One week after his birthday, Jackson's parents go out of town for the weekend, so he throws a party. It isn't that he wants to, really, it's more that he feels like he should, since he has the opportunity. Since it's so close to the date, he knows he could have called it a birthday party, but he wants that even less, even if it meant getting presents. Jackson hasn't actually celebrated his birthday since he was six years old, and this year doesn't feel like the time to start. The only presents he ever does get are from his parents, Lydia and Danny, but they all know better than to expect thank you cards in the mail. Or thank you's at all.

He tries to keep the party small, only inviting select people, mostly from the lacrosse and swim team. But word gets out anyways and it doesn't take very long before his house is filled with people, half he knows from school and the other half he doesn't think he's ever met in his life. He would be mad, but part of him expected this. This is what always happens when someone popular throws a party. He used to enjoy that.

Now it doesn't really matter. There's only one person he has any interest in seeing right now, and he's not here. There was no way Jackson could have invited him. Even if he hadn't been wanted for murder, it still would have been... odd.

Jackson will just have to get through the night without him. He could do that.

It's just one night.

Someone is playing some sort of awful techno music and swarms of strangers are dancing. Jackson grabs a beer and starts chugging. After a few more of those, none of it will matter, and that's what he's after.

At least he won't have to worry about running into McCall or Stilinski tonight. Allison, one of the few people he'd actually invited, had told him she wouldn't be able to make it, and if she wasn't here than Scott wouldn't be either. Stiles, he knew, would be wherever Scott was.

Still, there's no lack of people to bother him. Every five minutes there's someone else coming up to him and trying to strike up a conversation about something—their latest lacrosse victory, that assignment they had last week in chem, who's he's taking the spring formal. Jackson can't even pretend to care. He lets each of them prattle on for a few minutes, and then tells them he has to go. He doesn't bother giving an excuse.

It's barely two hours into the party when Jackson starts wondering if anyone would notice, if he just left. Sure, it's his party, but there are so many people... he's almost sure he could sneak out, just for an hour or two. That's all it would take, really. Get in his Porsche, speed across town to the Hale house... Have Derek fuck his senses so thoroughly out of him that having to suffer through the rest of the party wouldn't matter.

It was doable... no one would miss him. It's not like anyone was here to see him.

"Hey, Jackson,"

Jackson jumps, startled. Danny holds up his hands innocently. "Sorry, I... didn't mean to scare you," He says. He's holding two beers in his hands, and wearing a sheepish expression on his face. "I was hoping we could talk..." He offers Jackson one of the beers.

Jackson glances at the beer for a moment, then back at Danny. They've haven't really spoken since Danny's "assault" on him. Well, Jackson hasn't been speaking to Danny since then, anyways. This isn't the first attempt Danny's made, to try and make amends. Maybe because of the alcohol, or because with all the other bullshit in his life Jackson just can't bring himself to keep up some pathetic grudge. Whatever it was, this time Jackson decides to let him.

"Alright," Jackson says, taking the beer from his friend. "Let's talk,"

Danny nods, and looks down at the beer in his hand, tapping his thumb against the cups rim. "I wanted you to know that I'm sorry for you trying to force you to talk me," He says. "I just... I was just worried—"

"I've told you before, don't worry about me," Jackson interrupts. "I can take care of myself,"

Danny laughs a little, and Jackson glares at him, rethinking his decision to forgive. "Sorry, it's just," Danny says, "I remember the first time you told me that. We were like 10 or something, and I was trying to talk you out of walking across the top of the monkey bars." Danny smiles. "You said 'I don't need you to tell me what to do, Danny, I can take care of myself.' And you said it in the same way, too. So serious. Amazing elocution though, for a 10 year old."

Jackson scowls. "I'm not sure if this is what you consider an 'apology,' but I have to tell you that it's really not working."

The smile slips off Danny's face, and he gives Jackson a serious look. "You remember what happened, that day?" He asks.

Jackson has to think for a moment. "I fell," He says. "The school nurse thought I broke my wrist, but it was just a sprain."

Danny nods. "I'm always going to worry about you, Jackson," He says.

The words hang there for a moment, and Jackson looks away uncomfortably. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'I'll always be there to catch you when you fall,' I swear I will never talk to you, ever again."

Jackson glances up at Danny, who gives him a wry smile. A minute passes, and neither of them say anything. Jackson sips his beer.

"So... are we cool now?" Danny asks.

Jackson shrugs. "Yeah, I guess," He says. The relief he feels once the words are out of his mouth takes Jackson by surprise. It was as though he hadn't even realized how much he'd missed Danny until then.

A huge smile spreads across Danny's face, money in Jackson's "you're a fucking terrible person" bank. Danny is one of the few people in his life that he actually gives a shit about. He should treat him better. He should treat everyone better. A decent person would appreciate a friend like Danny.

But of course, Jackson has never been a decent person.

"Just... for the record," Danny says, hesitantly. "If you ever did decide you wanted to talk about... whatever's been going on with you—"

"I won't—"

"Hypothetically," Danny says, speaking over Jackson's interruption. "If you did... I'm here. Just for the record."

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, duh," He mutters.

Danny smiles again, and opens his mouth to say something else, but something across the room seems to distract him. "What is he doing here?" Danny turns away and stares at the floor. "I didn't think you knew him."

Jackson furrows his brow, looking around the room for whoever Danny's talking about. "What? Who?"

"Miguel," Danny all but hisses. "Stiles' cousin—you could have told me you were inviting him," He says. "I would have... worn a different shirt, or something."

"Danny, what the hell are you—" Jackson breaks off mid sentence, and across the room he locks eyes with a pair of cool hazel-green ones. Confident eyes that stare at Jackson without a hint of discernible emotion in them. Eyes he'd told himself he wouldn't see all night.


"Is he looking at us?" Danny asks, glancing up for a second. "Shit, he is," He looks away again. "This shirt isn't that bad, is it?"

Jackson looks at Danny, just for a moment, and when he turns back to where Derek had been standing, he's gone. Jackson hates it when Derek does that. Just appears and disappears into thin air. It doesn't make any sense, either. Werewolves don't move that fast—not anywhere near fast enough to move without being seen. Not faster than the speed of light.

He had the sudden image in his head of Derek frantically bolting out of the room and hiding behind the corner, just so he seemed mysterious.

"Danny, I'll talk to you later, alright?" Jackson says, interrupting Danny's shirt monologue. "I have to go see about something..."

Danny says something in reply that Jackson doesn't quite hear as he walks away. He hopes it was something along the lines of "okay, see you later." More likely it was another question about his shirt, but whatever.

Jackson heads upstairs, where the quiet stillness is a sharp contrast to the bustling noise of the party downstairs.

Derek was here, somewhere. He wouldn't just show up and leave... would he? That didn't make any sense. But then again, how often did Derek make sense to him? Occasionally, he supposed... but more often then not the man was an enigma.

Jackson opens the door to his bedroom, and standing in the middle of it is Derek. He has Jackson's chemistry textbook in his hands, and he's flipping through it like he's been waiting up here for awhile, even though Jackson had seen him downstairs barely a minute ago.

Derek doesn't look up from the textbook when Jackson enters. "So, this is what I missed out on when I dropped out, huh?" Derek says, turning a page. Jackson closes the door behind him, and after a second, locks it. "Suddenly I'm filled with regret." Derek closes the book, puts it down on Jackson's desk, and gives him an expectant look.

"What are you doing here?" Jackson asks, walking over to his desk. He leans back against it and crosses his arms.

One of Derek's eyebrows goes up. "There's a party going on, Jackson," Derek says. "Didn't someone tell you?"

Jackson rolls his eyes, and tries to keep a scowl on his face as Derek steps closer to him. "Yeah I know. But it's invitation only, and I don't remember putting 'psychotic murdering werewolf' on the list."

Derek grins. He's close enough now for Jackson to smell him, and it makes his knees go a little weak. It makes all of him go a little weak. A lot weak. He's always so weak around Derek. "Don't think that doesn't hurt me, Jackson," He says, trailing his fingers up Jackson's chest. "Really, I'm offended."

Jackson knows he's supposed to say something snarky back—and he has about 15 things he could—but instead he just grabs Derek and kisses him, hard. Their mouths crash together, and Jackson's using so much force his jaw is burning with every kiss. But if it's hurting him so much, then Derek has to be feeling something too. Anything.

Derek reaches for the front of Jackson's jeans, but Jackson pulls back. "Wait, one second," Jackson says. He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside on the way over to his bed side table. He pulls out the drawer, and then empties its contents on the bed. Amidst the junk—spare change, a lacrosse keychain, whatever—there's condoms, lube and a box of tissues.

"I'm trying to not see this as some sort of representation of your personality," Derek says, standing next to Jackson and looking at the junk. "Sex," He says, pointing to the condoms and the lube. "Money," He points to the change. "Lacrosse." He picks up the keychain, a small lacrosse stick and medallion on a loop. The medallion has the number 37 on it, the number of Jackson's jersey.

Jackson glares at him, and snatches the keychain out of his hand. "Ha ha, very funny," He snaps. Derek shrugs, as if to say that he thought so. "Danny gave me this stupid thing," He says, putting the keychain on his night table. He pushes the lube, condoms and tissues off to the side, and the rest he sweeps into a garbage bin—including the money. Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "It's worthless junk."

Derek rolls his eyes, picks Jackson up and carries him back over to the desk. The chemistry textbook is pushed off the desk as Jackson is pushed onto it. Derek's mouth is at his throat, and Jackson wraps his arms around Derek's neck.

"Mmm, wait," Jackson says again. Derek doesn't stop. He kisses along Jackson's jaw line, working his way to his mouth. Jackson finally pulls his face away, and Derek sighs and looks at him. "Why does Danny think your name is Miguel, and you're Stiles' cousin?"

There's a pause, and then Derek laughs. His chin drops down against his chest, and he laughs. Jackson just stares at him, trying to keep himself from smiling too. "What—come on, tell me," He gives Derek's shoulder a shove, but Derek just shakes his head and kisses him again. "Nn—I'm serious, Derek," Derek ignores him, breaking the kiss long enough to shed his own jacket and shirt. "I'm not gonna... not gonna let this go..." Derek pushes Jackson's legs apart and moves between them. He puts his hand on the back of Jackson's neck as he kisses him.

Jackson lets it go.

Neither of them bothers with their usual routine. There's no teasing and mocking this time, no biting remarks and jabs. They just skip right into it, this dance they've done so many times before. It's all second nature now. Derek's hands, the way they feel on Jackson's body—the taste of his tongue and the smell of skin. But it's all still so good.

The music downstairs is blasting, the party loud enough that there's no fear of anyone downstairs hearing Jackson's ragged moans as Derek thrusts into him, or the few groans that Derek doesn't manage to smother into Jackson's neck.

Jackson's arms wrap around Derek's neck again, trying to pull him in closer even when there's no closer to go. He bites Derek's ear, and makes no attempts to quell the stream of embarrassing things that come from his mouth. "Derek, harder—harder," He begs, digging his nails into the back of Derek's shoulders. "I—I need more. Make it hurt—" There's a pressure building inside his chest, a crushing pressure that needed to be released. He presses his mouth against Derek's. They're both breathing hard and the kiss is sloppy, but Derek's mouth is sweet.

Derek shakes his head and grunts the word "no," but Jackson persists.

"Please, please..." Derek tilts Jackson's chin up, and kisses and bites softly at his throat. It's another no, but a nicer one. Jackson let's his head drop back down, and grabs Derek by his hair. "Harder," he repeats, making it a command instead of a request. Derek looks him in the eye, and Jackson's stares back. They rock together on Jackson's desk, Derek pushing into Jackson and Jackson pushing back.

Finally Derek puts his hands on Jackson's hips and holds him steady. He pulls back and then slams himself into Jackson again. Jackson cries out, and bites down on his own fist to stifle it. "Uh, oh god, yes," Jackson moans, dropping his arm over Derek's shoulder. "Just like..." Derek slams into him again, and tears spring into Jackson's eyes. "That,"

Jackson's done after one more hard thrust. He presses his mouth to Derek's shoulder to muffle the almost agonized cry that he makes as he comes. Jackson practically collapses against Derek, with his head lolling against Derek's shoulder, and he clings to him with limp arms.

Derek returns to the slower, softer thrusts he was using before, and finishes a minute after Jackson. A deep, satisfied groan comes from the back of his throat, and he runs his fingers through Jackson's sweat soaked hair, and kisses his temple.

"Wait," Jackson mumbles, as he feels Derek begin to pull out of him. Derek pauses. "Just... stay,"

"I'm not a dog." Derek mutters. He slides back into him, all the same.

Jackson tightens his arms around Derek's neck, getting a better grip as he relaxes against him. His legs are still wrapped over Derek's hips, though not as tightly as when they were fucking. Jackson's out of breath, and he rests against Derek as he tries to catch it. He feels Derek stroke his hair, and he sighs, letting his eyes close. "I wanted to invite you, y'know," He murmurs. He breaths in the smell of sweat and sex on Derek's skin. It makes him feel drunk. "Even though I couldn't... I wanted to..."

Derek's whole body stiffens. Jackson feels his shoulders lock up, and when he leans back there's a tense look on his face. "Derek...?"

"Scott's here."


"Scott is here," Derek repeats, louder. He pulls out of Jackson, stumbles backward and looks around the room, as though expecting to find Scott hiding in the corner. But Scott's not in the corner... he's downstairs, apparently.

Jackson's eyes get wide, and he feels sick.

Scott is downstairs.

"Are—are you sure?" The other guests at the party wouldn't have been able to hear them, but Scott would. He would have heard everything.

Derek is rushing around the room, cleaning himself off with the tissues on Jackson's bed and haphazardly pulling his clothes back on. "Yes I'm sure." He pauses just long enough to give Jackson a furious look. Behind the fury, Jackson thinks he might see panic.

"Derek, wait," Jackson takes a step towards him, wishing he would just calm down so they could figure out what they were going to do. Derek shoves Jackson back with one hand.

"I have to go," He says, opening up Jackson's window. He glances back towards Jackson, standing naked in the middle of his room, and then leaps out, into the night.

And just like that, it's over.

A/N: I'm sure you've all heard the news about Colton by now. Devastation is not a strong enough word.

I'll try to post the next chapter in a more timely manner.

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