2015.08.18 - Maybe Mama McCall Will Understand This Lance Thing

**Emitter:** N/A

*Stiles introduces Lance to Melissa McCall. He also gets busted for that whole "Nemeton" thing. Emotional moment ensues.*

The McCall Home, Beacon Hills

This is a special week--one to remember! For Melissa is actually off work. On an evening. For a second time. Alone. To herself. Even the cooking's already been done. Naturally, this meant a long, luxurious, epsom-salted bath with candles, wine, and something ludicrously mellow (but not depressing) music, like mid-career Sarah MacLaughlin. After that? Everything's good. Reaaaal good. Melissa practically floats down the stairs, beclothed in her soft, cotton, pastel pajamas, dark hair curly and voluminous, and just looking positively radiant. See, when she has time to actually *destress*, she actually has the capacity to not looked perpetually exhausted. She promptly nests herself in one of the downstairs armchairs, wine glass still in hand, and just... luxuriates in the solace of momentary peace.

The quiet evening is shattered by the sound of a certain rattletrap Jeep pulling up outside, followed by the slam of car doors. And a short while later... there's actually a knock at the door. Not so typical, that.

The sound Melissa makes isn't exactly UGH, because, truly, she does care for Stiles. But for once, for one sweet evening, a singular and glorious evening, a space of silence would be a gift. "Just come in, Stiles," she says, compromising with herself by absolutely refusing to get up. She sips from her wine and rests back her head, allowing her eyes to lid as she distinctly does not gaze at the ceiling, but rings out a final few moments of serenity before the teen lets himself in. Then she exhales slowly and prepares to greet him with a sweet smile.

Outside, Stiles shoots Lance an only slightly playful grimace. But then he takes out his key and lets himself in, ushering Lance inside before closing and re-locking the door. (Can't be too careful. It's Beacon Hills. There could be monsters or something out there. Like werewolves!) With a hesitant manner, he leads Lance in to where Melissa is reclining, and offers her a sheepish grin. "H-hey, um... I just... I mean, maybe this is kinda dumb, but..." He turns bright red and shoves his hands into the pockets of his red hoodie, ducking his head. In a low voice, he says, "We were gonna wait for Scott to get home, but then I thought, maybe, you'd like to meet Lance. My boyfriend."

Lance is very nicely groomed and is, since they came in the jeep, not wearing mostly leathers as he does when he's on the motorcycle. Now it's nice jeans, one of his various cutesy devil t-shirts, and he's carrying a gift bag of some sort with him, which he holds up for the woman to see. "Hi! I've, uh, heard a lot about you! Good things! All good things." His smile is uncertain, but at least it's real and not just a fakey put-on. "Sorry if we interrupted something," he adds, after noticing certain indications that in fact they did.

Well that sweet smile Melissa had planned manages a cameo, but she was only expecting Stiles, not... Devil Wears Armani over there. (Despite the fact he's not--but he could!). So, her expression promptly becomes suspicious, analytical, very much in the no-one-is-good-enough-for-my-boys sort of look, and she doesn't bother to obfuscate it with pleasantness. She left all that in the bath. Instead, she sips her wine, eyes the gift bag, eyes Stiles even more (a call would have been nice), and then gestures them both into the living room. "Well, don't just stand there like an idiot, Stiles." She holds out her not-wine hand to Lance by way of greeting and gives him a good up-and-down. "Alright, boyfriend. Sell me your pitch." She gestures to the gift bag, too. "If that's for me, you've already earned ten points and a chair."

Stiles is clearly a bit nervous, but when Melissa calls him on standing there, he jumps a little. "Oh! Uh. Should I go make... tea, or something? I know where your tea things are." Nobody wants to know why. "Or, I could get--" He stops, cutting short, and then amends, "Or, I could sit down and shut up. That might be good, too." So he sits at one end of the couch, trying not to fidget too badly... though he can't quite stop his feet from bouncing up and down on the floor. *I totally should have called*, he reflects.

"Of course!" Lance has been studying. Not that he wouldn't know this -- he's well aware that gifts when crossing into another dread lord's domain usually lead to less chaos and destruction and more favorable inclination. So he delivers the bag, which has champagne-filled chocolates in a decorative art nouveau tin, as well as a bottle of a red wine with a pretty label. "I got into town a couple of weeks ago," he explains a little bit more, looking between Stiles and Melissa as Stiles reins himself in a little bit. "And just...well. Stiles is really just..." His grin widens, but the rest of his expression is so sheepish. His cheeks tint with a half-blush. "He's just really perfect when you get down to it," he finishes, in a small voice.

If the motherly wielding of fear, command, and control like a heavy shillelagh forged of pure guilt makes her a dread lord, then... well. All of these things are probably true. Melissa peeks inside the bag, flicks her eyes back up at Lance without moving her head, and then gently places the bag on the floor. "Wow," she says, "If I get wine and chocolates, I don't even want to know what he gets." She holds up a hand and turns away while taking another wine-sip, making very clear that: No. No really. She Does Not. "But thanks, sweety. Your offering at my dread altar is very appreciated..." trailing off, she gives Stiles a meaningful Look to supply her with a name. Like, now, please. "Lance," she adds, once given said name. She gracefully gestures Lance to sit by Stiles on the couch. Not even in another chair! She *is* being gracious. "So," she begins, stretching her neck a little, as if to imply the interrogation has only just begun, my dear. "What do you do?"

Stiles speaks up when instructed, smiling a little at Melissa's acceptance of the gift--and a lot, along with copious blushing, when Lance praises him. And then he's suddenly bouncing up to his feet, clapping his hands together. "Um. 'Scuse me, I think... I think I could use that tea, if it's cool. Just, uh... be right back. With tea." And then, without even bothering to see if they've bought his pretense, Stiles manfully flees the room.

Lance watches Stiles go, but he just sits where indicated, right next to where Stiles had been sitting a moment before. He at first leans forward, elbows at his knees, but then he relaxes a bit more and eases back into the cushions. "I'm working with some local scholars on botany and horticulture related to legend and folklore...this area seems to have a very deep and very rich history." He flicks his tongue over his lips, glancing kitchenward just for a second. He is a bit concerned, but...Stiles can take care of himself in a friend's house. Surely. "It's kind of an uncommon combo, but...that's what gets you noticed! Keeps the grants coming." His face wears a softer smile now, more comfortable and incidentally pleasant rather than too nervous.

Melissa has known Stiles for a Long Time, so his speedy traipse into the kitchen does not surprise nor concern her, and that's clear on her face. "Don't worry about him," she says, indicating the kitchen with her glass and a smile born of affectionate familiarity. "Sometimes he just needs... a moment to pull himself together." That said, she listens to Lance's explanation with sincere interest, nodding here and there. "I'd be interested to hear if you find anything that might have some practical pharmaceutical use, even if it's just as-in-folklore." But. Here comes the But. "Aren't you a bit young to be worrying about grants? What are you... nineteen? Twenty?" Another sip of wine. Her filter is just going right out the window tonight.

Stiles rattles around in the kitchen a bit. The sounds indicate a kettle being filled and put on to heat. Shuffling of cupboards and boxes as he finds tea. The clink of mugs. At least he's actually doing what he said he'd do.

"Never too soon to start thinking about the future. Especially in the current academic landscape. Whew." Lance makes a face that's a bit like disdain combined with an extreme sadface. "And um. Well." Another glance to the kitchen, before he looks back, voice lowered slightly. "I don't want to add any more stress or worry to..." There's a silent gesture in that direction. She'll know what he means. "It's really an amazing place though, Beacon Hills. I mean, there's so much...just...it's *unique*. Like in all the world, just a unique place. There are things happening here that I've never seen anywhere else, so I know it's gonna make for this...just...amazing study." While he talks, he does end up leaning forward more, speaking with enthusiasm about the subject.

"By the sink, bottom left cupboard!" Melissa calls out to Stiles, as if she can See and Knows All. Though more likely the case is that Scott's done the very same thing. Though, speaking of knowing all: "Exactly how much about Beacon Hills *has* Stiles told you," she says, giving him this look that explains with an intent and serious gaze how poorly bullshitting her will end. This is not to say she hasn't heard the rest of what he said--she'll return to that. But first things first. She holds her wine glass to the side, waiting for an acceptable answer before indulging herself again.

"Thanks!" Stiles calls from the kitchen, and the rummaging takes on a more purposeful, organized sound. Not long later, the kettle begins to whistle, and the sounds indicate Stiles taking it off the heat, shutting off the stove, and pouring the steaming water into cups. When he appears, mugs in hand, he's made Melissa's just how he knows she likes it--he pays attention to these things--and made some with a bit of honey for himself and Lance. But he hesitates before re-entering the room, wondering what Lance will say.

Lance feels a bit more at-home with this kind of thing. Good! This is the kind of relation that he can get into. "Wolves. The Nemeton. That I shouldn't destroy all his enemies on his behalf." He rests one leg on the other, bouncing his booted foot lightly. "Dealing with said Nemeton left Stiles's soul vulnerable, so I helped him. We're still not sure how to completely fix it on the long term, but that's part of my research and analysis. So what do *you* know?" His smile widens a little more. "If you could share any information that's relevant...it would be really appreciated." He seems to be asking with authentic concern, at least. He's not being manipulative, just sharing valuable information. It's a bit like some sort of meeting of generals at a battlefield or something.

Melissa blinks. It's not a 'blink' in the sense that she's veered off the road in a game of chicken. It's 'blink' in the sense that she, for the moment, has really, absolutely, nothing (constructive/non-violent) to say. So instead? She drinks her wine. This isn't a sip. This is *a drink*. Calmly, she places the now-empty glass aside on a coffee table conveniently arranged just-so to be within arm's distance. "Well," she begins, sounding airy and refreshed (it's a lie), still looking away. "I'm glad we can now all be on the same page. Stiles?" She taps the coffee table, indicating it's a very good place for him to place his mugs. Now. And then? Momma gets up. Yes. She *gets up*. Like a reclining Cleopatra spitefully lifting herself for war, there's a quiet beauty and grace (well, as much as Melissa manages grace) that belies a certain terror in The Oncoming Storm. "Pardon us for just a moment, Lance," she says, with such a sweetness, it's just a thing that only a mother could manage, and seems to say, 'honey, don't mind the violence to come, it's just a family thing'. Then, without another word, she grabs stiles by the ear, and marches him like a condemned inmate marked for death right on up the stairs and into her room. "You. Told. Him. *WHAT*?"

Stiles scurries--yes, *scurries*--over to put the mugs down, managing not to even spill any, and then plunks his butt back down on the couch with the air of a kid who knows he may be about to get his butt kicked. He's wearing that oh-hey-dad-about-my-report-card look of his, a wary grimace that just says *waiting for the boom to drop*. Of course, he doesn't get halfway down before Melissa rises, and he's back up like a shot... and then he's being hauled out of the room by the ear, trying to choke back cries of "Ow, ow, ow--!" And then they're in his room, and he's rubbing his ear in hopes that it's not going to fall off. (It's not. He's dramatic.) "I... told him about... at the Nemeton... when me and--uh, when we--had to do the ritual of self-sacrifice and do the die-and-come-back thing. It... apparently... left my, well... soul... with a kind of... open place? Which is bad, because it can, like... let bad things in?" He holds up his hands as if to fend off outrage. "But Lance put a patch on it! Really, I'm fine!"

"Of course." Lance dips his head in understanding. It's probably good that his presence is a little soothing to Stiles, and the bond they share helps that, because this could well be a situation of high stresses. Don't change your eyes or do anything weird, Stiles. Lance just busies himself with the tea, not drinking yet -- that would be impolite -- but sitting pretty and waiting, like the actually pretty good guest he is. He likes this Melissa McCall. She feels like familiar territory. But that makes him stop for a moment. Oh. No, no. She's not a demon. Still...!

Mercifully, Melissa releases that poor, poor ear. Less Mercifully, that's when the Storm Begins. She raises her hand like she's about to smack some sense into him, but the blow never lands. This is just Outrage Hand. "Oh, and it didn't occur to you that this might be something *I'd Like To Know*?" This is full-on 'you are in SO much trouble' Mom Voice. "I realize I'm not out there in the thick of things like you are, Stiles, but I am *not* some casual acquaintance you can just conveniently ignore when awful things happen to you!" She doesn't come out and say 'because I'm your mother,' but the implication is there as her voice elevates into a higher octave. "And what do you mean he just 'put a patch on it'? Are you seriously talking about your *actual soul* and *metaphor for a band-aid*? *In the same sentence*?" For the moment, this is just too much for Melissa to handle. "God, Stiles, I just," her voice cracks, and she turns away from him, one hand holding her stomach, the other pressed against her forehead. She doesn't quite look nauseous... this is a more 'cry at any moment' kind of stomach-gripping. "Your life has *meaning*, Stiles. People care about you. *I* care about you. You can't just keep being so reckless like this!" Those are actual tears now, and Melissa sniffs, exhaling slowly to contain herself as she tries to wipe them from her eyes. Some of this might be the wine, but sincerely, Stiles can tell that most of it is all Mama McCall.

The words "chastened" and "contrite" don't really convey anywhere near sufficient gravity for this situation. "Horrified" and "about to confess to being the worst human ever" come a little closer. "I--! And--!" Stiles tries, but he's tripping all over his own tongue. His facial expressions would be priceless right now if he weren't so genuinely upset, the situation so serious. He bites his tongue, literally, before he can say *But I thought Scott told you!* because, no matter how true it is, *you don't throw your bro under the bus*. You take one for the team. And that's what Stiles is gonna do. Instead, he tries a different answer, still honest, but less likely to put Scott in the soup. "I only found out like this month," Stiles explains. "And I've been trying to learn more about what it means before I freak anybody out... but part of it is that I had to explain *Lance* before I could explain this, because... I *promise*, I seriously *swear* that he's keeping me safe. He has a way to keep my soul completely protected until we solve the root of the problem. So, I'm fine. Honest! But I couldn't *show* you all that I was fine until you knew Lance." He's shaking from sheer emotion at this point, *and oh god, he is not going to flash back to images of an upset mother right now*. Melissa isn't his mother, Claudia. Melissa isn't losing her mind and thinking he's a monster.

Melissa just cares, and he knows it.

He's silent for a little while, wrapping his arms around himself and trembling. Then he just says, in a voice thick with the threat of tears of his own, "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you--any of you! Especially not you or Scott. It wasn't... I mean, we did it to *protect* you all. That was the only reason."

Tea. It's good tea, Lance can smell that. But it's going to get cold if they don't come drink it. Drinking tea is soothing, after all! And it's not like he can't hear everything going on. Enhanced senses and all. He purses his lips and sets the cup down. Two people he likes -- one which he likes profoundly, the other which he's coming to like -- being especially upset at his visit is not something he particularly enjoys. And it's one of those complicated things where he can't really destroy anyone for doing it, because it's not anyone's fault. Blasted complex emotional situations.

There is no sound of Lance walking, no sound of those boots hitting the floor, but he clears his throat quietly, suddenly there at the door. "I um. Hi. I know you're upset, and you have every reason to be. But if you'd prefer, let me explain this to you in more certain terms:" He holds his hands up and separates them, palms facing each other. "Whatever happened with the Nemeton left Stiles with an opening in what is basically the soul. Anything and everything could just go in, possess or corrupt him, and ruin every important relationship in his life. Or kill them!" He sounds like he's just talking shop. Which, to be fair, he totally is. "So um. Rather than have that happen, I...basically put myself at a disadvantage and used part of my life force to stop that from happening. Don't think of it as a band-aid. It's more like a...skin graft. Or a plug!" Good! Good, getting better at using comparisons. "But not a buttplug. Just so we're, uh, clear. Like...more like something more, um...okay, let's just move on from that comparison."

Lance takes another careful breath, looking between the two of them. "I'm not...very good with this kind of emotion. I'm really *bad* in dealing with it, honestly. But...I don't want to see either of you get...so upset with each other. Because I can tell you really...love each other so much. I...just don't have anything to compare it to in my own life. Sorry, I just...I just don't want to be the cause of something that ruins something so special." He sighs and shakes his head, casting his eyes downward.

By this point, after Stiles' monologue, Melissa's calmed herself, and though she's still turned away from him with her fingers alternately in the air gesticulating and then pressed against her temples, her tears have stopped. Nurse practice. "Stiles, the fact that Lance even knows how to *do* something like this... I mean, is he even--" human, was the word that almost came out, but that's unfair, and Melissa knows it, so she lets the sentence die. "I'm just..." and then she lets her hands drop, turning around. "...*worried*." She reaches out slowly to gently grip the teen's shoulders, and then comfortingly smooth her hands down his arms. "I worry about the consequences of these choices. I worry about *you*."

That's about the time Lance shows up at her door, whereat his presence is met with uncontained skepticism and suspicion. It's not malicious, but it's clear this is a mama bear stepping between her child and a potential danger-slash-bad-influence and baring her teeth. While still being mostly polite about it. She allows Lance to speak without interruption, occasionally glancing back to Stiles' face to judge his reaction. Naturally, the comment about buttplugs earns a Melissa-brand brow-lifted, thin-lipped, not-smile expression of unmitigated incredulity. But, she's got a sense of humor, so Lance doesn't get punched in the face. Also, the boyfriend has a point, and if he can speak mostly eloquently about love to a mother's face with modest sincerity, she can't *reasonably* hate him. And she's a mostly reasonable woman. Mostly.

Exhaling, she allows her remaining anger to fade. "Shh. Come here," she says to Stiles, pulling the teen tightly into her arms and kissing him gently upon the crown of his head. It's a hug that speaks more to her affection than any words ever could, and she allows that to illustrate the bulk of her apology. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I do trust you. And Scott did tell me some of this, just... not to this kind of detail," she explains. "I could tell you were trying not to rat him out. It's fine, Stiles. I promise I won't ground him from you." With another tight hug, all is mostly forgiven. Without letting go, she turns her attention to Lance, whom she considers with less hostility. "As for you," she says, "Later, we're going to have a talk, and you're going to tell me everything that's happened, in detail." She lifts a finger. "In this context. I don't need to know about... bedtime shenanigans, or any of that."

Stiles hugs Melissa back fiercely, and the anxiety just evaporates off him. There's really no one else in the world who can *absolve* Stiles of guilt like that, just with words and a hug. It's definitely a mom thing. About a thousand thing leap to mind for him to say, but he has no voice. Eventually, he opens his eyes, lifting them to look at Lance, and offers a little, grateful smile. However bad the drama might be, for the moment... everything is okay.

"Of course. I have no reason to hide anything from you," Lance answers. "If Stiles trusts you as much as he does, I trust you. But um. Yes, thanks, I..." He just sort of trails off for a moment. "I'm glad you specified that? Because uh. Yeah, sorry for making things awkward sometimes, Stiles." Because he really totally has done that, a time or two. And he smiles back to Stiles, before looking to Melissa again. "If you need your enemies destroyed or anything though...happy to do it!" And he lets that stand for just a second. Maybe a second too long. "I swear that's a joke," he clarifies hurriedly.

It's her hand in Stiles' hair now, smoothing it annoyingly like one might expect a mother to do. At least she's not licking her fingers, first. But, standing there, the anger may have evaporated, but the weight, the gravity of the subject matter has not. But that discussion is for another, less-wined and less emotional time. Instead, she points a finger at Lance with a free hand and declares, "I don't care what flavor of supernatural you are, the moment I start hearing about hanky-panky is the moment you're going to find your punk ass 'hankied' all right--right up and down the street after I tie you to my car." She points at her eyes, then points to his. Capiche? That's a bit graphic for Melissa, but it's been a hell of a night. So, with that clarified, she finally lets Stiles go, swats him lightly against the shoulder for causing her all this trouble, and then shoos the both out of them out of her room. "Alright kids, Mama's got work in the morning. Go downstairs and enjoy some apple pie or something--just clean up after yourselves." And with that along with a short wave, her door promptly closes. Perhaps another relaxing bath is in order.