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Scott shrugs on a t-shirt, flannel, and jeans. His next client is a “boy-next-door” type. He wants the illusion that they’re best friends. The thing is, Scott sort of wishes it was less of an illusion. Stiles is the kind of guy he’d wished he’d known as a kid. He’s funny, sarcastic, intelligent, witty, handsome. And like so many of Scott’s clients, desperately lonely.
Scott knows exactly why he gravitates to the lonely ones. It’s easier not to examine it too closely. Easier to gel his hair a little, pop on the slightest amount of dark eyeliner, and slip into a pair of scuffed tennis shoes. Easier to grab the key to his bike (a gift from one of his wealthier clients) and ride to what he’s pretty sure is Stiles’s real apartment.
Stiles still smells as anxious as the first time he’d purchased Scott’s services. It’s as endearing now as it was then. He fidgets with the sleeves of his own blue flannel shirt, which matches Scott’s. It hadn’t been deliberate, but it’s a good start, and Stiles’s lips turn up when he notices.
He opens the door, and Scott slides his helmet onto the coffee table.
“Why do you wear a helmet? You’d heal any injuries, right?” There’s the slightest hint of pink on Stiles’s pale cheeks. He happens to have very intimate knowledge of how quickly Scott can heal. It had been the initial reason he’d approached Scott.
It’s the same reason most of Scott’s clients approach him. It had started as a way to support himself. Employment opportunities for bitten werewolves were tenuous and even more limited for an alpha. It’s become something of a release, submitting to his clients.
Scott smiles because Stiles’s question is so earnest. “It’s the law.”
Stiles scrunches his face up. “Human law. Pretty sure werewolf law doesn’t have anything about motorcycle helmets.”
Scott knows it doesn’t. “I was human, once.”
Stiles winces. “Right, right. So ah…”
And even after two years of once-a-month sessions, Stiles is still so shy about the payment portion of the evening. Scott deftly presses a few buttons on his phone to request and confirm the payment and then slides it back into his pocket without comment.
“I’ve heard the new Fast and Furious is pretty good, you gotta copy?”
Stiles breaks into an easy grin. “You bet.”
They play the game for a few hours. Stiles orders pizza. The illusion that they’re bros fades away into a kind of reality.
“Really is an abomination,” Stiles mutters as Scott happily stuffs his face with the ham and pineapple pizza Stiles had ordered for him. His gut tingles with warm, fuzzy feelings. Ones he doesn’t feel with other clients.
Stiles finishes his third beer. He’s not drunk, but he’s not entirely sober. Scott usually has rules about alcohol during sessions, but he’d been unable to say anything when Stiles grabbed the third one.
He doesn’t say anything when Stiles grabs a bottle of whiskey and pours two shots either.
He doesn’t expect Stiles to hand one to him.
“I can’t…”
Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna drink alone, man.”
Scott takes the shot. It burns for a second, and then his body heals any effects it may have had on him. Stiles slams his back. And then takes a swig from the bottle.
“Hey, hey, enough.” Scott takes the bottle, their hands brushing for a moment. “What’s this about?”
“Do you even really care?” The words are bitter and mean. And in the case of any other client, they’d be true.
Scott sighs. Sets the whiskey on the floor beside him. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“Isn’t it your job to make me believe you?”
This is why Scott has rules about alcohol.
“What’s this about?” Scott asks softly after Stiles has rearranged himself in a sprawl on the couch. The video game screen refreshes, and he takes a moment to flip the television off.
“I made second detective,” Stiles says. He sounds so hollow.
“What! That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you.” Scott says it without thinking. Forgetting he’s not supposed to care.
Stiles snorts. “Did you know that no one cares if the victim of a murder is a werewolf prostitute?”
Scott knows.
“You cared.”
Stiles sits up. Puts his head between his hands. “I was so excited. My first murder investigation.”
Scott grabs the whiskey bottle and hands it to Stiles, before kneeling beside the couch.
“I was bitten because my friend Harley convinced me it would be fun to find a body in the woods.”
“The lead detective shut the case down immediately. Said no one cared what happened to “dirty fucking weres” and that they were only good for one thing. That’s not… you’re not…”
Scott presses his lips together. Stiles sets the whiskey on the table beside the couch. He doesn’t take another drink.
“You should go.”
Scott hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave Stiles like this. Upset. Drunk. Alone. And if he’s being perfectly honest, he doesn’t want to be alone, either.
“What was their name? The victim.”
Stiles shakes his head. “Didn’t even have a chance to find out.”
He stretches out a hand, and for a moment, Scott thinks he might run it through Scott’s hair. He picks up the bottle, instead. Takes another drink. “Don’t worry, I’m not expecting like a discount or anything.”
“If anything, I should charge you extra. I’m your whore, not your therapist.”
Stiles laughs. “Yeah, sure. I’ll add a tip. Get out.”
Scott stands. Watches as Stiles takes another drink. Tries to catch his eye. Stiles flips the television on. Acts like Scott isn’t there.
Scott leaves.
“I was kind of hoping you’d be my friend,” Stiles says as Scott closes the door behind him.
Scott doesn’t bother to put his helmet on as he rides home.
He stands outside his own apartment trying to breathe for what feels like hours. He refunds all of the money to Stiles’s account and blocks him from his contact list. He opens Stiles’s usual slot on his calendar and crumples the phone in his fist.
Claws form on his fingers and Scott shudders. He hasn’t lost control like this since Allison. Since he’d left home and given up on any semblance of a normal life. Lydia has tried to convince him to join the government-sanctioned program for the supernatural a few times since she’d come into her powers.
“They’d probably even let you study veterinary medicine. An alpha with healing skills would be very valuable.”
Scott couldn’t get past the word let.
Doesn’t want to give up even the semblance of freedom he has right now.
Scott drops his phone inside and heads immediately to the shower. Turns the water as hot as he can stand it. He scrubs the scent of Stiles away, piece by piece. With any luck, they’ll never see each other again.
-
Scott has never been lucky.
He’s wearing one of the stifling suits Deucalion likes when he sees him. Stiles is next to another detective, a broad man that kind of exudes asshole. Stiles is wearing a rumpled gray suit and a tie with little emoji faces on it. The other man is much sharper in a fitted navy suit.
Deucalion had paid Scott handsomely to do nothing more than attend this charity event with him. It had been a fairly pleasant evening, up until the piercing scream of a human woman and the ensuing chaos had shattered the peace.
Deucalion places a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “I imagine the good detectives will release us quickly. The body is another were.”
There’s the barest hint of bitterness and mostly amusement in his voice. He smells as neutral as ever. Unlike Scott, Deucalion isn’t outed. He’s managed to live a double life. One where he’s an eccentric human billionaire and one where he’s the infamous demon wolf.
Scott had spared his life.
Deucalion had helped Scott start his business and forge documents so he could attend night classes and work towards his degree. He’d offered to pay for the classes entirely, in exchange for a more permanent arrangement between them.
The offer had been tempting. But Scott has worked too hard to give up any ounce of freedom, especially to the alpha that had tried to possess him once already.
Stiles’s anxiety ratchets up several notches the instant he spots Scott. Their eyes meet for the briefest moment before he turns back to the other detective.
“Just another were,” the other man mutters.
Stiles glances at Scott again. “Yeah, I guess I’ll call animal control.”
The detective with him nods. Deucalion stiffens beside him. The hand gripping his shoulder squeezes uncomfortably tight.
“Care to explain yourself?”
Scott bites back a growl and wrenches himself out of Deucalion’s grip. “No.”
The detectives are saying soothing things to the crowd and telling everyone they’re free to go. Scott can’t help it, he glances at Stiles again. His shoulders are tight, and he’s gripping a small black notebook in shaking hands.
“Jesus, Stilinski, calm down already. It’s not even a real crime scene. Just another animal. Good riddance.”
“You ever met a were, Jackson? They’re not all like what they say.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Listen, rookie. If you wanna stay on the force, pretend you never said that. Out of respect for your dad, I won’t say anything. This time.”
Stiles swallows. Shoves the notebook into his back pocket. Nods. Avoids Scott’s gaze as the crowd disperses. Stiles shoves his hands in his pants pockets and keeps his gaze trained on the other detective.
“Your human friend?” Deucalion says the word “friend” the way Jackson said “animal”.
Scott swallows. “I don’t have any friends.”
His heart doesn’t skip any beats.
-
The next time Scott sees Stiles is on television. Theo is probably the closest thing he has to a friend. Theo lives further off the grid than Scott ever has. Peter had once made a comment to Harley about living in a network of underground caves- Scott had found Theo there.
They’d been closer as kids. And before Theo had tried to kill him. Scott had let Theo get dragged to hell, so he supposes it’s even enough. And Theo has a stash of werewolf-effective drugs.
Scott is inhaling something kind of pink and misty, half focused on memories of nebulizers and inhalers, when he hears the too-familiar voice. He sits up on the pile of duct-taped bean bags.
Stiles is in the same rumpled suit he’d been in before. His tie has little gray koalas on it this time. A reporter is standing next to him, asking about the string of werewolf murders.
“The Canaan PD has no official statement at this time.”
Scott can’t smell him, but he looks like a deer caught in headlights. Like prey. Scott shakes his head. The full moon is tomorrow night. Stiles shouldn’t even be a blip on his radar.
“You okay over there?” Theo asks. He’s on his side, lying on an old couch that looks like it’s from the 1800s. For all Scott knows, it could be. He’d injected himself with something earlier, and his eyes are glazed over.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
On the television, Stiles repeats his pointless phrase. His eyes are wide, and he’s playing with the buttons on the sleeves of his suit jacket. His hair is just slightly too long, like he’s skipped his last haircut, and there are bruises under his eyes.
“You reek of arousal.”
Scott shrugs, tears his eyes away from the screen. “Wanna fuck?”
Theo never turns him down. And he doesn’t this time. In its own twisted way, sex with Theo is simple. No money changes hands. It’s about feeling good, about a distraction. It’s the hard planes Theo’s body pressed against his. It’s about harsh breaths and sweat-slick skin.
Theo doesn’t want Scott to be someone else. Theo just wants Scott.
“You staying here tomorrow?” They’re lying on the floor on their backs, side-by-side. Theo’s hand is warm on Scott’s sticky thigh. Scott's eyes are closed. All he can see is Stiles’s face, even surrounded by the thick scent of Theo’s arousal.
Deucalion had offered, too.
“Nah, thanks. I’m good.”
Scott’s heart is still beating too rapidly. If Theo detects the lie, he doesn’t say anything.
-
Scott doesn’t take clients on the night of the full moon. Deucalion has offered him some impressively tempting sums of money to change that policy. Deucalion doesn’t understand how much harder it is for Scott to control the power thrumming just under his skin during the full moon.
Or maybe he does understand. Either way, Scott continues to refuse him.
Scott spends the day deep cleaning his apartment. He’s sweaty and sticky in the August heat by the time he’s almost finished. He’d pulled his shirt off a long time ago, tossed it in with the rest of the laundry.
The machine rattles and clanks, but his small washing machine is worth its weight in gold.
The laundromat was fraught with knowing glances and harsh whispers. Some about him being a were. Some about him being a whore. He’d tried to tune them out, bury his nose in a book. He’d listen to the noise of his own machine for days to avoid those whispers again.
The absolute last thing Scott expects is a knock on his door. The only person who knows where he lives is in currently in D.C. And Lydia has never come over without calling.
Scott wipes sweat from his forehead and sniffs the air. He’d know that little burst of anxiety anywhere, even buried under a truly intense amount of cologne. He sneezes, and Stiles knocks on his door again.
Scott could pretend he’s not here. Ignore the increasingly frantic rapping at his door. He could just leave through the back door. Beta shift and run. Stiles wouldn’t be able to catch him. Instead, he’s frozen. Staring at his own front door like it’s about to attack him.
“I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. I’m sorry, okay? Sometimes, a lot of times, I’m a prickly asshole. I know that. And yeah, I know it’s pathetic to pay someone to be your best friend. The thing is. I just. I don’t know if there’s any other way I can have one. You know?”
Stiles takes a deep breath. His heart is hammering all over the place. “Of course, you don’t know. Because you’re… you. And everyone likes you because you’re so nice and earnest and caring. And all these things I could never hope to find in a real friend. It’s just…”
Something thunks against the door. Stiles’s hand. Or head.
“I would pay a million dollars to be your friend.”
Scott takes the three steps to open the door. “You don’t have a million dollars. You could barely afford our regular sessions.”
Stiles's mouth slides open. He shakes his head and closes it.
The anxiety fades a little into something more like relief. “Rude.”
Scott crosses his arms across his chest. Which he realizes is bare. Covered in a sheen of sweat. And even though it’s nothing Stiles hasn’t seen, Scott’s cheeks are warm.
Stiles is wearing faded jeans and a dark t-shirt. And a blue flannel. The same one from that night.
“It’s true, though." Scott keeps his arms crossed.
Stiles nods. “Yeah, okay. So. Uh. What about a do-over?”
Scott stares.
“You know, I’m Stiles. Hi, nice to meet you. Maybe we can be friends?”
“So you aren’t going to pay me?”
“Uhm. I guess…” Stiles’s eyes narrow as he notices that Scott is teasing him.
“You’re not the only one who can be an asshole. Also, it’s a pretty dumbass move to confront a werewolf on the night of the full moon. We’re dangerous animals, after all.”
Stiles laughs then until he doubles over. The unguarded barking laugh that Scott realizes he’d missed. It’s hard not to smile. So Scott smiles. It feels good, even as he feels the moon’s influence on his mood. Having Stiles there helps ground him. Like an anchor.
Stiles stands up, hands pressed against his thighs. “So, uh, friends?”
Scott shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You should know my last best friend was possessed by an evil fox spirit, tried to kill me, and blames herself for killing my first girlfriend. People around me have a way of getting hurt.”
“The girl you went to the woods with?”
Scott nods.
“Where is she now?”
“Harley went to DC with her girlfriend, Lydia. Lydia is a banshee in the SHIA Program.”
“So you saved her? From possession?”
“I didn’t stop it from happening.”
“Well. No one’s perfect.”
Scott can’t help the grin that blooms across his face. “You wanna come in? I don’t have any video games, but there’s some cold mineral water in the fridge.”
“How exciting.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “So you don’t…”
Stiles pushes past him. “Nope. Too late, I’m in. Let’s have this mineral water. And then you can tell me if your friends in the fancy government agency can help with this string of murders in Canaan.”
This time Scott’s mouth hangs open as Stiles finishes barging in. He grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and tosses one at Scott before sitting on the top of the little wooden table that takes up most of the space in the kitchen.
Scott catches the bottle easily. “I thought Canaan PD didn’t see them as murders.”
“And I thought you were gonna hate me forever. Turns out we can both be wrong. Come on, buddy. Let’s figure this out. Together.”
The world swirls around in Scott’s chest. It feels good. Right. The thrumming under his skin is quieter. Stiles makes a face as he takes a drink of water. Scott smiles softly as Stiles goes on about the ills of the bottled watered industry.
Lydia will be thrilled to hear from him. And maybe working with Stiles, they’ll be able to make a difference. Together.