slow, deep breath. "Y'know, when Scott became an alpha... I was sure he'd bite me, and I'd get to be one of the cool wolves. Obviously, that didn't happen. He's too responsible for that. But then he *had* to bite Liam, and I love the kid, but I got... really jealous for a while." He cracks a small smile, shaking his head. "But recently... I realized I was stupid. Because you're right, they *do* need a human in the pack. And I started thinking about druids and emissaries, like Deaton talks about..." He raises his eyebrows, then, and asks...

"Do you think it would make sense for me to try to become a druid?"

Ok, so, for a few quiet minutes, while Stiles cleans himself and finds his center again, Melissa whooshes about the kitchen, making sure all of her various buckets (not actual buckets) are in order. Tortillas are flipped, pie is taken out of the oven, meat is grabbed and slapped on the stove to cook, and so on. It's a complex whirl of flavors, all distinctly scrumptious, though maybe not all at once. Though that's kind of Melissa's life--all of the things crashing her place, without the decency to do it one at a time (or with notice). While Stiles talks, she's preparing in her head a rebuttal about how, yes, being a wolf is cool, and novel, and comes with all these powers, but it also comes with a terrible series of burdens and problems. However, the words (actually it's just one) that comes out of her lips are (is), "What?"

The woman squints her eyes a little as she turns to fold her arms and bob her head a little low, like she's trying to see up under something (like Stiles' logic). "Ok, to be fair," she says, lifting a hand, "I see the appeal. But didn't we just agree before our little ritual bloodletting that you being you is fine?" She rubs her forehead with that same hand, actually *shakes* her head, and then turns back to her food. "Stiles, I think you should honestly consider what it is you bring to this group that makes you 'Stiles'. Really think hard about it. And then if mastering those skills, that part of yourself, also happens to align really well with something like being a druid, then that's one thing. But just doing it to make yourself feel useful is doing it for all the wrong reasons. It's like... " she spins a finger trying to come up with the right metaphor.

"It's like going to college to be an engineer because the money's good, when what you really wanted to do was be a writer. So you learn all this bullshit you're not really invested in for some notion of usefulness that may not even pan out, and you wasted all this time you could have spent doing something you really enjoy. That really matters to you." She turns around, cocking her head to the side and splaying her hand in the air. "Do you get where I'm going with this?"

And Stiles listens. True, he generally listens pretty well when Melissa speaks anyway, it's just healthier that way, but at present he's very clearly turning to her for wisdom and advice. And he *really* listens. Her words don't seem to surprise him so much as reassure him, as if she's telling him exactly what, as she says it, he realizes that he needs to hear. The right questions to ask, the right concerns. "I don't... think it's like that," he says quietly. "I'm not... I'm not *not* useful, is the thing. I never really expected to be 'the book guy,' but I ended up doing it. And I never really figured that I'd want to do what Deaton does, but... since he's been away, I see Scott *needs* someone like that, an... emissary, or whatever. The pack needs it. And I think I could do it. I think I might even be *good* at it." He leaves off the part about meeting a witch who put him into this line of thought. One thing at a time and all. "I'm kind of afraid of it, which... makes me think maybe it's really worth doing. It's scary. It'd be a challenge. But all my *worst* ideas are the ones I have and seem like a really good idea at the time, then I see they were dumb. This one... it's more like I see it coming. It's this looming thing... and I could either meet it, try to prepare for it... or I could let it crash over me like a... wave, or something." He looks up, a bit helplessly. "I don't know if this is 'being an engineer' or 'being a writer,' but I'm kind of starting to think... it's just how things are gonna go. But I can't do it... unless I'm sure it's right. And I have *no idea*. So I figured... I'd ask someone who's good at... right and wrong." He makes a slight sour face, showing a bit of his usual humor. "At least, way better at it than *I* am."

The halting nature of Stiles' explanation leads Melissa down two separate paths of thought. One, he's tentative, but frightened at the possibilities, and two, he's concerned that there's some obligatory nature to it, as if doing it is not really a choice, and he's unsure of how he feels about that. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither. But the sincerity of it gives Melissa pause enough to rub her forehead again and really, *really* think about the implications of this chat. If she encourages him, and then Stiles doesn't get into it with his dad about this, ever, and he finds out, then she's some kind of accessory... to what? Supernatural delinquency? She almost snorts at the idea. But she wouldn't put it out-of-bounds for Sheriff freakout territory. So she compromises. "Tell you what," she begins, dropping her hands, exhaling sharply, and collecting her wine glass. Time for more. To the box!

She speaks, half out of the refrigerator, "Do your research. I get the impression that 'becoming a druid' or whatever isn't some *thing* you can just *do*. I'm sure it requires training and education, you know, like anything else does. I think you get that. So let me ask you: Have you looked into what would be required to start learning this stuff? What if you have to kill a grown buck with your bare hands and eat its still-beating heart or something?" She pops out with a full glass of zinfandel, and sips, sighing again. Her look says, 'this glass never happened, either'. "So, how about you start there, and see where it takes you. You're not committing yet, but you're not doing nothing, either. Then if you still feel really strongly about this, we can have this talk again, and I'll ask you some hard questions to see if it's a path you're really committed to." And then, to her wine, "God I can't believe I just agreed to that." Sip.

Stiles relaxes as Melissa speaks. He almost always carries a lot of tension in his body, keyed up on some fundamental level. It's why he's so jumpy, so prone to overreaction. His psyche, and by extension his body, are near-constantly firing full force, pushing and pushing, leaving him no rest. It means a lot of things--like being jittery, jumpy, and awful about focusing in school--but it also means he can obsessively mull over questions and solve problems by applying his intellect to them with that same energy. However, as Melissa speaks, most of the tension eases out of him for once. It's that *mom* thing. Her words are at once sensible and reassuring, a bit of stark clarity in what has lately seemed like a completely blurry haze of... whatever. Stiles gave up trying to quantify the weirdness of his life a while ago now.

And he nods. His smile resurfaces, warmer and more open than earlier. Than usual, really. "Yeah," he says, rolling the idea around in his mind. "Yeah, that... sounds smart. I can start to learn, but I don't have to dive into anything until I understand it better and it seems... right." He relaxes back into the chair and gives a soft, humorless laugh. Smiling at Melissa in a way that exudes more relief than he could have anticipated feeling, he says, "Hey, you're really good at this mentoring stuff, you know that? It's like you have experience or something."

"Gee, whoda thunk?" Melissa says, echoing his sarcasm with a short laugh and a toss of her hands. "You *can* take things one step at a time, you know." Her glass is set aside in favor of gesturing Stiles over. "Come here," she says, opening her arms. Clearly, a big hug is in order. Her embrace is, as Stiles has come to expect, warm and motherly, without being awkward or obnoxious. Though, naturally, she says this once he's deep in her clutches, at stage whisper: "But you promise me the moment things start getting dangerous, or superwacky, *you stop*. Because you should take a *real* long time to think about what I'm going to have tell your dad if things spin out of your control. A real." Squeeze. "Long." Squeeze. "Time." Yeah, that's pretty much momma blackmail. But also concern, because what if he gets hurt? On her watch? In any case, she then lets him go, though she keeps her hands on his shoulders to impress upon him the importance of this. "And for heavens sake--tell Scott. You know how things are going to explode if you don't." With that, Momma McCall is done. That'll probably be the epitaph on her grave. 'So. Done.' The woman slaps her thighs and blows out a puff of air. "Alright. Any other bombs you want to drop on me, bucko?"

In front of anyone else, Stiles would feel obligated to at least *try* to play off the hug and be cool about it. It's a teenage guy thing. Maybe just a teenage thing in general. But right now... it never even occurs to him. He stands, stepping over to Melissa, and meets the hug, returning with an almost sheepishly gentle enthusiasm. If there's anything in the world that makes Stiles feel like a little kid again--okay, it's probably a lot of things. He's never pretended to be the most mature person in the world all the time. But mom-hugs certainly suffice to make him feel the kind of reassurance that almost invariably passes with childhood... surrogate-mom or otherwise. He breaks into a soft laugh, blinking back tears--*onions*, man, seriously--and nodding as Melissa speaks.

Once he steps back, reaching up to rub a but at his eye, he says, "I'll remember. And I'll think about it *a lot* before I do anything too dumb. And... yeah. I'm gonna keep Scott in the loop, completely. I promise." And then he laughs a bit more deeply at the question of additional bombs. "Nothing else for tonight, I guess." He turns, then, to get back to the vegetables, since he doesn't want to do *anything* to threaten the completion of a delicious dinner. But, after a few moments, he does look up again and says, just quietly, "...Thanks. Just, y'know. For everything."

She knows. And she gets it. Melissa's a big softy, but she tries not to embarrass her boys with it too much. (Though sometimes it's fun.) This time though, it's already been a hell of a night, so she just gently taps Stiles beneath the chin--an affectionate 'chin up, sparky' gesture that doubles as a 'you're welcome'--and leaves it at that. Those onions, man. "Alright, choppy. I know you'll do me proud. But you're probably hungry after all that bleeding and catharsis, so let's see about finishing up this mess so we can have a proper dinner. What do you say?" A final pat to Stiles' shoulder, and she's shooing him back to the table so she can focus on getting all of the various cooking finished. With a final, slow sip of wine, Melissa says to no one in particular, "Poor Scott. He's totally going to miss out on this warm apple pie." While it's warm, that is!