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Stiles needs money. He really needs money. He’s falling behind on his bills, with Scott having to pick up the slack, and it makes him feel like shit. On top of that, Christmas is coming in a few months, and so is his Scott’s birthday, and he doesn’t have even have enough for a bottle of second-rate scotch for his Dad. He knows both Scott and his Dad will understand if he doesn’t get them presents, but he also knows that they will have presents for him.
Stiles has to use the final few dollars from his last paycheck to log in to the internet café near his house. Why is he in an internet café, you ask? Oh, that’s right, he gave up his internet connection a month ago because he couldn’t afford the damned bill.
Stiles has an hour, and the first place he goes is his email. He lets out a frustrated groan that elicits a surprised yelp from the WoW player next to him. There are no emails in his inbox, which means that no-one was under the impression that the oddly-named Garsteaode Stilinski was worth a job offer.
Damn.
Stiles was now back at square one, and he opened up the local classifieds in a new tab. A small fanciful part of him still thought that maybe someone would email him while he was searching, unexpectedly offering him a high paying job that was both easy and fit into his tight schedule. The majority of him, however, felt only distain and resentment toward that – spectuacularly foolish – part.
Stiles saw calls for taxi drivers, – ‘no car,’ he muttered darkly, as the WoW guy looked on worriedly – plumbers – ‘no qualifications,’ he hissed – and dancers – ‘and definitely no grace.’ he snorted finally. Now the owner of the store has joined the twitchy gamer, and was also concernedly observing the strange – possibly insane – man who was at computer terminal two. Stiles whined and slumped back into his supposedly posturepedic chair, scrolling half-heartedly through the ads. He is just about to close both tabs and pay a visit to his sorely neglected Facebook account when his eyes catch on an ad.
MALE MODEL WANTED
Stiles snorts, because obviously he’s not eligible for the position. He knows what male models look like, and he is most certainly not one of them. But he doesn’t close the tab though, because maybe he might get a laugh out of this. He’s wound up over exams and finances and friends, he needs to take humour when it’s given to him.
Artist’s model needed.
Wednesday & Thursday nights, 7-10pm
$50 per hour
Call D. Hale 555-XXX-XXX
Stiles stares at the ad for a while. He doesn’t know how qualified he would be to be an artist’s model, but the pay is really, really good - $300 a week good. He quickly scribbles the number on his hand, closes out of the tabs like he’s erasing the evidence, and logs out of the session with thirty minutes of connection still left. He’s got the possibility of an extra job – he can afford to waste a few quarters.
~
Stiles calls the mysterious ‘D. Hale’ from Scott’s phone when he gets back to the apartment. For the billionth time, he thanks the universe that Scott had prioritized calls to Allison over online COD and had invested in unlimited talk and text for his phone.
The dialing tone makes him nervous, not only because he really needs this job, but also because there is apparently a part of Stiles that is secretly a teenage girl and is imagining D. Hale as a tall, dark, handsome stranger.
‘Hello.’ A gruff voice greets him. His fantasy is instantly shatter, because the guy sounds pissed off.
‘Hi, I’m Stiles Stilinski, I’m calling about your ad in the paper?’
The man on the other end of the line grunts. ‘Derek Hale.’ he says by way of introduction. ‘Have you been an artist’s model before?’
Stiles bits his lip, and considers lying. He doesn’t, though, because it’s going to be obvious as soon as he gets there that he’s entirely new to this. ‘No.’
‘Physical description?’ Derek asks. The quick fire question format he is using is starting to get on Stiles’ nerves.
‘Uh…’ Stiles is stuck. ‘I’m about 5’ 10”, pale, brown hair, brown eyes.’ His sentence leads off into more of a question, unsure if he’s making himself seem appealing enough.
There is a pause, and Stiles feels tension so thick it could cause static.
‘Come to my studio at eight on Wednesday, and I’ll think about employing you.’ Derek orders. He then proceeds to rattle off an address, and Stiles flails around his room to find a pen before the address slips out of his mind. Just as he’s about to ask Derek to repeat the address, the line goes dead.
~
Stiles has to call in sick to work to make it in time to the studio, and his manager is pissed, but he’s getting reckless with the possibility of actually covering his gas bill and maybe paying for his own damn phone calls once in a while.
Even from outside the studio, Stiles is hit with the pervasive smell of powder and turpentine. He knocks brusquely, and rocks on his heels at the door as he hears footsteps from inside. There is the sound of a lock opening, then another, and then a third, before the door swings open, almost hitting him in the face.
Stiles is faced with a tall, heavily muscled man with a frown so deep it could be etched into his face.
‘Hello?’ he offers.
The man – Derek, please, please let it be Derek and not some crazy serial killer inhabiting his studio – grunts, and grabs Stiles’ chin in strong fingers. This forces a shocks squeak from Stiles’ mouth, and his head is wrenched into different positions before he can get out a protesting ‘Hey!’
Derek ignores him, and shoves a calloused thumb under Stiles’ upper lip, exposing Stiles’ teeth.
Stiles doesn’t know what to do, but he’s pretty sure this is inappropriate behaviour between two people who have just met, so he makes the entirely logical jump and bites down and Derek’s thumb. He thinks it must be a hard bite, but the other man does not so much as flinch. He just waits until Stiles’ mouth opens into a shocked ‘o’ and drops his hand back to his side.
Stiles thinks the upturn to Derek’s lips might be a smile when he says ‘You’ll do.’
Derek steps aside, assumedly allowing Stiles to enter the studio. Which is messier than Stiles’ apartment, and contains a lot more paint. Stiles is pushed into a chair, which he does not take to.
‘Hey, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’d appreciate not being assaulted at a job interview.’
Derek raises an eyebrow. He is circling Stiles slowly, and it feels a little predatory. ‘This is not an interview. You’ve got the job.’
Stiles internally congratulates himself.
‘I just have to position you now.’ Derek says, and it sounds like he could just as easily replace ‘position’ with ‘eviscerate’. Stiles is really, really unnerved by this guy. There is still a large possibility that he could be a serial killer.
Derek pushes Stiles further down into the chair, glaring at him like he can will the pale man into the perfect position.
‘No.’ he finally says, and tips Stiles onto the floor.
‘Jesus!’ Stiles yells, his arms thrashing with the aftershock of the fall. He rolls onto his back. ‘I hope you realise I don’t get health cover for this.’
Derek huffs, unimpressed, and suddenly he is straddling Stiles and oh god they have only just met.
‘Personal space!’ Stiles shrieks.
Derek, however, seems unphased by the volume and pitch. His only response is a gruff ‘Take off your shirt.’
Stiles’ eyes bug, and he most definitely does not, thank you very much. Derek rolls his eyes – Stiles is sensing that most of Derek’s facial expressions are differing shades of derision – and pulls Stiles’ shirt off himself, despite the (now, decidedly shirtless) man’s spluttering. Why hadn’t he left his coat on in the elevator? Why, for god’s sake, why, hadn’t he worn an overshirt today?
Stiles is very nervous about the way Derek is staring at him, like he’s being assessed. He wants to cover up, hide everything under the safe layers of forgiving fabric again. In defense, Stiles turns the tables and sets his most scrutinizing gaze on Derek. It’s not hard, really – Stiles had previously been too pissed off at the guy to notice how attractive he was, but now he was expressly looking… well. As such, Stiles is too busy watching the flex of Derek’s muscles under the black t-shirt, and is rudely shocked to awareness when he feels the wet slap of paint across his torso.
Derek drags his fingers across Stiles’ bare chest, leaving three thick lines of ochre-coloured paint in their wake. Stiles’ hand flies down to swipe at it, but Derek catches his wrist before he can smear the lines away. There is a moment of intense staring, which Stiles takes to mean don’t touch that paint or I will brutally murder you, and Derek stands up.
‘Stay like that.’ he orders. Stiles is too cowed by the aforementioned ‘brutal murder’ glare to do otherwise.
Derek sets himself up behind the easel that is central to the room, and Stiles hears the scratching of what is probably pencil on thick art paper. It’s not like Derek had been particularly talkative before he started working, but he is positively mute right now.
Stiles thinks he lies in the same spot for an hour, and he only suppressed the urge to fidget by locking ever muscle he has control over. He passes time by reciting his latin verb conjugations, and maybe this won’t be such a bad gig if he can study on the job.
Derek dismisses him at half past eight. He shoves Stiles’ shirt and a few crumpled bills into Stiles’ hand – not a $50 note, so assumedly it’s half rate for a half day – and closes the door in his face.
Okay then.
~
Stiles comes back the next day, even though they hadn’t previously arranged it. Derek doesn’t slam anything in Stiles’ face, so he can assume that he’s done at least something right.
Derek doesn’t make him lie on the floor either, which is a lot more comfortable as far as his arse is concerned. He is instead told to sit on the chair and read. Derek gives him a nicely bound book, which Stiles is pleased to see is The Great Gatsby, and should provide adequate entertainment throughout the session. It’s so much easier to stay still when he has something to keep his mind working. He gets so involved, in fact, that the noise of Derek shocks him almost to the point of falling out of his chair.
‘Are you in college?’ Derek asks, hands never slowing on the canvas.
‘What?’ Stiles asks, processing. ‘Oh, yeah, I am.’
‘What in?’ Derek asks. His movements are foreign to Stiles, and behind the easel and sizeable paperpad he’s working on, Stiles can’t even see if Derek is using pencil or paint. The sound is strangely ambiguous, too, so he can’t work it out from the sound, either.
‘Linguistics.’ Stiles answers. He isn’t focusing on the book anymore, choosing to focus on the artist in front of him instead.
‘Head down.’ Derek says, and it doesn’t sound like an order in the same way that it did before. It sounds more like what a hairdresser says to you when they’re trying to cut your hair just right.
‘Sorry,’ Stiles apologises automatically, dropping his head down. Then, ‘What are you drawing with?’
Stiles hears Derek stop drawing for a second, then he starts again. ‘Chalk pastel.’
Stiles nods minutely, and sneaks a look up at the easel.
‘It gets all over your fingers.’ Derek complains, and the frown Stiles sees through the supports of the easel bears such strong resemblance to that of a grumpy baby that he cannot help but laugh.
~
It is two weeks into his job with Derek that Stiles has to wear the costume. Derek shoves it at him when he enters the door, and shoves him behind a screen. When Stiles unfold the fabric, he groans loudly.
‘No, Derek, really?’ he calls out.
‘Put it on, Stiles.’ the older man demands.
Stiles does, but his scowl could very well rival Derek’s own when he steps out from behind the curtain in a toga.
Well, really, it’s more like a lowslung sheet with pleats. The fancy red stripes are the only things that properly characterise it as a toga. Derek does that strange not-quite-smile that means he’s laughing at Stiles’ expense, and starts positioning his model like Stiles is made of plasticine. Stiles is left with an arm outstretched in a way that suggests grandeur, and he feels a little like Ceasar. He’s also become oddly aware of his back.
Derek is working with paints today – the palette is poking out from the side of the easel. He makes sharp movements, and Stiles can tell how tense he is by how stop-start his process is.
‘Take a break.’ Stiles suggests, after Derek has thrown away a third page from his book. ‘You’re being to hard on yourself.
Derek sighs. ‘Maybe.’ He puts down his brush and palette. ‘Tea?’
‘Please.’ Stiles stretches, and Derek stands there for a moment, waiting, before leading them into the kitchen.
Derek boils the kettle, and gets Stiles talking about his linguistics classes. He sounds interested when Stiles gets too engrossed in the etymology of the names of different mythical creatures, and even asks to read the paper he submitted on it last year.
‘Sorry, I don’t have any cups.’ Derek says, and winces. ‘Starving artist and that.’
‘No, it’s fine, I get it. I-’ he starts, then bursts into fits of laughter, because Derek is pouring them tea in fucking Mason jars, for Christ’s sake. This is just too good.
Derek tries to scowl, but the side of his mouth is curving up, and Stiles thinks it’s just about his favourite expression in the world.
~
Stiles doesn’t know why he brings Derek a Christmas present – he’s been making him wear hardly anything in his unheated apartment, and it’s getting really, really cold – but on the day that he realises they’ve know each other for almost two months, and that he’d tentatively call Derek is friend, he goes into a shop that he’s been wanting check out for weeks now, and gets Derek a Christmas present. Derek’s been paying him enough to do more than just break even, and he even had enough money left to go to a concert with Scott and his girlfriend the other day.
On the next Wednesday that they see each other, Stiles waits until Derek has finished painting him to give him the present. They’ve worked out a routine, and Stiles has found Derek finds it easier to paint with someone to talk to. It relaxes him, and the paint flows much easier. As always, Stiles tries to catch a glimpse of what Derek has painted, but, as always, he can’t.
‘I’ve got something for you.’ He tells Derek, once he’s got his coat back on.
‘Oh?’ Derek asks, looking intrigued.
‘Yeah, I’m going away for Christmas, and I wanted to give it to you now.’
Derek smiles, and it feels private, like the smile is just for Stiles.
Stiles feels suddenly embarrassed when he hands Derek the present. It’s wrapped in blue tissue paper, wrapped badly because Stiles can really only wrap boxes, and even then it’s a hit and miss deal.
Derek looks pleased, though, and he unwraps it on the kitchen counter. He reaches into the paper, and the look of awe when he pulls out the present makes something clench in Stiles’ chest.
‘It’s fantastic, Stiles.’ He says, and when he catches Stiles’ gaze, his eyes are earnest. ‘Did you make this?’
Stiles nods, sheepish. It has taken him five hours to make the mug. He’s made it by hand, shaping it on a wheel, and fashioning the handle. The cup had collapsed three times and he’d discarded another two because he wasn’t happy with them. The staff were ready to kick him out when he had settled with one he liked. His final touch, before it was glazed in shades of brown and blue, was to model a tiny paint brush and fish it on the side of the mug. He still wasn’t entirely happy with it, thought the glaze was uneven and too shiny, but Derek seems to be happy, which, Stiles thinks, is enough.
‘Stiles,’ Derek murmurs, holding the cup closer to his face.
He puts it down, after a long time, and looks Stiles straight in the eye. ‘I can’t employ you to be my model anymore.’ He says, and Stiles feels his face fall.
‘Oh. Um, alright.’ He’d expected this. He was up for a pay raise soon, and he’d saved up some of the money he’d earned from Derek, so he didn’t need the job as much anymore, but he’s cut by the thought of never seeing Derek again.
‘I… I have something for you, though.’ He says, and he escapes from the room.
Stiles lets out a shaky breath. He’s going to be okay.
‘Close your eyes!’ Derek calls from the hallway, and Stiles does. There’s the sound of something being dragged along the hardwood floor, and Stiles thinks it’s propped up on the easel. Derek’s feet pad around him, and then he leans over the counter to whisper in his ear. ‘Open your eyes.’
Stiles does.
In front of him is a boy – a man, really – and he’s leaning on a tree trunk. He’s half naked, skin shining all the way down to his low-riding jeans. At his leg, a dark grey wolf is pushing itself under the man’s hand. Stiles is struck by the way Derek has captured the man. He seems strong, confident, and beautiful.
‘I painted that the first night I met you. Stayed up all night.’ Derek tells him, still whispering. ‘I couldn’t get you out of my head.’
It is only then the Stiles realises the man in the painting is him. He’d been so caught by the emotion Derek was conveying – admiration, enchantment, awe – that he couldn’t even recognise his own face.
It’s a stupid idea. Stiles knows it’s a stupid idea, but now that he’s seen Derek’s painting, he can’t stop himself. He turns around, looks Derek straight in the eye, and kisses him.
No-one is more surprised than Stiles when Derek kisses back.
Stiles pulls back first, gasping a surprised breath.
‘That is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.’ Derek says, lips brushing against Stiles’ as he speaks.
Stiles snorts, blowing air into Derek’s face. ‘Better than my kick ass mug?’
Derek chuckles, and grins. ‘Only just.
Derek slips around the kitchen counter, and brings their lips together. When he sighs into the kiss, opening up, he almost breaks Stiles with the sincerity of it. Stiles relaxes, and pushes closer. They melt together, like mixing paints, and Stiles thinks together, they make and even better colour than they did apart.