We begin in the midst of episode one, on the night of the full moon, before Lydia's party…
Help Me Help You
Written by tryanforever91
-o-o-o-
Chapter One
The smooth tile floor was cold against Stiles' feet and sent a shiver through him as he stepped out of the shower. The few drops of water that his towel missed rolled off his face and fell to the floor with a soft tip tip tip as he crossed the bathroom. He wasn't looking at the mirror, but he could see the outline of his naked physique out of the corner of his eye, even through the thick condensation. He was only a fraction of an inch shorter than Scott, and not considerably skinnier (at least, that's what he told himself). It really begged the question: how in hell did Scott make that shot during practice? As Stiles slung his towel onto the rack, his arm felt oddly stiff. It shuddered suddenly, and the towel slinked to the floor in a heap. Stiles cursed and beat his fist against the wall. He was still shaking.
To say Stiles was rattled was an embarrassing understatement. It had been a little over half an hour since Scott had left, and Stiles was still trying to compose himself after being shoved against a wall by his best friend. In that split second before Scott released him, Stiles didn't know what he was afraid of. But he was afraid.
He rolled his eyes as he pulled on his boxers. He just had to use the word "bloodlust." It was only to make a point, and Stiles was half kidding when he said it. But there wasn't anything funny about the look in Scott's eyes as they stared Stiles down, just inches away from him. Bloodlust. His urge to kill.
The stacks of browning old books and website printouts were still piled precariously around Stiles' room as he stalked in. He tried to ignore the snarling canine faces glaring at him from the pages scattered across his floor and desk as he swept them aside. He'd been at his computer literally all afternoon. As soon as practice had let out, he raced home to confirm his hunch. Actually, it wasn't so much a hunch as an ever-growing concern for his well-being. Now that he had taken a few minutes away from his frantic research, though, Stiles couldn't help but feel a little foolish. Had he really spent the last three hours studying werewolves? Obviously, he was panicking. He was especially prone to panicking. Scott's sudden transformation from benchwarmer to MVP could have been explained by other, less supernatural things like steroids, or the unbreakable determination to impress his new crush.
He didn't want to look at it anymore; the books, the Wikipedia articles, the slashes in his desk chair. He could feel a tightening in his chest, a reluctance in his lungs to draw in air, a numb prickle of dread and uneasiness at the edge of his mind. He couldn't worry about this anymore. He needed to think about something else.
Another chill spidered down Stiles' back, and he realized he was still standing in his underwear. He needed to get dressed; the party was tonight. That in itself was a separate set of problems altogether. It wasn't just a party, though; it was Lydia's party. Those were the only parties really worth going to, and more to the point, by virtue of being her party, Lydia Martin herself would be there, which naturally guaranteed Stiles' attendance.
Lydia, the object of Stiles' unrequited affections since third grade. Lydia, whom Stiles was very certain didn't even know his name.
He heaved a great sigh. Whatever problems Scott was dealing with, whether with love, lacrosse, or lycanthropy, they could wait. Right now, Stiles just had to figure out what the hell he was going to wear to this party tonight.
-o-o-o-
"Jackson, do you intend on clinging to my side all night?"
"I don't know, do you plan on ignoring me all night?"
Lydia stopped and whirled around, fixing narrowed, steely eyes on her boyfriend. "I'm not ignoring you," she said pointedly, "I'm trying to be a good hostess."
Jackson rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it's your thing, I know," he said, "but it's a house party, Lydia, not the Four Seasons. Let people get their own drinks."
Lydia pursed her lips and spun around again, marching as swiftly as her heels and the tray of drinks she was carrying would allow. "Really, Jackson, you've been to enough of my parties to know that there are certain expectations. People don't fight tooth and nail to get invited to a mediocre party."
"Whatever, Martha Stewart," Jackson grumbled under his breath. He had been to enough of Lydia's parties. In fact, he'd been to every party, as being her boyfriend necessitated, and every party, Lydia insisted on the whole "good hostess" song and dance. It was embarrassing, really, to be constantly chasing after his girlfriend in front of so many of his classmates. He couldn't even hang out with the guys, because they had their own girlfriends to suck their faces off. Even Danny was with someone at the party. Anyone worth talking to was otherwise occupied, and anyone else… well, they weren't worth talking to.
So Jackson followed Lydia. He followed her like a puppy follows its master, keeping his expression aloof and condescending as he regarded the people he passed. He didn't recognize any of their faces any more than he'd recognize them in the crowds that filed through the school's halls every day. They were nobodies.
A face leapt out at him from the more mundane ones surrounding it. It was only his face, as the rest of his body was obscured by a girl with long dark hair. McCall. Their eyes locked for a moment before Allison hid Scott from view. There was a glimmer of defiance in Scott's eyes, an unspoken answer to an unspoken question: No. I'm not telling you my secret.
Jackson's mind drifted back to practice earlier that day. He could remember body-checking Scott with ease and sending him flying into the grass. You couldn't use Scott McCall as a paperweight he was so skinny. How, then, did he pop back up, steal the ball away at the next face off, dance around half the team, somersault over the defense line and score between the goalie's legs? It wasn't a fluke or beginner's luck; that was five coincidences in a row too many. Scott was taking something. Jackson just knew it.
Apparently Scott fancied himself as a comedian as well as a star lacrosse player, because he was about as forthcoming with his answers as a toddler covering up for pissing his pants. You just know what's going on, but all you get is a bunch of bullshit and excuses. He wasn't going to tell Jackson what he was on, or where he was getting it, but Jackson would figure it out. He had to if he wanted to avoid the same lack of dignity he was currently suffering from tailing his girlfriend.
Amidst the droning of several dozen partygoers and the pounding bass of the music, the doorbell sounded its two-note chime, cutting sharply through the noise. Lydia perked up. "Someone's at the dooor!" she sang. Reluctantly, Jackson followed.
People usually came in groups, or at least with a significant other, but there was only one person standing on Lydia's doorstep when she answered the door. He held up a hand and plastered a ridiculous grin on his face. "Hi, Lydia," he chirped.
Lydia paused. "Do I… know you?"
His smile faltered, and he let his arm fall lamely back down to his side. "Stiles?" he said hopefully. "I'm in your chem class, and your history class. I was in math with you last year."
"Sorry, not ringing any bells." Lydia was about ready to shut the door in Stiles' face by the sound of it.
"I'm on the lacrosse team," Stiles said quickly. "I'm friends with Scott."
"Ohh, you're on the team," Lydia said, relaxing. That was an automatic in.
As Lydia stepped aside to let Stiles in, a thought flitted through Jackson's mind. He stared at Stiles for a moment as he took a glass of punch from Lydia.
-o-o-o-
Stiles was in. Lydia was nowhere to be seen, and he'd been wandering the party for near on an hour without bumping into anyone he knew. But he was in, sweet Jesus, he was in. He peered into the glass he was holding. He wasn't quite sure what was in it—he could smell pineapple and some sort of berry—but he was able to pinpoint one ingredient. Liquor. Stiles always felt a little guilty when someone offered him a drink at parties. He was sixteen. And his father was the sheriff. It was an ongoing dichotomy of avoiding being that guy—the solitary sober loner that never had a good time at parties—and avoiding a lifetime of paternal disappointment and potential incarceration. It was times like these that Stiles employed the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." policy: his father would subtly hint at the question, but not outright ask it, and Stiles would skirt around the answer, but never actually tell it.
So Stiles drank. He drank in the small hope that Lydia would grace him with her presence, and maybe even a spontaneous conversation. He had been hoping for about five glasses now. Presently, he stood in a circle of people—marginal acquaintances of his—trying to keep up with their conversation, nodding when appropriate and smiling knowingly.
"Stiles."
He tensed and let out a yelp. The voice came from over his left shoulder, so close he felt it as much as heard it. He whirled around, his fruit punch slopping onto his hand. "Jeez, ever heard of a personal bubble—" He jumped again when he saw who was standing behind him. "—Jackson?"
"Sorry, Twitch, didn't mean to scare you."
Twitch. What a fantastic nickname, Stiles thought ruefully. "Yeah, well, maybe try a frontal approach next time." He ignored the raised eyebrow and the little chuckle Jackson gave him.
Stiles looked hard at Jackson, wondering if he had any particular reason for talking to him other than scaring him shitless and giving him degrading nicknames, before he noticed that Jackson was staring down at his hand. Suddenly aware that it was still dripping wet, he wiped it off on his pants hastily. "So… Jackson," he said slowly. "What can I do for you."
Jackson shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "Noticed you were alone. Thought I'd say hi."
Stiles was still absently wiping off his hand on his pant leg as he eyed Jackson suspiciously. "Yeah. Hi," he uttered.
"Where's your buddy, Scott?" Jackson asked.
"Scott?" Stiles flashed back to that afternoon, his back pushed into the wall, an arm pressing against his chest, a glint of amber in Scott's eyes. "With Allison," he gritted out. "He was just itching to see her."
"Ah," Jackson said. He raised both eyebrows in a lame feint of knowing sympathy. "Ditched for the girl," he said shaking his head. "I feel your pain."
I bet you do, Stiles fumed.
"I've been widowed too, unfortunately," Jackson continued. He turned his head, heaving an exaggerated sigh and stared forlornly at someone. "Look at her. So eager to please."
Stiles' eyes darted in the direction Jackson was looking. Sure enough, Lydia was gliding through the crowds of people, presenting glasses of punch to anyone she passed. "I see," he said flatly. Widowed. Why did Jackson have to use the word "widowed"? Did everyone just assume that just because Stiles didn't have a girlfriend that he devoted his whole life to Scott?
A hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "Come here for a sec," Jackson said, noticeably quieter. "I need to ask you something."
"Huh?" Stiles hadn't attempted walking for at least twenty minutes. Now with Jackson gently shunting him away from his huddle of half-friends, he found it surprisingly tricky. "Okay." He didn't know what room they were in, or which one they were headed to, but Jackson seemed to know where he was going, so Stiles left it to him. Lydia's house was really big, Stiles realized with dumb fascination.
When they stopped, they were in the middle of a long hallway. A room full of people dancing and laughing was visible at the end to his left; at the other end was darkness and muffled moaning. Stiles squinted at Jackson. "What's… up?"
"I just had a question for you," Jackson said softly. He offered Stiles his glass. "Want a sip?"
Stiles focused on the glass, pondering the question.
"You want a sip, take it, Stilinski," Jackson said, a little louder. He moved the glass closer to Stiles, so he took it. It did taste really good, and he was disappointed that he had spilled his. "In fact, why don't you just finish that."
Stiles did. It was a really full glass, he noted happily. He smiled as the last remnants of the sweet juice trickled into his stomach. Warmth seemed to radiate from his gut, creeping through his veins to the rest of his body. Once he had finished, he handed Jackson his empty glass, smiling placidly at him.
"So, listen," Jackson said, his voice dropping once more, "you were at practice today, right?" Stiles nodded, his head lolling forward and back. "That was a nice shot Scott made. You and him been training together or something?"
"Are you kidding?" Stiles slurred. "We're such lazy fucks, me and Scott. We haven't trained at all."
"So Scott hasn't been practicing on his own."
Stiles shook his head.
"And he hasn't been working out or anything."
He shook it again. Jackson grinned at him; a funny-looking grin, like he was laughing at a joke Stiles wasn't getting.
"Has he been acting different lately? Strange?"
Stiles' eyes went wide. "Has he?" he blared. "Jackson, you have no idea. Scott's gone off the deep end! He's driving me crazy!" He looked sadly at Jackson. "It really sucks."
Jackson nodded his head, and there was that look again on his face, like he knew exactly what Stiles was going through. "I know, Stiles," he said kindly. "He just hasn't been himself lately, has he?"
Stiles shook his head. "Nope."
"I'll bet he's been really angry too."
"Yeah. Yeah he has."
Something moved on the edge of Stiles' peripheral vision. An arm. Jackson's arm. It rested on the wall beside Stiles' head, and Jackson leaned in a little closer to him. "You know why, don't you?" He bowed his head slightly, looking up at Stiles, staring him unblinkingly.
"Why?" Stiles breathed.
"Scott," Jackson said. "You know what he's doing. You know where he's getting his power." He leaned a little closer, his eyes growing wider.
"Yeah," Stiles mumbled. "Yeah, I know."
"Tell me," Jackson whispered.
"Jackson, I can't. I shouldn't," Stiles groaned.
"Please?" Jackson said, still whispering. "I promise I won't tell."
He was so close now Stiles could feel Jackson's breath against his face, and smell the rich cologne coming off him. Stiles grinned. "Jackson," he said.
"Yes?" Jackson replied.
"You… smell nice." Stiles laughed again. "No homo," he added stiffly.
Jackson let out a long, frustrated grunt and pushed away from the wall. One hand went to his face, rubbing his forehead before pushing back into his hair. "Okay, listen, Stilinski—"
"Scott? Scott, are you okay?"
Whatever Jackson was growling at Stiles was lost on him suddenly. He turned his head sharply to his left, where the party was still in full swing. The crowds parted awkwardly for someone staggering past them. Stiles' stomach churned. Scott.
"Hey, this was great," he said abruptly. "Nice talkin' to ya, let's do this again soon." Stiles slid away from Jackson and stumbled down the hall.
Everything was hitting Stiles at once. Scott, the full moon, Allison and her evil powers of arousal. He burst into the living room and cast his gaze around. Scott wasn't hard to spot as he blazed a trail drunkenly through swaths of people.
"Yo, Scott!" Stiles called out. "Scott, you doing okay?"
Scott replied with a pained moan.
The shroud of inebriation started to lift as Stiles' brain started ticking again. He needed to think. He needed to get Scott out of here. He blundered after him.
Scott was surprisingly quick on his feet, given all the bumping around he was doing. He made it through the front door well ahead of Stiles and staggered down the driveway toward his car.
Someone pushed past Stiles and jogged after Scott. Long dark hair, dorky blazer. It was Allison. She called after Scott too, to no avail.
Before Stiles could even make it down the front steps, Scott was already tearing away in his mom's sedan. He slumped against a wall in defeat, sucking in the cold evening air and watching Allison stare hopelessly into the night. Another figure emerged from the darkness and sauntered toward Allison. He called out her name, and Stiles instantly recognized the impossibly smooth voice of Derek Hale.
Allison turned around to face Derek.
"I'm a friend of Scott's," he said calmly. "My name's Derek."
Stiles cautiously stepped toward the pair.
"Scott said he wasn't feeling well," Derek continued. "He offered his apologies and asked me to take you home."
"Like hell he did," Stiles said. Now that his blood was pumping through him in force and he was out in the cold, he found his grasp of things much clearer.
"Stiles," Derek said coldly. "I really should take Allison home." He moved closer to Stiles and whispered fiercely into his ear, "Go to him. He needs you."
Stiles gaped at Derek as he stepped toward Allison and took her gently by the arm. "Stiles," Derek said warningly, and he knew Derek was right. He nodded and made a mad dash for his jeep.
"Try not to die on the way there," Derek called after him. "There's only so many of you I can save in one night."
"Yeah, whatever," Stiles said under his breath as he threw open the door to his car and jammed his keys into the ignition. His jeep rumbled to life and he took off in the direction of Scott's house. His mind was racing as fast as the nightscape flying past his window as he sped down the street. He could scarcely believe what was happening. Scott was turning into a werewolf. Stiles was so sure of it—it was happening just as he feared—and yet, he was also sure that he was completely out of his mind. He just needed to get to Scott, to calm Scott down before he did something bad.
Stiles drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering while as he veered down Scott's street. As he did, he was briefly aware that his hand was still gross from spilling fruit punch all over it. His pants, too, were sticky, he noted grimly.
"Not exactly what I had in mind," Stiles sighed resignedly.
Thanks for checking out my story, I hope you're liking it so far. This is my very first Teen Wolf fanfiction (yay). On a whim, I decided to give the show a shot, and needless to say, I was hooked from the opening scene. Like I'm sure so many of you are, I'm totally in love with Stiles, and I decided right away that I needed to write a fanfiction about him.
I decided on Jackson because for a number of reasons; partly because Stiles/Jackson isn't as overdone as Sterek (which I also enjoy and support). I wanted to do something a little different, so here it is. I'm trying to stay as faithful to the show's canon as possible, but obviously I'm going to have to take some liberties here and there, and it might veer into AU-land closer to the end.
Warning: By now you should have guessed that this story depicts homosexual relationships. Continue reading at your own risk. This story also contains major spoilers for all of season one and possibly season two.
So anyways, thanks again for reading my story! As this is my first Teen Wolf fic, please leave me a review and tell me your thoughts. I'll need all the criticism I can get. Tell me what you liked, disliked (and why), suggestions, comments, you know the drill. Anything is appreciated!
