Stiles stared up at the imposing building.

It towered over him in a rather disconcerting way, the multitude of windows becoming painfully apparent the more he stared. Sighing, he sipped at the paper coffee cup he had clutched in his hands, ignoring the burning sensation in his fingertips because the heat felt so good in his stomach. The coffee was a perfect mixture of thick, caffeine laced beans, soft, creamy milk and a hint of hazelnut because it was his first day on a new job and he felt like he was ready for a bit of sophistication in his life. In his mind that meant hazelnut in his coffee.

There was a sudden tap on his shoulder, actually it was more of a painful smack, and he choked on the gulp of coffee he had just taken. Wheeling round so fast that he almost spilled the last few dregs in the paper cup all down his front, Stiles came face to face with a grumpy looking man dressed in blue overalls complete with a brown leather work belt and a grubby pair of work boots. The whole outfit was smeared with stains and splodges of paint, some slightly faded, presumably from multiple washes. All in all, he was the epitome of blue collar.

The man himself was probably in his forties, a thinning layer of black hair interspersed with flecks of grey. Pronounced wrinkles lined his face, accentuated by the fact that he was still aggressively frowning at Stiles, obviously not amused by his startled reaction.

Making the connection between the gruff man and his new job, Stiles smiled and tossed his coffee cup into a nearby bin before offering his now free hand to the man.

'Hi, I'm Stiles. You must be Mr Finstock.'

Finstock somewhat reluctantly took the proffered hand, shaking it so hard that Stiles' whole body jarred in response, before practically throwing it back at Stiles.

'Yeah, that's me. Follow me, I'll show you where we keep the window supplies and where the swinging stage is. The rest you can work out for yourself.'

And with that the man was striding away towards the massive block of flats and Stiles was scrambling to scoop his bag up off of the floor and follow his new boss.

After Finstock showed him the supply closet where a multitude of cleaning supplies lined the dusty shelves, he led Stiles, now armed with the necessary supplies, back through the halls towards the back door. Pointing through the glass of the door frame he showed Stiles where the lift was that he would have to use to clean all of the windows, not even bothering to explain how the buttons worked, instead deciding that 'you're a smart boy, work it out,' was a suitable substitute. Stiles thanked the heavens that he was indeed a 'smart boy' with way too much time on his hands and an ADHD mind, because it meant that he had stayed up a lot of the previous night researching his new job and perfecting his window cleaning technique. And yes, he really did need a boyfriend.

'So yeah, that's basically all you need to know. Oh wait, one more thing. This,' Finstock tapped the wood of a door they were standing next to, 'is my office. I will most often be in here sleeping. Unless the building is burning down or the building owner drops by, I do not want to be bothered. Understood?'

He didn't wait for an answer, just pulled out a set of keys from his pocket and slipped one into the lock. He pulled open the door, turned and grinned at Stiles briefly, before slamming the door in his face with a parting 'Good luck, kid.'

Wandering outside, towards where the swinging stage was, Stiles climbed over the railing and situated himself on the scaffold. It shook a bit underneath his feet, swinging slightly from side to side when he dropped his bag to one side. He did a quick once over to check the mechanisms were all safe before beginning his ascent up the building, thinking it best to start at the top.

The building itself was extremely nice as far as flats go in the centre of the city (which is very nice indeed). It was 30 stories high, with two good sized flats on each floor each with roughly 16 windows between them. That meant that there were around 480 separate windows in the entire building. Luckily Stiles didn't have to clean them all.

In actuality, he'd been told that more than half the windows were not to be cleaned. And it made sense because Stiles knew that he wouldn't be cool waking up to some stranger peering into his bedroom window, or opening his blind and coming face to face with a random person. He'd probably freak the hell out. So yeah, he got why bedroom windows were cut. The same went for bathroom windows.

So with those excluded he was mainly left with kitchen and living room windows to clean which totalled 200 building wide, and then minusing the widows with balconies attached, which were just a nuisance, that number went down to 180, roughly 3 windows per apartment.

Another added bonus was, that meant, because of the set layout of the various flats, he only had to wash two sides of the building, one side per apartment. It cut down significantly on time in the long run. That being said, the whole thing still took him a good 6 hours to complete, and he was always exhausted by the end. Working sucked, but he wanted to show his dad that he was responsible enough for his own car, and the added bonus of the money didn't hurt.

So he soldiered on, once a week, hovering high above the ground, monotonously washing windows until he had finished and then he stumbled back to his crappy dorm room at his campus, where he collapsed, damp from all the soapy water he had inevitably spilt on himself and slept his way through half of his Sunday.

Nearly one month in Stiles saw him for the first time. By then he was rather familiar with the entire building and had become accustomed to the different flats. In his boredom he had even made up stories for some of the occupants.

There was the lady on the 29th floor who always seemed to be in a hurry, even though it was a Saturday. She was always dressed in an immaculate suit but her hair flew wildly, somewhat ruining her attempted air of professionalism. Stiles imagined her working at a law firm, currently vying for a top position and therefore working so much overtime she was burning herself out. She probably worked so hard she had no social life and instead her life revolved around her work and she dedicated herself to becoming the best, the most successful, the most prestigious lawyer in all of America. Stiles hoped she achieved her goal.

There was a man on the 25nd floor that was always hunting for something, his wallet, his keys, phone, remote, it was always something. Stiles liked watching him hunt around, his face scrunched up in concentration as he tried to remember where he had last seen it. Most of all Stiles loved the look of triumph the man got every time he located the lost item, and he always turned to shoot Stiles a grin when he found it. It was highly amusing.

Floor 16 had a very large dog living there. The tag around his neck said his name was Scott, and he was always overjoyed to see Stiles. He would leap up towards the window, his large paws supporting him against the ledge, and pant happy breaths on the glass, tongue lolling out in a sort of adorable smile. Stiles would laugh and pat the glass as if he could reach through and stoke the dog's shaggy head, and then he would begin to wash the window, laughing as Scott scrabbled against the glass eagerly chasing the little droplets of water that streamed down from the top. After he was finished, he would often take a short break there and sit with Scott looking out over the street below and eat his lunch.

He was always sad to leave the 16th floor.

On floor 8 there were two little children who looked to be about 9 and 11. Every time Stiles cleaned their windows they would be curled on the couch under their duvets watching cartoons. After the first couple of times Stiles washed their windows, the kids noticed that he had a tendency to watch the cartoons on their screen with them. After that, whenever he washed their windows they turned on the subtitles for him.

But it wasn't until mid-October that he got a glimpse into the flat on the 22nd floor.

Stiles was innocently making his way down the 2nd side of the building, four hours having passed since his nine o'clock start. He knew from experience that the owner of the flat on the 22nd floor always had their blinds closed, or at least they had for the past five weeks he had been washing the building.

This Saturday was different.

The blinds were most definitely open, a large spacious living room visible through the one big window in the wall. It was decorated simply, a black leather sofa, a glass coffee table, a large plasma television hung on the wall with surround sound speakers connected. Off to one side there were several bookshelves piled high with DVDs, CDs, what appeared to be vinyl records (which would make sense because there was a vinyl player on a table across the room), and of course, stacks and stacks of books. However Stiles barely took in the awesomeness of the room.

He was more focused on the shirtless man doing push-ups in the middle of the floor. The very hot shirtless man doing push-ups in the middle of the floor. Which very much appealed to the horny teenager side of Stiles that he had managed to retain even though he was now 20. Even from this distance, and through the still slightly dirty window glass, Stiles could tell that the man had abs like none he had ever seen before. Bar on television. And, of course, porn. So it is only fair that he stared at the clenching muscles, and the lines of sweat dripping down rippling flesh, and the broad shoulders that flexed with every push up. He may have stared for a while.

Then the man looked up.

His eyebrows creased drastically as he noticed Stiles in his window. He appeared to be puzzling out the situation in his mind, his arms still keeping him upright from the ground, seemingly without effort or conscious thought. A little bit of Stiles' overactive brain grouched about how unfair those impressive muscles were. Unsurprisingly, that side of his brain was completely drowned out by the side currently drooling over the turn of events.

Feeling awkward simply standing there staring at a man through a window, Stiles raised his hand in an imitation of a wave, brandishing his sponge in a weird attempt to offer an explanation for his being there. As if the platform suspended hundreds of feet above the ground wasn't a massive give away.

The man didn't wave back, or even acknowledge the wave; he simply continued to glare, because there really wasn't another word for the creepy, intense stare he currently had fixed on Stiles. And then, without breaking eye contact, the man slowly pushed himself to his feet. Stiles felt unable to do anything but watch as the god of a man picked up a towel from the back of the couch and dragged it across his face, removing the sweat beading on his forehead. Once that was done, he tossed the towel back onto the couch cushions and began to walk towards the window.

Noticing that his hand was still raised like a moron, Stiles lowered it and smiled at the approaching man, strange anticipation building in his chest, mixing with the nervousness gathering there. And as Stiles takes in the tightly knit eyebrows and the deep frown on the other man's face, he suddenly realises how utterly creepy this entire situation is.

He's waving, through a window, at a sweaty shirtless man, after watching him work out in his living room for a disturbing amount of time. It all screams crazy psycho stalker.

So yeah, he totally understands why the hot, broody stranger forcefully closes the blinds in his face.

Is it wrong that he's still incredibly turned on?

So, this is a bit of a weird story I guess. I have no idea where it came from and only a vague idea of where it is going, but I'd really love to hear what you guys think so far.

Also, if it is not already abundantly clear, I have no idea what window washing entails. Probably not what it does in my story. Just go with it, that's what I plan to do.

Thanks for reading.