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Turns out, the Jeep is not a good spot for making out. The worn out leather seats creak at the most innoportune times, not that there is any making out going on, but Stiles paid for sex and there isn’t any happening either. Partly because he can’t get it up, and mostly because there is not enough space to get down and dirty.
“This isn’t happening. Well, it’s happening again, just not the way it’s supposed to.”
He glares at the zipper of his baggy jeans, but Stiles has nothing on Derek’s glower, eyes burning red in the rearview mirror hanging between them. It’s a fact, Derek’s bulk doesn’t work well in the constriscted space between the front seats of the Jeep.
“I don’t know why you insist on coming here every night for whatever this is,” Derek gestures angrily at the dark, empty space between them.
“I don’t know,” Stiles parrots. “What is this? Why are you still doing this?”
Stiles happened to be at the station one evening — well he had tried to sneak in once again and got caught — when the Sheriff came in, dragging Derek with him. Stiles knows his father, and it’s obvious Derek got away with a tap on the wrist and wise words about finding another way to earn money. Stiles knew Derek enough back then to assume that the werewolf wouldn’t follow the Sheriff’s advice and instead keep lurking in the dark streets of the industrial area, hustling the questionable crowd hanging out there at night.
Derek was doing something illegal, Stiles found out that night, and his father decided that if they couldn’t keep Stiles out of the files then they’d keep him in but under supervision —. Now filling at the police station, Stiles had every chance to investigate about Derek’s extra-curricular activities, and really, prostitution had not been his first hypothesis as to what Derek did for a living. Nowhere near the bottom of said list either, and Stiles has a very vivid imagination.
“Why are you so involved in what I do or don’t do with my life?” Derek snarls, shadows crawling across his face like he’s on the verge of slipping into a beta-shift.
Stiles sighs, wriggling in the driver’s seat and hitting the back of his head against the stiff headrest. Stiles’ buzzcut does little to cushion the not so gentle shock. The thing is, Derek doesn’t even make enough money out of his business to justify his utter refusal to find another job as per the Sheriff’s advice. He’s broke, without a high school degree, and with a shitty attitude, so it’s not like Derek would have any luck finding a job at first. He won’t let anyone give him a glowing recommendation to get hired somewhere either.
Which leads to this very situation. Stiles paid for sex with what little money he makes at the station, and he paid several times, but no matter how many times they try, Stiles can’t get hard. There is nothing arousing about bargaining with Derek, who insists on a discount for Stiles, and then finding a dark parking lot to go about things Stiles has no business doing, much less with Derek Hale of all people. Stiles hates every second leading to sex, and it’s a relief when they stall and stall and stall until one of them gives up.
“I just want to help dude, but you won’t let me. You won’t let anyone give you a chance for that matter.”
“Stop trying!” Derek snaps. “You don’t even want me, why are you still here?”
Stiles splutters, because of course he wants Derek. Simply… not like this. Stiles has never been with anyone, and despite his teenage hormones, he wants it to be meaningful, something that will matter to him at the time, and that he’ll remember fondly years later. Derek is a wet dream and a fantasy all at once, but Derek is real, flesh and bones and trauma in his wake. Derek is someone Stiles cares about and wants to treat right. Of course Stiles doesn’t want it to happen like that!
He sighs again, louder this time. What are they doing? It’s not like Derek wants him, and as the werewolf reminds Stiles quite often, he was a person of interest not so long ago. Plus, Stiles is not even legal. If it were casual dating, Stiles figures it would work out, but in this case…
Anyone could catch them and think Derek is abusing Stiles. The thing is, Stiles is the one pushing, shoving bills in Derek’s reluctant hands every night, and nothing ever happens. It’s probably for the best. Maybe, if Stiles gives him enough money, Derek will finally get his shit together. Who is he kidding? Stiles has a hard time believing that, now.
“You’re a gluton for punishment,” he exclaims, turning to point an accusing finger at Derek’s chest. “You can’t even see what’s right in front of your nose!”
“Just take your money back,” Derek growls, and nearly rips all of Stiles’ money out of his pocket, accumulated after days of whatever this is.
“Fine,” Stiles snatches the bills out of Derek’s clawed hands, “but I won’t stop bugging you until you realize you deserve better than this.”
Derek bares his teeth, ready to argue. Stiles hates every micro-expression on the werewolf’s face, that betray the truth in Stiles’ words and the pain Derek puts himself through as though he hasn’t had enough yet. Dog jokes aren’t funny when Derek is hurting, and it’s plain as day on his scrunched up face tonight, a ring of fire burning around his irises like restrained tears.
“If not me, then someone else. I can introduce you to the new teacher at school, something-” Stiles rants, and Derek freezes.
“I don’t want them,” the werewolf says forcefully, “or anyone else.”
They stare at each other for the longest time.
Stiles backs down, and Derek finally gives in.
Maybe Derek wants him after all.