#*s:stackson

Stiles runs his hands over his face. “Jackson, I love you, I do, but if you don’t let me ask for directions, they’re going to find parts of your body in multiple states.” As stubborn as Stiles is, nothing beats Jackson’s pride. There aren’t many ways around it, but Stiles found two that usually help. One of them is bribing him with sex, the other is threatening to kill him. It really depends on his mood which one he chooses. The fact that the latter works should probably be at least somewhat concerning. That means Jackson either thinks Stiles is capable of murder — and getting away with it — or he knows that he only threatens to dump his body all over the US when he’s at the end of his patience. 

Muttering something under his breath Stiles doesn’t catch, Jackson sets the blinker and brings the car to a stop. 

Stiles opens the window, instantly hating the humid air pushing into the car. How this mascot survives in this heat is beyond him. “Hey, sorry.” 

The dinosaur wanders over to them. Up close, the costume does look like a dragon. Stiles grimaces. “‘Sup?” The guy pushes the head up to reveal a confident smile and an impressive amount of freckles. His green eyes jump from Stiles to Jackson and back again. “Nice car.” 

“Thanks,” Jackson replies tersely and seemingly a lot more interested in whatever is going on on the other side of the street. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Stiles says, turning on his seat to face the guy directly, “but we’re looking for Ithaca Falls, and I think we ended up taking a wrong turn.” Or three. It’s hard to tell since Jackson insisted he knew exactly where he was going when he clearly didn’t. The next time they go on a no-phones vacation, they leave them in the car when they arrive instead of nightstands at home. But they both know they will not have any sort of relaxation with their phones anywhere near them, not as a lawyer and an FBI agent for the supernatural. Their jobs are crazy, and the only reason their relationship works out in the first place is with strict rules and the bonus of working the same case on multiple occasions. 

“Yeah, so, you passed the exit already,” Mascot Man chuckles and leans against the hood of the car despite Jackson’s withering stare. "You gotta go back— you got a phone or a map or somethin'? I could show you." He takes his head off, revealing a mess of red curls plastered to his sweaty forehead. 

"No, sorry." Stiles contemplates. He's never going to remember the way, and he doesn't trust Jackson to do so either after getting them in this mess in the first place. "Could you write it down?" Stiles opens the glovebox. The one thing about him is that he's got pens and notebooks everywhere in case he's got to write something down for his job, or simply because he needs to remember something. 

The guy nods and takes the notebook with a grin. "Sure, hold on. It's not far," he explains while taking a glove off with his teeth. "Just a bitch to find."

Raising a brow, Stiles turns to Jackson and mouths, "Map, asshole."

Jackson merely rolls his eyes. He'd never admit that they'd never find it without this guy's help, no matter how complicated the way ends up being.

When the guy is done writing, he hands the notebook back in. 

"Thank you." Stiles puts the notebook on his leg, contemplating the instructions briefly. It's really not that far, around thirty minutes by the looks of it. 

"You're welcome," the guy grins. "And if you're hungry, Lenny's diner is just around the corner."

This finally got Jackson's attention. He leans towards the window and peers at their helper, placing his hand so high on his thigh, everyone and their brother knows he has intimate knowledge of every inch of Stiles’ dick. "We're good, thanks." He revs the engine and all but shoots away from the curb.

With a tight smile, Stiles pats his boyfriend’s hand before squeezing his fingers. "Seriously."

Jackson sets the blinker, so intent on leaving the mascot behind, he doesn't even bother to make a U-turn. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.” Funnily enough, Lydia warned him about how irrationally possessive Jackson can become — not just when it comes to him. He’s also exceptionally possessive when it comes to his best friend, Danny. Jackson made it abundantly clear multiple times that Danny is, in fact, Jackson’s best friend. It’s only funny as long as you don’t look too close. 

“He’s a very polite dragon,” Stiles replies softly. 

Jackson squeezes his thigh with a smile. “Well, where’d he tell us to go?” 

They don’t always apologize, but sometimes admitting they were wrong is just as good. Yawning, Stiles sinks deeper into his seat. “We gotta go left behind the next target then head east for a bit.” 

“You sound like a—“

“Jackson, what does ‘huh’ mean?” Stiles interrupts him because he is not going to argue in the hallway of a rancid motel at ass o’clock in the morning. They might accidentally wake up someone and push them over the edge and create the next serial killer, whose victims are people with terrible sleeping habits. Yawning again, Stiles nudges Jackson’s shoulder.

Huffing out a breath, Jackson finally opens the door further and steps into the room. “There’s only one pillow.”

“What?” There’s only one pillow. What kind of stupid assessment is that? It’s a motel room. What did Jackson expect? An exorbitant amount of fluffy pillows, the cleanest sheets in the world, and the most comfortable mattress he’s ever had the luxury to sleep on? Stiles shakes his head and steps into the room.

He blinks.

Again.

“Jackson,” Stiles says very slowly, closing the door behind him, “there is only one bed.”

“There is only one pillow.”

Stiles stares at Jackson in bewilderment. “Listen, I don’t know if you lost your ability to comprehend basic math, but that’s one bed, and we are two people.”

Jackson turns to look at him. “If we had two pillows, we could’ve shared the bed.”

Yeah, absolutely not. Sitting in a car with Jackson for eight hours is already pushing his limits, he is not going to survive sharing a bed. He may currently be on his way to becoming an FBI agent, but he is still very much a stressed-out college student with a terrible crush on the more or less reformed lacrosse jock. “Did you tell the girl at the reception that you need a room for two?”

“Of course, I did.” Jackson sets his bag down on the table, taking in his surroundings in a way only someone who’s used to five-star hotels could. “I’d talk to her again, but this is the only available room.”

Under different circumstances, Stiles would probably be surprised about this information. The fact that there is only one bed is probably the least of their problems in this breeding ground for serial killers. All he cares about right now is getting some sleep — and hopefully isn’t going to catch whatever is living in those sheets. “Next time,” Stiles says, pushing off his shoes, “we’re going to take the train.” He tosses his backpack next to the bed and yanks the blanket back, half expecting to find a whole colony of bugs underneath it. The sheets, however, look mostly clean and there are zero wrinkles. Maybe Stiles is being unnecessarily rude to this motel.

“We’re not going to take the train.”

“Well, we’re not going to take your stupid Porsche ever again either.”

Jackson’s left brow twitches. Yeah, talking bad about his poor car will always have the potential to cause an explosive argument. Lacrosse and cars are something Jackson values almost as much as his friendship with Lydia.

Something Stiles can very much relate to, and that’s why he’d prefer not to sleep in the same bed as Jackson. You do not crush on your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. You do not hit on him. You don’t do anything that could make your feelings worse. Those are the rules Stiles set for himself, so he’s going to make it through this friendship with Jackson until Stiles finally runs into someone else. If Jackson were to reciprocate his feelings, Stiles knows Lydia would be cool with it. She’s told him a while ago for some inexplicable reason. Stiles never mentioned anything about Jackson. Lydia can’t possibly know… right?

Despite the seemingly clean bed, Stiles decides not to change into his pajamas. Since he’s wearing sweatpants anyway, he climbs into bed just like that. He can shower and change when he’s not going to run into serial killers-to-be. The bed is surprisingly soft, and it smells pleasantly like some flowery laundry detergent. Maybe this night would not be that bad.

“No.”

Stiles grinds his teeth and looks at Jackson. “What?”

“I’ll sleep between you and the door.” Jackson gestures for him to move.

Fucking hell. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, seriously? I just laid down.” Dealing with this guy can be so fucking exhausting sometimes.

Jackson looks as if Stiles’ reaction is somehow outrageous. “Because there’s at least one criminal in this motel, and I’m the werewolf,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “So, move.”

Stiles follows the instruction, rolling over to the other side of the bed. “First you make me walk miles and miles and now— stop being so fucking bossy.”

“Maybe I just wanna spend time with you and keep you alive?” Jackson unties his shoes, shaking his head.

Stiles squints at the back of his head. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Yes, yes. Stiles did hear him, but he’s not sure he processed those words correctly. Jackson wants to spend time with him? “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.” Jokes. Jokes are going to keep this situation light and not at all dangerous.

“The fact that you think you're subtle with your crush is ridiculous,” Jackson continues, his smirk more than audible in his tone. “Because you’re not. You can cover up your lies, but your chemo-signals are all over the place.” Sighing, he drops the shoes and gets into bed as well. “I talked to Lydia about it.”

Stiles widens his eyes, and he’s pretty sure all the color drains from his face. “What?” That would explain why Lydia mentioned that she’s okay with Stiles and Jackson dating. Stiles blinks. That would explain why Lydia mentioned that she’s okay with Stiles and Jackson dating. “Wait— you… you like me… too?” Right? That’s why Lydia talked to him about it, right? Stiles’ heart aches. Please, please, if he’s making a fool of himself, Stiles will find the serial killer in this dump of a motel and become their first victim.

Jackson rolls his eyes, which is not the reaction Stiles would have hoped for, and slips under the covers with him. “You think I’ll text every person daily? Or invite them on a vacation?”

“Lydia—”

“Lydia won’t be there.” Jackson shifts under the blanket, knocking his leg against Stiles’ and pulls his phone out. “The plan was that she would call and say something important came up so we are going to be alone for the weekend.” Drawing his brows together, Jackson scrolls through his phone for a bit then shows Stiles the chat history between Jackson and Lydia — and there it is, the truth of the matter.

Stiles blinks, gaze flicking up from the chat history to Jackson, who still looks everywhere but Stiles, and back to the phone again. Apparently, Lydia and Jackson planned this trip three months ago, fully preparing that this would end up basically being a romantic get-together to kickstart their relationship. As if Stiles wouldn’t have gotten an anxiety attack that lasted the whole weekend. “You like me?”

Jackson drops the phone between them. “Yes, Stiles. I like you, and I’m well aware you like me too. Can we please skip to the good parts?” Smiling, he leans over and cups Stiles’ neck, brushing his thumb over his skin.

Heart hammering in his chest, Stiles swallows heavily and licks his lips. He is highly aware of Jackson’s eyes on his mouth. Apparently, that’s all he needs. Stiles surges forward, crashing their mouths together awkwardly. Their teeth click together, nose bumping. Jackson is pulling away and parts his lips, probably working his way up to a stupid fucking comment, but Stiles chases his mouth and kisses him again. Months and months of stress for nothing.

Sighing, Stiles closes his eyes when Jackson kisses him back.

Lydia pats his shoulder comfortingly. “No, no. You just need to be less picky.” Less picky. Stiles isn’t picky at all. “Or you gotta look somewhere you never thought you’d find someone.”

Squinting, Stiles lifts his head again and studies her expression. She looks so perfectly innocent behind her Martini glass, Stiles knows for a fact that there’s evil brewing behind that pretty face of hers. “What?”

“Nothing.” Lydia raises her free hand defensively. “I’m just saying that maybe dating apps aren’t your thing. Maybe you should look at those around you.” She raises one of her perfectly plucked brows. It doesn’t matter how innocent she pretends to be, she’s planning some shit. If she’s in a mood like that, Lydia cannot be trusted.

Stiles straightens again, thanking the barkeeper for his drink. Befriending Ryan was one of the best choices they could’ve made because the guy makes the best cocktails, and for some reason, he always seems to know exactly how strong his drink needs to be. Today’s cocktail concoction has enough vodka to make his Polish genes more than a little happy. He sighs and turns to Lydia. “I’m not dating anybody from my team.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about your team. There are more people in your life than your team.”

“Well…” Stiles drums his fingers onto the bar, tipping his glass this way and that, “sure, there are a lot of people working at HQ.” But from another team. It’s hard enough that Stiles is working all over the country more often than not. If his partner were to work at the FBI as well, their relationship would be a tragedy before it even begins. “And there are the various people making sure I don’t starve to death or am under-caffeinated.” None of them really sticks out if he’s perfectly honest. “And then there’s you and Ryan, which…” he trails off, waving his hand around a little. Lydia and he dated for a month until admitting to each other that it feels like dating their sibling.

Lydia studies him over the edge of her glass. “Nobody else? What about deputies? Or lawyers?”

“Not since Jackson specialized in supernatural cases.”

“Jackson?” Lydia almost sounds as if that’s some kind of surprise to her… which it is not. She’s friends with Jackson and Danny. Stiles knows for a fact that they’re seeing each other on a regular basis. For her to act surprised makes zero sense.

“Speaking of Jackson,” Stiles says, running his fingers along his glass, “I have the questionable honor to spend tomorrow evening with him. Any tips?”

Lydia’s eyes widen. So does her smile. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing spectacular, it’s just a work date. We gotta go over some files.”

“What top do you want then?”

Stiles shrugs. “On how to keep him tolerable for a few hours.”

Lydia chuckles. “He’s not that bad, you know?”

Oh, Stiles knows. Jackson is not like he used to be; well, mostly. He’s still a spoiled piece of shit, but he’s not acting like a dick every second of every day. Stiles does not want to smack him either. However, it’s the first time he’s completely alone with Jackson. Stiles suggested his office, but Jackson insisted they meet at his penthouse. As if Stiles needs a reminder that Jackson is getting richer every single day. Stiles is still living in the same flat he’s lived in during his studies. It’s not that he couldn’t afford something better, but he’s almost never home anyway.

“I don’t wanna talk about work any longer.”

“Jackson does not have to be ‘just work’,” Lydia says, quirking a brow. “He can be fun too.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “You mean a friend.” He’s just making sure because her definition of fun usually involves no clothes and lots of moaning. So, Stiles isn’t entirely sure what Lydia is insinuating. “Right?”

“Yes.” Lydia looks at him, smiling a little too innocently. “What did I say?”

“How many Martinis did you have?”

She grins and sips on her drink. Oh, this is going to be a long night.

—————

"That's not enough proof."

"How is this not enough proof?" Stiles slams his right hand on the file, narrowing his eyes. "Dude had fourteen bodies in his basement's built-in freezer." He taps on the papers aggressively, as if that's going to change anything. "Fourteen, Jackson. Two of those bodies are those of missing girls." What more do they need to get this wendigo behind bars? No judge or jury would consider this guy innocent… unless his defense attorney is better than Jackson and the evidence they do have. That shouldn’t be possible. He was a fantastic defense attorney and a fucking pain in Stiles’ ass on more than one occasion.

Jackson crosses his arms, sinking deeper in his designer armchair. "And five of those bodies come from the morgue. Including papers."

"That's five against nine unaccounted bodies." Stiles crosses his arms over his thighs.

"I know that," Jackson says, now leaning forward to do the same. "But the defense is going to argue that everything he did was legal." He quirks a brow and reaches for his bottle of beer.

Stiles has the urge to bang his head against the wall. Instead, he props his chin on his hand and studies Jackson. To be perfectly honest, Stiles is glad that Jackson is finally on his team. Hopefully, he’s going to do an even better job now that he’s a state attorney. After all, they’re sitting on a powder keg. It’s only going to be a matter of time until the supernatural will be known everywhere, and when that happens, they need to prove to the humans that they don’t have to be afraid, that everything is under control and the supernaturals are treated just as strictly as any human would. Jackson as an attorney can make this happen even if working with him is going to drive Stiles up the wall.

“We haven’t found anything for the other bodies.”

“That doesn’t mean the evidence doesn’t exist.”

Stiles licks his lips. “You think he met the girls online.” It’s not impossible. Stiles knows about message boards from cannibals for cannibals. If someone offers themselves up to be eaten, Stiles doubts they’ll be bothered if it’s a wendigo instead of a human. “If that’s the case—”

“You think he’s guilty?” Jackson sets the bottle down and leans closer.

“What does that matter?”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

“Yes.” Stiles pushes the files away from him and slumps back on the couch. “Yes, he’s fucking guilty, okay? But that doesn’t make evidence magically appear.”

Jackson chuckles even though there’s absolutely nothing funny happening right now. “Good.”

“Good?” Scoffing, Stiles reaches for his own beer and takes a swig. He’d rather drink his beer before he says something stupid. The last fucking thing he needs is getting into an argument with Jackson. After all, they’re on the same team now. They need to get along. Arguing is only going to make things so much more complicated.

“Yes, good.” Jackson taps a finger against the bottle in his hand. “Because that means the guy is guilty.”

Stiles snaps his gaze back to Jackson. “What?” What? Did he hear that right? Sure, they’ve been getting along better than they did in high school — even though they haven’t really been enemies back then either — but this kind of niceness, this trust is new. Jackson doesn’t hand it out, and he especially doesn’t hand it to him. It’s a big jump from being something like colleagues to basically saying ‘I trust that your instinct is right even though we don’t have any evidence’.

“If you think this guy belongs behind bars, that’s where he’ll end up.” Jackson shrugs and leans back again.

If Stiles hadn’t known him before, judging by the way he sits in his expensive leather armchair, he would’ve pegged him as a supervillain straight out of a James Bond movie. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair then drinks the rest of his beer in one go. “But what if we don’t find anything?”

“Then that’s the evidence we need.” Jackson crosses his legs. “If we can prove he did not exchange any previous messages with the victims or received any other form of written consent, he broke the law. Simple as that.” Simple as that coming from the guy who’s only having to ask questions and present the evidence, Stiles and his team have to gather within twenty-four hours unless Jackson manages to convince the judge to decide that there is probable cause for the charge. But that should be the least of their problems. Locking him up for the rest of his pathetic life, that’s the problem.

Sighing, Stiles puts the empty bottle back on the table and hides his face in his hands. Tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day. He’s so glad Stiles managed to convince his boss and Danny to join his team. There is nobody else who could get through a workload like that as effectively as Danny Mahealani. Stiles would throw himself out of the window of Jackson’s penthouse. He still might, especially if this job is not going the way he wants it to.

This is more than a little tiring. Catching the guy has already been an exhausting mess, but making sure he stays locked up? That’s a whole other story.

“Come on, Stilinski.” God, Jackson hasn’t called him that since their early High School years. Is that how much time has passed? They’re adults. They’re fucking adults, and they’re both in charge of the safety of humanity by making sure the nutjobs in the supernatural world will be trialed and locked up. “You caught the guy. If you cannot lock him up, nobody else can.”

Stiles rubs his cheeks then lowers his hands and squints at Jackson. “How come you’ve been so abnormally nice to me all of the sudden?”

Jackson quirks a brow, studying him over the rim of the bottle of beer. “What do you mean?”

Did the guy not hear himself talk? All these little compliments, his reassuring Stiles. That’s not Jackson. “You just seem nicer than usual is all.”

With a chuckle, Jackson empties his beer. “I can come up with a couple of insults really quick.” He puts the bottle on the table and folds his arms over his thighs. The shirt tightens around his shoulders and upper arms. He works out. Those biceps are definitely new. Stiles would’ve noticed them before. Right? Right. “Or punch you in the face if you want.”

“Okay, that’s a little excessive, don’t you think?” Stiles presses his lips together, trying his best not to smile. “You never punched me.”

“No,” Jackson agrees, nodding slowly, “but you punched me. Hard.”

“To be fair, you called my dad useless, and Scott expected me to throw my dad to the wolves. Literally.” Stiles bounces his left leg and sighs, running a hand over the nape of his neck. “Still, sorry about that. I should’ve handled that better.” He really should’ve. His anger issues have followed him around for a lot longer than he’d like to admit, but his teenage years really were the worst. “And if it makes you feel better, you’re not the only supernatural creature I’ve punched in the face.” He wriggles his fingers then lowers his hands.

Jackson shrugs. “I did deserve it.”

“Not really.” Shaking his head, Stiles gets to his feet. Nobody deserves to be punched that night. They were all stressed to the max, being hunted by Peter. “Anyway, I should get going.” Jackson being nice and talking about the past makes him feel nostalgic, and he really doesn’t need that right now. He needs a clear head.

“You don’t have to go.”

Stiles hugs the file to his chest, feeling strangely lost as he looks down at Jackson. Part of him doesn’t want to leave. At all. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.” He brushes his finger along the side of the file, swallowing heavily. “I’ll call you the second we’ll find something.”

Jackson nods slowly, following him to the elevator. “I’ll keep you updated on the judge.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

They stand there for a moment, and Stiles feels even more lost now. So much more than only a second ago. Maybe he should stay? Just for an hour. Not too long. It’s still early after all. No. No. Stiles hits the button for the elevator. “See you soon.” Why did that come out like a question? “Oh, and thanks for the beer.” The elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding.

“Hey,” Jackson says when the elevator doors slide open, “I can swing by the office… tomorrow? Judge McLoughlin should make his decision before lunch.”

Stiles nods, feeling strangely — what? — hopeful? “That sounds nice.“ He presses the button for the ground floor, suddenly wanting tomorrow to come sooner.

“Great. I should be there around twelve.” Jackson smiles.

Fuck, Stiles really forgot how handsome he is. “It’s a date.” The elevator doors slide shut. It’s a date. Groaning, Stiles smacks the folder against his forehead. What the hell?

———

"Someone didn’t get laid last night, huh?" Brett crosses his ankles on Isaac's empty chair. "I tol—"

"You are about one stupid comment away from ending up in the obituaries, so proceed with caution." Stiles quirks a brow. “Now, get your shoes off that chair and make yourself useful.” Being in a leading position is nothing Stiles enjoys a lot. It’s especially weird to be the leader of a team that consists of his high school buddies — and then there’s Brett. Usually, working with the guy is easy, but Stiles really isn’t up for his humor today.

Brett huffs out a breath. “I’m better in the field.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then why didn’t you send me with Isaac?”

“Because we need to gain the girls’ trust, not their phone numbers.” As amazing as Brett has been at his jobs for the last three years, Stiles is not about to send him to a few cute college girls in order to get information. He may be a fool, but he’s certainly not a fucking idiot. Besides, they both know that Kira and Isaac are the best people to convince others that they can be trusted.

Danny isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. They’re all getting along wonderfully, but schadenfreude is still written in capital letters here. Mostly because they’re all assholes. Well, everyone aside from Kira. Stiles has no clue how she’s handling all of them, day in and day out. The poor girl really doesn’t have it easy.

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair. “Any news, Danny?”

“Not since the last time you asked me—” Danny leans back to check the clock on the wall “— seven minutes ago.”

Stiles huffs out a breath and folds his arms over his chest. They’ve been at it for two hours, and so far they haven’t found anything. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But having something in his hand is better than trying to prove nothing is exactly the evidence they need. There’s gotta be something. A picture. A text message. Stiles would sell his soul for something to prove that this fucker belongs behind bars. Maybe he’s missed something in the files. Maybe the evidence has been sitting right in front of them all along.

Biting his bottom lip, Stiles glances back at the clock. Jackson should be here any second. Hopefully, he’s coming with good news. At this point, Stiles cannot handle any more negative news, or he is going to lose his fucking shit. "Yo, Stiles?"

Stiles looks up from the file, massaging his temples. "Yeah?"

"What car's our guy driving?" Brett leans back in his chair, looking at Stiles with raised brows.

That's a good question. Drawing his eyebrows together, he flicks through the file and scans the personal information. "A light-blue 2012 Honda Accord." He gets to his feet, anticipation making it impossible to sit down. "Please, please, tell me you got something."

“Oh, Babe, you're gonna love this,” Brett smirks way too confidently.

Stiles flicks the side of his head. They talked about his lack of professionalism multiple times in the very beginning, but nobody else seems really bothered by Brett’s love for pet names, and as long as he only does it while they’re alone, it’s hard to argue against. Still, Stiles wouldn’t mind a better pet name than ‘Baby’. It doesn’t exactly show a lot of creativity. Well, it’s still better than Sugarplum. Poor Isaac.

“So,” Stiles says, propping his hands on the edge of Brett’s desk, “what do you got for me?”

“I noticed it in the last story before she disappeared.” Brett pulls up a short little video and points at the right corner of the screen. “Look here.” He hits play, finger still pressed against the corner of the screen.

And Stiles saw it. Just for a second. A light blue 2012 Honda Accord. The license plate is impossible to decipher like this, and there is no way to see who is sitting in the car. Still, it is the car they are looking for, and it happened only a day before she disappeared. Also, Brett probably would not have called him over if this was the only instance of spotting this car. In fact, Brett showed him two more stories and three pictures spread out over the last three weeks. Chances are that’s the same car with the same fucking driver. Chances are this is their guy.

Grinning, Stiles ruffles Brett’s hair. “I could kiss you right now.”

“Not at the office.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Send them to Danny.” He pushes away from the desk. “Danny, I need you on this ASAP. Try to get a clear image of the car. We need to know if that’s him.” Because if that is him, they got him. There’s no way out of this one. “Brett, text Isaac. Maybe her friends noticed something about the car. I’ll try to get a hang of Jackson, maybe—”

“Jackson just texted me.” Danny leans back in his chair, frowning at his phone. “Something came up… and he wants me to tell you that the judge is on our side. Dude’s gonna stay locked up for the time being.”

Stiles should be thrilled about the news. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? He wanted the wendigo to stay behind bars until they found proof. Now, they found proof, and he will not be released. Ever. Period. But… but. He’s not as excited as he thought he’d be. Stiles would’ve preferred if Jackson told him directly. They were supposed to go to lunch too. “That’s great news.”

Brett snorts. “You couldn’t have said that with a bit more enthusiasm?”

For the peace of his own mind, Stiles decides to ignore him. However, looking at Danny doesn’t make this thing any easier because the look Danny is giving him is making his skin crawl. It’s not fun. “I’m starving,” he says, turning away from Danny and his searching look, and grabs his jacket. “I’ll be back in ten.” Without waiting for an answer, Stiles rushes out of the room.

—————

“You look like you’re ready to consider if the hangover is worth it.”

Stiles draws his eyebrows together and looks up at the man sitting down next to him. Oh no, he’s really not up for small talk right now. He still tries to be polite, knowing all too well how easily pissed-off intoxicated people can be. “You know how it is.” He certainly does not, but Stiles isn’t about to elaborate. Sighing, he checks his phone again.

Isaac and Brett insisted they needed to celebrate their success. Which, okay, it’s something they’re always doing, but today is one of the days he’s rather have stayed home and watched a stupid Netflix show to drown out whatever the fuck is going on with him. He wishes he could say that it has absolutely nothing to do with Jackson basically ghosting him. The guy has really left him on read for two days now. Stiles even invited him for tonight, remembering Lydia’s words, but nothing. No text, no call. Zero. Zilch. Stiles is almost a hundred percent sure he did something to piss Jackson off. Not just because he’s completely ignoring him. Danny has been giving him weird looks as well ever since Jackson didn’t show up for lunch.

Oh god.

Is it because of the date comment? It can’t be because of the date comment. Please, let it not be because of that stupid fucking date comment. Jackson should know by now that his mouth doesn't always work properly. He didn’t mean date date. Did Jackson really think it’s a date, and that’s why he didn’t come?

Stiles swallows and drops his phone. Fuck. It’s not like they were flirting or anything. Sure, their meetings became progressively easier, but they were never too friendly, right? Right? Scrunching up his face, Stiles downs the contents of his whiskey.

The guy next to him chuckles. “I don’t think I know how that feels.”

“I really don’t need a running commentary on my life, Buddy.”

“I wasn’t trying to intrude.”

Stiles raises a brow and finally turns to look at the guy next to him. He’s quite handsome, probably in his mid-to-late-thirties. His suit costs undoubtedly more than Stiles makes in six months. It’s also not his unless he’s got a terrible tailor. The shoulders are just a little too loose. The suit jacket doesn’t fit properly around his waist either. The perfectly trimmed three o’clock shadow doesn’t help his case. Neither does wearing a suit like that in a bar that’s filled with people in comfortable clothes. The dude either used to be rich, or he’s got some serious self-esteem issues he thinks he can cover up with his best friend’s suit.

“Okay.” The guy grabs Stiles’ glass and shakes it at the barkeeper. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I really don’t—”

“I insist. As an apology.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Listen, I’m waiting for someone.” Actually, he’s waiting for four someones, but clearly, his team isn’t in the mood for being on time today. Then again, Stiles arrived very early as well. Because he was sitting in his flat, staring at his phone and the last message that went unanswered.

“They’re not here yet, aren’t they?”

Ryan places a drink on him, and, judging by the look on his face, it’s none alcoholic. “You good, Mate?”

Even though Ryan is staring at the guy, Stiles is highly aware that he’s talking to him. “I’m good, thanks.” It’s not the first douche he’s had to deal with, and it probably won’t be the last; especially in his line of work. “Thanks though.” Smiling, Stiles grabs the drink and gets to his feet. His team should arrive shortly, hopefully, and he’d prefer to have already saved them a booth by then. He turns around, not paying the guy any more attention.

Who clearly is not done with him. “Hey,” he says, loud enough that the people closest to them turn around. “I got you that drink.”

Ryan chuckles and props himself onto his elbows. “It’s on the house.”

The guy shoots him a glare then turns back to Stiles. His neck flushes. Oh, someone’s not handling being turned down very well. And mocked. And stared at. This has to be his worst nightmare.

Stiles loves it. He probably shouldn’t, but he does. So much. Trying his best to keep his expression under control, Stiles turns and faces him again. “You wanna say something to me?” He quirks a brow then leans a little closer, lowering his voice. “Like, I don’t know, that I owe you because you took time out of your evening to talk to me? Or because you tried to buy me a drink I didn’t want?”

He’s gnashing his teeth now, shoulders going rigid.

“Come on,” Stiles urges, fingers itching for a fight for the first in a very long time, “be that guy. You know you want to.”

“Or just move along.”

Stiles steps aside, whipping his head around. Jackson is standing next to him, arms folded tightly over his chest. His white button-down and black jeans make him look extra attractive, and Stiles cannot believe that thought just crossed his mind. He’s been thinking a lot about Jackson… which isn’t much better now that he thinks about that.

The guy narrows his eyes. “And why would I?”

“Because I just asked you politely, and I only do that once.” Jackson’s expression remains firmly neutral, probably because he’s more than used to people doing whatever he wants.

Much to Stiles’ relief and dismay, the dickhead actually does move away. It’s good. It really is because Stiles probably would’ve provoked him until he stepped out of line. Still. “You know, I could’ve handled that myself.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you did a stellar job.”

Like he needs anyone to judge his methods. Stiles huffs out a breath and walks over to one of the empty tables in the corner. “What are you even doing here?”

“You invited me, remember?” Jackson slips into the booth, motioning Stiles to sit down next to him. Which, seriously? First, the guy ghosts him and now he’s expecting Stiles to pretend like nothing happened and sit down next to him?

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles collapses onto the bench, bumping his leg against Jackson. He crosses his arms. Fine, maybe he sits down next to him, but he’s not gonna be happy about it. “I didn’t expect you’d show up after not replying to any of the texts I’ve sent you in the past 48 hours.”

Jackson nudges a napkin with his index finger. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Stiles stares at him. “We didn’t talk?!”

Jackson shoots him a look then returns his attention to poking the napkin. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh no. No way, Sir.” Stiles is so not going to let him get away with this. Seriously. “First, we agreed on meeting during lunch, then you tell Danny that you’re not coming, who then proceeded to look at me as if I insulted his grandmother, and you fucking leave me on read for two fucking days.” He turns around, swatting Jackson’s upper arm. “I think you owe me a fucking explanation.”

“I think you can chill with the expletives.”

“I don’t think I fucking will.” Stiles narrows his eyes. “It’s not fucking fun to have Danny glare at you from across the room every two seconds.”

Jackson lets out a breath and finally looks at him. “You really don’t know.” It’s not a question, and for some reason, Jackson seems to be amused about his own realization. “Can’t believe Lydia’s right.”

“Right about what?” What the hell is he talking about now? Is he trying to confuse him on purpose?

With yet another sigh, Jackson leans back, studying Stiles’ face for a few seconds. He’s still smiling a little. “That you wouldn’t notice that I like you until I spell it out for you.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed to meet you alone if I thought you’d hate me.”

“No, Stiles…” Jackson trails off. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “I’m talking about the ‘I booked a table at your favorite restaurant and ordered a bouquet of flowers for our lunch date’ kind of like.”

Stiles opens his mouth then closes it again, squinting a little. “Wha— oh.” Oh god. Jackson thought it was a date date. He wanted it to be an actual date? Jackson Whittemore… the Jackson Whittemore booked a table and bought him a bouquet of flowers because he thought Stiles meant a date date. He can’t believe it. That’s gotta be a joke. “Wait… you like me?”

Jackson nods very slowly.

“For my personality?”

“Nobody was as surprised as me.”

“Rude.” Stiles boxes Jackson’s upper arm very lightly, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Wait… then why did you cancel everything?” That doesn’t make any sense. If Jackson thought Stiles was talking about a date date, and he wanted it to be a date date… then why drop everything and run? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.

Jackson shifts on the bench, left leg now pressing against Stiles’. “I heard Talbot call you babe.”

“He has pet names for all of us.”

“Danny told me as much.” Jackson nods and runs a hand over the nape of his neck. “Then Lydia reminded me that you’re stupid and that I need to get my head out of my ass if I wanted to go on a date with you, so… here I am.”

Stiles bounces his leg, feeling stupidly giddy all of the sudden — giddy enough that he decides to ignore Lydia’s comment. “You… still wanna go on a date with me?”

“I would like that, yeah.”

His heart did not just flutter. Nope. Never. Stiles clears his throat and grins. Oh god, this… he didn’t expect this at all. “I don’t have an expensive suit, so…”

Jackson puts a hand on his thigh, and Stiles’ pulse goes sky-high within the flicker of a second. “We could rent a movie. Order in.”

Stiles likes that idea so much more than going out. He places his hand on Jackson’s, running his thumb over the side of his index finger. “And no flowers, I can’t even keep a cactus alive.”

Unexpectedly, Jackson lifts their hands and kisses the back of Stiles’, just above his wrist. Fuck. He’s never going to admit what this small little gesture is doing to him. “That works for me.”

He’s going on a date with Jackson.

He’s going on a date with Jackson.