Work Text:
Stiles is heading to his car when he sees Jackson about to enter his Porsche.
“Jackson, wait! We need to talk!” Stiles shouts, running towards the car.
“No, we don’t.” Jackson opens the door of the car but doesn't get in.
“Oh yes, we do,” Stiles nods once he’s in front of Jackson, leaving his lacrosse bag on the floor.
“Why don't you just go home and celebrate… have some cake or do whatever it is you do on these special occasions.”
“Come on, what the hell did you tell the coach?” Stiles crosses his arms, frowning.
When Jackson left the field—Jackson knows perfectly what Stiles is asking.
“None of your business,” Jackson shrugs.
"Are you serious? Of course, it’s my business—That was pretty fucked up,” Stiles says, shaking his head.
“No, it wasn’t,” Jackson shakes his head.
“Yes, it was,” Stiles nods.
“No, it really wasn’t,” Jackson insists.
“You fucking lied to the coach, how exactly is that not fucked up?”
“Well, technically, I didn’t lie… Didn’t you see me crash against that huge guy? I fell on my ass… I was—”
Stiles snorts. “Yeah, your werewolf ass was super affected—For god’s sake, that guy couldn’t hurt you even if he tried and you obviously did it on purpose.” Stiles opens his arms wide.
“And what if I did?” Jackson shrugs.
“What if?” Stiles waves both arms. “Firstly, you could have hurt the guy, and secondly, I’ve never asked for the co-captain of the team to rescue me… it’s the coach’s decision who plays and who doesn’t, okay? Not yours!”.
“Stiles…” Jackson sighs. “You deserve to play and the coach is obviously too blind… or too stupid to see it, so it was time somebody did something about it.”
“Shit… no…" Stiles shakes his head. "Fuck no… you can’t do that. And you won’t do it again.” Stiles shakes his head. “Promise me you won’t.”
Jackson snorts. “In what imaginary world do I have to promise you shit?—How long have you known me?” Jackson raises his eyebrows. “I do, and will always do, whatever I want—If you want to order someone around, go find your best friend, okay?” Jackson says stubbornly.
“God, you’re an asshole,” Stiles shakes his head.
“Stilinski, you only played for half an hour and we were winning… I figured the team could survive that much without me.”
“Yeah, you had it all figured out, didn’t you?” Stiles says matter-of-factly, licking his lips.
“Not everything… but yeah, I was hoping that you wouldn’t blow it,” Jackson admits.
“You’re exasperating,” Stiles snorts.
“I’m exasperating? Really?” Jackson raises his eyebrows. “You’re the one who is complaining here. Everything I did was to provide you with a win-win situation?”
“A win-win situation?” Stiles frowns.
“Yeah, it was a clear win-win—It’s like… you know, like the stars were aligned tonight... You finally got back out there after almost dying and being fucking traumatized. You got to have fun playing with your friend and the team didn’t lose? If that's not a fucking win-win, I don't know what it is,” Jackson shrugs.
“Plus,” Jackson continues, “you got to show the coach that your training has paid off and you played well… well enough, at least … and so much better than Greenberg ever has, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, thank you, and fuck you,” anybody on earth can play better than that guy.
Jackson snorts a laugh. “Okay, forget I said that—What I mean is that you had fun. You had more fun than I did. And you needed this. I know you did—”
“Jackson—”
“What?” Jackson opens his arms. “It’s the damn truth. All I wanted was for you to have a good time. So, what if I lied? It was worth it… and after everything you’ve been through? You fucking deserved it. And don’t tell me you’re okay… because yeah, you’re back in good shape but you’re not okay…” Jackson shakes his head. “Not totally.”
Stiles bites his lip. He wants to tell Jackson he’s wrong but can’t lie to him even if he wanted to try.
“You’re right. I’m not totally okay but I don’t think that playing a game is gonna fix that.”
“I disagree,” Jackson shrugs. “Anything… normal helps… that’s what the doctor said.”
“Didn’t you tell me that what the doctor said was bullshit?” Stiles heard that line more once.
Jackson snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, not everything… obviously.”
“Look, can’t you just admit that you had fun tonight… that’s the only thing that matters here,” Jackson insists. “Playing isn’t about winning—”
Stiles laughs, “yeah, you don’t believe that... but thanks.” The thing is that they won and he didn’t fuck it up, so Jackson can’t regret his decision and that’s a good thing.
“Maybe I didn’t think that before but I do now, okay?” There are more important things than winning and Jackson may have needed a near-death experience to see it but it certainly opened his eyes. And maybe… just maybe… Stiles’s happiness is also more important than winning.
“Go home and stop thinking about it,” Jackson says, getting into the car, once Stiles gets out of the way reluctantly.
“Fine, but you don’t tell me what to do either. If I want to call Scott and talk about it, I’ll talk about it,” Stiles says, picking up his bag.
"Okay, knock yourself out," Jackson says, closing the door of the car.
Stiles takes a couple of steps as Jackson starts the car, before he stops, closes his eyes and sighs. Lots of thoughts go through his mind but mostly it feels wrong to leave things like this. It actually feels wrong to be let Jackson leave after what he just told him.
Jackson is right—he really had fun and he owes it to him. If he can admit it to himself, he should be able to admit it to Jackson. He knows Jackson deserves that much. Most probably if he had had time to think about it at home, he wouldn't have reacted the way he had. Maybe the fact that his first reaction was to confront Jackson was out of habit—a habit of the past when they weren't friends. Because he thinks he can call him a 'friend'—at least they're getting there. But despite that, maybe he’s not used to Jackson worrying about him. That might take some time.
Whatever it is, as he starts to walks away, the feeling that he’s most probably overreacted takes over and he turns around and walks towards the Porche before it gets away.
“Wait! Wait!” Stiles shouts, knocking on the window.
The car stops abruptly as Jackson shakes his head, rolling down the window.
“What the hell?” Jackson frowns.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Stiles licks his lips.
“I just wanted to say…” Stiles sighs, “I wanted to say thank you. I think you deserve a thank you.”
“Now?" Jackson raises his eyebrows. "After everything you said?”
“Yeah, I realize how I might have overrated… or something,” Stiles admits, waving his arms.
“Might have? Are you sure?” Jackson smirks.
“Kind of… yeah,” Stiles shrugs.
“Okay... as long as you’re kind of sure...” Sarcasm all over Jackson's words.
“You’re right that I had a good time. You’re right that I needed this. And you’re right that the risk of losing was very low—”
“Extremely,” Jackson corrects him.
“Fine,” Stiles nods, "extremely low.”
“Does it mean that you want me to do it again?” Jackson asks with a smirk.
“I…” Stiles hesitates. It doesn’t feel like a great idea to admit right now that he does. Maybe he needs to think about it.
Jackson licks his lips. He can imagine perfectly well what Stiles is thinking. Admitting that he wouldn’t mind him doing it again must be killing him inside.
“Stiles, you're welcome, okay?—I need to go.” Jackson waves his right arm.
“Yeah, me too,” Stiles nods, taking a step back.
“See you at the meeting,” Jackson says, referring to the pack meeting they have on Sunday.
“Right—See you there,” Stiles says, taking another step back, as Jackson rolls up the window, starts the car once again, and finally, leaves.