A/N: I'm surprised I got even 4 reviews on this story so far tbh, I wasn't sure there would be any interest in Stackson on this site lol. Thanks to you guys that did review! *hugs*

Stiles couldn't hide it from the pack after that. Not only because he had promised to tell Lydia everything—and finally did so after she came to his house and backed him into a corner with her finely manicured and very pointy fingernail digging threateningly into his chest—but because Jackson was actually coming back. He was leaving London and coming back to Beacon Hills just for Stiles, so that they could maybe be something. And as tempting as it was to keep it to himself and let Jackson just show up one day, Stiles figured it would probably be best to give the pack a heads-up about it.

He wasn't sure what reaction he was expecting, but the several seconds of open-mouthed staring from the pack members who had known Jackson before he left was both intensely awkward and a little bit insulting. Those who hadn't known him were obviously confused by Scott's shock and utter horror, but they just smiled and nodded and offered him bemused congratulations on his new soulmate, whoever he was.

Derek was the first to ask whether Jackson intended to join the pack, whether he even wanted anything to do with them, which made sense. Derek had been the one to bite Jackson, which hadn't exactly gone to plan, and then he had very deliberately tried to kill him (and Lydia) multiple times. If Jackson wanted nothing to do with Derek, he would be pretty justified in that, and he had had issues with Scott long before the whole werewolf thing started. Joining the pack would mean submitting to him, acknowledging Scott as his alpha, which he may well not be willing to do.

Stiles didn't have an answer to give them on that front, so he just shrugged.

He had no idea what Jackson would do when he got back. He would join them back at BHHS for their senior year, but it was summer break now so they didn't have to worry about that yet. The Whittemores, for whatever reason—Stiles hadn't asked—had elected to stay in London and let their son come back alone, so Jackson would be staying in the Stilinskis' guest bedroom for the time being, under custody of the Sheriff until he turned eighteen and could get an apartment of his own. It was all very quick and very strange and Stiles didn't know what to do but go along with it and hope for the best.

So now here he was, standing in the airport terminal, checking the text from Jackson one more time to make sure he was in the right place, and waiting for the plane to disembark. Everything was big and loud and busy, so Stiles kept his head down and his eyes on his shoes, nudging along the pattern of the terrible airport carpet and following the garish swirls across the floor until he lost track of which was which and had to start over.

The thump of a suitcase on the floor to his left made him jump, the conditioning of the last two years insisting he was under attack, but there was no threat. It was only Jackson in jeans and a green peacoat, hair gelled to perfection and hands stuffed in his pockets, standing there and looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Uh, hi," Stiles said, once he realized that this was the point in the interaction where he was probably supposed to say something. What he said waslame, but it was, in fact, something. He tried to think of more—some kind of welcome, or a thank you for coming maybe?—but came up empty.

He cursed himself; it had been so easy on the phone. Well, not easy, per se, considering the topic of discussion and how much crying had been involved, but it had been a hell of a lot easier with some distance between them. Actually seeing Jackson in the flesh, standing face to face with him, was a whole 'nother experience. The face carried a lot more memories with it than the voice did, especially when the voice had been soft and new and different.

"Hi," Jackson echoed, very much the same old Jackson from before, snobbish and faintly mocking. His eyes roved over Stiles from head to toe, that one eyebrow still hiked up. "You look like shit, Stilinski."

Stiles swallowed.

"Thanks."

Well, this was off to a great start so far. And it wasn't likely to get any better if they just stood there and stared at each other, so Stiles grabbed the handle of Jackson's fancy rolling suitcase and turned back toward where he had parked. The damn thing was heavy though, and it caught on every crease in that stupid, ugly carpet. He gave it a frustrated yank and accidentally tipped it over entirely, tripping over one of the wheels and nearly sending himself sprawling.

Jackson huffed and snatched the handle back from him, gesturing expansively for Stiles to lead the way unhindered. Stiles bit his tongue and walked, head ducked low so maybe Jackson wouldn't see the flush of embarrassment high on his cheeks.

Yeah, this was going great.

The ride back to town was quiet. Uncomfortably so. Jackson didn't even complain about the jeep, which had been one of his favorite pastimes ever since Stiles had started driving it. He just sat in the passenger seat with his phone in hand, occasionally glancing over at Stiles but never saying anything. Stiles nearly bit clean through his tongue to keep from telling him to just take a picture because that was not the way he wanted to start this thing off. They were going to try. Jackson had only just got here, it was normal for them both to be a little wrong-footed. They had plenty of time to get better at this. Whatever it was.

His dad was waiting in the entryway when they got to the house, ready with a pasted-on smile and a handshake.

"It's good to see you back in town, kid," he said in his Official Business voice, as if Jackson were some important person he needed to schmooze instead of his son's frenemy-turned-grudging-soulmate.

Jackson shook his hand and said, "Thanks for putting me up," with an equally forced expression of politeness.

"No problem," the Sheriff said with a shake of his head. Then he paused. "That, uh, restraining order, though. That's been cleared up, right?"

Stiles could see the clench of Jackson's jaw even from behind him.

"Taken care of, sir."

"Then we're all set. You've got the run of the house, you're welcome to anything in the fridge, and the guest room is all set up for you."

Jackson thanked him again and accepted another handshake because neither of them seemed to know what else to do in the excruciatingly uncomfortable moment.

Stiles stayed where he was, his back against the closed front door. His dad didn't acknowledge him, but then that was par for the course lately. Ignoring problems until they went away was an inherited trait, it seemed, and one that had definitely come from his dad's side of the family. Stiles—and all the pain, fear, and cognitive dissonance that came with him—had become a problem his dad didn't know how to solve and was therefore best swept under the rug.

Stiles didn't begrudge him that, didn't fight for his dad's attention, because the avoidance was better than the drinking that inevitably happened when his dad tried with him. His dad already felt enough like a failure without Stiles rubbing it in his face that nothing he tried to do for his son helped. Let his dad not look too closely if it helped him pretend that Stiles was maybe, somewhat, kind of okay. It was better for both of them that way. It wasn't like Stiles remembered how to talk to his dad normally anyway.

It was Jackson who said his name, turning back to him and jerking his head toward the stairs. Stiles licked his dry lips, pushed upright, skirted around his dad in the small space of the entryway without making eye contact. Jackson followed him up without commenting on how ratty the wallpaper got up here, rolling suitcase thumping loudly on every step.

"Bathroom's there," Stiles said, gesturing to an open door halfway down the hall. "That's me. And you're in here." More pointing, to his room and the guest bedroom respectively. Then his hands fell to his sides, swinging back and forth a few times until he made them stop.

Jackson was still watching him, eyes flitting back and forth between his face and his restless hands in a way that only made Stiles want to fidget more.

"It's late," Stiles said abruptly, needing to get out from under those eyes before he crawled out of his skin—before it started to feel like not his, like something else, like it would crawl away on its own—and he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go ahead and...go, um. Sleep. Dad's got a shift so just...lemme know if you need anything, or whatever."

He escaped into his room without waiting for a response and leaned against the door for a long time, wondering why the fuck they had thought this was a good idea. He had to strip off his pants and trace the name on his inner thigh with his fingertips to make sure, just one more time, that they hadn't gotten this wrong. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly enough to make his head spin. Then he flipped off the lights and climbed into bed, straining to hear the soft sounds of Jackson in the next room and praying to whatever god there might be that he wouldn't sleep that night.

The hoarseness of his own screams was almost pleasant after the slick sound of torn flesh that echoed through his dreams, the death rattle of a hundred friends or more as they piled up at his feet. Stiles fought against the darkness that twined around his limbs like a physical force, the roots of the Nemeton reaching out to strangle him, to drag him down into the river of blood that flowed from Allison's open mouth as she lay dead in Scott's arms, eyes glassy and empty and damning.

He fought and he kicked and he screamed, trying to get free, escape, drown out the noise of the Nogitsune's creaking laugh in his ear, but the pressure on his limbs didn't disappear. There was a weight across his chest, steady and insistent, and warmth around his wrists that stopped his blows from connecting with anything. And when his voice gave out, screams giving way to raspy pleas, he heard a new voice, louder than the dusty mutter of demons in the dark.

"Sh, sh, Stiles, it's okay," it said. "It's okay, you're safe. You're fine, I've got you."

Stiles clutched at the arm around his waist—not the Nemeton's root like he had thought, or the Nogitsune, or even his dad—and gasped in as much air as he could get, air that smelled like teenage boy and fabric softener instead of copper tang and acrid fear. The breath came out on a sob, harsh and violent and as sharp as the blade the Nogitsune had wielded with his hands, and Jackson tightened his hold.

"You're awake," he said, low and insistent, lips pressed right behind Stiles' ear where he could feel the movement of them, feel the warmth of breath across his flushed skin, sheened with cold sweat. "You're awake, Stiles, and you're safe. You're just in your room, Stiles. Whatever you saw, it wasn't real. This is real, okay? I'm real and I'm right here. You're not alone."

Another sob forced its way out of Stiles' throat, this one of relief. His struggles slowed and then stopped, the rush of adrenaline leaving him shaky and dizzy, and it was all he could do to turn his head and bury it in Jackson's shoulder. Jackson let him burrow closer, shifted around so that he could pull Stiles into his lap like he would a child, wrapped both arms around him and held on tight.

It was another minute or two before Stiles realized that he was talking, babbling through the tears he could never hold at bay after a nightmare like that.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. "God, I'm sorry, I can't—"

He said it over and over again, muffling the words in the thin cotton of Jackson's t-shirt when he found that he couldn't stop them from coming.

Jackson just rubbed his back, apparently unconcerned by the mess Stiles was making with his tears or the vise grip Stiles had on him, tight enough that it would leave bruises for days on a human but probably not enough to really hurt a werewolf.

"Sh, Stiles," he said again, reaching up to pet his hair. "It's okay. It was just a nightmare, but it's over and you're safe."

He was right, of course. There was no blood here, no bodies, no mummified corpse whispering taunts or evil magic tree invading his mind. There was just his bed, comforter thrown off and sheets twisted and sweat-soaked, his desk and chair, posters on the walls and bookshelves full of knick-knacks. Just him and Jackson, wrapped up together in the dark because Stiles had lost his fucking mind over a stupid goddamn nightmare,again.

Stiles tried to pull back, to peel himself away from the heat of Jackson's body and maybe preserve a tiny shred of his dignity—as if he had any of that left by now—but Jackson didn't let go of him. He just tightened his hold, one hand on Stiles' waist and the other on the back of his neck to keep him where he was, and leaned in to rub his cheek against Stiles' throat. It was a very wolfy thing to do, and surprising enough in its intimacy that Stiles drew in a sharp breath.

This time when Stiles leaned back, Jackson loosened his grip, though he didn't let go of him entirely. He kept Stiles' hand, his own trailing down the length of Stiles' arm to take hold of it. Stiles stared down at it, squinting at the faint silhouette of their fingers tangled together on his mattress.

"Sorry," he said again, sniffing, glad for the darkness of the room so that Jackson couldn't see what a wreck he was, red-faced and splotchy and gross. Then he remembered that, with his wolfy eyes, he probably could and ducked his head further. "I, uh. I probably should've warned you that happens sometimes."

Jackson squeezed his hand.

"I figured it would," he said. "I have them too."

Stiles looked up at him then, but it was too dark for him to make out Jackson's face. He pulled his sleeve down over his free hand and wiped it over his own cheeks, scrubbing at the wetness until his skin felt raw. His throat felt worse, like he had swallowed sandpaper; he was used to the sensation by now, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant.

"Sorry I woke you up," he whispered. "It, uh, it won't be the last time. I'm sorry, I can find you a hotel in the morning, or maybe someone else has a room that you can—"

He tried to tug his hand out of Jackson's, to release Jackson from his stop-Stiles-from-hurting-himself-in-his-completely-irrational-panic obligations, but he didn't get more than a millimeter before Jackson was rolling his eyes so hard that even Stiles and his weak, night-blind eyes could see it.

"Shut up, Stilinski, don't be stupid," he said. Then he reeled Stiles back in, pulling him flush against his chest and manhandling them both down onto the bed properly. "Now go back to sleep."

Within the span of maybe two seconds, Stiles found himself lying on his side, under the covers, being aggressively spooned. Jackson was pressed up behind him from chest to knees, a solid and undeniably real presence, with his chin hooked over Stiles' shoulder and both arms wrapped firmly around his stomach. Stiles stared blankly at the wall for a moment, too exhausted and stunned to process it all.

"Jackson," he started, "you don't have to—"

"Shut up," Jackson said again, gruff. "And stop apologizing. You don't have anything to apologize for."

Stiles let out all his breath at once, the last of the terror-induced tension leeching out of his muscles until he felt boneless and sore all over. Tentatively, his hand found where Jackson's were linked together over his stomach, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. Surrounded by the warmth of another body and with Jackson's heartbeat slow and steady against his back, Stiles was starting to feel the pull of sleep again, which surprised him; he could never sleep after a nightmare like that, no matter how hard he tried. Dreams like that were the reason he usually slept maybe twenty hours in a week these days.

But his eyes were closing, his thoughts going slow and fuzzy in a way that was pleasant instead of frightening for once. He let himself relax completely in Jackson's arms, let his thumb rub circles into the back of Jackson's hand, and muttered, "Thank you," into the dark quietly enough that Jackson could reasonably pretend he didn't hear.

Instead he got a quiet, "Go to sleep, Stiles."

And, by some miracle, he did.

Stiles woke up slowly—a wholly unfamiliar experience by now—awareness coming back to him sense by sense: the glow of mid-morning sunlight through closed eyelids, rosy and soft and just bright enough to sting after the blackness of sleep; the scratch-sweep sensation of cotton sheets against the skin of his back where his shirt had ridden up; the peeping of a bird somewhere to his right, probably perched on the tree outside his window, and the distant rumble of traffic; the familiar scent of his favorite pillow where his face was mashed into it.

It was the first time in a long time that Stiles had woken naturally, without the cold jolt of fear and disorientation that had followed him into what may or may not have been the waking world for the last however long it had been since this whole thing started. There was none of that in this moment, no doubt about where he was or what was happening. He was in his bedroom, waking up from a peaceful sleep like the normal person he used to be.

The only cause for confusion was that he was alone in his bed. He could have sworn he remembered Jackson coming in last night—Jackson holding him, gentling him like a startled horse, petting his hair and murmuring reassurances, talking him down and telling him it was okay—but there were no arms around him now. Stiles sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wondering if that part had been a dream. If so, then at least it had been a nice one. He could use more nice dreams like that.

But the pillow beside his had a head-shaped dent in it and when he ran his hands over the rumpled sheets behind him, they were still warm to the touch. So Jackson had definitely been there, and not long ago. Stiles let out a sigh of relief, a ball of something warm and sweet settling into his stomach because that happened. Jackson's presence had actually given him a good night's sleep. Scott hadn't managed that, or Malia, or even his dad. But Jackson had.

Maybe there was something to this whole soulmate bond after all.

Stiles clambered out of bed regretfully, half-wishing he could sink back into it and find more of that actual rest that had eluded him for so long. A glance at his bedside clock told him that he had been out for seven hours straight—he hadn't slept that much in a single night in weeks, months even. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Stiles lifted his arms over his head, leaning one way and then the other. Every muscle in his body, sore from the tension he carried with him like a coat, protested the movement but the stretch felt sinfully good. A last shake of his head and he was officially awake.

Stiles went through his normal morning bathroom routine and made his way downstairs, cautiously optimistic. The door to his dad's room was closed, so the Sheriff was home from his shift and probably passed out by now. Stiles ran his fingers across the door as he walked by like he always did, following the smooth tracks worn into the wood by years of the same motion, and moved on without disturbing him.

The smell of coffee met him halfway down the stairs and Stiles picked up his pace. He skipped down the last few steps and rounded the corner into the kitchen to see Jackson leaning against the counter with a steaming mug in hand, one of his dad's generic ones re-appropriated from the station. He had changed out of his t-shirt from the night before and into a tank top instead, tight enough to ride up a bit on his stomach—a lovely and distracting counterpoint to the pyjama pants still slung low on his hips. He looked like he had rolled off the front page of some bed 'n breakfast magazine.

Stiles hesitated in the doorway, shoulder braced on the frame and eyes fixed on Jackson's long fingers curled around his mug, pale against the blue ceramic. Those fingers had been on Stiles' skin last night, firm and gentle and coaxing, and now Stiles didn't know what to do. Jackson Whittemore was standing in his kitchen drinking coffee like it was a normal thing and it seemed twice as surreal in the light of day.

"Morning."

Stiles' twitch of surprise meant he knocked his elbow against the doorframe, sending shooting pains up his arm. The yelp that engendered had him flushing again and he was starting to think that would be a regular thing around Jackson, unfortunate as that was. He rubbed at his sore elbow and stepped away from the door because apparently it was hazardous to his health.

"Uh, yeah, morning," he said.

Jackson was watching him again, wordless and inscrutable. It made Stiles stand up straighter, rock back on his heels, scratch mindlessly at his forearm until it hurt and he could stop.

"Coffee," Stiles announced, as if he had just noticed it there.

Jackson stepped aside, giving him access, and Stiles busied himself with pouring. He wished he took cream and sugar and a hundred other additives so he could spend more time on it, but unfortunately he was a black coffee man at heart and the task was over far too quickly. That left him standing next to Jackson with a mug of too-hot-to-drink coffee and a growing, nagging feeling of guilt in his gut.

"I really am sorry about last night," he found himself saying, wincing when it came out far too loud in the strangely homey silence. He pushed on anyway; he was of the opinion that acknowledging awkwardness only made it twice as awkward. "I was serious about the hotel thing. There are plenty of places around that rent long-term, we can put you up somewhere you won't have your eardrums blown out every night."

"I said it's fine," Jackson interrupted him. "I don't mind."

Stiles turned toward him, leaning his hip against the counter and cocking his head to the side.

"How can it be fine?" he asked, disbelieving. "I mean, I'm loud, okay? I know that. It's why my dad works night shifts at every possible opportunity now. It can't be good for your sensitive wolfy ears."

Jackson snorted into his coffee.

"My wolfy ears aren't that sensitive. They can handle it," he said dryly.

Stiles swallowed hard and looked away, back down to his own coffee, a frown finding its way onto his face; he wasn't sure why he felt like he was being mocked, like the implication was that he was too sensitive, that he couldn't handle it. That was stupid, he told himself. Stiles was the king of witty retorts, so he knew they weren't always meant in a mean way. He snarked at his friends all the time, in the most loving way possible, and they all knew it was fine.

But Jackson's sarcasm, even if it was just an innocuous quip, carried its own sense memory. In his experience, Jackson's particular brand of sarcasm was always mean, always cutting, always meant to tear him down. It wasn't this time, Stiles was almost sure, but he found himself scratching at the back of his neck anyway—chasing the itch of strangeness that came with the juxtaposition of those feelings, those memories, with the Jackson he had seen last night, the strangely tender one that had taken care of him when he'd needed it.

This Jackson jostled him out of the way of the coffee maker to pour himself another cup, a self-entitled bull in the china shop that was Stiles' kitchen. Stiles fell back to the little round table in the corner—the one where he used to eat breakfast with his mom on Sunday mornings when she was still alive, rarely used anymore—and took refuge in the furthest of the three chairs around it, back to the wall and mug still clutched in his hands like a lifeline. He watched the dark liquid swirl when he tilted it, watched the steam rise and dissipate into nothing.

He had felt so good when he woke up, better than he had in a long time. That felt like a dream now, a figment of his imagination, too good to have been true. Stiles tapped his fingers against the tabletop—one, two, three, four, five, one, two, three, four five, one, two—and stared down at his coffee like that might be enough to keep him from floating away.

"Heads up."

Stiles was slow to react, far too slow to do anything about the banana that came flying toward him. It hit him in the chest, a solid thump of impact that somehow managed to shock Stiles back into the present while simultaneously scaring the everloving shit out of him, and Stiles barely avoided knocking over his coffee mug with his useless flail. When he finally had the offending fruit in hand, he looked up to see Jackson smirking at him.

"Still can't catch," he said. "Good to know that hasn't changed."

Stiles threw the banana down on the tabletop and muttered, "Asshole." Whatever appetite he'd had upon waking, it was certainly gone now. He kind of just wanted to crawl back into bed, but with the itchy-numb way his fingers were tingling, he already knew nothing good would come of that. He flexed his hands, spread them wide, pressed each fingertip to his thumb—three, four, one, two, three—

A bowl clattered onto the table right in front of him, startling him out of his daze. It was cereal. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, actually, which was his favorite. A glass of orange juice followed, settling down between the bowl and the abused banana, and Stiles followed the line of Jackson's arm up to his face. Jackson was looking at Stiles' hands where they were splayed out in his lap, surprised into stillness, with a frown. The frown intensified when he noticed Stiles' looking at him.

"You need to eat more," he said. "You're scrawnier than usual. You look like you're about to fall over."

The tone was sort of harsh, considering Stiles was pretty sure Jackson had just made and served him breakfast of his own volition and was implying that he cared about Stiles' health and eating habits. Stiles opened his mouth but no words came out. Jackson just sent a very pointed look at the cereal bowl. It took a moment for the expectation to register, but then Stiles obediently took up the spoon.

Apparently satisfied, Jackson nodded. His hip nudged against Stiles' shoulder, just a quick press of warmth, before he moved off to get food for himself.

Stiles let himself focus on eating, on taking one bite at a time and chewing carefully and swallowing it down, instead of on Jackson's continued presence. He could still feel eyes on him occasionally though, especially when Jackson sat down across from him at the table with a bowl of his own, so he didn't stop when he normally would have. By the time he finished his cereal and half the banana, he felt almost uncomfortably full; he knew he had lost weight in recent weeks, but he hadn't realized he'd been forgoing meals often enough that his stomach had actually shrunk.

That thought was unnerving, made his palms itch with something almost like guilt. He pushed the last of the banana away and sat back in his chair, fighting down a pang of nausea at the sudden awareness of his body—not his body, not really, maybe this stomach had just always been smaller than his real one, how would he even know the difference?—and scratched, dragging his fingernails across the back of his other hand until it stung.

A particularly sharp clack of Jackson's spoon against the bowl drew his wandering attention. Jackson's eyes were on him again, on his hands, watching him. When Stiles looked down, he saw that there were angry red lines on his skin, vivid and impossible to mistake for anything but claw marks. Stiles coughed, stuffed his hands between his thighs and the seat of his chair both to hide them from Jackson's view and to keep himself from doing it again.

"The pack wants to meet up with you," he said, because he was supposed to be at least a semi-functioning human being. Whether or not his body was his didn't matter, he told himself. Just because his skin wasn't real, that didn't stop him from seeing his friends, from putting one foreign foot in front of the other, from plowing through his day until he either fell asleep or woke up again. He could at least pretend to live his real life in his fake body.

Jackson snorted.

"Yeah, right," he said into his cereal.

"They do," Stiles said with a frown. "It's been a long time since they've seen you, they want to welcome you back. And the newbies want to meet you."

"Sure they do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jackson slurped down his last bite of cereal and downed the rest of his OJ in quick succession, then scooped up his bowl and glass and dumped them in the sink.

"Look," he said to the faucet. "I get that you guys are all touchy-feely and inclusive nowadays, but I'm not here for that. I didn't come back for a pack and I don't want one, especially not this one. No offense."

That was definitely a little bit offensive, but Stiles held his tongue on that front.

"Jackson, if you would just—"

"I'm a lone wolf, Stilinski," Jackson said, turning back to him with arms already crossed over his chest. "And I like it that way. So you can go have your puppy pile if you want, but I've got shit to do."

He snatched up his mostly empty mug of coffee, almost certainly gone cold by now, and disappeared out the kitchen door before Stiles had a chance to point out that real lone wolves were rarely lone by choice and they were never happy about it.

Stiles stabbed half-heartedly at his laptop's keyboard, getting through another half-sentence before deleting the last paragraph entirely with a huff. He shoved the computer back until it nearly skittered off the other side of the coffee table and pulled the reading packet closer. The words made sense, they did. All the letters were in the right order and they even stayed still and everything, they just weren't sticking in his head. Really, that probably had as much to do with his ADHD and his shitty mood as anything nightmare-related, but that didn't make it any less frustrating when he had a deadline for this essay.

Fucking summer school. Stiles had never needed summer school before, hadn't been below the 98th percentile in any of his classes since he had had his ADHD diagnosed and gotten properly medicated for it, and it chafed at his pride something fierce to be subjected to it now. And it seemed so disgustingly mundane after spending two years fighting for his goddamn life to be tutted at by teachers and told he needed to do better. Fuck them, they didn't know jack shit.

Stiles buried his face in his hands and sighed.

Really, it was a miracle he hadn't flunked junior year outright. With the way his grades had taken a spectacular nosedive in the second semester, convincing the necessary teachers to let him make it up over the summer and still move on to twelfth grade in the fall had not been easy. His dad had called in some favors, dropped a few names, thrown his weight around. They had leaned heavily on losing Heather as an excuse—not something that sat well with him, but a soulmate's death was undeniably traumatic and garnered sympathy like nothing else—and then Allison too, as well as citing some fabricated changes in his ADHD medication and the equally fabricated side effects that came with it.

So now he had summer classes to make up for his abysmal english and algebra 2 grades last semester, all online thankfully. He'd managed to skate through his final exams in history, economics, and biology by virtue of already having an unnecessarily large knowledge base in those subjects before the Nogitsune had taken him over and forced him to completely abandon all his real life responsibilities, but english and math had stymied him. It was all the reading, the way the letters and numbers needed to be in the right order to make sense. He just couldn't make that happen sometimes, even now.

It didn't help that he had already been in a bad mood when he'd sat down for this little study session. The meeting with the pack had gone about as well as he'd expected it to, which meant there was a lot of very uncomfortable tension. Scott was still side-eyeing him hardcore for being bonded to Jackson Whittemore, of all people, their former nemesis. Lydia kept patting him on the arm whenever she passed him with this smile that was half-pitying and half-supportive. Kira asked very well-meaning questions, expecting him to be as excited and dewy-eyed about his new soulmate as she was about hers, and Malia. Stiles loved Malia, he really did, but she still hadn't gotten the hang of the whole tact thing yet and by the third time she said, "Well, he sounds like a dick to me," he was about ready to punch her.

There was just altogether too much attention on him, like a spotlight hot enough to give him a sunburn, skin feeling tight and itchy. So he'd left the meeting early. It had only been an excuse for his friends to snoop and pry anyway, not like they had any official business to attend to or anything, so he didn't feel bad using his english essay as an excuse and heading out. Jackson hadn't been there when he got home, which he wasn't sure if he should be disappointed or grateful for, so actually working on the essay had seemed like a good idea.

He was regretting it now. Stiles sort of wanted to smash his head through the coffee table and set all his reading materials on fire, and he was almost certain that the words on the page were starting to shift around again. Maybe math would be better. If nothing else it would be different, and it couldn't really get a whole lot worse anyway.

He was just spreading out his various reference sheets and lists of equations when he heard the front door open. His dad had just headed out a half hour ago, so it had to be Jackson. Stiles didn't know what Jackson had been doing all day, but he didn't really have it in him to care at the moment; Jackson was every bit as aggravating as his stupid essay and twice as confusing. It would probably be best to avoid contact for the time being.

Unfortunately Jackson didn't seem to share that sentiment. He sauntered into the living room and threw himself down onto the couch, leaning over Stiles where he was sat on the floor, back against the couch's foot.

"What're you doing?" Jackson asked. He wasn't particularly loud or anything, by normal standards, but Stiles was already tired and cranky and his head hurt just enough for every little sound to be grating.

"Working," Stiles said shortly, mechanical pencil creaking in his grip.

Jackson hummed consideringly, looming further over Stiles' shoulder and throwing shadows across his papers. Stiles clenched his teeth.

"Do you mind?" he ground out.

Jackson ignored him, tugging one of the equation sheets out from under Stiles' elbow and held it up and out of reach so he could examine it at his leisure.

"Is this homework?" he asked, incredulous. "Like, summer school make-up work?"

Stiles leaned up to snatch it back, nearly ripping the paper in half with the force of the gesture, and said, "So what if it is? What's it to you?"

Jackson held up his hands in faux surrender, shrugging.

"Just never thought I'd see you fail a class," he said, which managed to both compliment and denigrate Stiles at the same time—so much potential, it implied, and all of it wasted on a fucking disappointment like him.

"Well, excuse me," Stiles snapped, "for being a bit behind. You see, a literal demon took my body out for a joyride mid-semester. The little stuff tends to fall through the cracks when things like that happen. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to actually get some shit done."

Jackson leaned back, waving a hand out in front of him.

"I'm not stopping you," he said. "Don't know why you're sitting on the floor, though. Seems like it'd be easier at an actual desk but, you know, whatever works for you, Stilinski."

Stiles turned resolutely back to his array of papers, taking up the majority of the coffee table's surface. He would've been at his desk, but it was too cluttered for him to spread out like this and he just needed to be able to switch between sheets quickly and efficiently. And besides, sometimes being uncomfortable helped him to keep his mind on task. It wasn't exactly working now, but he didn't have to admit to Jackson that he couldn't feel the fingers around his pencil anymore, numbness edging up his limbs and pushing him away from himself.

He threw down the pencil, pulling both hands through his hair and rubbing roughly down his face like that might bring him back. It helped a bit and Stiles scratched at the back of his neck with blunt nails, chasing the clarity the sting of it brought. With a hard shake of his head, he leaned into his laptop, pushing mindlessly at buttons in the hopes that some coherent words might come out of it.

"You'll fuck up your back sitting like that, you know."

"Oh my god!" Stiles burst out. "It's not even my fucking—"

He cut himself off before he could let the words not even my back out of his mouth. It was the truth, an absolute and inescapable fact, but saying it out loud would make it real, more real than anything else about him. He couldn't stand to say it, not when he could already feel it so deep in his bones, chilling and biting and so wrong it hurt. Every inch of him was wrong, from the twinge of soreness in his lower back to the creepy-crawliness of the skin that furrowed and gave under insistent fingernails as he scratched along his arms.

"What is with you right now?" Jackson asked. He sounded almost impatient, but the pinch of his forehead as he slid down into Stiles' personal space didn't match up with his tone.

Stiles shoved him away.

"Will you just—"

He didn't know what he wanted Jackson to do. Get out of his face, out of his business. Stop fucking watching him so closely with those pale, sharp eyes that seemed to see all the things Stiles didn't want anyone seeing. Leave him the hell alone or—or maybe get closer, wrap him up in warmth and steadiness and hold him until he felt like himself again. Stiles wanted everything and nothing, wanted to be okay, to feel normal, to feel anything at all as he raked his nails across his—

"Jesus, Stiles, will you fucking stop that? You're gonna draw blood!"

Suddenly Stiles' hands were caught up in Jackson's, held tight and pulled away. Stiles' forearms were a mess of criss-crossed scratches, a few of them actually beading red already where he had managed to break the skin. Stiles stared at them; he hadn't meant to do that, had hardly realized he was even doing it. He'd hardly felt any of it either, at least not as pain. Not in a bad way.

Jackson was swearing under his breath, turning Stiles' left forearm this way and that while keeping a tight hold of his right. He looked up at Stiles, mouth set in an unhappy moue.

"If I let go of you for a minute, will you refrain from mutilating yourself any further?"

Stiles thought he might've nodded, but everything was muffled and distant now and he couldn't be sure. Jackson seemed satisfied with his response, whatever it was, and let his hands drop. Then he disappeared out of Stiles' line of sight and Stiles didn't turn to see where he'd gone, just looked down at the hands in his lap that were supposed to be his. They didn't feel like his. They weren't, not really, even if he could move them like they were.

It was probably only thirty seconds or so before Jackson returned to kneel at his side, but it felt like longer. Jackson had a damp paper towel that he pressed to one of Stiles' forearms, swiping back and forth over the scratches, washing the abused skin with surprising gentleness before switching to the other arm. When he was finished, Jackson tossed the paper towels onto the coffee table with a sigh, then sat back on his heels to look at Stiles, still with that crease between his eyebrows that looked more like concern than anything else. Stiles looked back, too heavy-limbed to fidget for once.

Finally Jackson nodded to himself. He pulled a rubber band off his own wrist and worked it onto Stiles' instead, settling it just above the bony knob where hand ended and forearm began. A thumb swept over Stiles' palm, just once, light and a bit ticklish, and then Stiles was jerking in surprise.

It took a moment for the reason to get through to him, filtering in past the haze, but eventually he realized that Jackson had pulled the rubber band and let it snap back into place. It took another second or two for the pain to register, a blooming sharpness that faded into a duller kind of ache. Stiles blinked a few times, pulling his scattered thoughts together enough to comprehend what was happening. He looked up at Jackson.

"It's better than scratching," Jackson said. "If you really need something to focus on and bring you back, then do this instead. It's the pain and the shock without the real damage. Just don't do it too much."

Pain without damage. Something to bring him back.

Jackson wasn't trying to get him to stop. Well, he was, but not completely, he was… Jackson knew what he was doing, and why. Jackson wasn't trying to take anything away from him. No, Jackson was giving him something, something better, something safer.

Stiles reached for the band. It took him a few tries to get a hold of it with the way his traitorous fingers were shaking, but he managed to pull it far enough away from his skin to feel the burn when it snapped. It shivered through him, some mixture of heat and cold that somehow translated into real. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed and snapped the band again, drawing in a shaky breath that no longer felt like it was full of grit and sand. One more snap and then Jackson's hand was on his, holding the band down.

"Not too much," he muttered again.

Jackson had been wearing the rubber band already, had had it around his own wrist since Stiles had picked him up at the airport. Stiles hadn't really noticed it before, hadn't known its purpose or its significance, but it had been there. There was a faint line of pink on Jackson's skin, right in the bend of his wrist, like he had used it recently. Stiles reached out to touch, wanting to see if there was any heat left in the mark.

Jackson jerked away before he could, drawing his hand in against his chest. He stood up abruptly, nearly knocking into the coffee table with his elbow, and cleared his throat.

"You, um...you should find a better place to study," Jackson said again, as if none of the last ten minutes had happened. "This way really will hurt your back."

It was a good thing he didn't wait for a response, just swept out of the room without a backward glance, because Stiles didn't know what he would've said. He just sat on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of his botched schoolwork, and watched Jackson go with the low thrum of pain in his wrist and a tangle of thoughts too loud to ignore.