Jackson tossed and turned. Agony speared through his brain, refused to let him continue to sleep. He blinked. He wasn't sure where he was. His neck itched, like something had been wrapped around it.

He sat up and rubbed away the sensation. "What the fuck?" he whispered. He wasn't in his room. There was a picture of a large anime character on a snowboard; the figure had an orange and white striped scarf wrapped around its neck. He looked to the right. There was a pair of handcuffs hanging from the wall. That was unacceptable. He rubbed his neck again, felt like he'd been having a dream about someone dragging him around by a leash.

Jackson looked down at himself. He was naked except for his socks. That was also unacceptable. He didn't even want to think about what was dried on his stomach. He scrambled out of the bed; it took a few minutes to locate his clothes. He used his boxers to try to wipe his stomach and chest. It didn't really help. There were clothes and papers haphazardly scattered across the room, most of the shirts were t-shirts or button downs.

"Fuck…"

It was Stiles's room. Memories started to trickle back to the front of his mind. The park, his car was still at the park. He'd been drunk. Stiles had picked him up. Stiles…

"FUCK!"

Jackson remembered. He remembered how much of an idiot he'd been, remembered some of what he'd said and done. There were parts that were hazy but there was enough there that he had a pretty good idea of what he'd done.

He pulled his jeans on, laced up his shoes and headed for the door. He froze before touching the handle. Stiles could be out there. There was no way he could face that. He looked around the room for another option. There was a window. He had to get out. He opened it and looked down. It seemed like an easy enough climb.

Jackson tucked his boxers into the pocket of his jeans and tossed his shirt out the window. He felt his car keys in his pocket. He climbed out the window and shimmied down the side of the house. He bent over to pick up his shirt, draped it over his shoulder as he walked around the house buttoning up his pants and buckling his belt.

A car door closed. He looked up, right into the eyes of Stiles's father. The only thing between them was the cruiser the man had just gotten out of. He prayed for a bolt of lightning to strike him from the clear sky.

Jackson opened his mouth but he had nothing to say. He tugged his shirt off his shoulder and pulled it over his head. His boxers were still hanging partially out of his front pocket but there was no way he was going to draw any more attention to them. The sheriff's expression was carefully schooled neutrality. He'd probably already seen them.

"You're Jackson right?"

Jackson nodded. He didn't trust his voice. He wondered what the sheriff was thinking.

"Can I give you a lift home?"

Jackson nodded again. He'd have to call someone to take him to his car later. There was no way he was going to tell the head of the police he'd left his car in the park because he was too drunk to drive.

The sheriff got back into the car. Jackson stood awkwardly not sure if he was supposed to get in the front or the back. Stiles's father leaned over and opened the passenger side door. Jackson slid into the seat and closed the door.

"So…" Sheriff Stilinski said. "You and Stiles, uh, worked out the problem that caused the fight?"

Jackson swallowed the groan that tried to bubble out of his chest. "Yes, sir," he said, "We got most of it figured out. It was my fault."

Silence settled over the car as the sheriff pulled out of the driveway. "It takes two to…" the sheriff paused and the awkward factor in the car skyrocketed. "You know… fight."

Jackson wanted to die. He prayed for a bus to run the red light they stopped at and put him out of his misery. No bus came, the light turned green. They continued on their way. Jackson didn't bother to ask if the sheriff knew where he lived.

"Well, I know you're not my son, but I'm just going to say this once," the sheriff hesitated for a moment. Jackson felt like he was going to throw up. "I hope you boys were safe. I'll talk to Stiles about this later. I'm not going to say anything to your parents but you probably should."

Jackson was definitely going to throw up. He put one hand over his mouth and tried to roll down the window. The sheriff pulled over. He must have noticed Jackson's heaving. The car wasn't even fully parked when Jackson opened the door and stumbled out. He went down onto his knees and vomited onto the shoulder of the road. He gagged at the smell and it made him retch. He crawled a short distance away taking deep breaths and scrubbing at his mouth with his hands.

The sheriff got out of the car. This was the worst day of Jackson's life. He'd rather go to jail for underage drinking than leave the sheriff with the impression that he'd had sex with his son.

"We didn't-"

"Let's just get you home. Your parents are probably worried unless you told them where you were." The sheriff's voice gave nothing of his thoughts away. Jackson shook his head to confirm that he'd not told his parents anything. He took the napkins the man offered him, wiped his mouth and hands off.

The sheriff helped him to his feet. Jackson tucked the soiled napkins into the pocket of his jeans that his boxers weren't hanging out of. It didn't matter what he said. There was no way anyone would believe that nothing happened. Jackson wasn't sure he believed nothing happened. There were still some hazy moments. He had a vague recollection of being on his knees in front of Stiles with his hand on Stiles's belt.

The rest of the ride back to his house was silent. Jackson left the sheriff to whatever he was thinking and tried not to drown in self-loathing. He was such an idiot. He'd tried to hit on Stiles while he was drunk. What the fuck had he been thinking? What was Stiles thinking? Memories of Stiles's voice lashed against his brain.

'Whatever you think is going on, it's totally not.'

'Also Jacks… don't touch yourself.'

It was a nightmare. He'd embarrassed himself, thrown himself at Stiles. He'd ended up naked, begging, and Stiles had just walked out. He must have been disgusted. Jackson remembered trying to kiss Stiles again. He'd tried in the park; he'd tried at the house. Stiles had turned away or pushed him away every time. He was such an idiot for thinking there was something there.

He'd never be able to face Stiles on Monday. He couldn't stand the thought of looking into those brown eyes and seeing disgust and pity. Stiles probably hated him.

Jackson got out of the car when it pulled into his driveway. "Thanks…" he mumbled. The sheriff nodded at him and pulled away.

Once inside Jackson closed the door as quietly as he could. He didn't know if his parents were home but he didn't want them to see him in the state he was in. His parents were going to be disappointed when they found out what happened. He'd let them down. They were probably going to be ashamed of him, maybe hate him. He already hated himself but for some reason, the thought of Stiles hating him hurt the most. He stumbled into the first floor bathroom, he felt like he was going to be sick again.