Fic: Roundabout is Fair Play, Jackson/Stiles
Author: calrissian18
Title: Roundabout is Fair Play
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Jackson/Stiles
Character/s: Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Jackson cares. In a very roundabout way. As it turns out, so does Stilinski.
Warnings: None
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: 3,515
Prompt: Headache
Author's Notes: It's been so long since I've been able to step away from Sterek BUT I DID IT! *fist pumps*
Stilinski runs into the door jam on his way into Jackson’s room. He turns back with a pronounced scowl directed towards it, as though it maliciously set out to trip him. His mind is a kind of unfathomable swamp filled seemingly with nothing more than paranoia and off-color masturbation jokes. Jackson genuinely fears getting sucked into it.
The reality of the situation is that he’s holding a stack of books and untidy papers like a pizza box so he cleverly can’t see his feet. His backpack is hanging off his shoulder and he awkwardly hunches both to try to get it back in place, squirming around like a total freak. There’s a scarf around his neck that’s come entirely loose and he’s tromping on the ends with nearly every step he takes.
He’s a complete social and personal disaster. Somehow Jackson resists the urge to stab his pencil through his eye and into his brain. Two weeks with Stilinski as his lab partner. He can’t say joining the cabbage patch as their freshest vegetable is always going to seem like the worse option in that trade-off.
“Can you just get over here already?” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and in so much psychic pain he feels like he’s drowning in it.
Stilinski looks up at him, blinks his wide, clueless doe eyes at Jackson like he’d forgotten he was there. Jackson suspects that, hey, maybe he did. “I can, but I’m not going to with that attitude. You’ve got venomous claws and sharp teeth in addition to your base douchebaggery now. Forgive me for being wary.”
Jackson shifts just enough so that when he smiles, it’s with tiny razor like fangs.
Stilinski grimaces and a chill jumps up his spine, but it gets him moving. Sort of. He walks over like he’s marching along to a funeral dirge. By the grace of some omnipotent being, Jackson manages not to throw his textbook at his obnoxious and weirdly elastic face.
“We should focus on reptilian circulatory systems,” he says with a sly smirk as soon as he’s settled in Jackson’s desk chair, struggling out of his winter coat and awkwardly draping it over the back of it. He doesn’t do it well enough so he keeps having to prop it back up only to have it flop down on him again. “Ow, motherfucker!”
Jackson grins to himself as he opens his notebook, Stilinski rubbing his nose where the hardcover had smacked into it and glowering at him in his periphery. “I already picked the topic,” he says succinctly. He offers Stilinski a condescending brow perk. “I didn’t want to leave it to someone so… mentally deficient.”
They work in silence for roughly fifteen minutes. Well, Stilinski taps his pen, bounces his foot, his leg, half spins in the chair, clanks against the keys of Jackson’s keyboard and huffs out heavy breaths every so often but he doesn’t actually speak. Jackson pulls his book closer (having made Stilinski retrieve it before they started) and his nostrils flare over an unfamiliar scent that wrinkles his nose.
His head snaps up to stare at the arch of Stilinski’s back as he scribbles in his notebook. He inhales with more specificity the second time and it is him. Jackson narrows his eyes at the curve of his spine. “What’s wrong with you?” Stilinski actually jerks at the suddenness of the sound in a vacuum without and turns around, blinking stupidly and pointing at his own chest. Jackson juts out his chin in confirmation. “You smell like you’re rotting.” It’s unpleasantly accurate and Jackson has learned that it’s a nuance of pain’s many scents.
Stilinski snorts and holds out one arm like he’s gesturing to a crowd, saying in a bowed out sort of voice, “And the winner of today’s sensitivity award is-Jackson Whittemore.” He claps both hands together and holds them like that, shakes them on one side of his head and then the other like he’s cheering. “Congrats, man, it was close. You beat out every Die Hard villain ever, animal abusers, and Derek Hale.” Jackson glares at him and Stilinski rolls his eyes, turning back around and tossing over his shoulder, “I have a headache.” He plants his elbow on Jackson’s desk and pulls at his thumbnail with his teeth. He says around it, “Remember what those are or’s your brain gone scaly too?”
Jackson snarls under his breath at the dig but disagreeably lets the subject drop.
+++
His scales are still acting the part of the clingy prom date. If Jackson so much as pops a claw, he instantly looks like he’s contracted a particularly virulent strain of the mumps.
He stares down at the uneven and shiny spread of them across his bare torso, disgust twisting his lips. He tilts his head to the side, frowns curiously, and glances up into the mirror. Huh. Looks kind of like Florida - a foreboding shape if ever there was one. His irises are vertical slits and his mouth is punched out with fangs that don’t fit it but his claws are those of a werewolf. He just can’t seem to get any of the rest to follow suit.
Apparently his epic love for Lydia hadn’t been a cure-all as much as it was a momentary balm. She was dating some new meathead who was built like Optimus fucking Prime now anyway because while they had come to recognize that they genuinely loved each other, they’d also figured out that wasn’t the same as being meant to be.
He stalks back into his bedroom like a predator prowling for prey only to find Stilinski standing in the door of it and gaping at him. Well, not him so much as the not-him parts. Jackson snarls and slowly starts to ease back into fully human skin, claws and fangs and scales glacially retreating. He throws a pillow from his bed at the slack-jawed idiot and snaps, “Knocking is considered polite in civilized societies, Stilinski.”
Stilinski catches the pillow with an ‘oof’ and drops it by his foot, reflexes better than Jackson would’ve expected, and tilts his head to the side. “Looks like Florida,” is his only comment. Jackson’s tempted to throw something heavier at him and it must show, either that or Jackson’s words have finally caught up to him because he scoffs and says superiorly, “I should’ve knocked on your open door?” He snorts. “Yeah, real clever, asshole.” He gestures to Jackson’s chest, which now resembles more of an extremely aerial view of Hawaii, and adds, “I thought Derek was fixing that.”
Jackson raises both eyebrows, challenging. “Did you hear what you just said?”
“Right,” Stilinski quips, pursing his fat lips together and taking an actual step into the room. He pats his backpack’s bottom, seemingly for something to do with his hands, and offers unevenly, “I helped Scott out with his whole ‘creature of the night’ issue.” His expression goes the slightest bit proud. “Seriously, got him from, like, Lon Chaney down to Scrappy Doo in a week flat. I could do some research of the deadly, toxic, reptilian variety?”
“Don’t do me any favors,” Jackson says snidely, flopping down on his bed and dragging his book and papers over from his nightstand. He watches Stilinski set his bag down next to the bottom drawer of Jackson’s desk and he’s slow to come back up, moving like he’s in pain and, sure enough, the stench of it is back. “What?” Jackson barks, eyes slitted.
Stilinski plays it off like he was stretching and turns around with a shrug. “Nothing. Headache,” he says again and plasters a ridiculously insincere smile on his face. “Be more snappish maybe,” he retorts sweetly.
Jackson sneers at him.
+++
It’s too much to hope that Stilinski won’t notice but Jackson does get almost two full minutes before it happens, sitting tense against his headboard and trying to force a casual-cool by keeping his eyes glued to his book. He flips a page he hasn’t read while Stilinski shrugs out of his jacket and unravels his scarf, mouth unsurprisingly open and engaged.
“I seriously came within, like, inches-centimeters-nanometers - is that a thing? Because it should be a thing - of hitting your Porsche with the door of my Jeep and I don’t know if it’s because of how much I hate you or how much I hate it but there is some serious, deep-seated and subconscious-soaked hate.” He stops, angles his head like he’s thinking and pauses pulling out of one sleeve. “Honestly, I think it’s the Porsche. It’s always, like, grinning all lascivious-like at me, you know?”
He’s still smiling stupidly over his word vomit when the double-take comes. The overhead light is on its dimmest setting, Jackson’s unsubtly thrown a t-shirt over the lamp on his bedside table and his laptop is resting shut rather than open on his desk.
His skin feels tight, prickling, and he reiterates to himself that it’s only because Stilinski stinks up his room with all his human agonies that he’s adjusted things. Harsh lighting is a regular enough culprit for headaches, and with a simple enough fix to it. He hasn’t noticed anything off with it himself but he’s not exactly going to with his new… enhancements.
Stilinski blinks dumbly, eyes shooting around Jackson’s room before coming back to him. “What’s all this?” He actually points it out like Jackson won’t be able to grasp what he’s talking about otherwise. Jackson rolls his eyes while Stilinski’s brow furrows. “Feel like I’m about to be date-raped,” he says, and it’s only half as joking as it should be, then he grins, holds up an admonishing finger and brings it home. “Olivia Benson has been preparing me for this my entire life so don’t try anything, dude.” The grin fades and he asks a little more seriously, awkwardly uncertain, “We were supposed to meet today, right?”
Jackson bares his teeth at him and snipes, “Shut up and work, Stilinski.”
Stilinski eases over to his chair and Jackson doesn’t think it’s only emotional discomfort that has him moving so slowly - he’s still physically in pain too, despite the change in ambiance. He pulls up his books slowly through the parted teeth of his backpack’s zipper. “Seriously, are you seducing me?” He’s got both brows raised and the sides of his lips are starting to twitch up. “Because I’m going to need a lot more of an effort than this.” He gestures around to the low lighting again, smelling like an ache Jackson can’t see. It’s obnoxious. “Get me the newest Call of Duty, every Steven Seagal movie ever made, a case of Lemon Heads and then we’ll see if you get lucky.”
He clicks his tongue and Jackson does everything in his power to play off the flush ringing the skin under his jaw and the backs of his ears as annoyance rather than anything… else.
+++
Stilinski smells so much like ache the next time he comes over that Jackson can’t help but search him for bruises when he bustles into the room. His eyes dart over every inch of pale skin they can get to.
There’s nothing he can see but Stilinski’s also constantly wearing eighteen layers, to the point where Jackson might think he was taking regular beatings if this scent wasn’t so new and pointed. And, really, would it kill him to show some skin?
Jackson freezes, swallows, shoves that thought to the back of his head where he genuinely hopes it never emerges from again - innocent or not. He keeps his eyes on the notebook in his lap, clears his throat and asks as nonchalantly as he’s able, “Hit your head or something?” His lips won’t un-purse though, which kills some of the act.
Stilinski looks up from his book bag. “Huh?”
Jackson points at him with the eraser-end of his pencil, says, “You’re wincing.”
Stilinski grins but there’s a bit of accusation to it. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Jackson is quick to fire back. He doesn’t either. Even so, he flips to the last page of his notebook and crosses out ‘physical activity’ as one of the likely culprits to Stiles’ ‘headaches.’
+++
Jackson’s ready for him when he comes up the stairs the next day, nostrils flaring over that-that-unwelcome fucking scent. Stilinski bounds into his room, bruising the air as he comes to a quick stop when he almost runs into Jackson, whistling out an uneven, “Who-oa.”
Jackson shoves him towards what’s usually his seat, leaning up against his headboard, and the momentum alone has Stilinski flopping down on the bed. He’s scowling at having awkwardly hit it, more on his back than his ass, at least until he notices the plate of fruit set up next to his elbow on the bedside table. Then he’s just frowning like he’s never been more confused in his life. It gets even more pronounced when Jackson gestures emphatically towards it.
He perks an eyebrow high on his forehead. “What’s all this?” he asks suspiciously.
Jackson gives him the most unimpressed glare he can muster. “I have to explain food to you now? You ingest it to get vital nutrients, which keeps you from dying on a carpet that costs more than your house.” His lips raises judgmentally. “You’ve probably been mowing down Rocket Pops and Rocky Road all week but you should try a piece of fruit between your empty calories when you can stomach it.”
Stilinski stares at him, shrugging out of his jacket and settling himself with his back tight against the headboard while he chews unhurriedly on a slice of orange. He’s watching Jackson like he expects he’s been taken over by a body snatcher or a poison dart is about to fly out of the mouth of a statue somewhere or something. He waits until he’s swallowed to say, “I honestly don’t know if you’re calling me fat or aggressively applying to be my nutritionist.” He’s quiet for another minute, pops a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and says with dead seriousness, “Do they even make Rocket Pops anymore?”
Jackson’s lips start to curl up at the sheer absurdity of the question and he turns around before Stilinski can note it. He drops down in his desk chair and waits, impatiently tapping the glossy page of his textbook with his pencil while the clock ticks.
Half an hour later, the scent of pain is still radiating from Stilinski, wrapping around Jackson like a smothering fog and he angrily flips to the back of his notebook and crosses out the last two possibilities from his list - diet and posture - with an understated, albeit frustrated noise.
Seems like it’s time for another list then.
+++
Jackson huffs. He’s annoyed by this.
Annoyed by his mother knocking on his bedroom door and pulling him away from his lab work with Stilinski. Annoyed by Lisa Decker, who’s wearing something that’s practically pushing her boobs into his face and pouting her lips more than any human person ever would or should. Annoyed that she came by with the flimsiest of excuses in a clear effort to get him to ask her out. Annoyed that he’s down here watching her bat her eyelashes because she thinks he can boost her up in their high school hierarchy rather than upstairs listening to Stilinski mumble the wrong words to Wheel in the Sky under his breath. Annoyed that he’s not interested in her because now that he’s no longer on the lacrosse team, this might actually be a way of keeping his same social status. Annoyed that that doesn’t seem to matter to him at all because he’d absolutely rather be up in his room with Stilinski, getting every last second out of these final two days with him.
And he completely hates Lisa Decker for making him realize that.
He all but slams the door in her face without the slightest bit of explanation and takes a deep breath once it’s closed. He slowly clenches his hand into a fist at his side, runs the other through his hair and breathes.
Stilinski? Really? Who the fuck saw that coming and why? He’s a complete mess and-and-Jackson is thinking about his mouth and his hands and his dumb doe eyes again and how does someone so completely inferior to him turn him on so freaking much?
Jackson stomps back up the stairs, angry with himself but more than willing to funnel that into being angry with Stilinski, on account of whatever the fuck he’s doing to make Jackson want him. He swings into his room only to find that, at some point, Stilinski has moved his laptop aside and he’s staring down at the Post-it note Jackson had stuck underneath it last night.
In a tidy list, in two columns, are the words:
stiff neck
fever
rash
blood pressure
loss of appetite
weight loss
confusion
blurry vision
personality changes
weakness
numbness
facial pain
It’s not that incriminating on its own, a list of symptoms with no cause to relate them to, but then Jackson thinks to look at the screen on the laptop Stiles has shuffled out of his way. Sure enough his last Google search is pulled up: signs a headache might be something serious.
Fuck.
Stilinski stands and actually backs up a step, chair rolling as he runs into it with the backs of his thighs. He turns to look at Jackson, gaping and pointing shakily down at the square blue Post-it. “You-” he chokes on the word but seems determined to get it out, “You made a list.” That’s definitely more accusation than statement. “That’s why you’ve been-” He looks around wildly, like he’s mentally puzzling out all the adjustments Jackson’s been making. “You were trying to figure out if it was serious or not. I told you I had a headache once-”
“Twice,” Jackson corrects in a bark. He’s strung up tight, not sure where this is going and feeling like he should be preparing for every outcome. “And you were in pain more often than that.”
“Right,” Stilinski agrees blankly, like he hasn’t really heard the argument. He’s pacing slightly in front of Jackson’s desk. “And you tried to fix it and, when you couldn’t, you made a list of things to watch for in case it was something worse than a headache.” He points to the list again, stops and stares unblinkingly at Jackson, whose mouth is pursed in response to the scrutiny. “That is so… creepy and disturbing and weird.” He swallows, hard, and takes a step closer to Jackson.
Jackson makes himself hold his ground, especially since he thinks this might be-it might be going the way he’d like it to.
Stilinski’s half-smile is unsure but genuine. “And kind of… the most ridiculously touching thing ever.”
Jackson’s eyes keep flickering up to meet his before darting away, not yet ready to admit to anything.
Stilinski saves him from having to come up with a response by saying bluntly, “I never had a headache.”
Jackson’s head whips up. What the fuck was Stilinski playing at then?
He rubs at his buzzed hair, frustrated. “I mean, I did,” he corrects quickly, “but it was kind of an all-over ache from… lacrosse practice. I didn’t mention it because I’m only first line since you-”
Since he couldn’t control his inner kanima out on the field and had to: “Quit,” he finishes dully.
“Yeah,” Stilinski breathes out, like that one word alone winded him.
Jackson settles on the edge of his bed with a blank, “Oh.”
Stilinski comes to a stop in front of him and tries uncertainly, “I really do think I can help with that whole… Sleestak thing.” He smirks, sits down next to Jackson - close enough that Jackson can feel the warmth of his skin but not so close that they’re touching - and adds, as though he’s trying not to sound overeager, “Only if you want me to.”
Jackson looks over at him as the realization slides home, slowly and purposefully clicking into place. Even when he’d thought he hated Stilinski, he’d gone out of his way to make sure he was okay, and even when he’d thought Stilinski hated him, he hadn’t poked at a spot he knew was sensitive to Jackson - despite the fact that it would’ve made more sense for him, given their antagonism.
They were looking out for each other in the ways that mattered. Instinctually.
Stilinski speaks before Jackson can, swallows and says, eyes hooded and not quite meeting Jackson’s, “This is the level of effort I needed.”
It takes him a second to remember what Stilinski’s referring to and he grins when he realizes. “You should have higher standards, Stilinski,” he says with a laugh.
Stiles smirks and raises his eyebrows, challenging. “Then how would you ever get in my pants?”
Jackson growls and tackles him to the bed, fingers dropping to fumble with the button of Stilinski’s jeans. He’ll show Stilinski getting into his fucking pants.
Title: Roundabout is Fair Play
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Jackson/Stiles
Character/s: Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Jackson cares. In a very roundabout way. As it turns out, so does Stilinski.
Warnings: None
Submission Type: Fic
Word Count: 3,515
Prompt: Headache
Author's Notes: It's been so long since I've been able to step away from Sterek BUT I DID IT! *fist pumps*
Stilinski runs into the door jam on his way into Jackson’s room. He turns back with a pronounced scowl directed towards it, as though it maliciously set out to trip him. His mind is a kind of unfathomable swamp filled seemingly with nothing more than paranoia and off-color masturbation jokes. Jackson genuinely fears getting sucked into it.
The reality of the situation is that he’s holding a stack of books and untidy papers like a pizza box so he cleverly can’t see his feet. His backpack is hanging off his shoulder and he awkwardly hunches both to try to get it back in place, squirming around like a total freak. There’s a scarf around his neck that’s come entirely loose and he’s tromping on the ends with nearly every step he takes.
He’s a complete social and personal disaster. Somehow Jackson resists the urge to stab his pencil through his eye and into his brain. Two weeks with Stilinski as his lab partner. He can’t say joining the cabbage patch as their freshest vegetable is always going to seem like the worse option in that trade-off.
“Can you just get over here already?” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and in so much psychic pain he feels like he’s drowning in it.
Stilinski looks up at him, blinks his wide, clueless doe eyes at Jackson like he’d forgotten he was there. Jackson suspects that, hey, maybe he did. “I can, but I’m not going to with that attitude. You’ve got venomous claws and sharp teeth in addition to your base douchebaggery now. Forgive me for being wary.”
Jackson shifts just enough so that when he smiles, it’s with tiny razor like fangs.
Stilinski grimaces and a chill jumps up his spine, but it gets him moving. Sort of. He walks over like he’s marching along to a funeral dirge. By the grace of some omnipotent being, Jackson manages not to throw his textbook at his obnoxious and weirdly elastic face.
“We should focus on reptilian circulatory systems,” he says with a sly smirk as soon as he’s settled in Jackson’s desk chair, struggling out of his winter coat and awkwardly draping it over the back of it. He doesn’t do it well enough so he keeps having to prop it back up only to have it flop down on him again. “Ow, motherfucker!”
Jackson grins to himself as he opens his notebook, Stilinski rubbing his nose where the hardcover had smacked into it and glowering at him in his periphery. “I already picked the topic,” he says succinctly. He offers Stilinski a condescending brow perk. “I didn’t want to leave it to someone so… mentally deficient.”
They work in silence for roughly fifteen minutes. Well, Stilinski taps his pen, bounces his foot, his leg, half spins in the chair, clanks against the keys of Jackson’s keyboard and huffs out heavy breaths every so often but he doesn’t actually speak. Jackson pulls his book closer (having made Stilinski retrieve it before they started) and his nostrils flare over an unfamiliar scent that wrinkles his nose.
His head snaps up to stare at the arch of Stilinski’s back as he scribbles in his notebook. He inhales with more specificity the second time and it is him. Jackson narrows his eyes at the curve of his spine. “What’s wrong with you?” Stilinski actually jerks at the suddenness of the sound in a vacuum without and turns around, blinking stupidly and pointing at his own chest. Jackson juts out his chin in confirmation. “You smell like you’re rotting.” It’s unpleasantly accurate and Jackson has learned that it’s a nuance of pain’s many scents.
Stilinski snorts and holds out one arm like he’s gesturing to a crowd, saying in a bowed out sort of voice, “And the winner of today’s sensitivity award is-Jackson Whittemore.” He claps both hands together and holds them like that, shakes them on one side of his head and then the other like he’s cheering. “Congrats, man, it was close. You beat out every Die Hard villain ever, animal abusers, and Derek Hale.” Jackson glares at him and Stilinski rolls his eyes, turning back around and tossing over his shoulder, “I have a headache.” He plants his elbow on Jackson’s desk and pulls at his thumbnail with his teeth. He says around it, “Remember what those are or’s your brain gone scaly too?”
Jackson snarls under his breath at the dig but disagreeably lets the subject drop.
+++
His scales are still acting the part of the clingy prom date. If Jackson so much as pops a claw, he instantly looks like he’s contracted a particularly virulent strain of the mumps.
He stares down at the uneven and shiny spread of them across his bare torso, disgust twisting his lips. He tilts his head to the side, frowns curiously, and glances up into the mirror. Huh. Looks kind of like Florida - a foreboding shape if ever there was one. His irises are vertical slits and his mouth is punched out with fangs that don’t fit it but his claws are those of a werewolf. He just can’t seem to get any of the rest to follow suit.
Apparently his epic love for Lydia hadn’t been a cure-all as much as it was a momentary balm. She was dating some new meathead who was built like Optimus fucking Prime now anyway because while they had come to recognize that they genuinely loved each other, they’d also figured out that wasn’t the same as being meant to be.
He stalks back into his bedroom like a predator prowling for prey only to find Stilinski standing in the door of it and gaping at him. Well, not him so much as the not-him parts. Jackson snarls and slowly starts to ease back into fully human skin, claws and fangs and scales glacially retreating. He throws a pillow from his bed at the slack-jawed idiot and snaps, “Knocking is considered polite in civilized societies, Stilinski.”
Stilinski catches the pillow with an ‘oof’ and drops it by his foot, reflexes better than Jackson would’ve expected, and tilts his head to the side. “Looks like Florida,” is his only comment. Jackson’s tempted to throw something heavier at him and it must show, either that or Jackson’s words have finally caught up to him because he scoffs and says superiorly, “I should’ve knocked on your open door?” He snorts. “Yeah, real clever, asshole.” He gestures to Jackson’s chest, which now resembles more of an extremely aerial view of Hawaii, and adds, “I thought Derek was fixing that.”
Jackson raises both eyebrows, challenging. “Did you hear what you just said?”
“Right,” Stilinski quips, pursing his fat lips together and taking an actual step into the room. He pats his backpack’s bottom, seemingly for something to do with his hands, and offers unevenly, “I helped Scott out with his whole ‘creature of the night’ issue.” His expression goes the slightest bit proud. “Seriously, got him from, like, Lon Chaney down to Scrappy Doo in a week flat. I could do some research of the deadly, toxic, reptilian variety?”
“Don’t do me any favors,” Jackson says snidely, flopping down on his bed and dragging his book and papers over from his nightstand. He watches Stilinski set his bag down next to the bottom drawer of Jackson’s desk and he’s slow to come back up, moving like he’s in pain and, sure enough, the stench of it is back. “What?” Jackson barks, eyes slitted.
Stilinski plays it off like he was stretching and turns around with a shrug. “Nothing. Headache,” he says again and plasters a ridiculously insincere smile on his face. “Be more snappish maybe,” he retorts sweetly.
Jackson sneers at him.
+++
It’s too much to hope that Stilinski won’t notice but Jackson does get almost two full minutes before it happens, sitting tense against his headboard and trying to force a casual-cool by keeping his eyes glued to his book. He flips a page he hasn’t read while Stilinski shrugs out of his jacket and unravels his scarf, mouth unsurprisingly open and engaged.
“I seriously came within, like, inches-centimeters-nanometers - is that a thing? Because it should be a thing - of hitting your Porsche with the door of my Jeep and I don’t know if it’s because of how much I hate you or how much I hate it but there is some serious, deep-seated and subconscious-soaked hate.” He stops, angles his head like he’s thinking and pauses pulling out of one sleeve. “Honestly, I think it’s the Porsche. It’s always, like, grinning all lascivious-like at me, you know?”
He’s still smiling stupidly over his word vomit when the double-take comes. The overhead light is on its dimmest setting, Jackson’s unsubtly thrown a t-shirt over the lamp on his bedside table and his laptop is resting shut rather than open on his desk.
His skin feels tight, prickling, and he reiterates to himself that it’s only because Stilinski stinks up his room with all his human agonies that he’s adjusted things. Harsh lighting is a regular enough culprit for headaches, and with a simple enough fix to it. He hasn’t noticed anything off with it himself but he’s not exactly going to with his new… enhancements.
Stilinski blinks dumbly, eyes shooting around Jackson’s room before coming back to him. “What’s all this?” He actually points it out like Jackson won’t be able to grasp what he’s talking about otherwise. Jackson rolls his eyes while Stilinski’s brow furrows. “Feel like I’m about to be date-raped,” he says, and it’s only half as joking as it should be, then he grins, holds up an admonishing finger and brings it home. “Olivia Benson has been preparing me for this my entire life so don’t try anything, dude.” The grin fades and he asks a little more seriously, awkwardly uncertain, “We were supposed to meet today, right?”
Jackson bares his teeth at him and snipes, “Shut up and work, Stilinski.”
Stilinski eases over to his chair and Jackson doesn’t think it’s only emotional discomfort that has him moving so slowly - he’s still physically in pain too, despite the change in ambiance. He pulls up his books slowly through the parted teeth of his backpack’s zipper. “Seriously, are you seducing me?” He’s got both brows raised and the sides of his lips are starting to twitch up. “Because I’m going to need a lot more of an effort than this.” He gestures around to the low lighting again, smelling like an ache Jackson can’t see. It’s obnoxious. “Get me the newest Call of Duty, every Steven Seagal movie ever made, a case of Lemon Heads and then we’ll see if you get lucky.”
He clicks his tongue and Jackson does everything in his power to play off the flush ringing the skin under his jaw and the backs of his ears as annoyance rather than anything… else.
+++
Stilinski smells so much like ache the next time he comes over that Jackson can’t help but search him for bruises when he bustles into the room. His eyes dart over every inch of pale skin they can get to.
There’s nothing he can see but Stilinski’s also constantly wearing eighteen layers, to the point where Jackson might think he was taking regular beatings if this scent wasn’t so new and pointed. And, really, would it kill him to show some skin?
Jackson freezes, swallows, shoves that thought to the back of his head where he genuinely hopes it never emerges from again - innocent or not. He keeps his eyes on the notebook in his lap, clears his throat and asks as nonchalantly as he’s able, “Hit your head or something?” His lips won’t un-purse though, which kills some of the act.
Stilinski looks up from his book bag. “Huh?”
Jackson points at him with the eraser-end of his pencil, says, “You’re wincing.”
Stilinski grins but there’s a bit of accusation to it. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Jackson is quick to fire back. He doesn’t either. Even so, he flips to the last page of his notebook and crosses out ‘physical activity’ as one of the likely culprits to Stiles’ ‘headaches.’
+++
Jackson’s ready for him when he comes up the stairs the next day, nostrils flaring over that-that-unwelcome fucking scent. Stilinski bounds into his room, bruising the air as he comes to a quick stop when he almost runs into Jackson, whistling out an uneven, “Who-oa.”
Jackson shoves him towards what’s usually his seat, leaning up against his headboard, and the momentum alone has Stilinski flopping down on the bed. He’s scowling at having awkwardly hit it, more on his back than his ass, at least until he notices the plate of fruit set up next to his elbow on the bedside table. Then he’s just frowning like he’s never been more confused in his life. It gets even more pronounced when Jackson gestures emphatically towards it.
He perks an eyebrow high on his forehead. “What’s all this?” he asks suspiciously.
Jackson gives him the most unimpressed glare he can muster. “I have to explain food to you now? You ingest it to get vital nutrients, which keeps you from dying on a carpet that costs more than your house.” His lips raises judgmentally. “You’ve probably been mowing down Rocket Pops and Rocky Road all week but you should try a piece of fruit between your empty calories when you can stomach it.”
Stilinski stares at him, shrugging out of his jacket and settling himself with his back tight against the headboard while he chews unhurriedly on a slice of orange. He’s watching Jackson like he expects he’s been taken over by a body snatcher or a poison dart is about to fly out of the mouth of a statue somewhere or something. He waits until he’s swallowed to say, “I honestly don’t know if you’re calling me fat or aggressively applying to be my nutritionist.” He’s quiet for another minute, pops a piece of cantaloupe into his mouth and says with dead seriousness, “Do they even make Rocket Pops anymore?”
Jackson’s lips start to curl up at the sheer absurdity of the question and he turns around before Stilinski can note it. He drops down in his desk chair and waits, impatiently tapping the glossy page of his textbook with his pencil while the clock ticks.
Half an hour later, the scent of pain is still radiating from Stilinski, wrapping around Jackson like a smothering fog and he angrily flips to the back of his notebook and crosses out the last two possibilities from his list - diet and posture - with an understated, albeit frustrated noise.
Seems like it’s time for another list then.
+++
Jackson huffs. He’s annoyed by this.
Annoyed by his mother knocking on his bedroom door and pulling him away from his lab work with Stilinski. Annoyed by Lisa Decker, who’s wearing something that’s practically pushing her boobs into his face and pouting her lips more than any human person ever would or should. Annoyed that she came by with the flimsiest of excuses in a clear effort to get him to ask her out. Annoyed that he’s down here watching her bat her eyelashes because she thinks he can boost her up in their high school hierarchy rather than upstairs listening to Stilinski mumble the wrong words to Wheel in the Sky under his breath. Annoyed that he’s not interested in her because now that he’s no longer on the lacrosse team, this might actually be a way of keeping his same social status. Annoyed that that doesn’t seem to matter to him at all because he’d absolutely rather be up in his room with Stilinski, getting every last second out of these final two days with him.
And he completely hates Lisa Decker for making him realize that.
He all but slams the door in her face without the slightest bit of explanation and takes a deep breath once it’s closed. He slowly clenches his hand into a fist at his side, runs the other through his hair and breathes.
Stilinski? Really? Who the fuck saw that coming and why? He’s a complete mess and-and-Jackson is thinking about his mouth and his hands and his dumb doe eyes again and how does someone so completely inferior to him turn him on so freaking much?
Jackson stomps back up the stairs, angry with himself but more than willing to funnel that into being angry with Stilinski, on account of whatever the fuck he’s doing to make Jackson want him. He swings into his room only to find that, at some point, Stilinski has moved his laptop aside and he’s staring down at the Post-it note Jackson had stuck underneath it last night.
In a tidy list, in two columns, are the words:
stiff neck
fever
rash
blood pressure
loss of appetite
weight loss
confusion
blurry vision
personality changes
weakness
numbness
facial pain
It’s not that incriminating on its own, a list of symptoms with no cause to relate them to, but then Jackson thinks to look at the screen on the laptop Stiles has shuffled out of his way. Sure enough his last Google search is pulled up: signs a headache might be something serious.
Fuck.
Stilinski stands and actually backs up a step, chair rolling as he runs into it with the backs of his thighs. He turns to look at Jackson, gaping and pointing shakily down at the square blue Post-it. “You-” he chokes on the word but seems determined to get it out, “You made a list.” That’s definitely more accusation than statement. “That’s why you’ve been-” He looks around wildly, like he’s mentally puzzling out all the adjustments Jackson’s been making. “You were trying to figure out if it was serious or not. I told you I had a headache once-”
“Twice,” Jackson corrects in a bark. He’s strung up tight, not sure where this is going and feeling like he should be preparing for every outcome. “And you were in pain more often than that.”
“Right,” Stilinski agrees blankly, like he hasn’t really heard the argument. He’s pacing slightly in front of Jackson’s desk. “And you tried to fix it and, when you couldn’t, you made a list of things to watch for in case it was something worse than a headache.” He points to the list again, stops and stares unblinkingly at Jackson, whose mouth is pursed in response to the scrutiny. “That is so… creepy and disturbing and weird.” He swallows, hard, and takes a step closer to Jackson.
Jackson makes himself hold his ground, especially since he thinks this might be-it might be going the way he’d like it to.
Stilinski’s half-smile is unsure but genuine. “And kind of… the most ridiculously touching thing ever.”
Jackson’s eyes keep flickering up to meet his before darting away, not yet ready to admit to anything.
Stilinski saves him from having to come up with a response by saying bluntly, “I never had a headache.”
Jackson’s head whips up. What the fuck was Stilinski playing at then?
He rubs at his buzzed hair, frustrated. “I mean, I did,” he corrects quickly, “but it was kind of an all-over ache from… lacrosse practice. I didn’t mention it because I’m only first line since you-”
Since he couldn’t control his inner kanima out on the field and had to: “Quit,” he finishes dully.
“Yeah,” Stilinski breathes out, like that one word alone winded him.
Jackson settles on the edge of his bed with a blank, “Oh.”
Stilinski comes to a stop in front of him and tries uncertainly, “I really do think I can help with that whole… Sleestak thing.” He smirks, sits down next to Jackson - close enough that Jackson can feel the warmth of his skin but not so close that they’re touching - and adds, as though he’s trying not to sound overeager, “Only if you want me to.”
Jackson looks over at him as the realization slides home, slowly and purposefully clicking into place. Even when he’d thought he hated Stilinski, he’d gone out of his way to make sure he was okay, and even when he’d thought Stilinski hated him, he hadn’t poked at a spot he knew was sensitive to Jackson - despite the fact that it would’ve made more sense for him, given their antagonism.
They were looking out for each other in the ways that mattered. Instinctually.
Stilinski speaks before Jackson can, swallows and says, eyes hooded and not quite meeting Jackson’s, “This is the level of effort I needed.”
It takes him a second to remember what Stilinski’s referring to and he grins when he realizes. “You should have higher standards, Stilinski,” he says with a laugh.
Stiles smirks and raises his eyebrows, challenging. “Then how would you ever get in my pants?”
Jackson growls and tackles him to the bed, fingers dropping to fumble with the button of Stilinski’s jeans. He’ll show Stilinski getting into his fucking pants.