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He was messy haired and lanky, his oversized clothes swallowing his body. With anxious hands, he lifts the cigarette to his mouth- a bad habit he picked up on from nights screaming himself awake.
He remembers when he was first introduced to the cancer sticks, amidst a panic attack on the curb of a random street. An older man had offered him a cigarette, wordlessly. A silent acknowledgement of suffering. A mutual understanding between two strangers. Stiles took it gratefully; hasn't let go of it ever since. He used to wrinkle his nose at the smell, gag at the bitterness. Now, he doesn't take notice of it. He wonder if the stench has stuck to his clothes. Infested his life the same way it has infested his lungs. If strangers curl their lips at him. If they did, he hasn't paid enough attention to notice.
He stubs the last of the nub out against a bin, amongst the other 20 something cigs already there, and opens the club backdoor. Muffled music floods the empty hall, the base thrums - an unpleasant vibration in the pit of his stomach. He audibly sighs, and sends a silent prayer to any God that answers. Let me make it though this evening in peace. Pretty please. With a cherry on top. He slams the staff door open, scaring the person on the other side.
Scott holds an open palm to his heart, his eyes wide. "Dude!"
Stiles winces, "my bad, man."
Scott rolls his eyes in good nature, "your break ended 10 minutes ago anyway, asshole." He sucked his teeth, and then cheekily smiled "aren't I the best bro for covering for ya? "
Stiles chuckles, "Yeah yeah, I'll return the favor. Now go woo Allison."
Scotty whoops, and rips the apron of his body, jumping over the bar.
Sometimes, Stiles thinks, he resembles an overgrown puppy. Stiles sighs- he does that often nowadays, and gets to work. He makes drinks, cleans glasses, and deals with unadulterated leering from men who could be his father. Sure, it's legal. He's 24 for fucks sake. But, he feels chills go down his spine every time he feels their stares, without fail. Maybe he's just a tall child, grown in looks but afraid of older men all the same. Maybe, it has something to do with his issues with authority, or maybe, even some other internal issues of the working mind he's unaware of. Well, he's not planning on seeing a therapist any time soon.
He throws a rag over his shoulder, ignoring people unless they call him over. And lo an' behold- one of the previously leering men calls him over. Oh the joys. See, this is why religion has never been his thing. Stiles chews on his lip, and the skin is so thin there it hurts. He breathes in. Out. And plasters on a smile so fake and charming it could rival Scott's puppy eyes. He thumbs the button on his sleeve. "What can I get for ya gentlemen?" Gentlemen my ass.
"Are you on the menu, sweet heart? ” The man preens.
"Afraid not," He feigns politeness.
"Don't be like that," His hand travels to Stiles' sleeve, "I can show you a good time, promise" His fingers trail to touch Stiles' own.
Stiles dropped his smile, ripped his hand away. "Fuck off, I'm not taking your order."
The man scowled, eyebrows drawn close to his eyes "what the fuck do-"
"Get out."
"You bitch, the fuck do you-"
"Get. The fuck out."
The man moved to raise his hand, but Stiles was unshaken. He stood his ground with a clenched jaw.
"You little-"
"That's enough" A new man snapped, his hand in a vice grip around the customer's wrist. He towered over everyone at the bar. Not necessarily in height, but in stature. He was built like a greek hero- marble cut and hard.
"You heard him, get the fuck out" He snapped.
The customer visibly gulped, eyes on the muscular man in front. He hastily left, with the grace of bambi on ice. His posse followed.
Stiles huffed, noticed the wallet forgotten on the bar. The license visible. "HeY BAILEY! YOU FORGOT YOUR WALLET!" He yelled. The man was already too far gone, perhaps too embarrassed of his given name. "What kind a fucking name is Bailey?" Stiles mumbled. Stiles zoned on the muscular greek hero in front of him.
"Hi." He smiled, bunny teeth on show.
Perhaps Stiles believes in a God after all. "Hi. Thank..uh. Thank you" He stumbled out.
"It's alright, seemed like you had it handled anyway...I'm Derek"
His grin was charming. More than Stiles', or even Scott's puppy eyes combined.
Stiles took him in. The easy going stance, the kind eyes, and the rippling pectorals he felt like lickin- focus! Play it witty. Chill.
"Yeaah, " Stiles vaguely gestured, "could've totally threw him over the counter with my rippling-" He glanced down, "-pectorals." Dammit. He blinked, "Stiles" He outstretched his hand.
Derek shook it, unperturbed and highly amused. "My pleasure."
A moment. Stiles chews on the inside of his cheeks. He imagines the scars resemble Joker's inverted grin. "I get off at 10" He states. Information out in the open, he waits for a reply with bated breath.
Derek's eyes lit up, smile stretching. "I'll wait for you."
Stiles deflated, smiled softly. He fumbled his pockets for his phone, handing it to Derek, "Here."
"Oh, right" Derek added his contact.
The pair looked at the other for a second, unsure of how to continue.
"I'll-" Derek pointed in a vague direction behind.
Stiles stifled a laugh. "Yeah, okay."
The pair separated, but not without a glance back. A giddy smile at the verge of both their lips.
For the first time a while, Stiles thought of dropping smoking.