AN: I decided recently that I really should finish some of my unfinished fics. Unfortunately, this plot bunny hit. I'm still writing Be Mine, but I thought I'd put this out there and see what you guys think. If you enjoy it, please let me know.

So, it's set in an alternate universe in past times (no particular historical time or place). The rest of it you can find out from reading.

The carriage rattled around them. Stiles had heard the shouts before Jackson did. He'd noticed the sound of more hooves a few minutes before, but had dared to believe it was nothing. But it was at the sound of the shouting that had made Jackson start panicking.

"Bandits!" he'd shouted.

Stiles had already figured that out by that point. He'd just decided it was better not to let Jackson panic. Because Jackson was a dick when he panicked. Well, Jackson was a dick most of the time, but when he was upset, Stiles preferred to be a few hundred miles away and wearing earplugs. Not stuck in a stupid carriage with him.

"I told you we should have ridden!" Jackson shouted, "There's no way we can out ride them in this box!"

"Yeah, because that was my choice," said Stiles, "Had nothing to do with your Dad trying to impress his customers."

"Shut up, Stilinski! We're being attacked by fucking bandits!"

"Yeah, I got that, actually, but thanks for the heads up."

"You're gone when we get back, Stilinski!" Jackson shouted, "You'll be out without a reference."

Stiles nodded, accepting that straight away. As a master, Jackson was a bigger dickhead than as an acquaintance. If Jackson sent Stiles home in disgrace, Stiles would be relieved.

"They're overtaking us!" Jackson shouted.

Stiles nodded. "It's OK," he said, "They'll probably just ransom you back to your dad. You're worth more alive than dead."

Jackson rolled his eyes, "Do you know nothing, Stilinski? God, you're such an idiot!"

"Yeah, and you're practically a philosopher…."

"Do you know where we are, dickhead?" Jackson growled.

That pissed Stiles off a bit more. "I…"

But Jackson didn't let him finish. "These are the Marshlands! They'll know about my father! They think they're freedom fighters! They hate everyone who can call themselves a gentleman!"

Stiles bit his lip on his retort; that Jackson was as far from being a gentleman as it was possible to be, but he knew the stories. There were bandits that hated the rich above all else.

"Swap clothes with me!"

Stiles scrunched up his nose.

"Er, no," he said.

"Swap clothes, asswipe!" Jackson shouted. "They won't bother with a commoner like you."

"Yeah, that does nothing to persuade me to get my clothes off," said Stiles.

"Get your fucking clothes off, Stilinski! You're going to be me!"

"Why?" Stiles groaned.

"Because when they see me in those rags you call clothes, they'll let me go. They don't care about peasants and servants!"

Stiles decided now wasn't the time to say that peasants and servants were very different in the eyes of peasants and servants and instead said "Do you seriously think that I'm just gonna go with this plan?"

"Stiles!" Jackson moaned, now down to his perfectly shaped torso, "They'll just slap you around a bit, then you can tell them who you really are and they'll forget about you. They'd kill me! Or demand some impossible ransom from my dad! They'll see that yours has nothing worth taking and let you go. Get over yourself!"

"But…"

"Look, jackass," said Jackson, "Take your clothes off before I hold you down and rip them off."

Stiles glared, but knew he was no match for Jackson in a physical fight. He began undressing, "If I get killed by bandits while pretending to be you, you better treat my Dad like he's fucking royalty for the rest of his days, or so help me God, I will be back to haunt you forever!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Jackson, shoving his nice shirt at Stiles, even as the carriage came to a lurching halt, "if you die, your dad will be rich. He'd probably think that was the best of all worlds. No useless halfwit son, and lots of money. More than he ever dreamed."

Stiles seriously considered taking his own shirt back, but Jackson had grabbed it already and was pulling it over his own head. Stiles made a rude gesture in his direction as he pulled Jackson's nice short over his head.

'Pants too, idiot!' Jackson snapped shoving his own down. Stiles held in a smirk at the thought of what any bandit would think if they can in now. But he obeyed his master, and dutifully handed over his pants.

"Mr Whittemore?" called a voice from the carriage door.

Stiles stared at Jackson. Jackson stared right back.

"That's you, dickwad," he hissed.

"Uh... Just a second," said Stiles to the door as he pulled Jackson's pants on. They were stupidly soft and ill fitting, and made Stiles want to writhe in discomfort.

"I'm afraid I must demand that you exit the carriage, Mr Whittemore," said the voice, "we have urgent business with you."

Stiles shivered, "Just a sec!" He shouted again, and whispered "what the fuck am I supposed to do?!"

Jackson smoothed a hand through his hair, "just be your usual smart arse self," he sneered, "You're a crap servant, so this might just work."

Stiles gave Jackson his least servant-like expression, "You're a crapper servant!"

Jackson pulled the ragged sleeves of Stiles' shirt straighter on his wrist. "Just because you're a walking rag and bone wagon doesn't mean all servants look like they've walked through a bunch of hedges."

"Yeah, well, mostly they can manage a tiny shred of humility, too," said Stiles. Because no one could mistake Jackson's arrogance for a servant's obedience.

"Coming from the most impudent servant I've ever met!"

"It's called charm, dickhead, you wouldn't know anything about that!"

Jackson's hand was about an inch from smacking him when the door opened, and both young men's gazes flew to where a young black man was looking at them with ease and confidence.

"Mr Whittemore," said the man, addressing both of them, "His most gracious majesty would crave a word with you."

Jackson snorted. Stiles didn't. He just rolled his eyes. These guys weren't just bandits, then. But he was pretty confident they hadn't been stopped by the actual king.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the man, voice still calm and confident, though maybe now more cold than before.

"King!" Jackson repeated, "You work for the Hale family, I take it?"

"Yes, Sir," replied the man, "the rightful royal family."

Jackson made a derisive sound at that, and Stiles decided the massively insulting tone he was using needed to stop before they both became too annoying to ransom and too much fun to kill.

"My servant means no disrespect," he said, doing his best Jackson impression, aiming for a drawl and a casual stance, "he is merely an ignorant boy, brought up on the propaganda of our home town and without the grace to show good manners to people who can kill him very easily."

The last words were directed at Jackson alone, but he was just glaring nastily at Stiles, no doubt burning at the 'ignorant' comment.

Stiles couldn't let himself worry about that right now. "We shall come to, er… his majesty," he said, aiming for a gracious half bow, probably looking slightly drunk.

The black man raised his eyebrows at him, and Stiles got the feeling he was missing out on something, but he returned the slight bow, and stood back to allow them out of the carriage.

Jackson looked at Stiles expectantly, as though he were expecting Stiles to go check the steps. Stiles rolled his eyes, and shook the expensive shirt he was wearing. Jackson glowered again, but climbed out of the carriage, putting a hand out offensively at Stiles. Stiles ignored the hand and climbed out too.

"This way," said the man, politely, indicating the road, where Stiles could see that a small semi-circle of riders had gathered. Their own coachmen were nowhere to be seen, and Stiles did not consider that a good sign.

The riders were watching them. Stiles noticed they'd no attempt to hide their faces. That was probably not a good sign either. He tried not to let his fear show.

"Mr Whittemore, I presume," greeted a man at the centre. He was one of the older members of the group, definitely over thirty but otherwise hard to place. He looked strong, capable and in charge. Stiles had to stare a good moment before he realised he was expected to speak. He unused to being expected to speak. Usually he was speaking when he was expected to be quiet.

"Uh, yeah," he said, "That's me. Whittemore. Totally my name."

The leader of the rebels smiled, and made quick eye contact with the man on his right. Stiles tried to pretend he hadn't noticed that that guy was beautiful. "And do you know who I am, Mr Whittemore?"

"Uh…" said Stiles, looking at Jackson, knowing he'd said something on the carriage. Was he supposed to know who this guy was? "I'm guessing some sort of well-spoken bandit or something? Based on the whole, well-spokenness and bandit-like activity."

The leader smirked. The guy next to him frowned. Jackson mumbled "Idiot."

The leader turned to Jackson, "And who is your friend?" he asked.

Jackson flinched at the wording. Stiles smirked. "Uh, not so much a friend. More a hapless fool I've taken to looking after. Funny story actually, I found him on a street corner, selling his wares for a few pennies. I couldn't let him stay there, a guy like him would starve before someone wanted a bit."

Because right now, he would take small pleasures where he could. Like insulting Jackson while Jackson couldn't fight back was something like eating honey while waiting for a bear to maul him.

The leader of the rebels laughed, "That's quite a tale. I'd heard you were quite the genteel young man. I'm surprised to hear such course words from you."

"Uh, yeah," said Stiles, embarrassed, "I like to let people think that, but I'm secretly quite a dickhead." Except that didn't work. If he was now insulting himself as Jackson, he'd just suggested he himself had been an out of work rent boy. He did his best to ignore it. It was hard being witty under so much pressure, "So, um, who did you say you were?"

The leader gave another smirk to his friend, and said, "I, young Mr Whittemore, am Peter Hale, son eldest son of the Hale dynasty, and rightful King of this land."

"Oh," said Stiles. Because he assumed he was meant to say something.

"Oh?" said the woman on Peter Hale's left, "That's all you have to say?"

"Er…" said Stiles, "I don't… er… your majesty?"

The woman scowled, but Peter Hale merely shook his head. "It matters not. You are our guest, Mr Whittemore. I'm afraid I must keep you prisoner and demand ransom from your father, it is a sad necessity that we must raise funds to restore us to the throne, but do not fear, your stay shall be comfortable."

"Oh," said Stiles, not sure if he believed the words, "Uh, thanks? Your majesty?"

Jackson rolled his eyes, "Seriously?" he hissed at Stiles.

"As for your servant," said Peter Hale with a smirk. "He is a handsome enough boy, but we have not the food to spare. He will fetch no ransom as a servant. Let any who want their way with him, take him now, then we'll hang him."

"What?" Jackson shouted.

"I'm afraid it's necessary. Funds are low. My soldiers are missing the young flesh available in the cities since our lands were invaded, and I cannot afford to keep useless people. Who wants him? Or shall we just set the scaffold now."

There were a few laughs from the men, as Jackson shouted, "You… you savages!"

Stiles could just stay quiet. He didn't have to watch. Jackson had done plenty of horrid things in his life. He was a bully, and no doubt, would take over his father's business and become an even bigger bully, with more people's livelihoods in his hands. He would not be missed by anyone except his mother, and that was only an assumption on Stiles' part. He could just stand back, wait until he could go home, and then claim he had no power to do anything. He most definitely didn't have to die in the place of Jackson world's-most-dickish-bastard Whittemore. He did not.

A soldier came forward and took Jackson's arm. Jackson punched him, and started, unsurprisingly, shouting loudly that Stiles was the servant, that he was Jackson Whittemore. He basically started screaming it.

"Come now, servant, it will be quick," said Peter Hale.

"Oh, fuck," whispered Stiles. Because he was an idiot, but not actually evil. "Stop!" he said, "That's not my servant. I mean, I'm not… I mean… fuck!" He was going to die for Jackson fuckhead Whittemore, "I mean, I'm Stiles, the servant. He's the dickhead Jackson. Fuck!"

"Oh?" said Peter Hale.

"Yes," said Stiles, wishing he could have been born without a conscious. Like Jackson, "He's Jackson Whittemore."

It took him a second to think about running, but by that time he was pretty much surrounded by foot soldiers who seem to have come from nowhere. "Fuck!" he repeated.

Peter Hale smirked once more at his companion, "Bring him here," he told the soldier.

Stiles' arm was taken none too gently and he was pulled forwards towards the man who called himself King.

"What is your name boy?" said Peter Hale.

"Stiles," Stiles replied, seeing no reason to die with a lie on his lips.

"Well, Stiles, how do you feel right now?" Peter Hale asked, which Stiles thought was particularly morbid of him.

"Pretty shitty, actually," he replied, honestly.

"Descriptive," said Peter Hale, "I believe you have caused some strife in my ranks."

"Oh, whoop de doo," said Stiles.

"It seems that Erica now owes Boyd a series of clean up duties. And my nephew here owes me, what was it we agreed Derek?"

The handsome man beside Peter muttered something far too quiet for Stiles to hear.

"Ah, yes, a performance of the national anthem wearing women's clothes. I look forward to it."

"Great," said Stiles, "You know, you don't have to kill me for me not to cost anything. You can just let me go."

It was a lame hope, but Stiles had to go for it.

"Alas, our situation is still a closely guarded secret," said Peter, "Letting you go would be too big a risk to the security of myself and my followers."

"Yeah, but I'm totally lost right now," said Stiles, "I didn't even pay attention when they were telling us the destination, let alone the route. I'll just wander in the woods for a while, then whether I get home or not doesn't matter, because I won't know where I came from."

"Nice try," said Peter, "But no. You and your master will accompany us now."

Stiles didn't answer. He hadn't failed to notice the slight change in plan, but he most definitely didn't want to question it.

"Boyd, Isaac, please secure our guests. We will return to camp to create our ransom demand."

He turned his horse, forcing Stiles to stumble back out of the way. A young man with fair hair took his arm and led him to a horse. Stiles clambered up clumsily but quickly, in case anyone decided he needed to ride in a more humiliating way. The blond guy climbed onto his own horse beside him, and said "Hands."

"Hands?" said Stiles, "Yeah, I've got hands, thanks." He noticed the handsome man, the one Peter had called Derek, was watching from a small distance, presumably supervising the securing of the prisoners.

The blond guy rolled his eyes, "Give me your hands, I need to bind them."

"But…!" Stiles began to protest, but quickly gave up. He sighed, but pushed his hands out towards the blond guy, who promptly wrapped them in rope. It wasn't tight, but it was effective.

"And I need to tie this around your eyes," said the blond guy.

Stiles groaned, looking at the thick black cloth, "How am I supposed to steer the horse?"

"I'll guide it," said the blond guy. "You're getting a better deal than your master."

Stiles turned, curiously, and found that Jackson hadn't climbed onto his horse fast enough, and was bent over it, hands tied behind his back, feet tied together and a bag on his head. If the muffled sounds he was making were an indication, he had been gagged too.

"You know what, I don't mind a blindfold," said Stiles.

"I thought you wouldn't," said the blond guy.

The cloth went round Stiles' eyes easily.

"I gotta say," said the blond guy's voice, "Was it Stiles?"

"Yeah," said Stiles.

"I'm Isaac," said the blond guy, "And Stiles, seriously, I'm impressed. I'd have kept quiet."

Stiles grumbled. The whole thing had been pretty anti-climactic in the end. "So you guys had a bet on who was Jackson?"

"No," said Isaac with a laugh, "We all knew which of you Jackson was. They took a bet on whether or not you'd admit it."

Stiles pulled a face, and was annoyed it would be hidden behind his blindfold. "Seriously? That whole thing was just a game? I thought I was going to die!"

"Nah," said Isaac, "Peter doesn't do games. He wanted to know what your character was."

"My character?" Stiles repeated, "Why would he care about that?"

"Well, he doesn't want cowards in his army, does he?" said Isaac.

"Oh," said Stiles, "Wait, what?"

The horse began to walk. Stiles' bound fingers clung to the saddle for fear of falling off backwards. He clung with his legs. Somewhere behind them, Jackson was complaining loudly into his cloth gag, and they were taken to the secret hide out of an insane bastard who thought he was King.

Stiles realised it could have been worse.

AN: Again, any feedback is craved muchly.

Thank you kindly.