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In the many years Stiles had spent daydreaming about Lydia Martin’s wedding day, this particular scenario had never once crossed his mind.
For starters, in most of those scenarios, he had been the one waiting for her at the aisle (which, in retrospect, was weird and a little creepy, but hey, which teenager wasn’t a little weird and creepy? None, in Stiles’ experience. Absolutely none. Most of them grew fangs or turned into lizards or were actually undercover orphaned assassins). There were also a few variations on the theme of Stiles bursting through the church like the scorned lover that yells “stop this wedding!”, and one particularly weird dream in which Lydia said she couldn’t marry him because he had a bald spot and all his socks were purple.
Still, Stiles could have predicted the choice of groom (and he was sure Parrish and Lydia would make the best looking babies in the history of the world). He could have predicted his own quiet acceptance– no, his genuine, unbridled joy for the former girl of his dreams (after all, some school crushes were just meant to stay in school– Liam and Hayden were just the exception that proves the rule).
Even then, he couldn’t have predicted this.
The reception is in full swing and Stiles is by the bar, sampling a myriad of colorful cocktails because hey, open bar! He’s done his duty and congratulated the beautiful couple, and promptly got the heck out of their way, making room for estranged relatives to fawn over Lydia and Parrish. It wasn’t as if he didn’t see them constantly anyway– either at pack meetings or the grocery store or covered in werewolf blood, though the last one had become reassuringly more rare as the pack grew stronger.
Stiles is flying solo tonight and his friends are all otherwise occupied– Malia and Kira haven’t left the dance floor for the past half hour, Derek’s fucked off to god knows where, and he’s pretty sure this whole thing will have Scott panicking about his own proposal next month (he had been planning it for months and Stiles was willing to bet Scott would end up blurting it out accidentally a few days early). So, fruity cocktails for Stiles it is, at least until the DJ’s playlist entices him with some Spice Girls or something equally fun that’ll make third-wheeling for Malia and Kira worth it. He’s even made friends with the bartender, an undergrad student named Thomas who does events to help pay for his classes, and who is teaching him all about fun cocktails that Stiles never tried. Drink number three is chartreuse and… well, chartreuse again, since it fades from a bright green to an even brighter yellow. Well, chartreuse the color, not the liqueur, although it could be both since he’s never had it before.
He turns to ask Thomas about it, but immediately forgets about his curiosity when Jackson Whittemore slides into the bar stool next to him. In true Jackson fashion, the asshole doesn’t even notice him.
Now, Stiles figures this could go one of two ways.
Number one: he could ignore Jackson until the half-lizard weirdo pulls his head out of his ass long enough to look around and see him staring, or look away and avoid contact altogether. Now, those might sound like two different approaches, but Stiles figures they both boil down to “do nothing”, and so belong in the same scenario. The problem with this course of action is Stiles isn’t very good at doing nothing, mainly because doing nothing is no fun .
Which leaves him with option number two: talk to Jackson like an adult instead of holding onto a petty teenage grudge. After all, they are adults. And even if he hasn’t seen Jackson since they were teenagers, Stiles knows he kept in touch with Scott and Lydia and even Derek , and they all liked Jackson, now. Well, Lydia had never not-liked him, but still. And Stiles has always been curious about Jackson’s life after leaving Beacon Hills. How could he not be? Jackson Whittemore left Beacon Hills, which meant his life had probably been blessedly normal when compared to Stiles’, even if he factored in the whole wolf-lizard hybrid thing. Jackson Whittemore was an american werewolf in London, which was a thought that never failed to make Stiles chuckle. Jackson Whittemore was into guys, which was another thought that… well, he didn’t think too much about that, because it often derailed into thoughts that he probably shouldn’t be entertaining.
That being said, there were a number of things Stiles could say in this scenario. Like “hey”, or “how have you been”, or “long time, no see”. Or “so you came all the way from London, huh”, or “are you also at the bar because you refuse to dance along to Robbie Williams”, or “didn’t know you were a gin man”.
But all of those are terrible, and it’s a wonderful day, and Stiles is a little tipsy, so instead, he just says,
“ Lizard king! Mr. Mojo Risin’! How goes it?”
No more fruity cocktails for Stiles.
Jackson’s head whips in Stiles’s direction. He looks him up and down exactly once before turning back to the bar and rolling his eyes.
“Stilinski,” Jackson sighs. “Should’ve known I was bound to run into your annoying ass eventually. Please do yourself a favour and don’t say anything that stupid to my face ever again.”
Well, so much for that, Stiles thinks. He should’ve known Jackson would still be an asshole, even if Scott insisted he was a lot more bearable nowadays.
Stiles sags a little, but quickly shrugs it off. This is a good day. Two of his pack members are getting married! His friends are alive and happy and dancing along to embarrassing music! His new friend Thomas is making him delicious, colorful drinks! He’s not about to let Furry Reptile Boy ruin his fun by being snarky and mean. Besides, the speakers are now playing a mashup cover of Grease songs, so now is as good a time as any to get back on the dancefloor.
“Shouldn’t you be off in a corner. mourning the loss of your teenage wet dreams or something?”
Years of talking back to bullies and actual villainous people alike have conditioned Stiles to puff his chest and spit out something just as mean. He stops himself, though, because this is Lydia’s wedding and she would have his head, and also because of Jackson’s face. He’s smirking, like the asshole he is, but the glint in his icy blue eyes is almost… playful.
Stiles studies his face for a second. Has he always been this good-looking? Then he mentally slaps himself, because of course he has, the bastard.
“Hey, I’m good. You’re the one who dated her,” he points out instead.
“See, I heard a rumor you tried that too. How’d that go?”
Stiles winces at the memory of that relationship. They’d been convinced they were the perfect match for each other: intellect and wit, fierce loyalty and unwavering passion, and all these other pieces that fit perfectly together. Or would have, if they hadn’t been so focused on it being perfect all the time. The first day they had any actual fun together was the day they’d decided to call it quits– but at least they’d gotten a best friend out of it, so all in all, it was the best breakup of his life.
Of course, he’s not about to tell Jackson that.
“Oh, you know. It didn’t end with me turning into a giant lizard man and running off to Europe, so I guess it was alright.”
“No, but it started when you were erased from her memory, so you could argue she wasn’t so much into you as she was into you not existing,” Jackson bites back. He pauses a little, a smirk playing on his lips as he looks off into the distance like he’s actually daydreaming about it. Before Stiles can say anything about it, Jackson looks at him and shrugs, visibly disappointed to find him whole. “Just means she’s always had great taste.”
Rude, Stiles wants to say. He goes to do just that, but then stops himself, because this is Jackson and he’s definitely not worth the effort. But then, he’s just sitting there, sipping casually on his gin and tonic, all smug and annoying and, if Stiles was being honest, kind of hot. But Stiles isn’t being honest right now, he’s being offended, so he doubles down on how annoying and childish Jackson still is, and convinces himself that Jackson Whittemore is a loser and definitely doesn’t have the finest pair of cheekbones he’s ever seen.
He realizes he’s been sitting there for a few seconds too many, opening and closing his mouth like a clownfish in an aquarium (emphasis on clown), when Jackson shoots him another arrogant look (emphasis on arrogant). It takes a lot of willpower for Stiles to finish his drink and instead of doing something a little more dramatic.
“Great catching up with you, Jackson,” he says, turning to walk away.
That seems to sour Jackson’s mood. Stiles counts it as a small victory.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Stilinski?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was on punchbag duty tonight,” Stiles deadpans. “I’m gonna dance, okay? It’s a wedding! There’s a dance floor! So I’m gonna dance, even though you just cost me a great medley song and they’re playing Blurred Lines now, which is a terrible song to play at a wedding by the way, so you better pray this DJ has some Beyoncé queued up or I will be very upset and my friend Thomas here,” he points to the bar, but if Thomas notices, he doesn’t react, “will spend the rest of the night messing up anything you try to order from him.”
Stiles is pretty certain Thomas would, if he tipped him enough.
Jackson scoffs. Actually scoffs.
“Sit your ass back down. You can’t dance.”
“What?”
“I said you can’t dance. And apparently you have trouble with your hearing too,” he tuts.
“I can dance just fine! And I didn’t ask for your opinion anyway, so thanks for the input, but I’m gonna go.”
“I’ve seen you dance, Stilinski. You can’t dance. You flail, is what you do. It’s embarrassing.”
Jackson shudders, like the mental image alone is causing him distress.
Stiles wants to protest, but it’s not like he doesn’t know that he can’t dance. What does it matter anyway? Dancing’s supposed to be about fun. He’s not auditioning for the freaking Rockettes, he’s just trying to have a good time.
“Okay fine, I can’t dance. Who cares?”
“This is Lydia’s big day. The last thing she needs is a spaz like you thrashing about. You’d probably end up knocking over the champagne fountain, or doing something equally stupid– so sit your ass back down, and order other another one of atrocious looking sugar bombs you call a drink.”
Stiles eyes him suspiciously.
“Did she put you up to this?”
“Did she– Jesus, Stilinski,” Jackson huffs. He looks away from Stiles, takes a deep breath, then looks him up and down again while shaking his head. “How have you fooled so many people into thinking you’re actually clever?”
“Wha–”
“Just shut up,” he interrupts. “Hey, uh, Timothy? Or whatever your name was? Get this idiot another drink.”
“It’s Thomas,” Stiles grumbles. Thomas doesn’t correct Jackson, though– he mouths a polite “sure thing” and starts working on his drink. He keeps looking between Stiles and Jackson with an amused smile, like they’re the entertainment. Stiles feels a little betrayed, because he’d thought he and Thomas were becoming friends. He had even entertained the thought of getting Thomas’s number, because Thomas was kind of cute and Stiles has been desperately single for longer than he thinks is fair. Right now, though, he just wants to ask him what’s so funny, but something tells him that’s the wrong way to go about this– so he might as well stay put and figure it out himself. After all, it’s not like he has anything better to do. They’re playing My Girl now, and he doesn’t have a date to slow dance with.
Jackson, who has been very decidedly not looking in his direction, sags a little when Stiles finally sits back down.
Huh. That’s weird, he thinks. In fact, now that he’s no longer under constant attack from Jackson’s childish jabs, the whole conversation strikes him as very weird. Sure, Stiles was a lousy dancer, but he wasn’t actually bad enough to cause any damage– and even if he were that bad, why would he be dancing near the champagne fountain? The worst thing he could do was bump up against an old-fashioned Martin aunt, but that wouldn’t be the end of the world.
And anyway, what was Jackson even doing talking to him by the bar? Sure, he wasn’t the kind of guy Stiles expected to see dancing to ABBA or Simple Minds, but he was sure Jackson had something better to do than throw snarky comments his way just for nostalgia’s sake. Shouldn’t he be catching up with Danny, his best friend, or even Lydia, whose wedding he’d flown fourteen hours to attend? Didn’t he have a date that might actually appreciate his company? Where was Ethan, anyway?
When Thomas slides his new drink over, he gives Stiles a quick grin, looking far too pleased with himself for Stiles’s mood, which has soured considerably. Thomas moves to the far end of the bar, and Stiles isn’t sad to see him go.
He tries his new cocktail (this time, it’s purple and blue with a cherry on top) with a little hesitation, but the drink is fine. It’s mostly sugar and soda, anyway– definitely less strong than the ones Thomas had been mixing so far, but so long as the cocktail is delicious and has at least two colors, he doesn’t mind either way (though he’d probably prefer to go home more sober than not).
Then, the weirdest thing yet happens.
“How’s your dad?” Jackson asks.
Stiles is doing the clownfish mouth thing again, which earns him another eyeroll, another sigh, and an expectant look.
“What? ”
Because, seriously, what is this all about? Since when does Jackson care about making small talk, especially with him?
“He’s fine, he’s–” Stiles trips over his words, still trying to get his thoughts in order. He’s a little ashamed to say that the cocktails are definitely not helping. “What are you even doing talking to me? Shouldn’t you be spending quality time with your creepy werewolf boyfriend? You know, bonding over your mutual love of expensive cars and excessive amounts of hair gel, or whatever it is you guys do when you’re together?”
“Don’t insult my hair, we both know you think I look hot,” Jackson says, and then adds, with an odd look on his face, “and I’m not seeing Ethan anymore.”
“Huh.” Now that’s a memo I didn’t get.
Stiles watches Jackson for a second, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the thought of the breakup– then again, this is Jackson Whittemore, he wouldn’t expose himself like that. Is Stiles supposed to be showing concern? Should he ask about the breakup and risk Jackson actually ripping his throat out? Is he supposed to say “oh, I’m sorry” and talk about his feelings? Why is Jackson even telling him this anyway?
“Stop gawking, it makes you look unattractive,” Jackson complains.
Huh.
Had Jackson just implied that he thought Stiles was, otherwise, attractive?
“Are you trying to flirt with me?” Stiles blurts out. At first glance, Jackson looks outraged, but Stiles has seen angry Jackson before– angry Jackson doesn’t stare and twitch his jaw, angry Jackson throws a punch (or an insult, at the very least) and walks away. No, he’s not offended, he’s… cagey? He’s definitely putting up a front, and Stiles grins, because this might be the most unlikely, and consequently funniest thing that’s ever happened in his life. “You totally are trying to flirt with me!”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Stilinski,” Jackson grunts, hiding behind his gin glass.
Stiles is pretty sure that, if Jackson Whittemore blushed, he would be blushing right now.
“See, you say that, but the look on your face doesn’t lie, Whittemore.”
The whole thing starts to make a little more sense. Jackson wouldn’t have accidentally sat right next to him. This wasn’t some smokey, dimly lit gay bar– this is a wedding reception, in a hotel with an excessive number of chandeliers and a wall of floor to ceiling windows, in the middle of the afternoon. Jackson had to have seen him, and he’d sat next to him intentionally. Jackson had ordered him a drink to stop him from leaving.
Jackson thought Stiles was attractive. When Stiles wasn’t gawking.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Jackson says under his breath.
Stiles gasps. He looks around frantically, hoping to God that the wedding videographer is somewhere nearby, ready to film this unprecedented moment in history.
“Oh my god, you are trying to flirt with me!”
“Yes, I think you’ve established that.”
“Wow,” Stiles pauses. “Is this how you pick up guys in London? Because if it is, I gotta tell you, you have no game. You are very bad at this. Like, pitifully bad. The kind of bad where you’d probably need a really good wingman to actually get anyone to sleep with you. Now that makes you very unattractive.”
Jackson scoffs.
“Nothing makes me unattractive. And most guys in London don’t accuse me of leading a reptilian conspiracy.”
“Wha– I was comparing you to Jim Morrison! He was hot!”
“So you do think I’m hot.”
Stiles wants to object, but this is Jackson Whittemore. Of course he’s hot. He’s always been hot. The bastard.
“Touché.”
For a long moment, they avoid looking at each other, each turning to their own drinks. Stiles wonders why the room isn’t in uproar, why no one is calling the news, and was this why Thomas looked so amused? That little shit. Stiles is pretty sure the tension is causing every hair on his body to stand on end. It’s embarrassing and exhilarating and he needs to get a grip, goddammit.
Because obviously they’re not going to do anything in public. For starters, that would be very rude– this is Lydia’s wedding after all. They’re adults, with working brains and self-control. Well, some self-control. Clearly not enough, though.
“Meet me in the coat closet in five?”
“I’ll be there in ten,” Jackson smirks, because of course he still has to be a little shit about this, even if it was his idea to begin with.
Stiles tries not to skip as he walks away.
To his credit, Jackson doesn’t take so long to show up– in fact, if Stiles had bothered to check the time, he would’ve realized he’d been waiting for less than five minutes before the door of the small room cracks open. Jackson slips in, and Stiles has only one moment to appreciate how good Jackson actually looks in a suit before Jackson strides over and leans in to kiss him.
This is definitely not what he’d planned to be doing at Lydia's wedding, but it’s really hard to complain when Jackson is, unsurprisingly, such a goddamn great kisser. Stiles freezes for half a second before his brain catches up with his mouth and he parts his lips to deepen the kiss. Jackson tastes like mint and lime, and when his hand comes up to pull the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck, Stiles squeezes his ass in retaliation.
And Jackson Whittemore actually moans.
Stiles’s brain is still registering that when Jackson shoves him against the door with a little more force than strictly necessary.
“Aw, this brings back memories,” Stiles quips, sighing a little as Jackson’s lips start to move down his neck. “Although, I gotta say, I wouldn’t have minded half as much if– ugh, if you’d been doing that –” His words trail off into a moan when Jackson captures his earlobe with his teeth.
“Good to know you’ve always had the hots for me,” he purrs.
Stiles chuckles. He’s still a little in shock, so he’s one hundred percent not to blame if his first instinct is to make bad jokes.
“Oh yeah, you really did it for me back in the day. The whole teen-angst, venomous-tail combo you had going on? Very hot. I was a regular monster lover.”
Jackson groans, this time in frustration.
“God, don’t ruin this for me, Stiles.”
Stiles doesn’t have time to think up a clever reply, because Jackson grinds their hips together, and Stiles is suddenly unable to form coherent thoughts. He arches his back, pressing against Jackson, and decides on a much cleverer use of his mouth. Stiles sucks Jackson’s lower lip into his mouth and bites down gently, licking over the sensitive area before crashing their lips together again. Their tongues slide in sync, and Stiles’s body tenses with anticipation as he feels Jackson’s hands slide down the sides of his stomach and grabbing his hips.
Stiles can’t help but whimper when Jackson steps back, their mouths parting with a wet ‘pop’.
“What are you, a sixteen-year-old virgin?” Jackson smirks, without much venom. “I’m not going to jerk you off in a closet, that’s depressing.”
“Oh. I–”
“In case you didn’t notice, we still have half a reception to get through. But this was… fun.”
He’s already smoothing his shirt back into place, clearly intending to head back to the party as soon as possible, and Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. After all, he’d arrived without a date, and was about to hook up with Jackson Whittemore of all people– which was still a weird thought, but also a little exhilarating.
Still, Stiles was a big boy. He could take a hint, and he could definitely respect a “no”, even if his pants were uncomfortably tight around his crotch.
“Yeah, it definitely was– that. I’ll, huh… see you around, I guess–”
He clears his throat and reaches for the door handle, but Jackson’s hand wraps around his wrist.
“What?”
“Your room number, Stilinski?” Jackson grunts. “I said this was fun. So, unless you disagree, which I seriously doubt, I say we pick up where we left off once this thing’s over. You’re in the bridal party, so I assume you’re staying somewhere on the fifth floor?”
Stiles feels a little out of breath.
“Oh– yeah. That. We should, definitely– 504, that’s, uh– that’s me.”
Jackson rolls his eyes, but even in the low light, Stiles can tell he’s… smiling. Not smirking, but actually smiling a little– or, at least, it’s a little softer than the snotty, smug look than Stiles remembers seeing before. Something catches in his chest when he notices how flushed Jackson is, how pretty he looks with his hair all mussed up and his lips slightly parted.
And of course he’d look pretty. The bastard.
Stiles takes a steadying breath, still struggling to make sense of the last half hour. What the hell.
“Get the fuck out,” Jackson growls. It doesn’t come off as harsh as he probably intended it to, though. Stiles draws him in for another kiss, and he doesn’t miss the way Jackson’s lips part for him automatically, the way his hands grab at Stiles’ lower back and pull him closer; and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Jackson groans quietly in the back of his throat.
This time, it’s Stiles who breaks it off.
“I’ll see you out later then.” Stiles winks and steps outside.
He stops by the bathroom on his way back to the main room, fixing his tie and shirt to the best of his ability. The thought of Jackson standing in front of the same mirror, desperately trying to flatten out his once perfectly ironed shirt, amuses him more than he’d like to admit. Stiles washes his face and runs a damp hand through his hair, but it’s no use– he still looks a little out of breath and he can’t stop laughing at absolutely everything. He feels giddy . It’s ridiculous.
In Stiles’s defense, it’s Lydia Martin’s wedding day, and he just agreed to a late-night rendezvous with Jackson Whittemore, so his world is a little upside down today.
Stiles decides he might as well dance it out. He finds Malia and Kira still on the floor, now joined by Scott and Isaac, and when they tell him that he missed out on the Beyoncé medley, he just shrugs it off. Besides, the speakers start blaring MC Hammer, which is a lot more appropriate for his style of dancing– or rather, his style of flailing about.
Over by the bar, Jackson rolls his eyes and orders another gin and tonic.