jacĸѕon wнιттeмore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
harder) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
promuseboxing2015-05-06 09:51 pm
harder) wrote in promuseboxing2015-05-06 09:51 pm
(no subject)
At first, Jackson couldn't help himself.
He first stepped into Stilinski's room over the summer, though he'd been less of an active participant in the latest Beacon Hills mystery and more of an afterthought. Lahey had needed a ride and Jackson had been there to provide one, which somehow led to Jackson inviting himself up to Stilinski's room. He took one look at the floor, strewn with clothes and crumpled balls of paper, and glanced at the (mostly empty) laundry and (overflowing) garbage baskets. If asked, Jackson couldn't repeat a word of what anyone said during their little meeting because he was distracted by how he wanted to pick everything up off the floor. It was how he accidentally volunteered to some half-assed patrol duty to monitor a crew of new hunters that had rolled into town, having distractedly mumbled an affirmative while he frowned at the messy state of Stilinski's bed.
It got worse the first time Jackson ended up in Stilinski's bed. And not for reasons that involved anyone getting naked. He might have gotten a little poisoned and, in the interest of not freaking out Jackson's parents about another near death experience — and in case they tried to take him to London again, Jackson remembered slurring into someone's neck — decided to throw him on Stilinski's bed and let the poison run its course. He fell asleep with the scent of Stilinski filling his lungs.
Whether or not it was the poison, Jackson actually slept through the whole night.
He woke up that morning and, finding himself completely alone in the room for once, tidied up the whole room like he'd wanted to since the first time he'd set foot in Stilinski's bedroom. He even made the bed. He then took a lesson from Derek and bailed out the window because he seriously didn't want to have a conversation with Stilinski about why his room looked less like a tornado hit it.
And, look. At that point, it was like somebody opened the floodgates. Because Jackson seriously had no control over his issues with Stilinski's room. He dropped in more frequently over the summer, snarking at Stilinski, avoiding answering the awkward questions that were inevitably flung at him, and pretended everything was perfectly normal. He might have bought new poster to replace the tattered ones... and might have actually replaced them without telling Stiles. It wasn't his fault if the dumbass didn't notice his posters were suddenly brand new. Or that there were less socks on his floor. Or that Jackson tended to lounge on the other teen's bed whenever he came over.
It was easy to act entitled. Everyone already expected him to.
He literally couldn't help himself. There was just something comforting about being in Stilinski's room, and Jackson didn't have a problem adding himself into the equation however he could.
+
"So," Jackson casually flipped through a magazine he'd pulled out from a pile, lounging — once again — on Stilinski's bed. It was almost peaceful in the room, for once, so of course he felt the need to say something. "Are you growing your hair out?"
It had been bugging him all night, how Stilinski's head was starting to look fuzzy.
He first stepped into Stilinski's room over the summer, though he'd been less of an active participant in the latest Beacon Hills mystery and more of an afterthought. Lahey had needed a ride and Jackson had been there to provide one, which somehow led to Jackson inviting himself up to Stilinski's room. He took one look at the floor, strewn with clothes and crumpled balls of paper, and glanced at the (mostly empty) laundry and (overflowing) garbage baskets. If asked, Jackson couldn't repeat a word of what anyone said during their little meeting because he was distracted by how he wanted to pick everything up off the floor. It was how he accidentally volunteered to some half-assed patrol duty to monitor a crew of new hunters that had rolled into town, having distractedly mumbled an affirmative while he frowned at the messy state of Stilinski's bed.
It got worse the first time Jackson ended up in Stilinski's bed. And not for reasons that involved anyone getting naked. He might have gotten a little poisoned and, in the interest of not freaking out Jackson's parents about another near death experience — and in case they tried to take him to London again, Jackson remembered slurring into someone's neck — decided to throw him on Stilinski's bed and let the poison run its course. He fell asleep with the scent of Stilinski filling his lungs.
Whether or not it was the poison, Jackson actually slept through the whole night.
He woke up that morning and, finding himself completely alone in the room for once, tidied up the whole room like he'd wanted to since the first time he'd set foot in Stilinski's bedroom. He even made the bed. He then took a lesson from Derek and bailed out the window because he seriously didn't want to have a conversation with Stilinski about why his room looked less like a tornado hit it.
And, look. At that point, it was like somebody opened the floodgates. Because Jackson seriously had no control over his issues with Stilinski's room. He dropped in more frequently over the summer, snarking at Stilinski, avoiding answering the awkward questions that were inevitably flung at him, and pretended everything was perfectly normal. He might have bought new poster to replace the tattered ones... and might have actually replaced them without telling Stiles. It wasn't his fault if the dumbass didn't notice his posters were suddenly brand new. Or that there were less socks on his floor. Or that Jackson tended to lounge on the other teen's bed whenever he came over.
It was easy to act entitled. Everyone already expected him to.
He literally couldn't help himself. There was just something comforting about being in Stilinski's room, and Jackson didn't have a problem adding himself into the equation however he could.
+
"So," Jackson casually flipped through a magazine he'd pulled out from a pile, lounging — once again — on Stilinski's bed. It was almost peaceful in the room, for once, so of course he felt the need to say something. "Are you growing your hair out?"
It had been bugging him all night, how Stilinski's head was starting to look fuzzy.