A/N: Hooray! Derek's finally here! Haha, anyways! This section is by far the longest, because Derek. ^^ It's also as far as I've written so far, and honestly I don't know whether or not I'll go any further. I had fun writing these though and I'd love to hear what you guys think! So... ya. :)
Love is for people who don't have bigger responsibilities, or at least that's what you've told yourself.
You're convinced that it's not something that happens to a guy like you, and so you don't bother to keep an open mind or a clever eye. Still, you like to read about it in books and for it in movies and dream about it at night. It's all your father wishes for you, and the main topic of your conversations at his bedside. You tell him a lie of sorts, though you call it more of an untruth. The parade of men coming through your apartment are suitors, the money they give you tokens of affection, your sad, empty apartment a palace. He's just desperate enough, just worse enough off to believe you most times.
You've been in business just over two years when you see it on the news- local sex offender Peter Hale arrested for Public Indecency at the park down the street. You're equal parts relieved and scared, and somehow that makes you sick. What will happen if they shut down your apartment complex? You don't have enough saved for a security deposit, for first and last rent somewhere new; and it's not like you have the kind of job where you can ask for an advance. It wouldn't be as bad if you didn't work out of home. No one wants to go to a homeless shelter for a lay, no matter if you give them a discount or not. Even if you get to stay, you'll be getting a new building manager, maybe one less than simpatico with your situation, and actually having to pay rent will mean giving up food that doesn't get cooked in the microwave. Among lots of other things.
You get a letter in the mail three days later, telling of a nephew of Peter's that coming to take over all his responsibilities- one that's "a nice young man without no immoral proclivities." You don't know exactly what it is that you're expecting, but's definitely not the young prince of broodiness and eyebrows that shows up at your door. He's muscular… and handsome… and lord his eyes. You stand there, gaping like a fish as his brows knit closer and closer together, until he finally pushes his way inside. You would be offended, because hello, manners, what are they? But then you get a good look at his ass as he makes his way to the living room and it doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore.
He looks intensely uncomfortable as he sits down on the very edge of the couch and takes in your sparse décor. You try and pull your shirt down over your stomach and silently wish that you would have been dressed in your nicer outfit. "Uhm… I have… poptarts aaaand… water." You gesture to the kitchen and give him a sheepish smile when he makes a face at the suggestion. "Anyways…" You clasp your hands together before sitting across from him and trying to keep yourself from blathering all over the place as he continues his stony silence. After several tense minutes and it's just too much and you tug at your collar as you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Do I look like a prostitute, because I feel like I might, but then again I try very hard to make sure my house emphatically says 'I do not turn tricks for a living' and I think it's really quite effective, but maybe not effective enough to distract from the rent boy clothing that you're clearly trying to avoid staring at."
His eyes go wide and his jaw clenches as he stares determinedly at the floor. "I- don't know how to answer that." He grips tightly to his knees and it seems like, for a moment, he's contemplating making a run for it before the shrill ring of your landline shatters the atmosphere. You jump to your feet immediately, knowing there's only one place that calls, and try to keep from flashing him some ass while you dash to the kitchen. You take a deep breath, say a little prayer, and cross your fingers before picking up the receiver and grasping it so tightly your knuckles go white.
Peter's nephew- you just now realize you don't even know his name- is watching from the couch, not even pretending to look like he's not eavesdropping, but somehow you don't feel like he's invading at all. His expression seems genuinely curious, if maybe a little bit suspicious. You try to stay calm as the nurse on the line tells you that your father had an episode this morning, that the doctor made the decision to put him in a medically induced coma. You mostly just do a lot of nodding, not thinking that she can't even see your confirmation, trying and failing to swallow past the lump in your throat. You lose track of what she's saying somewhere in the middle, lose track of really everything but the need to try and keep on breathing.
The whole room fades to black, and for a while you're lost in that vacuum, knowing that you're starting to hyperventilate, but unable to do anything to stop it. You start to shake, your knees feel weak, and you're sure that if you grip the phone any tighter it'll break. A pressure on your shoulder is the first thing to break through and then, slowly but firmly you're pulled out of the downward spiral. Sensation spreads out from that single point, a gentle voice asking you to calm down, intense eyes holding your focus, firm hands pulling you away from the doctors telling you anything but.
The next bit is a blur, your brain and body moving on auto-pilot as Peter's nephew- he told you his name but you only remember it sporadically- offers you a ride to the hospital, gives you a plastic bag to breathe in, keep shooting you worried glances. You don't realize you're crying until he tells you there're napkins in the glove compartment, and then they suddenly feel blistering on your cheeks. You hastily wipe them away and stick your head out of the window to try and cool down, your skin slick and feverish.
When you get to the hospital, you can't focus enough to recall your father's room number but Derek- his name is Derek, it feels nice on your tongue- finds it out quickly enough and guides you there. He stays when you finally crack and bawl into your father's lap, and distantly you think you might've asked him to. You're sure he has something better to do than to stand awkwardly in the corner of the room when he doesn't even know you, and yet he doesn't even look like he considered leaving.
You black out for a little bit, fall asleep bent over his bed, and when you wake up there's a leather jacket over your shoulders and Derek's hunched over in a chair across from you. You think he can see that you're more yourself now because he stands immediately and fills a plastic cup with water from the bathroom sink, handing it over before jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans. You muster your best smile for him, though you can feel it tremble, and drink as much as you can. You don't want to talk about your dad and his condition right now, couldn't even if you did, and you tell him as much.
Nodding slowly he goes back to sit down and furrows his brows. "So… are you a prostitute?" For a few seconds you can do nothing but blink in shock before you bust out laughing. If you weren't laughing you're pretty sure you'd go back to crying, so you're thankful Derek's so strangely dead pan that you can't help but find him funny. Maybe it sounds a little delirious, but you think you're managing pretty well.
"A little bit, yes." You nervously twiddle your thumbs and keep your eyes averted. You wonder if he's regretting spending the while day with you, if he's eager to leave before you… infect him, or something.
"How exactly does one prostitute a little bit?" When you look back up his expression hasn't changed much, except there's a teasing twinkle in his eyes and a little quirk to his lips.
You scratch your temple while chuckling lightly, pausing a moment to carefully think out your answer. That's not something you generally do, but for some reason you care what he thinks about you. "Ah, well… You kinda do the sex thing a lot, but what they don't tell you is that you actually spend a whole lot more time just being poor as hell." He smiles a little at this and seems to ease into his chair a little more. "You know- scrounging up money for cheap groceries, sitting alone in bars hoping someone will take pity on you and get you drunk, eating an obscene amount of ice cream while watching late night tv after failing at both. .." You shrug your shoulders and blush fiercely when you realize you still have Derek's jacket. With a sheepish smile you pull on the sleeves and zip it up, glad not to have to be dealing with the hem of your shirt for a little while.
"No offense, but you don't seem like much of a hooker… aside from the clothes."
"Well, that's good." You rub the back of your neck and shuffle your feet before giving him a wry smile. "I don't exactly want to be one." His expression softens and he waits a moment before scooting his chair around to your side and just sitting closer. He doesn't try to touch you, doesn't try and say something to make it all better. He's just… there.
For some odd reason he's there for you. He doesn't have to be, he's not looking for something in return. It's sad that it's a bit of a novel concept to you, but you decide not to look too closely at that. "Then maybe you shouldn't be." You wish it was just as easy as that, you wish that you hadn't already looked at this a thousand times over and came up with the same answer- that you had to keep doing this. You don't realize that you said it out loud until he turns to you and makes sure to catch your gaze. "And you shouldn't be afraid to ask for help."
You swallow thickly before biting your lip and nodding. And maybe a few more tears roll down your cheeks, but this time they feel different. For the first time in a long time, they feel like relief.