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“I told you I was everybody’s type,” Jackson says, and if it weren’t for Jackson’s hand wrapped so warm around his waist, Danny would follow through on his impulse to get up and leave. As it is, his groan is muffled by the pillow he’s half lying on. He doesn’t have to look at his boyfriend to know that he’s smirking.
“You can’t let anything go, can you?”
“Not when I was right,” Jackson says, shifting his hand until it’s pressed against the tattoo on Danny’s right hip.
“I figured it out eventually,” he says, moving around so that his face is no longer squished uncomfortably into the pillow and he’s lying on his side. Jackson raises an eyebrow when he looks across at him, their bodies mirroring each other like a pair of parentheses. His eyes are soft like Danny rarely remembers them being in high school, surrounded by people who judged and taunted and Jackson cared fare too much about, and affection blooms in his chest the same way it always has.
Jackson’s a little different now, like sea glass that has barely had enough time to smooth the edges, but the difference is still there, in every kiss Jackson lets himself have and every time Jackson tells him what he wants instead of hiding it in hurt and layers.
Like an onion, he thinks to himself, and presses his lips together to hold in the laughter. It’s not worth hurting Jackson’s feelings by making him think Danny’s laughing at him (even though he kind of is), not when he’s let himself be vulnerable.
“You were always slow to catch on,” Jackson teases. “It took you long enough to figure out half the lacrosse team are werewolves.”
“No one jumps straight to werewolves when their best friend starts acting strange,” he replies, pausing to grin a little before continuing. “I thought you were having another sexuality crisis, what with your obsession with Scott.”
“I was not obsessed with McCall,” Jackson protests, but he’s doing that thing where he’s looking slightly to the left, like when he lies, and Danny grins. He knew it.
“You kind of were,” he says, and Jackson frowns until Danny kisses him, brief and sweet.
When they break apart, Jackson’s smirking again, but he doesn’t really think anything of it. It’s a pretty commonplace expression on Jackson.
“At least I wasn’t as obsessed with McCall as you are with me,” he says, like he’s winning something. Jackson might be sea glass now, but he doesn’t think there’s anything that could make him stop thinking that everything’s a competition. He’s lucky Danny loves him.
It’s still a weird thing to think, that he loves Jackson, because he spent so long proclaiming to everyone that assumed or spread rumours that Jackson was as far from his type as it was possible to get. And now they’re dating, and Danny’s in love with him.
“I am not obsessed with you,” he says pointedly, because he might love him but someone has to stop Jackson from getting a big head - especially over things that aren’t true. “And I definitely wasn’t then.”
“So it’s a coincidence that all your past boyfriends looked like a less hot version of me? I’m sure.”
“Are you aware of how much you sound like Regina George right now?” Danny shoots back, because he doesn’t know what to say otherwise. Jackson would never take ‘yes, it was a coincidence
“I can’t believe Lydia made us watch that,” Jackson groans, even though he’d spent the entire time with his eyes locked on the screen like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It’s been ten years, but Danny bets that Jackson still knows most of the lines.
“Twice,” he adds. Jackson hadn’t looked any less rapt the second time.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“You’re deflecting,” he says, of course, because he never knows how to let things go. He’d compare his boyfriend to a dog with a bone, if Stilinski hadn’t driven those so far into the ground that they’re no longer even moderately appealing.
“I just didn’t want to break it to you that your detective skills are lacking. You might want to spend more time with Stilinski,” he teases gently.
“He’s a cop, not a detective, and Derek would make a good alpha before I willingly spend time with him,” Jackson objects. “And my detective skills aren’t lacking.”
“They kind of are. High school me would never have dated you, so my boyfriends kind of looking like you is an accident.”
“Everyone wanted to date me,” Jackson says, honing in on the most important thing to him, his chest puffing out ever so slightly.
“Not me. You were an asshole, I would have been worried your head was so far up your own ass you wouldn’t have been able to take it out to kiss me,” he teases, laughing at Jackson’s irritated expression.
“But you love me now,” Jackson says, seeking out the kind of reassurance that’s as important to him as air and lacrosse, and Danny gives it to him.
“I do,” he says. Jackson doesn’t say it back; they’re too new, too fresh, and ten years of friendship a decade ago can’t negate his insecurities. It’s okay, because Jackson still isn’t good at saying what he’s feeling, even if he’s better than it was. He certainly doesn’t feel unloved when Jackson settles himself over him and pushes him into the mattress, kissing him until neither of them can say anything, declarations of love or not.
It’s okay. They have time.