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Stiles works long hours as a barista at the most hipstery of hipster coffee shops, which is ideally located between the business district and the university, hugely popular as a result, and the current bane of his existence.
He’s too poor to quit and too busy with an intense course load to even consider searching for a different job. His boss isn’t terrible, the work itself isn’t half bad, the hours are flexible enough to fit his odd schedule, and he only burns his hands a few times a week. (One of his coworkers, a scrawny, anxious-looking guy named Greenberg, came to work in flip-flops, despite their initial training; he quit in tears after splashing scalding coffee inches away from his feet and being chewed out by the shift manager for his negligence. The owner had to hold a special staff meeting to reiterate the importance of their training, glaring at each of them for uncomfortably long periods of time as he explained there had never been a lawsuit filed against Finstock’s Roasts, and there never would be, if he could help it.)
The thing no one had ever told Stiles about this type of work, though, was how horrible the constant, repetitive movement was on the baristas’ shoulders and lower backs. He was too tall for their machines, which meant he had to spend most of his hours standing hunched at a low counter, his muscles tight and tormented by the end of each day.
Some nights, he had trouble even sitting at his computer, or holding a pen. He’d collapse on his thin university mattress, his back screaming at him, his muscles throbbing in unpleasant, painful spurts, his mind filled with dread over the next essay he’d have to power through. (There were other things a healthy single man would like to be doing with his hands, he told Scott mournfully, who tried to look sympathetic but crossed quickly into disgusted. Which was rude, honestly, when he kicked Stiles out of the room three or four times a week so Kira could come over.)
At a certain point, something had to give. His studies obviously couldn’t. His job couldn’t, if he wanted to keep paying for those studies. His back and shoulders definitely would if he didn’t do something about it, and soon.
Which is how Stiles wound up in another student’s room, stripped down to his boxers and with his face shoved into a hole in a fold-up massage table. Erica was a friend of a friend and a masseuse in training, still working on her hours, and thus considerably cheaper than the other options he’d half-heartedly looked into when his complaining and limping (I don’t care if it’s not leg pain, he’d snapped at Lydia, limping still makes it feel better) began to concern his friends. Erica had an abundance of curly blonde hair, hands that honestly kind of hurt - he wasn’t sure massages were supposed to be quite that rough, but the pain probably meant the knots were getting worked out? - and was quite pretty, in an unapproachable sort of way.
This was only partially because of the guy who always stayed in the room during the massages, either broodily reading a book or creepily leaning against the wall and staring at Stiles to make sure he didn’t try anything. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was Erica’s bodyguard or boyfriend (they didn’t seem to ever flirt, but who wouldn’t want to hit that gloriously muscled, even more gloriously bearded man) but either way, knowing those inexplicably multicolored eyes were fixed on his naked body did far, far less to reduce the possibility of boners than Glowery Brows probably intended.
Stiles had asked, early on, trying to make conversation to distract from how awkward he felt stripping in front of Beautiful Bodyguard, whether he was also working on his hours. Derek - it took four appointments and a lot of attempts at “casual” conversation to draw out that name - had simply snapped NO at him and then looked away when Stiles sheepishly took off his shirt. It was confidence-shaking but not surprising; he was probably appalled at the sight of all that pale skin. He had to suffer through a lot for his friend, Stiles supposed. It made him a good person, maybe. It didn’t make Stiles feel any better, or any less pointlessly attracted.
One time when Stiles shows up, the door is unlocked, the massage table set up, but the room is empty. He looks around, shrugs, wincing at the pull of his shoulder, which honestly doesn’t seem to be getting significantly better under Erica’s still inexperienced hands. It makes enough of a difference to keep coming back, though, and anyway, he’d miss Der-the massages. He’d miss those, for sure.
Erica’s been late a few times before, and he’d had an exceptionally long, tiring day, so he undresses, gets on the table, and is almost asleep by the time he hears the door open and shut, footsteps approaching.
“About time,” he mumbles, too tired to lift his head or open his eyes. “Shut up and put your hands on me,” he adds - he and Erica have established a banter by now, and while she likes to snark at him about his inability to take proper care of himself (he sleeps, okay? sometimes), he’s not really in the mood for it today.
She stays quiet, but there’s a soft huff of amusement that sounds like Derek’s voice. Stiles feels his entire body flush with warm contentment; he’s grown to like Erica, but he’s far more invested in the fact that he and Derek have finally started to talk more, trading quips or even talking about Derek’s latest reading choices while Erica does her work. They’re totally bros now. (Even if he’d like more, but he feels damn lucky to have gotten this far.)
He hears the bottle of lotion click open, the squelch as it’s squeezed into Erica’s palm, the familiar sound of her hands rubbing together as she warms it. He relaxes - all of this is a normal soundtrack for him now - then tenses again when the hands touch his back. They’re warm, solid. Much too large, spanning the full width of his shoulders in a way Erica’s have never done. They’re firm, too, pressing unerringly into the tightest knots in his shoulders, but somehow immediately loosening them, without the pain that usually makes him grit his teeth, and with a level of skill Erica and her uneven methods haven’t yet mastered.
He groans in pleasure first; he can’t help that. Then he squawks a little in outrage and flips over, cringing at the renewed pull in his still tired and overworked muscles. It felt amazing, but -
“What the fuck, dude?!” he says to Derek’s stupidly handsome face, now with confusion furrowing his forehead. He has, sadly, lifted his hands away and is holding them out in a placating gesture. Stiles mourns it, briefly, but it’s a little weird, okay? He’s all for touching, and rubbing, and happy endings, but it’s gotta be consensual, not someone creeping up on you in a dark room and unexpectedly doing that.
“You can’t just ignore me for WEEKS and then touch me like that,” he says, fueled by righteous indignation. “There are like…rules or something. MASSAGE ETHICS.”
Derek looks deeply offended now, which is rude. He’s the one who came in and put his sexy hands all over Stiles’s naked body.
“Erica was supposed to tell you she couldn’t make it today,” Derek says slowly, as though any of this could even remotely be construed as Stiles’s fault.
“So, what, you just decided you’d pretend to be her for the day? Good plan, man, that lasted all of five seconds. I’m here for a massage, not whatever the hell that was.“
"No,” Derek says, sounding even more irritated. “I thought you knew it was me. When I came in, you said-” He breaks off, and Stiles remembers his words, and Derek’s friendly amusement. “She told me she needed me to fill in. I’m not trying to pull anything weird here; I’m a licensed massage therapist, Stiles.”
“You told me you didn’t know how to give massages!” he protests. Derek arches an eyebrow at him, which is simply unfair. He must know by now what those ridiculously expressive eyebrows do to the lovestruck and unprepared.
“I said I don’t give free massages to random students. Especially to ones who’re just trying to hit on me.“
I was n-” Stiles starts, then slaps his mouth shut. He definitely, 100% had been working a flirtation angle in those early days. But he’d given it up when it didn’t work; slowly earning Derek’s friendship had been enough of a reward, and more than he’d actually expected to gain.
“I own a business with my sisters,” Derek continues, now wiping his hands clean on a towel. Stiles watches with a sinking heart, feeling this conversation, and possibly the tentative beginnings of their relationship, drawing to a close.
“So you’re planning to - hire Erica when she finishes?” he asks.
Derek nods. “She’s dating my little sister’s best friend. Considering how little improvement you’ve shown since she started on you, I’m not too sure she’s going to be up for it, but Cora’s vouching for her.”
Derek is snarky but full of lies. Stiles has seen the way they interact; Derek is clearly fond of her, and has quietly made suggestions here and there that suddenly make more sense in the context of Experienced Masseur vs Newbie Masseuse. “Protective older brother” fits much better, really, than “bodyguard” ever had.
"Wait,” Stiles says. “Cora? Cora Hale? Of Haleing Hands?"
Derek turns a little pink and mumbles, "I had nothing to do with that. My sisters named it.”
“Your sister’s dating one of my best friends,” Stiles says. “Lydia Martin - you must know her, then. She’s the one who suggested Erica when I complained about money and said I couldn’t afford to go to a legit place.”
He’s starting to feel a little naked now, especially since Derek keeps giving his nipples judgmental looks, darting glances at them as though he can’t help it, then looking away - at the ceiling, his hands, the bottle of lotion, anything else that’ll keep the offensive pebbling buds away from him.
“It’s cold in here,“ Stiles says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to not feel embarrassed. He’s pretty sure they’ve both seen worse in this room.
Derek, to his surprise, turns even pinker.
"I’m sorry I surprised you,” Derek says. “I’d just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss an appointment; I know these are important for you.” Because you can’t afford anything else, and your back is shit right now, he doesn’t say, but Stiles can hear what he’s leaving out. “But if you’re not comfortable with-I can give you a gift certificate to make up for it. Erica’s going to be out of town for the next week; last-minute family stuff she couldn’t get out of. Both of my sisters are great at their jobs, though. Very professional. Erica’d tell you the same if she was here; we’d both recommend either of them.”
Stiles is starting to kick himself now. He’s well and truly botched his only opportunity to have Derek’s hands on him. But…Derek had said it himself. He didn’t like it when clients, potential or otherwise, treated him that way. When they tried to turn it into something distinctly more than a straightforward massage, taking something that hadn’t been offered.
He backtracks, thinks through what Derek had said. “I’m not uncomfortable with you,” he says carefully. He has to be honest. "But I’m not sure I’d be able to keep it…professional.“ He lets the words hang in the air, certain of the weight behind them, and looks at Derek, who’s intently searching his expression.
He seems to find what he’s looking for and nods once, then again, and Stiles dares a smile, getting a blinding, breathtaking one in return.
***
Laura does turn out to be far more capable than Erica, and also kind of an asshole. She fixes Stiles’s shoulder, giving him back much of the mobility he’d lost, and laughs at him, more than Erica ever had. But Stiles doesn’t particularly care, because when he leaves the building, Derek goes with him, his big hand taking Stiles’s.
"Is the third date too soon for sexy bedroom massages?” Stiles asks. “The special kind that’s not on the menu for your clients.”
“Shut up,” Derek says, but kisses him, and the strength of his hands on Stiles’s shoulders feels like a promise.