A little drabble I wrote at work.
Fun fact: I have taken every one of these calls myself.
As summer jobs go, it’s better than waiting tables. Stiles knows the lingo, he’s done the course, and he is good to go. Okay, so he’s freaking out just a tiny bit as well, and he brought three pens in case two of them stop working, but he’s got this, okay? He’s got this. Besides, this is Beacon Hills, not L.A. What’s the worst thing that can—
And Stiles nips that question in the bud before he can get it out, even in his head. He’s not going to tempt fate by finishing it.
He sits down at his desk, plugs his headset in, and stares expectantly at the phone and the radio console.
And nothing happens.
Nothing continues to happen, stubbornly, for twelve whole minutes. And then the phone rings. Stiles hits the answer button, his heart pounding. This is it. His first 911 call. He opens his mouth to speak, and finds the caller is already yelling at him.
“—and it’s been thirty-six minutes and it’s not here yet!”
“Wait, what?” Stiles squints at the screen, waiting for the map to update. “What isn’t there yet?”
“My fucking pizza!”
For a second Stiles is stunned into silence, but only for a second. Then he remembers that this fucking brain surgeon is tying up an emergency line. “Oh my god! Are you kidding me, dude? You can’t call 911 over a pizza!”
“I’m a taxpayer!” the guy yells back.
“You’re a fucking idiot!” Stiles ends the call and slumps back in his chair, glaring at the screen.
Oh. Okay. So that wasn’t really in the training. In fact, Stiles is pretty certain he’s not allowed to hang up on anyone, even if they are total douchenozzles. But hey, this is a learning curve, okay?
Stiles quietly panics that calling the guy an idiot is going to send him into a rage-fuelled killing spree for revenge, and that it will all be Stiles’s fault. He really doesn’t want to kill anyone on his first night.
He’s still having a slight meltdown about it when he gets a call from one of the deputies on road to run a name check for him.
Okay, now that’s a lot less problematic. Stiles has been running name checks through the police database since he was fourteen. But, of course, the less said about that the better. It’s weird to do it with his own user ID and password and not his dad’s.
After that, Stiles falls into a routine. He’s got this. This is going well. Okay, there are only four deputies working, and only three actual jobs in the entire system, but that’s quite enough to handle right now, thanks very much. Carol, the dispatcher who looked after him for his brief mentoring period, could run multiple major incidents on a busy Friday night in her sleep, but Stiles suspects she’s not quite human.
He wants to grow up and be just like her.
At midnight, Parrish comes in to see if he wants a bathroom break. It’s only when he’s standing up that Stiles realizes how much tension he’s been holding in his body while he’s been sitting for the past few hours.
He heads to the bathroom, makes a coffee on the way back, and slides back into his seat to find out he’s missed exactly nothing.
“So how’s it all going in here?” Jordan asks him.
“Um, good?” Stiles tries to make it sound less like a question. But pizza guy hasn’t called back and he hasn’t gone on a rampage either, so Stiles is taking that as a win.
Yes, he’s winning at this.