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Folding his arms over his chest, without looking at his surroundings, Jackson slouches into the one wall by the doorway that leads into the dining room, which is currently off-limits to anybody and everybody. Derek's not even allowed to so much as look at the damn dining room. About the only people at this ridiculous fucking party who Jackson trusts not to break all of his parents' good china are Danny and McCall—for all it should be a sign of the looming Apocalypse that Jackson even invited McCall, let alone trusts him to do something right for a change.
(Begrudgingly, and only because Lydia's pointed it out several times already, Jackson has to admit that McCall's gotten pretty good at doing things right and saving people and all that heroic shit—but that doesn't mean that he has to enjoy having the kid at this ridiculous fucking party.)
And it is a ridiculous fucking party. That is not, as Lydia's suggested, just Jackson being a Grinch—it's the truth, because there's no other way to describe this bullshit.
Really, it's bad enough that Jackson has to do penance for lying to Danny and Lydia about the whole werewolf-flavored hijinks thing. It's worse enough that he's the new guy in the pack and taking orders from freaking Erica and Boyd, of all people (like, seriously, she's a freak and he's a loner, and apparently, Jackson has to answer to them now—what did he do that was so offensive as to put him in this position… probably a lot of things, now that he thinks about it). It's the absolute worst that this is a fucking Christmas party full of werewolves (and three humans, if Stilinski really counts as human), none of whom give Jackson the respect he deserves by virtue of being Jackson J. Whittemore.
At least, it's the absolute worst until Isaac saunters over toward him, wearing some leering, toothy grin like Jackson's just the tastiest-looking antelope on the Savannah. Then, that is the absolute worst—at least, until Isaac leans on the wall next to Jackson, crowds all into Jackson's personal space, and just. keeps. smiling. It's like he wants Jackson to punch him in the face—not that Jackson can when they're this close to the good china, but it's a matter of principle, not a matter of practicality. But he guesses he should clear this up, get Isaac back out of his face, back into the party with everybody else and away from Jackson, where the kid belongs.
Seriously: why does Jackson have to be cursed to hang out with such freaks?
But Jackson makes no move to pull away or to push at Isaac as he drawls, "Can I, like, help you with something? Bathroom's around that corner, second door on the left."
Isaac says nothing in response, just smirks at Jackson, arches an eyebrow—then he looks up. And Jackson looks up. He groans and knocks his head back against the wall, mutters that he's going to freaking murder Danny or Stilinski or whoever hung that atrocious thing up. There's a bright green clump of plastic mistletoe hanging in the doorway, edging ever-so-slightly in Jackson's general direction, but at the very least…
"I'm not actually standing under it," Jackson points out and wrinkles his nose at Isaac. "If you really wanna kiss somebody so badly, why don't you go ask McCall."
"But I don't want to kiss Scott. I want to kiss you," Isaac says, totally failing not to snicker. "Besides, I think I saw Scott and Stiles going upstairs, and one of them said something about Allison maybe showing up—"
"What the Hell—Allison's not invited, and they're not… But they can't… But it's Stiles and McCall—" Jackson flushes what has to be an indecent shade of pink—because that's just not allowed—Stiles and McCall are not allowed to be hooking up some threesome with Allison in Jackson's own house—he's about to protest some more, he opens his mouth to do so—and that's when he notices that Isaac's started laughing at him.
It's really not a pleasant sound. It's kind of harsh and amelodic, and it makes Jackson's skin crawl, sends a chill down to the pit of his stomach. It's less of a laugh, more like somebody tap-dancing on broken glass, and it gets Jackson's whole face scrunched up in… confusion? Revulsion, maybe? Or possibly both?
Whatever it is that Jackson's feeling, the only thing it doesn't screw up is Jackson's mouth, which drops open—and before he can even be relieved that Isaac stops laughing, Jackson has Isaac's lips on his own. Has Isaac running his lips over Jackson's mouth, sucking like he's got a mind to devour all the air in Jackson's lungs. Has some weird taste seeping into his mouth as, reflexively, he grazes his tongue over Isaac's lips, along with the warm, wet taste-but-also-feeling of… well. Mouth. He sighs, whines because he can't help it (because Isaac's doing a good job of getting him winded and breathless)—and Isaac pulls back, smirks again, eyes glinting like Mom's good steak knives.
Jackson huffs and licks at his own lips. Blinks at Isaac for a moment. "Dude," he says, "are you wearing flavored lip balm?"
Isaac shrugs, smacks his lips. "It's boysenberry. I borrowed it from Erica. She says it makes her lips taste like pie. There any truth in that, I wonder?"
Jackson rolls his eyes, pushes off the wall, starts walking away—he only pauses to turn back and tell Isaac, "Even if there were, it's not like I'd go and tell you, is it." Like, seriously—where would the fun in that be?