Starved

Happy Birthday

It's nine am and Jackson's already drunk. Drunk and stumbling up the steps to Derek's house. In his inebriated state, going up stairs seems a lot more complicated than it usually would. His foot catches on a loose board, and Jackson has just enough time to put one hand out to break the fall. His other he uses to clutch his bottle of Jack Daniels securely against his chest as his body hits the steps. The one arm doesn't do him much good, and he lands with his face scraping against the coarse wood of Derek's porch.

Jackson's head spins and he blinks rapidly. His cheek is stinging, and he thinks he might have cut it, but the bottle of Jack survived so that's all that matters.

When his vision comes back into focus, Jackson finds himself staring at a pair of dirty feet where a moment ago there had only been burnt wood.

He cranes his neck up, squinting as the sun gets in his eyes. Derek glares down at him, arms folded over his chest. "What are you doing here?" Jackson blinks a few more times. "Don't you have to be in school?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, clutching his bottle of Jack. "Fuck you," He mutters, turning over and reclining back against the stairs. "Fuck school," He takes a swig of Jack and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His tilts his head back to look at Derek. "Fuck me,"

Jackson raises his eyebrows at Derek and spreads his legs, as though waiting for Derek to obey. When he doesn't, Jackson raises the whiskey up to his mouth again. Before he can take a drink, Derek grabs him and hauls him up to his feet, yanking the bottle away so fast Jackson's head starts to spin again.

"I thought I told you not to come back here," Derek says.

Jackson shrugs. "Decided to ignore you," He says. Derek doesn't need to know how just remembering makes his stomach twist. Or how he hadn't actually planned to come here, it had just sort of happened. His feet had just sent him in Derek's direction, and Jackson hadn't bothered to fight it. And why should he? He's tortured himself enough this week, wallowing in a sick mixture of self pity and hate. Drinking until he puked or spending hours in the locker room pumping weights until the burn in his muscles brought tears to his eyes. Trying not to hear Derek's voice echoing in his head, telling him don't come back.

Besides, today is different, and now he's too drunk to care about anything anyways.

Derek narrows his eyes at him. "Jackson, what are you doing here?" He demands.

"What d'you think I'm doing here?" Jackson asks. He takes a step towards Derek and tries to smirk up at him, but he can feel it waiver on his face. "I want to fuck you... I want you to fuck me," He tries to kiss Derek, but Derek just shoves him back.

Derek scowls at him. "It's nine in the morning,"

"So?"

"You're drunk,"

Jackson grins at him. "Didn't stop you the first time, did it?"

Derek just shakes his head, giving Jackson a disgusted look. "This is pathetic, Jackson, even for you."

"No," Jackson says, still grinning drunkenly. "This is exactly my level of pathetic. You know that better than anyone." The smile on Jackson's face turns bitter. "I'm the most pathetic. Why do you think I'm such a good fuck?"

Derek rolls his eyes, and turns to walk away just like he always does. Jackson lurches forward and grabs Derek's arm. "Hey, can't do that today," He says. Derek jerks his arm back, glaring. "It's my birthday, so you can't do that."

Derek stops, and looks at Jackson with a furrowed brow. "Your birthday?" He asks. "Is that why you've reverted back into this drunken cockslut mode?"

"It's also the day my parents died," Jackson says, ignoring Derek's comment. "My real parents. I was born, they were dead." He swallows, and gives Derek a shaky look. "Which means you have to be very careful and full of bullshit pity like everyone else."

There's silence as Jackson's words hang in the air. Derek's eyebrows unfurrow, and Jackson thinks he sees some of the disgust leave his eyes. He looks Jackson over for a moment, takes a deep swig from his bottle of Jack, then hands him the bottle back.

"Come on," He says, turning towards the house. Jackson looks down at the bottle for a moment, and then wordlessly follows Derek inside.

Derek takes Jackson up to his bedroom, but once they're up there Derek still won't let Jackson kiss him. Jackson sneers at him and calls him some names, but Derek just rolls his eyes and pushes Jackson down on the bed. "Relax," He commands.

Jackson glares at him, but leans back against the metal bars of Derek's headboard anyways. Only because he's kind of tired though. Not because Derek told him too.

Derek goes back out of the room, leaving Jackson alone with his bottle of Jack Daniels. He nurses it a little, just to have something to do. His eyelids feel heavy, so he lets them close. Only until Derek comes back. Then he'll wake back up, and continue pleading with Derek for sex. Or even just a kiss. Anything.

Jackson's chin drops down against his chest, and he blacks out.

When he wakes up again, Derek's back, sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing some sort of wet cloth against Jackson's cheek. Instinctively Jackson tries to shove him away, because whatever is on the cloth is making the cut in his cheek burn like hell. Derek just pushes Jackson's arms down, and continues with what he's doing. "Hold still," He mutters, as Jackson tries to turn his face to get away from the burning. "Do you want to get an infection?"

Jackson eyes him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Derek asks, holding up the cloth for Jackson to see. It's covered in splotches of blood, and Jackson can smell antiseptic wafting from it. "Now if you could stop being a baby for maybe three seconds..."

Derek shakes his head as he continues cleaning up Jackson's cut. He makes a sort of frusterated sigh. "You need to get a new act," He mutters. Jackson raises an eyebrow. "Showing up at my house drunk, bleeding, begging for sex. It's old, Jackson."

Jackson casts his eyes down, but says nothing. He realizes that Derek's right, this is just like the first time he'd come to him. Fucking deja vu.

Jackson keeps quiet as Derek patches him up. He tries to keep still like he was told, but the room seems to spin around him. There's a dazzling pain in his head and he feels sick to his stomach. It's hard to tell if it's the alcohol that's made him sick, of if he's just sick of himself.

Derek fixes another piece of cloth against the cut, and then sticks it down with a piece of white tape. Jackson continues to look down at his hands, and as he does it occurs to him that he's no longer holding his Jack Daniels. "Hey, where's—"

"Downstairs, you can have it back later," Derek says, picking something up from the floor beside his bed. "This is better for you." He holds up a dark green mug and a plate with two pieces of toast on it, and offers them to Jackson.

Jackson just stares at Derek for a moment, and then his eyes narrow. "If this is your attempt at pity, you can go fuck yourself, alright?" He snaps. "I don't need it, and I don't want it."

Derek rolls his eyes, and shoves the mug and plate at him. "It's not pity, Jackson. Now stop wasting my time and take it." Derek glares at him, and Jackson glares back. A few second drag by, and Jackson takes the mug and plate.

"What the hell is this stuff? Jackson wrinkles his nose. Whatever is in the mug is dark and foul smelling, and the toast is covered in some kind of blackish gunk. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Derek smiles at him. "Believe me Jackson, if I was going to kill you I would have done it a long time ago." Jackson stares at him, not entirely sure how to take that. "It's five leaf ginseng tea. You need to hydrate."

"And what about this?" He asks, pointing to the black toast goo. "Some kind of super special werewolf sludge?"

"It's blackberry jam."

Jackson blinks a few times. "Oh."

"Yeah,"

Jackson pauses. "I'm still not eating it," He says.

Derek's eyes narrow, and flash blue for a split second. "You'll eat it," He says. "Or I'll feed it to you."

Somehow Derek manages to make that sound more menacing than Jackson would have thought possible. He glares at Derek, and puts the plate down on the bed. Fine, he'll probably end up eating it, but he's not going to do it right away. He's going to try the nasty tea first, instead.

Jackson brings the mug to his mouth, but pulls it back almost immediately and looks at it. "There's a chip in this," He says, holding the mug up for Derek to see. The cups dark green rim has a large triangular piece of ceramic missing from it.

Derek just raises his eyebrows, like he doesn't see what the problem is. Of course, Jackson realizes, considering the place Derek chooses to live in, it's likely that something like a broken cup doesn't even register for him. Maybe he thinks cups are all supposed to have pieces missing. Maybe that's just the way Derek thinks things are, burnt or chipped or broken in some way.

Jackson decides not to press the issue, and drinks the tea without another word, turning the mug around to drink from the non-chipped side. He wrinkles his nose as soon as the hot liquid hits his tongue, and quickly shoves the mug back at Derek. "No," He says, shaking his head.

Derek pushes his hand back. "Yes," He says.

Jackson seethes for a moment, and then takes another sip. "God, that's disgusting," He chokes. "It tastes like mud and it's too fucking hot,"

Derek rolls his eyes and gets off the bed. "So blow on it," He says, walking over to his dresser. "I know you know how to do that."

"That won't get rid of the mud taste..." Jackson mutters, eyeing Derek out of the corner of his eye. The same box from the week before is still sitting on the dresser, the box full of his dead families possessions. Jackson's stomach twists when he spots it.

Just a box full of junk.

Get up, get dressed, go home.

Don't come back.

Jackson watches Derek turn through a few pages of the same file folder he'd had then too. He thinks about a apologizing. A better person than him would definitely apologize for saying something like that. A decent person. Derek closes his file and turns back around, and Jackson looks away. He blows on his drink hoping Derek hadn't seen him watching.

Jackson has never been a decent person.

"You should eat that," Derek says, referring to the toast. "It'll help with the taste of the tea."

"I'll eat it when I feel like it," Jackson says.

Derek just rolls his eyes, and walks out of the room without another word. Jackson stares after him for a moment, then cautiously glances at the toast. There's no way it could be worse than that disgusting tea, so he picks it up and takes a bite.

Compared to the tea, it's heaven. The bread's cold, and slightly stale tasting, but the jam is sweet and delicious. Jackson's never had blackberry jam before, but now that he's tasted some it's safe to that it's probably the greatest jam he's ever had.

Jackson finishes most of the toast, and about half the cup of tea. Despite it's rank taste, it does seem to help the ache in his head a bit. It goes from an agonizing pain to a dull ache, and the sickness in his stomach seems to mostly fade away as well.

He lays back on Derek's creaky bed, and rests his head on a lumpy pillow. He's tired again, and he lets his eyes close. As Jackson drifts back to sleep, he reminds himself to say something insulting to Derek when he comes back.

It's dark when Jackson wakes up, and for a moment Jackson's heart jumps into his throat as he tries to figure out how long he's been asleep for. It gets dark early in Beacon Hills, and it doesn't feel too late, but he's not sure, and remembering to put his watch on this morning hadn't been a thing that he'd done.

There's the sound of a page turning next to him, and Jackson looks over, squinting through the dark to see that Derek is by his side again, reading some dusty old book. He doesn't look up, or acknowledge the fact that Jackson's woken up in anyway.

Suddenly some of the nausea from before comes back to him.

Today Jackson had come to Derek thinking—barely—that he could just fuck away the trouble. He'd been ready to beg for hours, been ready to do anything to get Derek to fuck him again. He'd been full of hate and pain and he'd wanted Derek to take that and turn it back around on him. He'd wanted to be pulled apart and pushed back together by Derek's hands, strung out and along until he couldn't remember what his name was, let alone how he hated it. His name, his face, his life. Derek was supposed to fuck it all into oblivion like he always had, supposed to make Jackson his so he didn't have to be his own anymore.

He was supposed to degrade and destroy him... instead he'd made him toast.

Derek hadn't even wanted him here—had explicitly told him to never come back here—but he'd been so pathetic he'd let him in anyways. Instead of fucking him, he'd let Jackson sleep in his bed for hours, and given him disgusting healthy tea and toast.

Jackson swallows. Just how much does he owes Derek now? He glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He's adjusted to the dark enough to see him fairly clearly now. Derek's still reading, paying no attention to the mess next to him.

Jackson can't think of anything Derek could want from him. For Jackson to leave, and not bother him anymore, maybe. Besides a good lay, what did Jackson even have to offer him, anyways?

Now that he's beginning to sober up, Jackson realizes that coming here today had been a stupid, drunken mistake. Derek doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. He wants to be left alone. At least, he does by Jackson.

Jackson's head spins a little as he tries to sit up. "Derek—"

"Forget it," Derek says. He turns another page, and doesn't look up from his book.

Jackson furrows his brow. "But I—"

"Forget it," He repeats. Jackson sees his shoulders tense a little.

Jackson stares at him, frustrated and confused. Forget what? Had they been having some kind of conversation while Jackson was asleep? What had they'd talked about before that? "I thought you wanted me to leave," He says. It sounds more accusatory than he'd meant it to. "I thought you didn't want me here anymore,"

"I said," Derek slams his book shut, and gives Jackson a furious look. "Forget it."

Jackson stares at him some more. His instinct is to sneer and snap at him, hurl insults for no real reason. But he doesn't. Maybe it's the oncoming hang-over, or temporary insanity brought on by the taste of blackberry jam that's still in his mouth. Instead Jackson lies back down, looks up at the black ceiling and says "Thanks,"

Beside him on the bed, Derek just shrugs, and goes back to his book.

A/N: Technically Jackson was born the day after his parents died, but personally I think that makes no sense. His parents were DOA at the hospital at like 9:30 PM, and then what the doctors took like 2 and a half hours to get him out of his mothers stomach?

Also his birthday is in June, and the story is taking place... not in June, but whatever. My story my rules.

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