Work Text:
Waking with a start
I remember
Where you really are
And how you got there
. . .
Who made all this mess?
I did, I did
Are you safe to touch?
Or will you hurt me?
. . .
Love comes in moments like these
Amanda Palmer, “Boyfriend In A Coma”
Surprisingly, Jackson is kind of a clingy sleeper. And, it’s really not something you’d expect from him, especially when you see him conscious and—oh boy—around other people. Like, when he’s around other people, he’s just a raging dick, you know? In school, he’s the portrait of a narcissistic teen that’s succeeded, with his filthy rich parents and position as lacrosse team captain and that bone structure and—damn it all, because this just isn’t fair—Lydia on his arm. He really does have everything, so what’s the point of rubbing it in people’s faces?
It’s not until it happens that Stiles realizes that it’s because Jackson doesn’t have everything. On the surface, he looks set, like he could die then and there and not regret a damn thing. But, Stiles knows—and how he knows is a bit of a story—that the guy in his arms will regret it, all of it. He’ll regret it, because he’ll be dying alone. The people he puts around him aren’t friends—save for Danny and, well, maybe Lydia counts? Scott? Allison? Dere—Okay, that one’s a bit of a stretch. They aren’t so much as friends as people who know him too damn well. People who are able to see through that paper-thin mask he likes to plaster on.
That’s why it became a thing, actually. Why, after the whole ‘kidnapping’ mishap, it’s really Jackson who breaks the terms of the restraining order first by shoving Stiles against the locker room wall, telling him to shut the fuck up because there is nothing the fuck wrong with him and if he starts spreading fucking rumors like that, he’ll—he’ll— Well, apparently, he’ll turn all scaly like a raptor and stagger backwards and stare at his hands and—oh shit—cry. He’ll just break down and cry, with sniffles and huffed breathes, and drop to his knees. All this with his dick hanging out, might Stiles add, and that probably shouldn’t be his focus since he has an almost-not-really-werewolf-lizard-thing-who’s-also-his-not-friend-thing who could have very well killed him in the past thirty seconds having a mental breakdown at his feet. Focus, Stilinski, focus.
But, instead of being smart and running as far as his legs can take him (or to Scott, whatever came first), Stiles waits. Breathes, in, out. Next thing he knows, he’s got his arms wrapped Jackson’s shoulders like he’s a bag of popcorn on a skillet ready to burst and he tries to find comforting things to say that don’t have to do with, “At least you didn’t just go all lizardy and kill me, right?” Even though that’s definitely a plus. Not that Jackson thinks so, because that’s when the hisses of, “Fuck you, Stilinski, fuck you for being right,” turn from accusatory—which kinda sucks—to defeated—which, in any other situation, would probably be cool, but only makes Stiles’ chest lurch.
That’s when it happens.
In his mess of gross sobs and puffy, wet eyes—and can he just point out that he’s still naked—gives him this look. And, then his mouth is over Stiles’ and—oh shit, when had his life gotten so weird? At the time, kissing back, opening his mouth more to let his tongue on a stroll out rather than inviting Jackson’s in, seems like the most logical option, because . . . uh . . . Okay, yeah, that’s a lie. Spock is just turning in his future grave because, nope, there’s nothing logical about this at all. You know how many people Stiles has kissed before this? How about none? Zip. Nada. Yeah, he never thought that Jackson would ever fill the status of ‘first,’ but, again, his life has gotten weird.
Stiles snaps back to the present when Jackson starts to shift, a deep breath skating across his neck, and he wonders if the whole Kanima thing—which is still a thing, by the way, what are they doing?—comes with mind reading. If Jackson can hear him rambling endlessly in his head, because that would kind of suck if he could read his thoughts. Because right now? Stiles’ head is probably a mess of imagining Derek actually killing Jackson and admiring how Jackson’s hair looks in the scant light from the window and that internal fear of Jackson turning when he’s got him like this, turning and killing. Stiles shudders at all three thoughts, because they’re all things he’d rather not touch upon.
Instead, he just takes this moment, takes it, stuffs in a manila folder, and files it away. Because he gets the feeling that things like this, having Jackson curled around him like Stiles is something secure, won’t happen once this whole Kanima thing is straightened out. Whether that is peacefully with all heads intact, or . . . Stiles pauses, watches Jackson snort in his sleep when he runs fingers through his hair.
Sometimes . . . sometimes he still thinks killing him is really the best option over ‘saving’ him. But, then he sees Jackson like this and . . . he really just doesn’t know.
Anyway, shitty thoughts about possible future maulings of people he might—emphasis on might—care about aside, let’s go back to earlier ponderings, hm? Like the whole clingy Jackson thing. See, when they’re all settled like this—both fully clothed minus shoes, because any less would make this seem like a something instead of just a thing—Jackson has to be wrapped around him in every possible way. One arm is under Stiles’ head, the other under Stiles’ armpit, and both of the guy’s legs have Stiles’ body in a lock. This is how Stiles spends most of those blanks in his schedule that Scott’s allotted to Allison, stroking his fingers through Jackson’s hair. Jackson just texts him—“u home?”—and Stiles just stares at his phone, because a part of him knows that next time this thing can become something, and—
And, he relents, because a part of him . . . doesn’t dislike this too much. It’s weird, but considering what it could be, it’s not that bad.
Jackson snuffles into his chest and—ugh—okay, yeah, that’s drool. God, that’s gross. If it was anyone other than Jackson . . . He doesn’t finish that thought, because thinking that Jackson Whittemore is anything to him, an exception for him. Stiles gently scratches at his scalp and a furrow forms between Jackson’s brows before smoothing into bliss, his fingers clawing at nothing. He’s like some giant overgrown cat in this respect, and the thought makes Stiles grin. His face is soft when he cuddles closer to Stiles.
Then, Stiles cellphone starts to vibrate, loud on his side table.
He gropes for it, careful to not to move more than necessary, and, just as he expects, it’s Scott. Stiles looks at the message a little longer and can’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach. He observes the peace on Jackson’s face and is loath to disrupt it. But, Scott is his friend, his best friend, unlike whatever Jackson is to him. So, after a heavy exhale, he starts rubbing his knuckles over that perfect cheekbone, a method he found best for rousing him.
“Hey,” Stiles murmurs.
Jackson grumbles, presses his face into Stiles’ chest. Stiles decided to change his strategy and starts shaking him by his shoulder.
“Wakey wakey, Jacky boy.”
Eyes flutter open. Jackson looks confused for a second, blinking up at him, and this is the Jackson Stiles likes best, when he’s not awake but not asleep and still, still clinging to him. It feels closer to that elusive, confusing something.
Stiles pats his shoulder. “There we go! Welcome to the world of the living.”
A blank stare, then apprehension. “Stilinski.”
“Thought I’d warn you that Scott’s on his way now. For actual studying, funnily enough.” We wouldn’t want him to find you here, right?
Now this is the worst part of this whole thing, when Jackson bristles, stiffens, and pulls away. Stiles can’t help but feel empty, and a little cold, when Jackson unravels himself, pulls away from his touch.
There’s that painful, painful silence that’s almost physical in the way that it hurts when Jackson sits on the edge of the bed, scrubs at his face, the drool from his chin, the sleep from his eyes. Stiles watches his shoulders tense as he breathes tightly, tries to arrange himself back to Jackson Whittemore from Stiles’ cuddlebuddy. Jackson shoots a glance his way and Stiles feels a frantic thump in his chest. He stands, half-assedly puts his shoes and, and stares at him from the door. The goodbyes are, by far, the most awkward part of all of this.
A breath. Jackson looks close to saying something, but no sound leaves his parted lips.
Stiles fills the silence with a shrug and a grin. “So . . . same time tomorrow, I guess?”
Jackson squares his shoulders, his jaw tightens, then, he’s gone, out the door and down the stairs and out the front door and—ow—was that rejection? Because it felt like rejection. Stiles sucks in air and stretches, rolling his shoulders, arching his back, and wriggling his toes. And, he thinks. And regrets. And dreads. Because, again, this thing didn’t become that scary something that, he’ll admit, he’s thought about more than he would like. More often than not, really. He hates it, thinking about it, remembering that that kiss they’d exchanged on the floor of the locker room, tears rolling down Jackson’s face and wetting Stiles’ in turn, is the only kiss they’ve ever had. The only kiss Stiles has ever had.
He wants more, but he hates the fact that he wants more, and why does it seem like killing Jackson is the best option? All the problems in Stiles’ life that would solve. But, then he remembers the scared little boy who held onto him for the past three hours like he never wanted to let him go, like he didn’t want to be left alone, and he can’t bear the thought of losing this, this ache in the pit of his stomach that caves whenever Jackson leaves. And, he can’t think of any better ways to spend his weekday afternoons.
You know, can love be unrequited when you aren’t even sure you’re in love?
Stiles stares at the ceiling until he hears Scott ring the doorbell downstairs, his lips, teeth, pressed against his knuckles.