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Living in Derek’s apartment was both incredibly familiar and incredibly strange. He knew where the extra toothbrushes were kept (bamboo because of the environment) and where the extra tea was hidden (in Derek’s nightstand because he didn’t trust Erica). But he didn’t know exactly what the boundaries were, how long he would be welcome. Derek had been the most accepting by far, when it came to his job, but it wasn’t the same when you were living with someone, and it definitely wasn’t the same when until recently you’d been flirting with someone.
If he tried to date Derek, and Derek wasn’t okay with sharing Stiles with his clients, it would put him in an impossible position. He’d have to choose between paying down his and his dad’s myriad debts or staying in a relationship with Derek, and he didn’t think the bank cared much about his romantic life.
If he mentioned that conflict to Derek, he would insist on paying for it, and like it or not that would hang over the relationship for the rest of his life. The bills, at the moment, totaled $50,000. Even if Derek didn’t care, Stiles would never be able to let it go.
If he tried to go back to their platonic relationship, Derek could feel rejected, and his only real option for shelter and housing would disappear in a cloud of awkward regret. He could end up on the streets like Chaya, or worse: paying a landlord with his ass like Mariposa.
If he moved wrong in any direction, in any small movement or word, his resources and protection and means of providing for himself would evaporate, and he was constantly aware of it in a way he knew Derek could sense. The werewolf was constantly coiled, like a spring loaded gun ready to fire, and Stiles suddenly understood why the self titled “sugar babies” in his life were always so stressed out.
It was all accompanied by a low soundtrack of Derek’s constant prodding questions about the Sheriff. In a roundabout way, Stiles felt like he might have deprived Derek of a father figure, and the anxious absent minded way he tore apart receipts and napkins and blank notebook paper in his hands served to reinforce that idea. Derek loved the Sheriff. The Sheriff loved Derek. There was no reason for the two of them to be fighting except that Stiles was a fuck up.
He spent the first week shuffling around the apartment in his boxers and a t shirt, feeling sorry for himself. He tried to work, as far as school went, but he called out of his weekday job and unpaid internship, and spend a whole lot of time in the shower, sitting on the floor as the water beat down on him, and staring into space. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t escape that this was happening.
After that week, though--which Stiles had to assume had been an intentional grieving period which Derek had set--suddenly the place was full of pack members. Scott didn’t make an appearance, and neither did Allison, but Boyd and Erica and Isaac and Danny all trickled in at one point or another. Even Jackson and Lydia swung by with a fruit basket and a brisk “I don’t have time for this during midterms” dismissal. There were always people, even when he was alone in the guest room and could only hear their talking and laughter through a closed door, and weirdly it helped. It helped that no one looked at him differently. It helped that Erica asked him the cost of various services and then argued when she thought one was too high or too low. It helped when Derek bought him some “welcome to the loft” presents which included new sheets, noise cancelling headphones, and a bulk box of unlubricated condoms with accompanying fanny pack.
The fanny pack was presented with an extra flourish, and the words “Save A Ho” spelled out on the front in rhinestones looked amateurish. The way Danny was barely restraining giggles suggested he was the one who owned a bedazzler.
It all made him feel better, even as he felt awful, and by the first Saturday back on the job he was at least together enough to head downtown. Make some money. Fuck some old men with emotional problems. He could do this.
Derek stood by the door of the spare room as he got dressed, a bemused smile on his face.
“You know, you look good as your normal self. The plaid and the…” he gestured vaguely at all of him, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow, “The you-ness of your clothes. I don’t see why you have to dress like you’re rushing a frat and failing at it badly.”
Stiles snorted and hid a smile. The gel by his mirror was tacky against his fingers, but he scooped out a generous amount and started crafting his hair into something that said, ‘freshly fucked’.
“What can I say?” he huffed, “Old pervs like young inexperienced men, who they think will be easily manipulated into humiliating themselves. It’s a type.”
Derek snorted.
“It’s a stupid type.”
“Maybe you’ll understand when you’re collecting social security.”
“Who’s your client tonight anyway?”
Stiles paused with his fingers in his hair. He wasn’t sure how much he should share, what level of detail would finally disgust Derek. Another landmine to dance carefully around. He started tugging at his bangs again.
“Some guy having a birthday,” he shrugged, “He’s having a party with his friends in the ballroom at the Marriott, and I’m meant to be waiting in his room for a nightcap.”
Derek frowned and ducked his head out in the hallway to check the clock. “It’s eight. When is the party going to wrap up?”
Stiles laughed. “Like nine thirty, dude. He’s turning sixty five, it’s not exactly going to be tequila shots and dubstep until the wee hours. Anyway, he just wants someone to warm his bed, I won’t be staying out long.”
Derek settled back against the door jam and rested his head against the wood. His eyes were half lidded, comfortable and content, and his arms were tucked loosely around his abdomen as if to give them something to do.
“You want a ride over there? That way you don’t have to leave just yet to catch the bus.”
Stiles frowned.
“You gonna wait in the parking lot for half an hour?”
“Half an hour?” Derek snorted--actually snorted, like he was a real person with functioning lungs and that just was not allowed--and covered his mouth with his hand to hide the grin.
Stiles smiled too, just a little, and spun on his heel toward the door.
He was decked out that night in a low v neck and a denim jacket, plus bootcut jeans. The client--Wallace--had asked a lot of prodding questions about where he was from and then told pointed stories about growing up in Oklahoma while they set their appointment, so Stiles had altered the usual fratboy look to be a little more wide-eyed and vaguely ranch hand. He wasn’t exactly sure if he was pulling it off, but it was comfortable, at least, and he couldn’t say that about a lot of his work clothes. Derek was in sleep pants already, plus a t shirt with a stretched out neck and a hoodie, but he straightened all the same and stepped out into the hallway, headed towards the living room.
“It’s no trouble, I’ll bring a book.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles said, following behind like a duckling, and his voice had dropped softer without his permission.
Derek picked up on it, hesitating halfway down the hall, and cast a glance back over his shoulder.
“Drive you? Or…?”
“Act like it’s a normal job. Do favors for me because it isn’t. Whatever...whatever this is.”
“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”
Stiles sighed, but he knew what Derek meant. He had, after all, given a big fuckoff speech to their friends on Stiles’ behalf. But there was knowing in a vague way and knowing in a specific way, and this ride would make the details of the job a lot more specific. More things would come into focus.
At the end of the half hour with Wallace, Stiles would get back into Derek’s car with his hair twisted and pulled back from where the man had gripped it from behind. He would smell like blood from the love bites under his clothes and the lubricant inside of him. He would have a hitch in his step that he didn’t carry during the week. Derek probably hadn’t imagined all those details when he was passing out condoms with Sister Peg.
“Come on,” Derek jerked his head towards the door with finality, and toed his feet into his rubber soled slippers, “We can get dinner first.”
***
“So why do you charge less when clients bottom?” Derek asked, once they were settled in at Marcus’s Diner and had their drink orders in. Stiles swallowed water down the wrong pipe and started to cough, his body trying to clear his lungs and flail back at the same time.
Derek rolled his eyes, but smirked a little with it.
“Don’t keel over and die on my account.”
“Then stop…” he sucked in a breath and coughed it out, “Stop trying to kill me.”
“It’s a fair question, since you offered it,” Derek shrugged, “and not one Erica asked you when you guys were talking before. I’m curious.”
Stiles stared at a point in the air over Derek’s left shoulder and cast around for a good answer, or maybe a distraction. A new anxiety crept up in his mind, on top of the fears surrounding Derek hating his job: what if Derek wanted to hire him ?
“I, uh...I don’t. I just said that to rile you up. I usually charge about twenty percent more.”
“Mmm. I figured it was because you wouldn’t need to do any prep work before arriving. Less billable hours, you know?”
Stiles laughed, although it was thin. He dropped his voice down, not quite to a whisper. The diner was far too empty to be talking about this, really, and he didn’t know how far sound would carry.
“Yeah, but I also need to stay hard the whole time. Prostates are more finicky, you need more time and attention. If I’m on the bottom I pretty much just...I mean, I’m not....”
“You bend over and think of England?” Derek offered.
Stiles cringed.
“My pleasure isn’t what’s for sale, is a better way to put it.”
“Makes sense.”
The waitress swung back by their table, blessedly cutting the conversation short, and took their orders for waffles (Derek) and nachos (Stiles). Delay as he might, though, asking for napkins or extra salsa or draining his soda so he’d need a refill, she eventually retired to the drink station and left the two of them to each other’s company.
Stiles tried to study Derek, out of the corner of his eye, and gauge his reaction. He hadn’t jumped into asking rates or scheduling, so that fear was maybe irrational. Maybe. But he also wasn’t being particularly subtle in his attempts to talk about it, and what did that mean? Where was he at, comfortwise?
His face didn’t give anything away.
“How do you...why do you ask? About the bottoming?”
Derek shrugged again, although his eyes skittered away and he started to fidget, straightening the sugar packets in their holder.
“I wanted to know. I probably could’ve asked someone else first, see if it was standard practice. Or googled it, or...but I didn’t want to do that. This is your job, and this is your life and...look, we can’t get away from it. Eventually you’re going to talk to Scott again, or your dad is going to corner me in the grocery store and accuse me of corrupting you. This is happening and we can’t just pretend it’s not anymore. It’s not that scary, anyway, we don’t need to treat it like Voldemort and never speak its name.”
Stiles’ shoulders drooped and he looked back down at his hands.
“I guess, but…”
“But what?”
“I just don’t know how things will turn out if we do. I don’t see a lot of happy endings here, Derek.”
A larger hand crept into his field of vision and covered his fingers tightly. Derek was warm, and his warmth seeped into Stiles’ bones like a hot pack. He found himself pressing up, slightly, into the feeling.
“We don’t know how any part of life is going to turn out. But we also don’t get to opt out of it.”
“Real encouraging there, Sourwolf,” Stiles laughed.
“Yeah, but it’s all I’ve got.”
***
Wallace lasted ten minutes, and then spent twenty more talking about his favorite horse from childhood, Bruno. That was how most appointments went, Stiles had found. The actual act of sex didn’t take an hour, but they weren’t just buying sex. They were buying him, his time, and a false sense of intimacy for the night. They wanted pillow talk.
It matched his skill set perfectly.
The extra time didn’t mean he got a chance to get cleaned up, though. You never wanted to seem too eager to leave, it was bad for repeat business, and Wallace was easy money. When he texted Derek to pull around to the pickup area in front of the hotel, he was already bracing himself for a reaction. When the Camaro slowed to a stop in front of him, windows dark and shining like a beetle, he saw his own reflection and cringed.
The appointment had felt uneventful, and compared to his more acrobatic clients that wasn’t wrong, but the grip Wallace had him as he fucked Stiles from behind had left a mark. Five fingers and a smear of a palm, painted on his skin in the form of a bruise, right where his shoulder met the base of his neck. It was framed by his tousled clothes and peeling lips, and the hard shadows left on his face by the outdoor lighting and he reminded himself--just briefly, just for a second--of who he’d been when he was possessed. Of what he’d been, or what had been him. He shuddered with the cold weight of it suddenly on him, and the window rolled down to show Derek with a matching expression of concern.
“Not go well?” he asked. His voice was high and tight, like he was forcing it calm.
“It went fine,” Stiles said, and he hustled around the car to the passenger side, hoping to get this show on the road and get home.
Derek killed the engine, though, and turned fully in his seat so he could pull aside the corner of Stiles’ jacket and see the set of bruises better.
“Please tell me you’re losing his number after this.”
He lifted a shoulder, both to shrug and to knock Derek’s hand off, and kept his gaze fixed out the front window.
“It’s no big deal. I didn’t even notice it happen.”
“Didn’t...Stiles your safety is the most important thing when you go out. That’s why we give you guys mace. If you’re just going to ignore it--”
“I’m not ignoring it,” he snapped, “I just wasn’t in danger. This is the job, Derek, these are the details. It’s physical, and sometimes there are bruises, or sometimes it’s exhausting, and I could probably drink a gallon of water right now, I’m so thirsty, but that’s the job. There’s no way to be a hooker and not deal with this stuff.”
Derek huffed, but looked away to glare at the windshield as well. “It’s not--”
“I swear to god, if you say sex worker, I’m going to slap you. That’s not the point here.”
He fell silent instead.
The engine ticked down slowly, little metallic pings and clicks, and Stiles felt his heart creep higher in his throat.
“Look,” Derek started. He scowled at his lap and then straightened again. “I’m never going to stop worrying about you, so you can give up on that goal right now. Especially not if we’re...It’s not important. I care about you, that’s important, so I’m going to worry when you come home with bruises. If you were a deputy who came home with bruises, I’d worry about you too. Some jobs you just worry .”
Stiles heard a sniff from beside him and glanced up towards Derek, but he seemed determined and unmoving, not like there was any emotion about to spill out of him and into the space between them. He supposed it was always that way, with Derek.
“Maybe this is something I just need to accept, but you can’t ask me to just ignore it either, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to...I don’t know, be more selective in your clientele? Or maybe just be more understanding when people see what the bad clients do to you.”
“Wallace isn’t a bad client,” Stiles huffed a breath, but he was losing the argument already, “He really isn’t, despite how this looks, and I...I know how it looks. He just held on a little too hard during his boring and blessedly short doggy style, and I bruise like a peach. He’s pleasant, and respected my rules, and tipped enough to be nice but not creepy. The ones who do stuff like this on purpose and without asking, I do lose their numbers. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Stiles felt his eyebrows creep up toward his hairline.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Unless you’re lying and it doesn’t sound like you are,” he glanced pointedly at Stiles’ chest, “then that’s...I feel a little better about it. And I won’t...come on so strong...about it next time.”
He smiled, a little chagrined, and knocked his elbow against Stiles’ where they met over the center console.
“You’re okay with it? Just like that? I’ve been freaking out for weeks and this is the whole fight?”
Derek rolled his eyes. The smile was wider now, and his shoulders looser. Stiles felt himself loosening in response.
“I don’t care if you fuck them. I know you don’t believe me, and at this point I’m done trying to convince you, but I don’t. I care if they hurt you, or give you a disease you can’t knock out with penicillin, or find out where you live. Even if we never…” he drew in a breath, slowly, and then caught Stiles’ gaze and held it, fast, “even if we never figure out what we’re doing, you’ll still matter to me. A lot.”
Stiles stared back, his breath held in his chest. He didn’t often stare right into people’s eyes, but he indulged in it now, watching as Derek’s moved back and forth trying to look into both of his, watching the sweep of his eyelashes as he blinked, and the way his brow drew down when he was trying to be sincere. Derek’s eyes were beautiful, partly because of the color but they’d be beautiful in black and white too, because they held everything he was always trying to express.
“What are we doing, Derek?”
“It’s up to you. Do we...do you think you want to date? I know you haven’t in a while, and I know things are really complicated for you right now. I know it’s weird, with us already living together. But if you’re open to it, I’d really like to.”
“What if we don’t work out? What if--what if the reason you don’t care right now is because I’m not yours yet?”
The smile flickered for a second, and Derek swore.
“ Jesus , Stiles. You’re not mine. That’s not how love works. We decide to be together, for as long as it’s good for both of us. We hold each other up, we don’t...I don’t want to have you.”
Stiles’ eyes grew wide, his body preternaturally still.
“Love?”
“Yeah. I love you. Even if we never do anything with it.”
After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward and started the car, and drove it forward out of the lot. Yellow street lights alternated with inky darkness, passing over his face in stripes as Stiles watched him, but he didn’t say anything else, just drove, until they crossed back into Beacon Hills and the industrial district where Derek’s building was situated. The silence blanketed around them like cotton wool.
He pulled the car into the underground garage and pulled into his assigned spot. There weren’t many tenants in the building--not surprising with how spartan Derek was about fixing up the place--so there weren’t many other cars around or people to see them as they sat together. Derek’s fingers flexed against the steering wheel, testing his grip, but he didn’t move to open his door. Not right away.
For the first time since that night with his dad, Stiles spoke without thinking about what he was going to say.
“I love you too. Even if we never get together, but I would like to get together. Maybe it’ll blow up. I’m really good at blowing up relationships.”
Derek scowled. “Scott wasn’t your--”
“Shhh.” Stiles put a finger to Derek’s lips, only half certain he wouldn’t bite it off in return. “I’m talking. I know that bad stuff could happen, but I still want to do this. If you’ll be there to do it with me.”
Derek smiled against Stiles’ finger and huffed a laugh. His eyes looked watery, overful at the edges. Stiles grinned back. He slid his hand around to settle on Derek’s neck and tugged, gently, to bring his face closer. Derek’s eyes flickered down to Stiles mouth, then back to his eyes, before falling closed as he leaned in to accept the kiss.
He pulled back, head spinning just a little, and rested their foreheads together.
"If we date, though, I'm paying rent."
Derek barked a laugh. "Deal," he said.