Fic: Routine
Author: fluffyllama
Title: Routine
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson, Boyd
Summary: Jackson is settling into a routine. He's just not sure it's the right one.
Warnings: The basic premise is the exchange of sex for protection.
Word Count: 1034
Prompt: Detente
Author's Notes: Same 'verse as Pawn - Prison AU (with werewolves).
Jackson lucked out getting a job in the clean and air-conditioned prison library, he knows that. Every lunch time when he's eating mystery meat stew with clean hands and a shirt not sweat-drenched from the workshop or laundry, he knows he's better off.
But it's harder to remember why he should be grateful for it when the rest of his block clap each other on the back, when they laugh about some prank, or something they've seen while they're out digging and laying pipes, or whatever it is they do when they go out in the Hills bus each day with their shovels and picks. When they fall silent when Jackson approaches, because he's not one of them, not really. Or when Derek comes into the cell they share, and his eyes just slide over Jackson as if he isn't there, as if he's just part of the fading institutional gray background.
Compared to Derek, wind-blown, glistening with sun and sweat, he might as well be.
Derek has only spoken three words to Jackson since the first night they shared a cell, and all of them have been 'No'.
No, Derek didn't want a handjob.
No, Derek didn't want Jackson to blow him.
No, Derek didn't plan on saying anything but 'No'. It's somehow comforting to know the man who scares half of the inmates shitless can be just as childish as him sometimes.
But then, saying anything else might interfere with his routine, Jackson thinks sourly. Eight hours straight of physical labor aren't enough for Derek, oh no. He has to round off his day with a punishing regime of pull-ups that make Jackson's muscles ache just to watch him.
More than that, it makes him wonder if he's made the wrong decision.
He can't afford to let things stay as they are, but it still takes him ten minutes to stand up. He strips off his own shirt and walks over to the pipes, where Derek is already settled into the swing of it; up and down, never missing a beat.
The pipes are boiling hot when Jackson jumps up to grab hold of them, and it takes him everything he has to give it a second try, but Derek doesn't laugh at him, or even look his way. The only way Jackson knows he's even aware of him is when he settles into a rhythm of sorts and Derek slows to match him, stretch for stretch and breath for breath.
Jackson's flagging badly when Derek finally stops, barely making it to his bunk before collapsing. He doesn't want Derek to see him like this, but for a change Derek is looking right at him, even when he's wiping his face with a towel.
It's not quite how he planned it, but it will have to do.
"I asked to transfer work details," he says, coughing when his voice comes out hoarse and dry. "I'll be with the rest of you guys from next week."
Derek's eyebrows furrow, as if Jackson is a puzzle he can't work out, and his eyes, dark from this distance in the fading light, bore into Jackson with an intensity Jackson has never seen from him before. If this is Derek reconsidering his 'No' stance on Jackson's offers, Jackson really hopes it's not a handjob he has in mind for tonight, because his hands are a mess of blisters.
What Derek has in mind for him, it seems, is an old t-shirt. It's greyish, and a little worn, and it's far too big for Jackson to wear. What the hell?
"Is this some sort of... test?" Jackson asks, because asking Derek Hale if this is some kind of kink or initiation ritual is not going to happen anywhere but inside his head.
"Tear it up," Derek says, swinging up onto the top bunk. The metal frame dips and sways with the movement, and the springs above Jackson's head creak as Derek settles down. "You can wrap it around your hands. It'll help with the hot pipes."
"Why would you--" --give anything to me? he doesn't say, in the end. "Do you have a knife?"
Derek's hand flashes down and takes the t-shirt, and when it drops back down a few moments later it's in several long strips, just the size to wrap around his hands. Jackson files away Derek's impressive knife skills, or shank skills, is that what they call them? It's probably a razor blade stuck on an old comb or something.
Jackson doesn't thank him, but Derek doesn't seem to care.
On Monday morning Jackson walks down to the gates with the rest of the block. There's a subdued air over the men, some sideways glances at him, and a few at Derek. Derek is carefully not paying attention, just watching, waiting as the bus rumbles through the dust towards them.
Jackson's the last to climb aboard, and when he's looking for a seat and Derek's most intimidating lieutenant looms up in front of him with a pick over his shoulder, he's not sure he's going to be getting off again. Boyd just hands him the pick, says gruffly, "Just try not to take anyone's eye out, rookie," and Jackson sinks into the closest empty seat.
Lunch that day is open air, there's grit in his mystery meat stew, his shirt is sticking to his back and he has aches in muscles playing lacrosse had never taught him existed. He's also learned four of his work party's names, won half a pack of cigarettes that he'll never smoke, and been slapped on the back twice by Crazy Isaac.
"You did well," Derek says that night, when the lights are out and Jackson's spitting into the sink. He's never going to get the hang of swallowing, he's certain of that. He's confused for a moment, because he tried but he's still only done this a handful of times and he's sure he caught Derek with his teeth at least once.
Then Derek growls "Today, I mean," because he's a freak, and he's weird about the sex still, but Jackson still falls asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in weeks.
Title: Routine
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Derek/Jackson
Character/s: Derek, Jackson, Boyd
Summary: Jackson is settling into a routine. He's just not sure it's the right one.
Warnings: The basic premise is the exchange of sex for protection.
Word Count: 1034
Prompt: Detente
Author's Notes: Same 'verse as Pawn - Prison AU (with werewolves).
Jackson lucked out getting a job in the clean and air-conditioned prison library, he knows that. Every lunch time when he's eating mystery meat stew with clean hands and a shirt not sweat-drenched from the workshop or laundry, he knows he's better off.
But it's harder to remember why he should be grateful for it when the rest of his block clap each other on the back, when they laugh about some prank, or something they've seen while they're out digging and laying pipes, or whatever it is they do when they go out in the Hills bus each day with their shovels and picks. When they fall silent when Jackson approaches, because he's not one of them, not really. Or when Derek comes into the cell they share, and his eyes just slide over Jackson as if he isn't there, as if he's just part of the fading institutional gray background.
Compared to Derek, wind-blown, glistening with sun and sweat, he might as well be.
Derek has only spoken three words to Jackson since the first night they shared a cell, and all of them have been 'No'.
No, Derek didn't want a handjob.
No, Derek didn't want Jackson to blow him.
No, Derek didn't plan on saying anything but 'No'. It's somehow comforting to know the man who scares half of the inmates shitless can be just as childish as him sometimes.
But then, saying anything else might interfere with his routine, Jackson thinks sourly. Eight hours straight of physical labor aren't enough for Derek, oh no. He has to round off his day with a punishing regime of pull-ups that make Jackson's muscles ache just to watch him.
More than that, it makes him wonder if he's made the wrong decision.
He can't afford to let things stay as they are, but it still takes him ten minutes to stand up. He strips off his own shirt and walks over to the pipes, where Derek is already settled into the swing of it; up and down, never missing a beat.
The pipes are boiling hot when Jackson jumps up to grab hold of them, and it takes him everything he has to give it a second try, but Derek doesn't laugh at him, or even look his way. The only way Jackson knows he's even aware of him is when he settles into a rhythm of sorts and Derek slows to match him, stretch for stretch and breath for breath.
Jackson's flagging badly when Derek finally stops, barely making it to his bunk before collapsing. He doesn't want Derek to see him like this, but for a change Derek is looking right at him, even when he's wiping his face with a towel.
It's not quite how he planned it, but it will have to do.
"I asked to transfer work details," he says, coughing when his voice comes out hoarse and dry. "I'll be with the rest of you guys from next week."
Derek's eyebrows furrow, as if Jackson is a puzzle he can't work out, and his eyes, dark from this distance in the fading light, bore into Jackson with an intensity Jackson has never seen from him before. If this is Derek reconsidering his 'No' stance on Jackson's offers, Jackson really hopes it's not a handjob he has in mind for tonight, because his hands are a mess of blisters.
What Derek has in mind for him, it seems, is an old t-shirt. It's greyish, and a little worn, and it's far too big for Jackson to wear. What the hell?
"Is this some sort of... test?" Jackson asks, because asking Derek Hale if this is some kind of kink or initiation ritual is not going to happen anywhere but inside his head.
"Tear it up," Derek says, swinging up onto the top bunk. The metal frame dips and sways with the movement, and the springs above Jackson's head creak as Derek settles down. "You can wrap it around your hands. It'll help with the hot pipes."
"Why would you--" --give anything to me? he doesn't say, in the end. "Do you have a knife?"
Derek's hand flashes down and takes the t-shirt, and when it drops back down a few moments later it's in several long strips, just the size to wrap around his hands. Jackson files away Derek's impressive knife skills, or shank skills, is that what they call them? It's probably a razor blade stuck on an old comb or something.
Jackson doesn't thank him, but Derek doesn't seem to care.
On Monday morning Jackson walks down to the gates with the rest of the block. There's a subdued air over the men, some sideways glances at him, and a few at Derek. Derek is carefully not paying attention, just watching, waiting as the bus rumbles through the dust towards them.
Jackson's the last to climb aboard, and when he's looking for a seat and Derek's most intimidating lieutenant looms up in front of him with a pick over his shoulder, he's not sure he's going to be getting off again. Boyd just hands him the pick, says gruffly, "Just try not to take anyone's eye out, rookie," and Jackson sinks into the closest empty seat.
Lunch that day is open air, there's grit in his mystery meat stew, his shirt is sticking to his back and he has aches in muscles playing lacrosse had never taught him existed. He's also learned four of his work party's names, won half a pack of cigarettes that he'll never smoke, and been slapped on the back twice by Crazy Isaac.
"You did well," Derek says that night, when the lights are out and Jackson's spitting into the sink. He's never going to get the hang of swallowing, he's certain of that. He's confused for a moment, because he tried but he's still only done this a handful of times and he's sure he caught Derek with his teeth at least once.
Then Derek growls "Today, I mean," because he's a freak, and he's weird about the sex still, but Jackson still falls asleep with a smile on his face for the first time in weeks.