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“Huh.”
Stiles blinks. “Huh?” he echoes, rubbing his eyes with a yawn. ‘Huh’ is not the reaction he wants to hear after stranding in the middle of nowhere in Jackson’s stupid Porsche. They had to walk forever to get reception, and then they had to walk back forever to wait for the towing service. Luckily, the driver was nice enough to drop them off at this motel — one that, by the looks of it, has probably seen its fair share of serial killers and other illegal happenings. “Is there a dead body? Please, don’t tell me there’s a dead body. I’m tired.”
“Most people,” Jackson informs him without turning around, “would have a less apathetic reaction than ‘huh’ when stumbling over a dead body, Stilinski.”
“Eh.” Stiles waves his hand around. “You get used to it.”
“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.
Finally.