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“My fault?” Stiles’ voice goes pitchy with indignation. “Pray tell, how exactly is this my fault?”
“You should have seen it coming!” Jackson snaps as the two of them climb their way up the steep, muddy slope in the preserve. “You see the future! It’s what you do!”
“The future isn’t set in stone! You know that!” Stiles’s feet slide backward in the mud, and he struggles to regain his balance. He leans forward, finds his footing on a couple of roots sticking out of the earth. “You know what? This is your fault!” He gives Jackson a half-hearted shove but with the slick ground, it still nearly knocks him off of his feet. “The past is set in stone and that’s your gig. You should have known that those harpies had set up a whole nest!”
“I was told it was one harpy!” Jackson grabs a thick branch and uses it to pull himself out of the massive muddy crater. “Parrish checked out the area, I didn’t think I needed to waste energy divining the past few months.”
Stiles plants his hands on his knees once he’s on level ground and takes a moment to regain his breath. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks, straightening back out.
Jackson smirks.
“Parrish’s fault,” they say together.
°
Stiles can predict things with startling accuracy. Most of the time he uses it for protect Beacon Hills/pack/dad reasons. Occasionally, he uses it when Peter drags him out to the casino. (Maybe that’s a little morally questionable, but the money always goes toward things the pack needs, be it certain strains of wolfsbane, or a new windshield for the Jeep since the big bad of the week threw Derek through it.)
Every now and then, he uses it to be a little shit.
He knows Jackson is about to walk up behind where he’s sitting on Derek’s couch in the newly rebuilt Hale house that had become Pack Central. He knows that the pack will watch, wait, Malia will take bets on whether this is just general Stiles shenanigans or flirting.
3...2...1
“Where is my sweater?” Jackson asks behind him.
Stiles doesn’t even look up from the digital bestiary he has on this tablet. “Which one?”
“The grey one with the black elbow patches.”
“Haven’t seen it,” Stiles replies. It’s soft and warm, and it smells like Jackson’s cologne. “Why don’t you divine where it is?”
Jackson grabs Stiles by the back of the neck of the sweater in question. “Because you’re wearing it, you little shit!”
Stiles chokes and immediately the pressure around his throat lessens. He’d seen it coming, but it still hurt. “Fuck. Okay, okay!” He stands and strips it off. “Here.”
He’d foreseen Jackson’s reaction when he’d been considering stealing the sweater earlier. It’s so much better in real time, no haze over his vision, clear as can be. Jackson stares at Stiles’ chest, blinks, grumbles, then grabs the sweater and stalks back to his bedroom.
Stiles grins, but his triumph is short lived. He hadn’t continued foreseeing the future past Jackson’s reaction and the pack is all staring. “I’m going to put a shirt on.”
“Do that,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.
°
“I can explain,” Stiles says, holding his blood coated hands up.
“Go ahead and try,” Jackson says, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s not alone, but thankfully it’s Peter and Malia with him. Out of the pack, they’re the ones most likely to understand that sometimes violence is necessary. “I’d love to hear it.”
Stiles turns and looks at the way the blood is all over the room behind him. For once in his life, he struggles to find a convincing lie. He’s too shaken. “I-I got angry.”
“Stiles, you’re too skilled to have such an amateur lapse in control,” Jackson says evenly. “Besides, this doesn’t look like something you did just in a moment of anger. This kind of magic needs direction.”
“Jacks—“
“Don’t make me divine the truth.”
“She wanted you.”
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“She wanted to know something of the past.” Stiles’ hands tremble, he’s not quite sure what to do with them. “She wasn’t going to ask you. She… she wanted to take your eyes.”
The moment is heavy and silent. Jackson’s stare has a weight to it that Stiles isn’t sure what to make of, and he doesn’t have the energy to foresee how this plays out.
Peter sighs heavily, breaking the moment. “I’ll get the bleach.”
Malia groans. “You couldn’t have just imploded her; you had to explode her?”
“She’s right,” Peter says. “That’s so inconsiderate of you.”
Stiles just shoots them both the middle finger.
°
It would work.
It would probably work.
There is a 98% chance that it would work.
The future isn’t set in stone. Stiles has gone though the majority of his life being able to, for the most part, predict things to come. That doesn’t mean that his every choice doesn’t come with some risk.
In the prediction, he can see the little furrow in Jackson’s brow as he tries to figure out if Stiles is serious or not. He can see the soft smile on Jackson’s face. He can see their hands together, Jackson’s thumb brushing along his knuckles.
He wants to feel it.
°
The chance that Stiles messes up a good friendship is low but it keeps him trapped in deliberation. He sees himself talking to Jackson a dozen different times, different ways, different locations. Every time, Jackson responds well.
Every night, Stiles goes home alone, the words lodged in his throat.
°
In the end, it’s Scott that gives him the motivational bro pep talk that is just the push he needs. Derek looks unimpressed (that might just be his face) but he gives Stiles the key to the loft with a ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ (Stiles has no idea what that means.) Kira and Lydia help him to decorate the loft. Liam insists he’ll be able to get Jackson to the loft without giving anything away.
That leaves Stiles alone in the loft, pacing, softly whispering all the things he wants to tell Jackson under his breath. He’s put things into motion he can’t undo.
Jackson will walk into the loft. He’ll pause in the doorway, surprised by the way it’s decked out in low, romantic lighting, plants, and a candle lit dinner laid out on a table for two. He’ll ask what all this is about, like someone gave him the wrong location, like there is a punchline. Stiles will pour his heart out. Jackson’s guard will come down.
Stiles doesn’t foresee more. He doesn’t want to. He wants to experience it for himself.
The door rolls open. Jackson doesn’t pause in the doorway. He walks right over to Stiles, no pause, no waiting. Stiles hadn’t foreseen the way Jackson grabs him by the lapels of the fancy jacket he’d been conned into buying by Peter. He hadn’t foreseen the way Jackson lips feel against his own.
He sinks into the kiss, trembles as Jackson’s hands loosen on his jacket and instead flatten against his chest. They’re both panting as they part, still touching one another, staring in wonder.
“I didn’t see that coming,” Stiles admits.
“Liam can’t lie for shit. I started looking into the past when I was outside the door.”
Stiles groans, and mentally curses Liam out.
Jackson tugs a little on the Stiles’ belt loops. “I heard you, all of the things you mumbled.”
Stiles feels his face heat up, and he knows he’s broadcasting his embarrassment.
“The past doesn’t lie,” Jackson says. “You love me.”
Stiles can be present, he can be brave, he doesn’t need to divine the future. He sees it clear as day in Jackson’s eyes. “Yeah, I love you.”
Jackson smirks. “God, that’s so embarrassing.”
“Oh, fuck you!”
Jackson still has his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops and tugs him close. “I love you, too.”