Chapter Text
William Pointdexter was raised to be a humble man, which meant he took pride in very few things. Three things, in fact: Dex could fix anything that whirred, had consistently won his family hot dog eating competition since he was ten (upon discovering this, his QSA group had bombarded him with more dick jokes than Dex thought existed), and on the ghost tours Dex led as a summer job, each and every tourist jumped at his telling of the death of Waverly Rae.
Hers was a relatively normal death at the time, a run-of-the-mill witch burning. But Dex had taken some drama in high school and with a little exaggeration, the right lighting, and the employment of an old magic trick to fill the space with flames, his recounting made her death downright scary.
Dressing up as a ghost was fun, but by far Waverly’s death was his favorite part of the tour. There was something about seeing burly, constructedly unconcerned men nearly piss their pants that was cathartic (if not downright hilarious). But this time when the flames flashed out, staring back across at Dex were a pair of unimpressed eyes.
Dex had been watching the guy since the beginning of the tour, to be honest. And how could you not? Tall, well built, chestnut curls-- Dex wasn't one for waxing poetic but had the urge to try his hand at a sonnet after catching a glimpse of the words streaking up and down the strangers’ arms. Half pen ink, half tattoo, Dex was tempted to sit the man down and read them all day but was vaguely aware of the fact that doing so might be construed as creepy.
And here he was, his perfect green eyes with an unmistakable cast of apathy utterly obliterating Dex's streak.
Asshole.
If Dex was preoccupied the rest of the tour, he was positive his group didn't notice. He had given the speech enough times for it to be automatic. And if he stumbled once or twice, or nearly led them all to cross the street into oncoming traffic, that was because he had gotten one shot instead of two in his coffee, that was all.
Because Dex is a professional. He cares about the experience his tour-goers have. Which is most certainly the reason he slows down a bit so he's almost level with the gorgeous stranger and asks him how he's finding the tour.
“And what'd you think of the witch burning? That's most people's favorite part.”
The man walks for a second in silence in which Dex sweats nervously and almost misses a turn.
“It was chill,” he says evenly, and for a second Dex is so swayed that he almost believes that the terrifying story about witch hurting accompanied by actual fire was indeed chill, but Dex is not crazy like this man certainly is, so that train of thought dies before it leaves the station.
“Chill?!” Dex has to remind himself that he is, indeed, working, and this is, in fact, a paying customer, but even so he has a hard time ignoring the indignant point in his chest.
The main raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
“She got burnt at the stake. Like, literally the opposite of chill,” Dex argues. At this, the man’s lips drift into a half-bemused smile.
“Warm then? Look, man, I don’t know, it was alright. I’m just not...scared easily, I guess?”
“Not scared easily-” Dex starts, then cuts himself off. They’ve reached the next landmark and he has to launch into a grab bag of stale puns and historical narrative.
To say the rest of the tour goes poorly is an understatement. Dex is grumpy, his tourists are nice, but the kind that want pictures every five minutes, and every time Dex looks back at the group his eyes are drawn to the infuriating hipster now lurking at the back. Dex gets so flustered that at one point, when a little kid asks how he died, Dex snaps “Questions like yours bored me to death” and walks away.
By the time they get back to the meeting point, the entire group has been affected by Dex’s general assholery. They’re quiet, cold, and not tipping well, if at all. He leans defeated against the side of the shack, counting out the few dollars and change thrust into his hands, when the sound of footsteps alerts him to the presence of the irritatingly beautiful man that ruined his day.
“Yeah?” Dex asks. It’s curt, not even trying to be polite. He doesn’t have to be, now that his shift is over, but he still inwardly winces at the cut of the word. The man barely seems to notice, though.
“Wanted to tip you,” he says boredly, handing Dex a bill. Dex feels a little shock of surprise, but recovers enough to nod thanks, with a quick smile. It only becomes awkward when the man doesn’t leave, and instead scans the outside of the tour shack for a couple of seconds. His eyes come to rest on Dex again, who raises an eyebrow.
“Oh uh- I’m Derek,” he offers a hand to Dex who shakes it warily.
“Hi, Derek.”
The man opens his mouth again to say something, but doesn’t. Dex arches his eyebrow even higher, and he swears he almost sees a flash of nerves beneath Derek’s thick eyebrows.
“So, uh, you like giving tours?” If he left now, Dex could be on the mass transit system home and five minutes away from a soft bed and a warm shower. If he stayed to talk, Dex’d have to wait 20 more minutes at least.
“It’s alright, pays well. I’m in college, so the extra money’s always nice,” Dex responds.
“Right, yeah, i’m in college too,” Derek adds and runs out of things to say again. Dex is tempted to grab his scarf, say goodbye and leave, but just as he’s about to, Derek asks another question.
“So do you know much about the other tours?” He blurts out, but Dex had been too busy contemplating the awkwardness of this conversation to pay attention.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Like, the other tours you guys give? Are they good?”
“Oh, um, yeah. I really like giving the Prohibition tour. Lots of cool speakeasies around town. And the waterfront tour isn’t as historically interesting, but the tourists usually enjoy it the most, so I like giving that one too.” Derek nods, and he seems calm and unconcerned again. Dex almost feels disappointed.
“Cool, cool. Alright, well, goodnight man,” he says, and walks off.
Dex is left scrambling to catch his train (which he misses by a minute) and cursing handsome strangers for everything they’re worth.