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Stiles knows when Jackson zones out. Whether it’s in class or at lacrosse practice or even when he’s just walking down the hallway, Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment when Jackson leaves the real world. He doesn’t just go stock-still or freeze on the spot; his body continues whatever it was doing in the first place before stopping. Naturally.
Like, if Jackson’s sitting at his desk, his eyes might lock on the paper—caught in the feel of fibers or the dusting of graphite or what the fuck ever Jackson focuses on—but, his hand will twitch then scribble loops uselessly until he’s marking the desktop. If he’s walking when it happens, there will be that twitch, like someone’s flicking off the switch, and he’ll continue on for a few steps before his pace tapers off and stops entirely. Then, he’ll just stand there forever, oblivious to the people passing him or the books that fall from his slack hands or the late bell blaring over him.
Seriously, this whole Sentinel thing gives Jackson a focus Stiles could never achieve with Adderall. He’s almost jealous.
But, this kind of hyperfocus isn’t really a good thing, especially now when they’re at a lacrosse game with balls (and occasionally sticks) flying, Coach flipping his shit beside Stiles, and the crowd roaring from behind. Whiles Stiles used to chew at his nails and at his jersey for Scott when he was on the field, the whole Sentinel thing leaves him with stubby nails and a holey jersey. The situations are the same yet not, because while Scott was at a greater risk of hurting someone else, the idea of Jackson hurting himself seems just as bad, if not worse. Because, this bond he has with Jackson, of a Guide to his Sentinel, is almost tangible it’s so deep in him.
(Like that moment when they were at the vet’s office, when Jackson stood before the four of them—he, Scott, Derek, and Deaton—and insisted until he was almost snarling in desperation that he didn’t change the full moon, but he’s not immune like Lydia, he can’t be, because something in him is changing, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what it is if he isn’t a werewolf, and he’s scared. Terrified. Stiles only touches him, reaches to rub his back, to comfort him, you know? Console him over the fact that he can’t get everything he wants, because that’s the real issue, isn’t it?)
(But, when they touch, the first time since Jackson was bitten a month before, Stiles feels this something and Jackson feels it, too, and somehow Deaton just knows.)
He still doesn’t get it, this whole Guide thing. Even when Deaton sat him down and explained it slowly with itty, bitty, kiddie words, Stiles had just sat there. And, staaared.
There’s a sudden burst of energy and sound all around him and apparently he’s been doing some zoning of his own, because he misses Danny scoring, just catching when he and Jackson knock their helmets together amiably as they pass, preparing for another face-off. Only a few minutes left for the game. Stiles sucks in a tight breath, because, fuck, this kills him, being stuck here warming the bench while anything could happen to his Sentinel on the field. Sure, he has Scott to look after him, but still.
It’s why he mentally curses Scott for flicking the ball to Jackson who gets it easily and barrels towards the opponent’s goal. The Beacon Hills side of the bleachers erupts into encouragements and as stressed as Stiles feels, he can’t stop the excitement bubbling in him, can’t stop himself from cheering along, “You got this, Jackson! Come on, shoot! Shoot!” Time then decides to go wonky and everything slows: Jackson turns his head to the crowd, to Stiles’ general area, and no. No, no, no. Not now, not now.
There’s that twitch.
Stiles is on his feet, ready to run forward until Coach Finstock’s hand stops him. His mouth forms the first part of Jackson’s name, but it’s already too late. Jackson missteps, a sickening crack tears through the air, and he’s down, skidding across the dirt. The crowd hushes, the ball flies from Jackson’s stick, but Stiles doesn’t really register any of it, because he’s at his Sentinel’s side, beginning the cluster that soon grows.
It’s his dad that stops him from leaping into the ambulance after Jackson, because apparently his parents should be the ones to join him. Stiles is honestly this close to whipping out the, “But, he’s adopted,” card, but he figures that will only earn him a half-hearted cuff to the head. So, after a surprisingly sleepless, guilt-ridden night and a surprisingly Jackson-less school day, Stiles finds himself standing awkwardly outside Jackson’s bedroom, a—rather expensive and heavy, if you ask him—bouquet of yellow and white flowers in hand.
He stands there, just stands there, for a good few minutes before he catches Jackson’s explosive sigh. “Get in here already, Stilinski. I can hear you breathing.”
Oh, right. Enhanced hearing. Duh.
Stiles shuffles in as Jackson hoists himself into a sitting position with some difficulty. After he settles against the headboard, he gives Stiles an appraising look. His eyes land and stay on the bouquet. Inevitably, there’s that twitch and, wow, Jackson really doesn’t have any control over this, does he?
With a sigh, Stiles places a hand to his Sentinel’s shoulder and Jackson’s eyes flick to his, back into reality. “We really need to work on that zoning bit, huh?” Stiles says with a grin. “So, how are you holding up?”
Jackson snorts and brushes Stiles’ hand away. “Not too well, if you hadn’t noticed. Broken ankle and a broken rib.”
“Shit, really?”
“Yeah. Nothing I haven’t had before, though.” Jackson scratches his stomach idly, the sheet falling away slightly. “This is worse, though. It feels like fucking sandpaper,” he finishes in a near-whine.
Stiles snickers to himself, sets the flowers on the bedside table, and pulls the sheet away. “You’ve gotta learn to tune that out, man.” He moves to help Jackson out of his shirt.
Jackson sniffs. “Isn’t that your job? You know, helping me control this?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“And, you’ve been doing a fine fucking job of that.”
That wounds Stiles into silence. They pull the shirt off with some discomfort on Jackson’s part, and the bruising over Jackson’s ribs only adds to the guilt. Guide, is that what they call him? Bullshit. He could barely manage to be Scott’s Yoda; if he couldn’t really help Scott, how the hell could he help the mass of issues that is Jackson Whittemore?
There’s a heavy pause, then, “Sorry.” Surprisingly, this is from Jackson, small, quiet, but still there. Before Stiles can even address the strange fluttering in his chest, Jackson’s nodding towards the flowers. “So, those for me or what?”
“Hm? Oh yeah!” He picks up the bouquet and hands it to Jackson who seems just as surprised by the weight as Stiles was when he first bought them. “I figured I should bring something, so . . .”
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Flowers, though?”
Stiles shrugs. “What’s wrong with flowers? And, for the record, they aren’t just flowers. This is mix of white hydrangeas, yellow roses, and yellow alstroemeria.” He says the last name slowly, because the florist taught him how to say it, he reserved that as a bit of a bragging point.
A beat. Then, Jackson laughs, really laughs, until he’s wincing and cradling the bruise on his side. “What if I couldn’t stand the smell of them? Shit, Stilinski, that’s—” He chuckles again. Oh, Stiles didn’t think about that bit.
“That’s what? Thoughtful? Sweet? Oh, thank you thinking of me, Stiles, you must really love me?” Jackson’s smiles vanishes and it takes Stiles a second to understand why. Fuck. “Not that I necessarily care that much.”
Jackson’s eyes search him. “But, you do. You do care.”
Stiles opens his mouth to deny it, but for some reason nothing comes. So, he just stares back, swallows thickly. “I—I should go,” he manages after a moment.
Jackson watches him for moment, his lips slightly parted, slightly wet, and how did Stiles not realize this part of him existed, that he’d been wanting his Sentinel for, well, a while? “Yeah. Yeah, maybe you should.”
Just as Stiles turns to leave, Jackson pulls a rose from the bundle and brings it to his nose, but Stiles doesn’t stay to see how he reacts to it. He can swear that as he goes down the hall from the room, he can hear the mutter of something, but it’s not like he has any real powers or anything. There’s no way for him to make out the soft, “I guess I do, too,” that trails behind him.