Y/N sighed as she unlocked the front door to the quiet house.
Mitch had been gone for nearly three weeks on a classified mission. Their phone calls had been brief, and the only thing he had told her before leaving was, “I’ll be home soon.”
She dropped her keys on the kitchen counter and headed toward the living room.
“Another lonely night,” she muttered.
Just as she reached for the lamp…
Two strong arms wrapped around her waist.
She gasped.
Before she could react, a familiar voice whispered in her ear.
“Miss me?”
Y/N spun around.
“Mitch!”
He barely had time to smile before she threw her arms around his neck.
He caught her easily, laughing as she hugged him tightly.
“I thought you weren’t coming home until next week!”
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
“What happened? Did the mission get canceled?”
“No.”
“It finished early.”
She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You definitely did.”
Mitch brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’ve got another surprise.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Another one?”
He nodded.
“Go get dressed.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got reservations.”
“Dinner?”
“The nicest restaurant in the city.”
She laughed.
“You hate dressing up.”
“I can survive one night.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
“What are you planning?”
“You’ll see.”
⸻
An hour later, Mitch waited beside the car in a tailored black suit.
Y/N stepped outside wearing a deep blue evening dress.
For a moment…
Mitch simply stared.
“You look…”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think words are enough.”
She blushed.
“You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He opened the passenger door with a grin.
“After you.”
⸻
The restaurant overlooked the river, its floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with warm candlelight.
Soft music filled the room as they enjoyed dinner together, laughing about old memories and sharing stories Mitch had waited weeks to tell.
For the first time in a long time…
There were no missions.
No danger.
Just the two of them.
As dessert arrived, Mitch glanced at his watch.
“You trust me?”
She smiled.
“Always.”
He stood and offered his hand.
“Come with me.”
⸻
He led her outside onto a beautifully decorated terrace overlooking the water.
Thousands of tiny lights twinkled in the surrounding trees.
Rose petals lined a path toward the center of the terrace.
Y/N looked around in amazement.
“Mitch…”
“What is all this?”
Before he could answer…
A voice called from behind them.
“About time.”
Y/N turned.
Stan Hurley stepped onto the terrace wearing a suit that looked almost as uncomfortable as he did.
Behind him came Irene Kennedy, Scott Coleman, and the rest of Mitch’s team, all smiling.
Y/N looked back at Mitch in complete confusion.
“You… invited Stan?”
Stan sighed dramatically.
“I objected.”
Scott laughed.
“For about five seconds.”
“I still object.”
Y/N laughed through the happy tears already forming in her eyes.
“I can’t believe all of you are here.”
Irene smiled warmly.
“We wouldn’t have missed this.”
Stan folded his arms.
“I was told attendance was mandatory.”
Mitch chuckled.
“It was.”
Stan pointed at him.
“You owe me.”
“I know.”
⸻
Mitch took Y/N’s hands in his.
The joking stopped.
Everything became quiet.
He looked into her eyes, his confident expression softening into something far more vulnerable.
“I’ve spent my life running toward danger.”
She squeezed his hands gently.
“I know.”
“I’ve been on missions around the world.”
“I know.”
“I’ve faced people who wanted me dead.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
He smiled.
“But nothing has ever scared me as much as standing here right now.”
A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek.
“You’ve become the safest place I’ve ever known.”
His voice grew quieter.
“When I come home after a mission… you’re the first person I want to see.”
“When something good happens… you’re the first person I want to tell.”
“When something goes wrong… you’re the one who reminds me who I am.”
He took a slow breath.
“I don’t want any more missions without knowing you’re waiting for me.”
He slowly lowered onto one knee.
Stan quietly whispered to Scott,
“It’s about time.”
Scott elbowed him.
“Shh.”
Mitch reached into his jacket pocket and revealed a small velvet box.
Inside sparkled a stunning diamond ring.
Y/N covered her mouth.
“Mitch…”
“I’ve survived impossible odds.”
He smiled.
“But I’d rather spend the rest of my life doing ordinary things with you.”
He opened the box completely.
“Making breakfast together.”
“Watching terrible movies.”
“Arguing over what to order for dinner.”
“Growing old.”
He looked up at her with a hopeful smile.
“Y/N…”
“Will you marry me?”
Happy tears streamed down her face.
She laughed through them.
“Yes.”
He blinked.
“…Really?”
She laughed even harder.
“Of course really!”
“Yes!”
Mitch slipped the ring onto her finger before standing and pulling her into a kiss.
The terrace erupted into applause.
Scott cheered loudly.
Irene wiped away a discreet tear.
Even Stan smiled.
Just a little.
When the kiss ended, Stan walked over and looked at the ring.
“Well…”
Mitch raised an eyebrow.
“Well?”
“You actually did something right.”
Everyone burst into laughter.
Mitch wrapped an arm around Y/N and smiled.
“I’ll take that as a congratulations.”
Stan nodded once.
“It is.”
Then, after a brief pause, he looked at Y/N.
“Take care of him.”
She smiled.
“I always will.”
Stan gave one final nod.
“I know.”
As the team gathered around to celebrate, Mitch looked down at the ring sparkling on Y/N’s hand.
Cleaning through old stories I found this Teen WolfxMitch Rapp story I began writing with the intension of a 20+ chapter epic but lost all inspo to continue.
here's the first chapter:
‘I’m not a hero.’
Opening the door to the jeep, Stiles stumbled onto the driver’s seat, groaning aloud as his muscles protested from moving, panting just to push past the pain of aggravated bruises and his own idiocy.
What was he doing?
What was he even fucking doing?
Hadn’t even been two hours since Gerard decided to prove to Stiles just how utterly helpless he truly was. What was it he said to Scott? ‘I can’t do the things you do,’ something like that? Right. And then he managed to make something of himself; got off the bench and actually scored a few goals, enough to catch the eye of Lydia and probably cement his spot in First-Line when suddenly he couldn’t even bask in the glory of victory because some ninety-year old murderous psychopath got the better of him and beat some common sense into his squishy insides, showed Stiles his proper place in all of this.
He’s not some hero.
Hardly even the sidekick.
Cause at least a sidekick would be able to defend himself. A sidekick wouldn’t have been beaten black and blue, thrown out the back door like trash and told to deliver himself to Scott as a message. He wasn’t even…he hadn’t even been interrogated was the thing. There was nothing—Gerard didn’t need Stiles for anything but his bruised ribs and miserable fucking face.
He’d been expected to show up at Scott’s side crying and whimpering about getting hurt by the old guy, to plead, ‘Just listen to him Scott, obey him like a good puppy so I don’t get hurt worse. So your mom doesn’t get hurt like me.’
Well fuck that.
Fuck that and fuck Lydia cause what the hell is he doing sitting here like a coward in his jeep as if he could even do something.
Something real. Something that actually mattered cause what the hell can he do?
It sucked. All this sucked majorly and he couldn’t even- didn’t even-
Stiles shuddered out a breath and couldn’t suck enough air back in. He was in pain and all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and ignore everything cause what the hell was he even thinking this entire time?
He was Stiles.
Weak, defenseless, stupid fucking Stiles who’s literally all talk and no bite going up against werewolves, Argents, kanima, and whatever fresh new horror with a taste for human flesh decided his high school was an all-you-can-eat buffet. All he was good for was to be a message, writ in flesh and blood cause, yeah, maybe his bones didn’t break but whoopdee-fucking-doo at least his bones didn’t break.
He never felt so useless. Gerand didn’t even have to try, didn’t string him up like Boyd or Erica, tortured to make him pliant, Stiles pretty much fucking let the guy beat the crap out of him, falling on the floor as his clumsy flailing limbs failed to protect himself from even this. What was he even thinking? What was he even doing sitting here with a half-cocked plan and nothing to show for it? He couldn’t even be a good message for Scott, so what can he expect being anything else?
He…
He just wants…
The ringing phone in his hand abruptly stops, the number he called and the name attached to it damn near blinding Stiles with the brightness of the screen, he heard a deep breath on the other end and suddenly-
<Stiles?>
-he can finally breathe.
Stiles greedily gulped down mouthfuls of air. The hand still clutching the steering wheel letting go in favor of running fingers over his close buzz. Relief swept through him and with the tide carried away the thousand different overwhelming thoughts that plagued him.
“Um, hey!” he tried for exuberance but failed to stop the harsh sniffle to clear his clogged nose. He could taste blood in the back of his throat. “Uh, I got to play in the game tonight. Scored a few goals even. Might’ve earned that MVP award you never got.”
The person on the other end didn’t speak immediately. Stiles didn’t expect him to.
“Lydia was there,” he tried to think of something—anything—that might be worth talking about to cover up the catch in his throat, the tremor of his hands, the reek of fear. “Saw me score which was pretty freakin’ sweet and I think maybe for just a sec’ I saw-”
<What’s going on?>
Stiles couldn’t hold back the hysterical little chuckle that escaped nor the coughs following after. Clearing his throat he said, “I don’t, uh, I don’t know what you mean.”
Silence on the other end.
Smacking the heel of his palm about the steering wheel, Stiles chewed on his lip in thought before trying again, “You busy right now?”
<Not particularly,> the answer from the other end was deliberate and free of inflection. Stiles couldn’t tell if the other was lying.
“Right,” Stiles muttered, “it’s past nine in California which means it’s super late for you and if you’re not in bed or getting ready for bed then you were probably keeping an eye on something across the globe and working from your computer. Are you still drinking those heart attacks you call energy drinks or have you moved on to snorting cocaine just to stay awake? You know what? Don’t tell me. Plausible deniability. Actually, you should tell me. Dad’ll never ask so I won’t have to lie to him and I wanna know if cocaine actually helps with the-”
<Stiles,> the man on the other end interrupts, <Stop talking around the issue.>
Just like that, all of Stiles’ pomp fell to dust, his guise to the wayside, willful distractions disappearing for him to face the colossal wreck of his entire existence. Bitterly, he cursed his subconscious having taken control of his fingers, calling the one person in the world who could see past the mania he threw up as a guard, but he couldn’t stay mad for long. Out of anyone, Stiles called the one person he knew would help him.
“What if I can’t do anything?”
He couldn't have held it all in for long. Stiles was a master bullshitter whenever he wanted to be but he was never able to hold back when talking to him. He didn't even try holding back.
<...What?>
“What if-,” the words caught in his throat cause he suddenly wanted to cry, “What if I can’t do anything when bad things are happening? When I don’t– When bad things are happening to my friends and the people I meet and there’s nothing I can actually do to help them, protect them. I can’t…I can’t fight let alone help fight back and I feel so freakin’ useless all the goddamn time and-”
<What do you have?>
Stiles’s cycle of depreciation is overthrown, his thoughts always falling into line at the sound of the voice on the other end and he breathed a sigh of relief. “What do you mean?”
<You know this, Sty,> the nickname steadied Stiles like a warm hand upon his shoulder, <Humans only rank amongst apex predators because of their use of…?>
“Tools,” he finished, this was a well rehearsed script, “Our use of tools.”
<So what do you have?> the person on the other end continued, <Got rocks on hand? Some flint? A sharpened spear or tomahawk?>
Stiles laughed, looking around himself, “Well I, uh, got my phone. Half-full bottle of gatorade. Fast food receipts and a pack of chewing gum. Oh, and the jeep.”
<The jeep,> the other said like that was the answer all along, <Hell of a lot more you can do than nothing.>
“I can’t,” and his voice betrays him by cracking right down the middle. Stiles could feel the steady thrum of stress and anxiety compound into fear brewing in the back of his mind. “How is that supposed to help in any way? If bad things are happening, what the hell am I supposed to do with my fucking Jeep, taxi everyone around?”
<If that’s what it takes,> said the guy on the other end of the phone, <If all they need is a ride or some car space or some friendly conversation, that’s how you help. Sometimes you don’t have to do big things to save a person’s life. And you don’t have just the jeep to help people.>
“What else?” Stiles asked cause he genuinely couldn’t see anything beyond what he lacked.
<A plan,> said the other without a doubt, <Tell me you have a plan.>
He chuckled with no joy, his heart squeezing in his chest at the reminder, “Yeah. Maybe. Half of a plan, really. I don’t know, it’s shit.”
<So you have your jeep and half a shitty plan. That’s enough.>
“But,” Stiles whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, “what if it’s not?”
It’s silent for a second.
He waits. Stiles bit his lip to hold back the vomit of words in his mouth cause he knows the other guy just needs a moment to answer. Every word suddenly mattered and if this answer was worth its weight in gold then he would wait forever for Eureka.
<Would you rather have done something or nothing?>
He…
Oh.
There was his answer.
Stiles gulped down another gasp of air, straightening up in his seat and looking around himself with fresh eyes, ready for anything, “Okay, I'd rather do something. Might be something stupid but it’s something.” He broke out into a laugh, incredulous that the other could so easily snipe everything holding him back with a single shot. God, this was exactly why Stiles called him. “You get that off a fortune cookie? Watch a bunch of Dr. Phil?”
<No, the Dalai Lama.>
Stiles’s train of thought switched tracks.
“Wait, have you met the Dalai Lama?”
<Stiles.>
“I mean you could have. You really could’ve on a sidequest or whatever. You’d tell me if you met the Dalai Lama, right? I tell you I totally won the MVP trophy and you tell me if you met the guy who’s got, like, a couple centuries backlog of reincarnated history-”
<I’ve never met the Dalai Lama and I don’t care to.>
“Well that sucks. Can’t you be a little more interesting?”
<God forbid if I’m interesting to you.>
“Oh, come on, you’re totally interesting but you never tell me shit.”
<Wonder why.>
He laughed a little. It was a nice distraction. An ease of tension he sorely needed, a handful of seconds to catch his breath and equilibrium.
“Thanks,” he said over the phone, “for your help. For, uh, knowing what to say.”
<What else are brothers good for?>
The question—asked sardonically—is a throwaway comment, a joke meant to levy and didn’t mean to press against every aching contusion that riddled his body but it did. It did and Stiles really wanted to cry again because it’s his brother over the phone.
His brother.
He…he can’t stop the hitch in his throat. Couldn’t swallow down the lump to give his brother a satisfactory quip, and his silence must’ve been answer enough because-
<Stiles?>
“Yeah?” he paid attention cause rarely did the other ever use that tone of voice.
<...want me to come home?>
He…didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t know what to fucking say.
Unrepentant, desperate need slammed through him, ripping apart his insides as a long buried want was unearthed and clawed up his throat to howl at the moon.
Stiles laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed, damn near slamming his face against the steering wheel when his stomach cramped up.
“Yeah,” he answered when the hysteria finally passed, “Yeah, I– you’d do that? I…I missed you and I need you here cause shit’s fucked and I can’t-”
<I’m on my way,> his brother said with no hesitation. Had it always been this easy? Stiles wanted to sob. <I’ll be there in less than a day.>
This time when Stiles laughed, it didn’t sound like he was losing his mind.
“I’ll change the sheets,” he said, suddenly feeling like he could slay dragons, “Update the ol’ man about your visit.”
<You do that. Oh, and Stiles?> his brother—and wow does it feel so good to even acknowledge it—interrupts, clearly guessing their call was about to end, <Jeeps aren’t only used for transportation. You can also run people over with one.>
It’s been a long time since he ever laughed so hard.
“Thanks, Mitch,” he said, “I gotta go. See you tomorrow?”
<See you soon.>
Stiles hung up the call from his end, glancing down at the screen a little in disbelief, eyes tracing over the name Mitch and he really needs to update his phone contact because when the hell ever is anyone left without a loving nickname? Maybe he could go with ‘Bitch- I mean, bro’, or ‘uncool Jack Ryan’, or ‘generic white guy#5’.
He’ll have to remember to do so later. For now he’s got Lydia to pick up and a kanima to stop because if he knew anything about werewolves, they were impatient idiots who probably made things ten times worse somehow.
It’s all he could do. He has a jeep and an actual fucking plan on how to declaw Jackson, snatch him out from creeper Gerand’s clutches, creating an opening for Scott, Derek, whoever hates the old guy enough to take him out. His abilities, attempt to help might be meager, might even be pathetic in comparison to werewolves with super abilities and trained hunters but goddamn it, it’s not nothing.
It’s just enough.
Just enough to give the good guys an edge. So no, maybe Stiles still isn’t a hero. Still not the sidekick (cause Lydia is turning out to be more of a sidekick than he is) but he could do this and it’ll be worth it.
It hurts.
He’s racing towards a situation that’ll hurt him even more but he doesn’t let himself think about that. All he lets himself think about is surviving till morning cause if he makes it then…
His brother is coming home.
[gimme a min, i may share later the initial story idea for this]
Also, it's interesting how this movie can be summed up like:
Dylan O'Brien goes through a horrible, life-changing trauma and becomes an angry little gremlin with a depression beard. And then he plays Mitch Rapp, who goes through a horrible, life-changing trauma and becomes an angry little gremlin with a depression beard.
At least Dylan didn't kill anybody 😂 he did fire a bunch of real guns loaded with live ammo during training, though, which I just learned today and I'm not sure why, but that surprised me a bit.
