A/N: Thank you for stumbling into my fic! I would love any critiques or compliments anyone is willing to give! Teen Wolf is really bad with coherent timelines/ages, so I hope none of you care if I just do the best I can!

Jackson reeled back, not expecting the slap that had flown out and caught him upside the face. One typically didn't expect an unprovoked slap in the face from one's adopted father, but that was the 15 year old's current situation in life. He didn't expect it in the moment, but when the open hand struck he covered his face with his arms and let his body continue its fall backwards.

He wasn't entirely sure what random fancy had struck his father but from the sigh his adoptive mother was letting out, as she sipped the martini glass in her hand, he was relatively sure this one didn't require a reason (or the reason was very obvious to her). Some nights, the mood just seemed to strike him, meaning he would strike Jackson. Speaking of martini glasses in his mother's hand, if she was drinking he probably-

Jackson barely saw the whiskey glass flying through the air before it hit his elbow and clattered the floor with a noise that could only be described as a shattering splat. He allowed himself to look down at the source of his night's unluckiness spread across the floor before he started to run. His father rather liked that set of glasses, and Jackson knew he would be blamed for the destruction of it. In moments like this, Jackson wondered if he was supposed to not dodge or try to catch the glass. He doubted either would make his father happy. He often was later amused by these thoughts that ran through his head as he fled his father, he was so accustomed to this situation that he was almost able to run in a trance.

The roar of his father behind him was more than enough shake him out of his fleeing reverie and put a bit of adrenaline into his step. He regretted taking his shoes off in his room, his socks weren't giving him enough traction to outrun his father, athletic as Jackson was, even with the focused panicked feeling the adrenaline gave him. Maybe he had gotten used to adrenaline he mused, as his father grabbed the back of his shirt as soon as Jackson's foot hit the top of the stairs.

He had a brief memory of falling; his father not letting go of the back of his shirt and coming with him, but then the steps rushed up at his face and everything became a nothing.

Stiles always knew when his father was called into work. The Sheriff had long grown annoyed with a young nosy Stiles getting up from hearing his ringtone, so it was on vibrate. What he didn't know was that Stiles had never needed to hear his father's ringtone. He had woken up from the slight creak of his parents' bedframe, the first alarm six year old Stiles had learned to turn off his flashlight and lay flat if he heard. That was the noise, and the way the house shifted, that cued Stiles that his dad was up. Next was a barely audible sigh, which meant police business and not just a bathroom trip. A sigh, followed by a few whispered and mumbled words to gauge the situation but quiet enough to not wake his son. It had been a long time since he had heard his mom give murmured noises of love and comfort, followed by another creak that signified her rolling over. The final noise the house made was the third step from the bottom on the staircase; it always sounded different when his father had his uniform shoes on. Stiles normally didn't sleep those nights. Not until his father came home. Stiles knew it was weird to like his dad more than anyone else, even at his age, but he didn't particularly care. Most kids didn't lose their mom at a young age and also have a dad who worked a job that put his life on the line.

He heard a few words uttered a sound of disbelief, followed by a sleepy 'what?' His father never seemed to realize that he and Stiles shared a wall, he could hear most everything his father said, and judging by an embarrassing night when Stiles was twelve and had just gotten his first computer, his father could hear most things Stiles said or did as well.

"Got it, the Whittemore house."

Stiles' breath hitched, he recognized the name, and it wasn't one he was particularly sad to hear attached to bad news. Jackson Whittemore was the cockiest bastard to attend Beacon Hills High School. They were in the summer before their junior year, and Jackson was already a strong candidate for prom king. He was Captain of the lacrosse team this year, and Stiles was a bench warmer. Jackson liked to make people aware of both facts.

Worst of all, was his conquering of the beautiful damsel-in-distress-even-if-she-didn't-know-it. Lydia Martin. The prom queen to Jackson-fucking-Whittemore's prom king (Stiles liked to ignore the fact that they could not go to prom for another year). Except that Stiles felt she really was the queen, next to a usurper. A phony. She was beautiful. Her lips were full and her hair was a lustrous strawberry blonde that Stiles had never seen recreated on another person. To Stiles the best thing about Lydia was her greatest secret. Her brain. She was one of the smartest people he ever knew. Discounting grades, Lydia was one of the few people he really felt like were as smart as him. He had first noticed it when they were 9. They were in fourth grade. He had been in love with her in a weird schoolboy way for a year anyways, but he began to notice that Lydia always wrote down the right answer, but only answered it that way when it didn't make her seem too smart. Stiles' grades had actually improved a bit that year as he paid attention to what she was writing in her notes during class, just to watch what she wrote. Unfortunately for his grades (and his heart) Lydia had found his prying less than appealing and had done her best to not sit by him in class from then on.

Stiles heard his father hit that trusty stair, and knew he was going to be awake for a while. Once he heard his father pull out of the drive all he had for company was him own slow breathing. Even at 16, Stiles didn't do well when his father left on duty. He heard the familiar sound of a siren when he was a couple miles away. His father was so considerate not to wake up his son. Stiles pulled out his notebook that he had learned to nervously doodle in when he was feeling anxiety (usually when his father was out) and began drawing small spirals.

Jackson had long ago learned to keep his eyes closed for a time when he woke up. His own abusive parental figures didn't typically begin hitting him when he was still asleep. He had come to enjoy the moments in the mornings when he knew that he would have peace, didn't have to worry about the physical pain brought on by his adoptive parents or the mental stress of trying to not let anyone else in the world know he was vulnerable in any other way. Jackson's favorite feeling was being warm under the covers, with as many pillows as he could use.

Jackson had to admit, his parents had a lot of money and that afforded him certain comforts. He had expensive furniture, expensive clothes, expensive lacrosse equipment, and a bunch of other things that the normal teenager didn't have. He could throw parties on the many weekends that his parents were out of town (which was often), and as long as he cleaned up and stayed out of trouble they didn't particularly seem to care. He certainly couldn't think of any other boys at his school that drove a brand new Porsche. His bedroom set, mostly his blankets and mattress, cost more than most of his classmates' cars. Only the best for the Whittemore family. Much like Jackson, the Whittemore parents enjoyed their status as Beacon Hills royalty.

It was a give and take, Jackson gave them a perfect son with a perfect reputation and then Jackson took their abuse. He hadn't reported them because until he was 18 he had no money. And nobody voted for a poor orphan beat by his abusive adoptive parents for prom king. Maybe if he won prom king his father wouldn't want to destroy something about him so much.

Jackson's face scrunched in discomfort. He felt not cold, but cool. Room temperature. Definitely not how he should feel with his very expensive bed set on him, and speaking of, the blankets were definitely rougher. Uncomfortable. Unbearably cheap, and even though Jackson liked expensive things he wasn't terribly picky when it really came down to it. The skin and temperature discomfort was also compounded by harsh lighting that definitely wasn't his skylight in the morning.

He stayed mostly still, but he felt himself tense as he remembered his father pushing him down the stairs. Jackson accidentally pulling his father down the long marble staircase with him. Jackson also remembered they had sent the runner rug that would have softened their fall to the cleaners. He was beginning to think that he may have run from his father in the wrong direction as usual, and put them all into in quite an embarrassing situation. He was sometimes able to escape when he ran upstairs (his father was a bit heavyset), but for some reason he almost always tried to make it outside. He felt a dull ache on his forehead, and an abnormality in his arm and ribs that he was pretty sure was going to be a lot more painful when he actually started moving.

"You can stop pretending you're asleep, you aren't particularly good at it." He heard a rough voice boom throughout whatever sort of room he was in.

He allowed his eyes to open, which was harder than he thought it would be. It felt a little like eyes were made of sandpaper, his eyelids felt like they were catching and scraping on them the entire way up. His lips felt much the same when he flicked his tongue out to wet them. His eyes took a moment to take in the now much brighter harsh light and, as he was beginning to realize, hospital room around him. Also the Sheriff sitting in a chair by his bed, really the particular officer he least wanted to see from this town. Sheriff Stillinski.

So he had warranted a visit from the top law enforcement agent in their little town. Jackson's life was really truly hitting a new low. And even worse than the obvious attention and scandal the Whittemores had just attracted, that also meant that this might not go his way. Sheriff Stillinski had a reputation for being honest and caring about this job, something that Jackson, who very much didn't need drama from being beaten, didn't particularly want in his current sphere of life. Maybe in a couple years. He had money coming from his parent's death, but it only paid out when he was 18. His mind was wandering too much. Was he feeling dramatic or had they drugged him? Judging by the aches he was feeling, he really hoped they hadn't drugged him. If they hurt like this drugged, what would happen when his dad wouldn't let him take the drugs when they sent him home?

"Wasn't pretending. Tired. Also, didn't know you were… lurking." Jackson said. A bit ruder than he normally was to adults, but he felt he had extenuating circumstances. "Is there a reason that I've been graced with a visit from Sheriff Stillinski?"

The Sheriff fixed him with a hard stare, as if sizing up Jackson. He didn't enjoy the scrutiny.

"It isn't polite to bother the sick." Jackson croaked. He was going to continue, but his words died in his throat when it hit him. The Sheriff wasn't sizing him up, he was thinking of how to tell him something.

"Son… you've been to the hospital twice this summer already. Did you know that when that you had X-rays done?" Jackson's blood ran cold. He could already see how this conversation was going to play out. "This isn't the first time this summer you've had broken ribs. Not the second time actually."

His mouth was dry.

"Lacrosse is a rough sport."

"Not that rough son. We mentioned it to your mother and she… well she gave him up for herself." Jackson stared at the Sheriff with level eyes, but inside his mind was racing and out of control. The fucking bitch. She had always been a reluctant if slightly apathetic member of this shitty triad. He hadn't expected her to give up so damn easily though. Had the Sheriff let the gossip spread like it did in Beacon Hills? She had to know her reputation would be ruined. His reputation would be ruined. He must have shown a bit of panic, because the Sheriff stopped talking and looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

"I'm sorry kid. You can't go back home with them."

It hit Jackson like a brick that it wasn't just his reputation that was taking a hit. There weren't any foster homes in Beacon Hills; it wasn't a big enough town. Where was he going to go? Forget losing his throne, was he going to be banished from the kingdom? He began to gasp and sputter, his chest felt like it couldn't pull in air, he couldn't let himself notice anything around him, and the most terrifying part of it all was that he didn't particularly care about the fact that we was dying, or that more objectively that he was probably having his first ever panic attack.

His life had been a perfectly manicured garden resting on shaky stilts and they had finally snapped. Jackson vaguely was aware of a nurse, he thought probably Scott McCall's mother rush into the room as everything went black.

Stiles noticed over the next few days that his Dad was gone a lot more than usual. He stopped by for lunch usually, or gave Stiles a phone call around dinnertime if he wasn't going to make it back home. He didn't come home for lunch, and his calls around dinner were short, and he did it three days in a row. Even more suspicious was that he wouldn't even hint to Stiles about what had happened over at the Whittemore place, and none of the deputies would give him any hints either.

This meant something bad by Stiles' standards, considering the fact that even the occasional sexual assault or serious burglary was pretty figure-out-able under most secretive circumstances. And his Dad rarely handled them personally. Even worse yet was the fact that ambulances had been seen by townsfolk leaving the place but nobody knew what was going on. Nobody had seen the Whittemores, any of them, for a few days. All anybody knew was that Jackson was in the hospital, but where his parents were was the object of wild speculation across the town.

Stiles was laying on his bed, it was later in the evening, around eight he thought. He was sweating a little bit, but his room felt stuffy in a strangely comfortable way. It was… almost cozy. He felt himself dozing, enjoy the random moment of respite from the trappings of his mind. He had some sort of bullshit indie band playing from his laptop on the desk. It was a weirdly cliché summer night, the sound of crickets and distantly cars drifted through his window and created an ambience with the music.

He had just gotten back from a night and a day at Scott's house. When his life was tense and full of anxiety, Stiles often found it easy to live in the solace of the warmth of the McCall home, but Scott's mother had been acting a bit weird too. According to Scott she had picked up some shifts a bit more last minute than usual since the night the Whittemore incident had happened, and although Stiles usually would have spent time trying to forget his weird over-analytic mind by playing games with Scott, the normally unruffled boy seemed to pick up on the energy as well, which only caused Stiles to over-analyze even more. So he had decided to come home and now apparently was about to nap, if he could quiet the complicated thoughts inside of his head. He heard his father's car roll up the drive, and made sure to snap out of the sleepy drifting he had just been in to make sure he at least said goodnight to his dad. He pushed himself up to his elbows waiting for his dad when he heard steps coming up the stairs, that creaky step. He sleepily heard his father speaking to someone, but didn't really process until he saw pale blue eyes, like a deer in the headlights, staring at him.

Jackson froze as he passed the doorway. Sleepy brown eyes, quickly awakening and expression tensing, looked at him from a bed.

Stiles.

Jackson knew that by choosing to live with the Sheriff for a while rather than going to the group home that he learned actually existed in the town; he would have to see Stiles eventually. But the Sheriff- John as he insisted on being called- had said that Stiles was at Scott McCall's house for the night. It was a very integral part to his plan for this; John had said he could sleep on Stiles' floor in a sleeping bag while John figured out the guest room. Jackson and Stiles… didn't particularly get along, and Jackson would hate to repay John's kindness in this situation by getting into an argument with him due to forced sharing of existence for a night.

Stiles' eyes roamed up to the cascade of bruises that peppered Jackson's eye, cheek, and forehead. Jackson could feel, noticeably feel, Stiles' interest and curiosity pique, but luckily the boy had enough tact for once to not make this situation awkward.

"Stiles… I thought that you were going to be over at Scott's house. Melissa said so." He heard John say, slightly awkward with a bit of a cough in the middle of the sentence.

"No… I…" Stiles seemed a bit caught off guard by his father's appearance behind Jackson. "I came home. Obviously. As displayed by me being here."

An awkward pause ensued, and Jackson could feel Stiles bubbling with curiosity.

"Why is Jackson Whittemore in our house?" Stiles finally seemed to spit out.

"Jackson will be staying here for a bit." John stated in a no-nonsense-no-complaints kind of voice. When Stiles took in a breath to continue, John quickly added: "We can talk later."

John put a hand on Jackson's shoulder and walked him down the rest of the hallway. The guest room wasn't large, do-able, but not large by any standard. Currently it also seemed to serve as the storeroom of the house, as the bed and floor was almost entirely covered in various pieces of furniture, boxes, and a table that seemed to serve as a makeshift work desk for the Sheriff. John gave him an awkward look.

"It is a little messier than I remember, but we'll get to work on it tomorrow." John choked out, scratching the back of his head in a seemingly embarrassed way. "I'm going to get started on dinner. Do you… want anything?"

Jackson was a bit taken aback by the tenderness that the Sheriff was showing him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked him what he wanted to eat. It was just assumed he could get anything for himself.

"Anything that doesn't resemble anything they serve at the hospital." Jackson said, attempting to insert some humor into an otherwise un-doable situation for him. He felt it half work, but knew that he also didn't sound sincere or right. He half expected John to say something about it, but he just cracked a smile and went downstairs while insisting that he could do that.

"Ask Stiles to get out your sleeping stuff for you!" He heard from John as he descended the stairs. Seeing as how Stiles' room was between the guest room and the stairs, he knew Stiles had heard him, proven by the fact that Stiles leaned against his doorway and stared down the stairs, thankfully seeming to ignore Jackson for a while.

Jackson turned to the room and considered getting started on it just to fill the time, but realized he didn't know where else he would put anything that was in the room. He set down the backpack and duffel full of clothes and other small items he had grabbed from the house when Jackson and the Sheriff had stopped by earlier, and was turning back towards Stiles when he jumped. Stiles had closed about half of the distance between them, and was staring at him searchingly. From the way Stiles' eyes roamed he could tell that he was trying to take in the injuries Jackson had. His face was bruised to hell, he knew that, and his wrist was cracked. Luckily his leg was just a minor sprain, so he had on a small wrap that wasn't visible under his pants. Either way, he knew he looked rough.

He didn't quite know what to do, so he maintained eye contact with him. For once, he didn't do it to intimidate Stillinski; he just didn't know what else to do.

Jackson was giving that intimidating stare he almost always gave anyone always, what a dick. Stiles responded like he usually did, by pretending that Jackson's glare wasn't happening.

Whatever questions Stiles might have asked about Jackson, he knew to keep them to himself; for now at least. Whatever had happened to Jackson… well he was sure he could find it out more delicately later, which even Stiles realized in the moment was a strange decision for him to make.

"It is behind you somewhere." Stiles finally managed to squeeze out, but he heard it sounded more like a sigh.

Jackson looked at him dumbly, suddenly once again like a deer in the headlights, with a dash of shame thrown in. Stiles off-handedly wondered why that was.

"The sleeping bag. I'm assuming it's with our camping stuff. The last time we used it was last summer and I think we just threw it in there last time. Somewhere." Stiles continued the journey towards Jackson that he had started earlier, and leaned against the doorway. Jackson seemed stunned or something, because he froze, staring at the space that Stiles had been occupying in the middle of the hallway. "I'm not really sure where it is though. The last third of the room looks almost up the ceiling in junk. I think it might be in there?"

Stiles normally would make a smart quip if someone decided to act like a statue, but he sensed it wasn't the right time for once and just let Jackson be as he flipped on the light switch and did his best to wade into the room. Making the occasional remark about how messy the room was at Jackson, he made it to the messiest part of the room. He didn't really dig into the mess, just kind of examined it from the top without touching it. It was a Stillinski house rules that if you touched a mess you had to clean it. That might even be his Dad's plan, though if it was it was uncharacteristically long sighted. That seemed like a purely Stiles level of deviousness.

"We have extra blankets if you want them. Instead of a sleeping bag I mean. That is what Scott usually uses when he stays over." Stiles said, finding it harder to keep the conversation going, since Jackson still hadn't moved from staring at that spot.

"Jackson?" Stiles said, annoyed about how not arch-nemesis-y he was being to his probable arch-nemesis. He placed a hand on Jackson's shoulder, and Jackson flinched and pulled away, spinning towards Stiles with wild eyes.

"What do you want Stillinski?!" Jackson said, as if Stiles hadn't been talking to him for a minute or so. If Stiles hadn't already been attuned to the fact that this wasn't Jackson-as-usual, he might have missed the beat between the physical movement, the look of embarrassment (and again, that weird look of shame), and the normal sounding acrid comment.

Stiles wasn't ready to be the kind homemaker that his father seemed to have him playing yet apparently, as he stood staring at Jackson for a moment longer than he knew he needed to. Intentionally. Jackson seemed to start to wilt a little when Stiles rolled his eyes and turned towards the linen closet.

"Do you want to dig for the sleeping bag, which probably has pine needles in it, or do you want me to pull out a giant pile of freshly laundered blankets for you? This isn't exactly the Ritz like you're probably used to but… we can probably manage something."

Jackson clenched his jaw a bit, obviously still a bit embarrassed, but held his tongue with whatever comeback he had been about to let out. He actually responded with barely managed kindness. "Blankets please."

He thought Stiles was going to be awful to him. Had planned for it actually, him and Stiles were typically like oil and water. He had initially been afraid of coming to the Stillinski household for fear of Stiles.

Jackson was usually in control of any situation in his life (home like excluded obviously), especially when it came to social situations. Stiles was usually the opposite, he was one of the lower members of the totem pole in Beacon Hills. Jackson guessed he was afraid that Stiles would treat him like he generally treated Stiles now that the situation was reversed. So when Stiles kept fixing him with confused but not hostile stares, and seemed to be leaving his weak points untouched, Jackson felt ashamed. Stiles was a more decent person than him. He was so focused on his own shame that he didn't even notice Stiles come back up to him.

The hand on his shoulder felt like an electric shock, he whirled and nearly braced himself for a strike. His arms hurt with the force that he was clenching them to stop him from throwing them up in front of his face. Even while moving he knew what had happened, but he was already spinning. He felt himself flush in embarrassment for a moment, before he got a hold of himself and spit out an acrid comment at Stiles, and goddammit if Stiles just didn't fix him with a slightly annoyed look that spoke of the probable feelings of "if-my-dad-didn't-care-I-would-say-something-rude."

He was so ashamed that he nearly missed Stiles asking him if he wanted a ratty sleeping bag, location unknown, or a set of freshly laundered blankets. Jackson internally kicked himself for his behavior and managed to mumble that he preferred blankets, and followed Stiles as he headed towards his room.

"I don't have much in terms of another bed, but we probably have a few extra pillows you can make into something." Stiles said, as he scrambled around the floor making Jackson a pretty comfortable looking nest-ish bed.

The next few minutes passed in uncomfortable silence as Stiles finished making the bed. While Jackson's feelings of guilt continued to rise. He had come to the house so prepared that he was going to treat him badly that Jackson had acted like an asshole, and even when Stiles had proven otherwise he felt like he was still fighting back.

Stiles stood up, crossed the room, and flopped on his bed checking the time on his phone. He continued the silence as he covered his face with the crook of his arm.

"Why are you being so nice to me Stillinski?" Jackson said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. They still came out wary and slightly defensive, but he hoped the meaning and feelings behind them would stay intact. Him and Stillinski were usually pretty antagonistic towards each other, Jackson could think of few people in the school who liked him less than Stiles did. And even fewer people who deserved to hate him more.

Stiles raised his arm a fraction of an inch, his brown eyes peering at Jackson again. Why was he doing that? This wasn't how Sheriff's hyper son usually acted at all. The scrutiny and moment before he answered made Jackson shift from foot to foot.

"I'm not really sure what happened, it's for once actually something that I don't think is my business, but you wouldn't be here if you did anything wrong. My dad wouldn't bring you here. I might not… particularly understand or maybe even want you here, but I trust my dad and my dad trusts you, which means I guess that I trust you… ish… or something." After he was done, Stiles set his arm back down and continued to… sleep? Chill out? Jackson hadn't thought he would act this way at home.

The probable prom king turned sort-of-double-jeopardy-orphan busied himself with retrieving his bags from the hallway, and texting his friends. His release from the hospital had been noticed by the entirety of Beacon Hills apparently, and he had received a bunch of well-wishers' texts to "Get better soon!" and asking "omg what happened?" He responded to the first kind with simple thanks, and ignored the second kind. He kept up very shallow, small-talk-ish conversations with a lot of them, but a lot of them dropped off through the night. The only person who Jackson texted the entire night through was Danny, his best friend. Danny was also the only one who got the true story, but mostly because Danny had already known and had been urging Jackson to turn in his parents for a long time, reputation be damned.

Stiles mostly ignored him, occasionally getting up to change a song, but mostly he seemed to be writing or doodling in a book (Jackson couldn't tell) that he had pulled from his bedside table. Eventually John called them down; it seemed that he had made a simple but surprisingly edible pasta dish.

Jackson mostly stayed quiet as he noticed the dynamic between Stiles and John. He knew that he shouldn't be jealous, but he couldn't help but feel minor feelings of envy as Stiles and John had easy conversation. Often it was John chiding his son about something foolish he had done, which subjects he currently wasn't doing great in, or something Melissa McCall had said he had done. Absentmindedly he thought how much better it would be if he weren't there. They probably felt awkward with this bruised and battered boy at their table.

"Do you want seconds Jackson?" Jackson's head snapped up, he had finished his meal but had been staring down at the bruises on his unbroken arm. John had probably noticed his sulking.

"No sir, thank you." Jackson said quietly, clearing his throat. "Really… thank you."

John seemed to realize that the second thank you was for more than just the food, and just smiled and nodded as he stood up and began to clear the table. He had sat all the dishes by the sink and filled the sink with soap and water when his cell phone began to ring.

"And that would be the Station… son do you mind cleaning up the dishes? Just leave everything else out I'll clean those." John said, grabbing his phone and making sure he was safely in the next room out of hearing of the boys before answering.

Stiles stood from his spot, and went to the soapy sink.

"Do we need to be dismissed from the table?" Jackson didn't want to leave the table and make John mad. Stiles didn't even look back.

"Dude… no. Chateau Stillinski is relatively rule-less. Just don't shoot anyone, or drink, or do drugs... or at least don't get caught drinking. You probably drink, most of the upper elite of Beacon Hills do, right?" Stiles said, beginning to clean up everything, regardless of what his father had said.

"We… do sometimes. Yeah. I'll keep those rules in mind." Jackson said. He went to the sink and picked up a dish as the other boy cleaned the areas where John had prepped the meal, but then realized that he wasn't quite sure what to do. Did he have to add extra soap? Was it just a dip in the water and then a dry? Were they supposed to air dry? He frowned. They had people who cleaned all the dishes that were left over the course of the day at his house. His old house. His currently unknown status of a house. John had made it very clear that he wasn't going back to that house unsupervised anytime soon and-.

"Dude… do you not know how to do dishes?" Jackson flinched, partially out of habit of Stillinski catching him in a potentially annoying moment, partially because he was used to sentences like that being followed by a swat to the back of the head. Stiles paused for a moment, making Jackson wonder if he had noticed his flinch. Stiles' mouth dropped open when he realized that his mocking joke was actually a true statement. "Oh… You totally don't know how to do dishes… alright. Take this towel and dry them as I hand them to you, and just watch and learn. I'm so good at washing dishes they call me the Dish-meister."

"Good thing you can't really shoot higher than a dishwasher in life Stillinski." Jackson retorted, on a nice comment that didn't warrant a retort. It was instinct. He kicked himself, the probably self-titled Dish-meister had just been trying to lighten the mood probably, but Stiles just snorted at the jibe and began to wash the dishes in earnest.

If the situation had been reversed, Jackson wasn't sure he could treat the other boy so nicely. Not sure if his pride and ego would allow him to, regardless of his desires. Jackson made himself pay attention to the dishes he was drying. Was Stiles Stillinski a better person than him?

It had been an obviously stressful day for Jackson and after John had been called out for a large animal sighting Stiles had attempted to get him to watch a movie. It was some mediocre action movie with explosions and fast driving, and it was obvious that Jackson didn't particularly feel comfortable sleeping around Stiles. He would focus hard on the movie in attempt to stay awake, but his slow drift into drowsing was inevitable. The prescription pain medication that he had to take probably wasn't helping with the effort that the sharp eyed boy was putting into staying awake.

He would sleep for a few minutes, but would jerk awake and his eyes would fearfully find Stiles from his burrito-wrapped bird-like perch on the armchair next to the couch that Stiles was lazily sprawled out upon. Stiles did his best to not react or look at Jackson during these startling awakenings, but he jumped a few times himself when Jackson shook himself out of sleep. Stiles was so struck by how different this Jackson was from the douchey confident Lacrosse Captain he knew. If Stiles didn't know something had gone horribly wrong in Jackson's life, if he had seen this without context, he might have even enjoyed it.

Eventually, these spells got further and further apart, and for the last half an hour of the movie, Jackson finally settled into a restless but consistent sleep. Stiles glanced at him occasionally, smiling in spite of how much he disliked the guy, and was almost sad when the blaring credits woke him again. This time though, it was a slow rise from whatever fitful imaginings he had been dreaming.

Jackson's eyes slowly roamed the room, sleepily wary but far less fearful than he had been. His eyes blearily rested on Stiles and the two of them just… evaluated for a moment. Stiles evaluated him for what this boy was going to mean for his house. He assumed Jackson likely evaluated him to see how dangerous he was.

"Bedtime dude." Stiles said in a relaxed and gravelly voice, irritated in a strange way by Jackson's continued scrutiny of him. He launched himself off the couch quickly, a movement which startled Jackson and made him tense up. Stiles guiltily swallowed and walked up the stairs. "Follow me."

Jackson seemed to hesitate before following Stiles for a moment, but caught up near the top of the stairs. He seemed to be trying to work up saying something to Stiles; a couple times taking small inhales of breath that usually preceded speech, but never seemed to spit it out. That was fine with Stiles; he was actually a bit tired of his normal enemy being in his presence tonight. He really had enough exposure for years actually.

So when he flopped down on his bed and Jackson disappeared into the nest he had made in the corner without a word, Stiles actually smiled. He flipped off the lights, turned on some quiet acoustic guitar music, and tried to sleep. Tried being the key word.

Every damn time he would start to drift off, he would remember that Jackson didn't know how to do dishes. And every time he would remember that Jackson didn't know how to do dishes, he would melt into a quivering mess of silent giggles. More like quiet snuffling snorts. This cycle repeated itself many times, and if not for the fact that it would make him wired as hell Stiles would have gladly taken a Ritalin to calm his busy mind. After a while he had lost count of how many times he had gone through this cycle of sleepy desperation and giddy disbelief. In a stage somewhere between the two, that was when he first heard it:

A whimper, followed by sobbing.

For a moment, Stiles didn't have any idea where it could even be coming from, so he laid there for a bit, absentmindedly listening to it. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, or that it soothed him. Stiles often couldn't handle his own bouts of anxiety; he wasn't sure how to handle the tears of who he was rapidly becoming sure was Jackson. How was he supposed to comfort someone who had caused him so much pain?