Work Text:
It started by accident. Or rather, an accident. Stiles managed to destroy his sunglasses and because Stiles was, well, Stiles, he kept forgetting to buy new ones. After almost a week of listening to Stiles complain to Scott about the sun blinding him on his way home and surely getting into an accident, Jackson had shoved a pair of his own sunglasses in Stiles’ backpack when Stiles wasn’t looking. Stiles had found the glasses shortly and immediately freaked out because he thought he’d accidentally stolen someone’s ridiculously expensive and preppy—Stiles’ words, Jackson’s— sunglasses.
Jackson had quickly scribbled a note and sneaked it into Stiles’ locker. He’d waited around the corner for Stiles to find the note. The note read: Stop freaking out, the sunglasses are for you. I heard you broke yours and I prefer you to stay in one piece am sick of hearing you complain.
Stiles’ mouth had ticked up into a small, private smile, then he carefully folded up the note and put it in his wallet. Jackson’s heart had stumbled at the sight. He knew he liked Stiles, he’s not an oblivious idiot, but he’d never realized how much he wanted to make Stiles smile.
After that, Jackson just kept being nice to Stiles, luring that smile, and sometimes even a laugh out of him. At first, he’d bought things he knew Stiles wanted: video games, movies, a new set of headphones—he would’ve bought Stiles a new car if Stiles wasn’t so ridiculously attached to that crappy blue Jeep—but he soon found that the expensive gifts made Stiles uncomfortable, grateful, but uncomfortable. So he switched over to more traditional things like flowers and notes, and a handful of pens dumped in Stiles’ locker whenever he’d forgets to bring one from home or chews through the one he does bring.
The thing is, though, Jackson isn’t good with expressing his feelings. He has carefully built walls of sarcasm and bravado that make it a tricky to write a note in which he lovingly berates Stiles for continually putting non-edible goods in his mouth. He’s never been more grateful for the inventions of Google and thesauruses.
Stiles, of course, couldn’t just let himself be showered with affection. He had to know who the person behind the gifts and notes was. So, like any good detective, he started looking for witnesses. Danny was one of the first he’d approached.
‘It’s not me and I don’t know who it is,’ Danny told Stiles firmly.
‘Oh. Okay. Thanks,’ Stiles said, looking a little disappointed, like he’d wanted Danny to be his admirer. The disappointment quickly faded from his face when he glanced over at Jackson, but before Stiles could utter another word, Jackson sneered,’ A secret admirer, Stiles? You sure they don’t have your locked mixed up with someone else’s?’
‘You’re just jealous nobody is leaving you notes about how handsome you look,’ Stiles sneered back.
‘I don’t need notes to tell me that. I already know,’ Jackson replied with a smile.
Although, Stiles hadn’t been entirely wrong. He would love it if Stiles left him notes, telling him how handsome he thought Jackson was.
Stiles had huffed and walked away. Jackson couldn’t help the way his eyes glided down to the curve of Stiles’ ass.
‘You’re ridiculous, you know that?’ Danny told him, raising his eyebrows.
‘No I’m not,’ Jackson grumbled, bending over his Chemistry textbook.
‘I’m assuming all this,’ Danny said, meaning the gifts and notes, ‘is supposed to lead to you and him going on a date, preferably before graduation. Or before you drive me insane with your pining. How are you gonna do that if he’s convinced you hate him?’
‘It’s…’ Jackson thinks for a moment. ‘It’s our thing, okay. You just don’t understand. And don’t pine.’
‘Yes, you do. And you’re an idiot is what I understand.’
Now, with his hands smeared with grease, standing in the middle of the school parking lot in the middle of the night, pouring oil into the Jeep’s senior-citizen engine, Jackson thinks Danny might have been right. This is getting ridiculous. He’s ridiculous.
The car had given up that afternoon, when Stiles wanted to go home after practice. A splutter, a cough, then nothing. Stiles had glared out the front window for a second, before tumbling out of the Jeep and running over to where Scott was just getting on his bike, to ask for a ride home.
Jackson hadn’t even thought twice about putting his tools in his car when he got home, so he could come back later to fix things for Stiles.
Realizing the ridiculousness of it all doesn’t stop him, though. He checks the engine as best he can, then crawls under the car to check if everything is more or less okay there. Finally, he kicks the tires to make sure they have enough air. It’s taken him about two hours, but most of the duct tape is gone and he thinks the Jeep will ride again the next day. He can’t check and be sure, because he doesn’t have a key.
He leaves a note, telling Stiles he tried fix the Jeep enough that it would start, and that hopes he did. If he didn’t, Stiles should tape the key to the back of his front left tire, so he could take a look again, and then make sure he actually fixed it.
~
The next day, when Jackson stumbles into school, he feels tired, but happy. He’d come a little early to make sure he arrived before Stiles and would see his reaction. He’d waited in his car, and watched as Stiles started his engine, a look of disbelief on Stiles’ face when the thing purred more contentedly than it ever had before.
Humming under his breath, Jackson grabs his books out of his locker when someone suddenly takes his arm in a firm grip and starts dragging him away. He manages to slam his locker closed with the tips of his fingers before he’s dragged out of reach.
He stares at the hand on his arm, a hand with long, strong fingers he recognizes. Then follows it to the arm, then further up to the neck and then the head. He’d known when he saw the hand, but still almost stumbles when he sees that it’s definitely Stiles gripping his arm, almost painfully.
Why is Stiles dragging him through the school? More importantly, why is Stiles wearing that furious expression?
Stiles doesn’t stop and doesn’t say anything until they’ve reached the boys’ locker-room, and he’s slammed the door closed behind them. He stands there for a minute, arms crossed, glowering at Jackson, who has no idea what to do with himself.
‘How much?’ Stiles grits out.
‘What?’
‘How much for fixing my Jeep? I know it was you.’
‘Oh. Like twenty-five bucks,’ Jackson says slowly, his brain scrambling to catch up with what is going on. Stiles is mad he fixed his car? Stiles knew it was him who fixed his car? Did Stiles know since the start that Jackson was the one who… Oh fuck. And Stiles hadn’t said anything. Ever.
‘Yeah, right,’ Stiles snorts. ‘The mechanic–’
‘Was probably trying to rip you off,’ Jackson finishes the sentence. ‘I just changed some bolts, oiled some others. I work on my own car all the time. I knew what I was doing,’ Jackson quickly adds, going for his personal brand of cockiness and missing it by a mile.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Stiles says. He blinks, then a smile and a blush creep up his face. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Jackson nods. He feels like the air has been punched out of him just from being so close to that smile, from having it aimed directly at him.
Stiles moves to leave to locker-room, but Jackson grabs his arm to keep him in place.
‘You knew? How long have you known it was me?’ Because if Stiles knows about the Jeep, he must know about all the other things as well.
‘Uhm, since the sunglasses. I recognized your handwriting,’ Stiles admits, blushing brighter.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Jackson asks, looking at the floor. There’s a ringing in his ears. He feels the blood drain from his face. Because if Stiles didn’t say anything, that must mean he didn’t really want that kind of attention from him. Right?
‘At first I thought you were making fun of me, with the glasses, but then you didn’t stop. I just…’ Stiles rubs the back of his head awkwardly. ‘I figured you had some plan to actually ask me out, so I waited. And, dude, it’s been months. You know I’m not a patient person.’
‘I didn’t have a plan. I just liked making you smile,’ Jackson admits. He feels vulnerable, exposed, but when he looks up into Stiles’ awed face, he feels like maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
‘You just liked making me smile,’ Stiles repeats softly. ‘Wait, so you weren’t planning to ask me out?’
‘I was. At some point. Before graduation.’
‘Oh my g–’ Stiles chuckles, then presses his lips together to keep from laughing further. He steps forward until he’s toe to toe with Jackson, their faces inches apart.
Jackson can smell the deodorant Stiles used a little too enthusiastically that morning.
‘You’re really bad at this when you don’t have a pen, aren’t you?’ Stiles grins.
Jackson wants to pretend he’s a natural poet on paper, but he finds himself saying, ’I’m always bad at this. There’s been a lot of googling lately.’
Stiles laughs again, and sways forward like he wants to kiss Jackson. Jackson is completely fine with that course of action. He closes the distance between them, pressing his lips against Stiles’. Stiles squeaks, then grips Jackson’s hips to pull Jackson against him.
Jackson’s entire body tingles. There is lighting shooting across his skin, starting where Stiles’ fingers are digging into his hips. There is electricity running through his veins, making his heart stutter. His hands are against the sides of Stiles’ neck, thumbs caressing Stiles cheeks, fingers scratching through the short hairs at the back of Stiles’ head.
When they pull back, and he opens his eyes, he finds Stiles grinning at him.
‘You want me to start leaving you notes about how handsome you are, now?’ Stiles asks.
Jackson glares, but his cheeks feel like they’re burning.
Stiles presses a kiss against Jackson’s cheek, right by his ear, then whispers, ‘I think your freckles are cute. I want to kiss every single one of them.’
‘Oh my god. I hate you,’ Jackson grumbles, as he pulls Stiles out of the locker-room with him.
They’re late for class. Coach is probably going to yell at them and give them extra suicide runs during next practice. But with Stiles’ fingers tangled with his, and Stiles’ gleeful laughter muffled against his shoulder, Jackson finds he really doesn’t cares.