A/N: Written for Lady Silver's Fall Fandom Fest request over at LJ

"Scott & human!Jackson H/C, possibly involving the canon use of pain to control transformations. Scott should be the one getting hurt here."

Rated T for naughty words and, well, violence of a bullying nature.

"You ready?"

Stiles asked the question as he glanced around the back of the school bus, lumbering out of the parking lot. Equipment, duffel bags, and uniforms littered the rows around him, tossed back quickly and without care just moments ago as the Beacon Hills High Lacrosse team lost an away game in Mystic Falls. He could see his teammates in the front half of the bus, some of them sitting three to a seat, avoiding any contact with one of their co-captains. Occasionally, one player would dare to turn his head and look back cautiously at Stiles's seat mate, not wanting to be the next target for his temper today.

Scott was ready. He nodded silently, furiously, to answer Stiles' question. Though his eyes were clamped shut, Stiles knew he was on Amber Alert, as he had come to refer to Scott's aggression issues. "Just do it before it gets any worse!" he hissed in a low voice, his legs parting slightly.

Next to his best friend, Stiles took a deep breath in, feeling his grip on his lacrosse stick get tighter. "Just try not to kill me, ok?" he asked preemptively. The butt of his lacrosse stick came down smack dab in the middle of Scott's junk. Except it didn't hit Scott's junk, due to the ill fitting jock strap he'd forgotten to remove. Instead, the strap cruelly pinched his balls in all the wrong places.

Scott's eyes began to bug out of his skull while he gasped, sucking in a breath. Both hands went to his crotch. "Fuck!" he howled.

Heads turned, looking at the offending player. Coach Finstock stood up, his face red with frustration. "McCall!" he yelled. "Is there something else you want to complain about today?" Scott was not forthcoming with an answer. His patience long gone, Coach yelled, punctuating each word with venom, "Then sit down and shut up!" He turned his back on the rest of the bus as he sat back down next to his assistant.

Stiles cursed inwardly at the loss of his preferred method to keep Scott's transformation in check tonight. "Why the hell are you still wearing a cup?" He looked up to see if anyone was still paying attention to them. Of course, their teammates were, Scott's co-captain in particular.

Scott cautiously opened his eyes, showing a familiar brown color again. Scott squeaked out "I forgot..." still cradling his offended area.

"How did you forget to take it off? You only missed half the game! What the hell else did you have to do besides sulk on the bus?" Stiles was convinced Scott would be dead by now a thousand times over if it weren't for him.

"Well, I wasn't exactly focused on that, ok?" Scott fired back. He sat back, resting his head on the seat. "It worked, I think. For now anyway." Worry had begun to creep back in his voice as he glanced at the sky, watching as dusk had fallen. He was still restless, knowing that this wasn't anywhere near being over. The anxious feeling he had grew like a tumor in his belly and it only made him feel worse. The pain from the injury Stiles inflicted on him was already fading, but he still felt...off. It wouldn't be enough to survive the entire ride home, he could tell. They were still an agonizing fifty minutes away from Beacon Hills. His skin felt itchy and tingly, a wicked headache brewing between his eyes, no doubt preparing for an inevitable transformation soon.

Scott had been trying to get out of this away game all week. He concocted a story of being too sick to play, with several days' worth of evidence to lay out in front of the coach. Unfortunately, Scott wasn't very good at acting and his supernatural instincts had gotten the better of him on the field during practice. Stiles had tried to reassure him that it would be ok. They'd done away games before and were usually back before dark. Why would this one be any different?

But of course, this time was different. This was the first away game the team had a moody werewolf playing on the afternoon of a full moon. The game had started with a couple slashing calls against him. Even Stiles had to admit the first one was unfair, but one bad call was all it took. After that, each time the whistle would blow, it was always for Scott. He would angrily throw his stick to the ground and walk off the field. Stiles began to imagine it became like a Pavlovian reaction for Scott: whistle, rage, sit out, return to play, only to earn a whistle moments later again. Scott began getting into fights with the opposing team's players, his stick ending up in their faces more than on the ball. Mystic Falls learned quick and began goading him into personal fouls. Stiles was even shocked when he saw his friend issue a rude gesture at one of the home team's fans in the bleachers. Then, it turned into arguing against the calls, getting if the face of Coach Finstock or worse, the referees. That had been the final straw in the beginning of the third quarter. The refs threw Scott out of the game and threatened to write a formal complaint to bar him from competing for the rest of the season. Without Coach's fast talking, Beacon Hill's chances of reaching the championships this year would have been non-existent without their best player. With the decision final, both teams watched as Scott stomped towards the bus, the two halves of his lacrosse stick being furiously thrown in opposite directions. With no chance of getting on the field, like usual, Stiles felt the only thing left for him to do was to go after him.

The many delays of game that occurred from Scott's penalties had forced the game to drag on longer than it should have. Now, Stiles watched over him as he sat next to Scott, who currently had his head resting on the back of the seat in front of him, his hands covering his ears. Scott was doing his best to keep calm, breathing as deeply as he could, in and out, while Stiles was praying it would at least stay overcast until they got to the school parking lot.

Stiles decided to try another tactic to control his friend's urges tonight. "Have you tried Allison?"

Scott nodded miserably, his head staying up against the seat back. "Yes, already texted her. She's stuck with her parents all night. And she's not supposed to talk to me anymore, remember?"

Stiles cringed. That was a bad subject to bring up just now. He should have known better. Before he could try another approach, Stiles's head snapped up as someone slid into the seat in front of them.

And the punches just keep coming, thought Stiles as Jackson leaned over the two of them, a familiar smirk spreading across his face.

"Is the puppy having a bad day?" he inquired, mock concern seeping from his voice. He grinned at the sight of Scott so uncomfortable. "Or maybe an even worse night?"

At the mention of the hated nickname Jackson had come to refer to him lately, Scott bristled. Even though his gaze was downward, Stiles could see his eyes begin to light up once more, his hands balling into fists.

"Look, can we please not do this right now? I'd like to successfully survive tonight's full moon if you don't mind. I'd think you would too," Stiles said pointedly to Jackson.

Jackson scoffed. "Really? What's he gonna do on a bus full of people?" As he glanced out the window at the speeding highway, he continued. "Besides, moon's not even out yet. And it's pretty cloudy."

"Yeah, key word being yet. With Scott's luck, there will be a hole in a cloud right above this bus," Stiles predicted. That was how the universe worked, at least, according to Stiles.

Scott groaned next to him at his prospects; or maybe he growled. Stiles wasn't really sure what type of sound that was, but it wasn't a happy one. He looked nervously at his friend and then to their co-captain. Stiles couldn't help notice Jackson's split second reaction. The normal, self assured expression faltered for just a moment. He watched as Jackson recovered his usual arrogance, but it was kind of hard, knowing that your co-captain could rip your throat out before you could roll your eyes at him.

Running out of options, Stiles decided to take matters into his own hands. "All right, I'm going for your balls again," Stiles declared, steadying the lacrosse stick in his hands, aimed at Scott's crotch.

"No!" Scott squeezed his legs together. "Dude, there's gotta be something else!" he gasped.

"What are you two asswipes talking about now?"

Stiles sighed and hung his head for a second before snapping up to look at Jackson, who still had the audacity to appear confused. "Ok, let me explain this in small words and exaggerated hand gestures. Werewolf. Full moon. Bus full of people. Rawr. Claw. Blood. Everybody dead. Seriously, where have you been for, like, the last two months?"

"Yeah, I get that part," Jackson responded. "But what's with the sudden obsession with Scott's junk?"

"Its pain," Stiles answered, before continuing with his voice lowered. "Pain can stop the transformation. But only for a little while. It, like, shocks his system from completing it or something."

Jackson gave Scott a sideways glance before replying, "What if he's bluffing? Maybe he likes getting away with being a dick to everyone."

Stiles shook his head. "Ok, now you're just being an asshole. You know how bad this could get. Hurting him is our only chance to get him back to Beacon Hills without anyone getting killed. Or finding out about him," Stiles added, as an afterthought.

Well, Jackson had meant to be an asshole. He certainly didn't care what Scott and Stiles thought of him. Even so, Jackson gave the slightest nod, reluctantly accepting this inane plan no matter how pathetic it sounded. They both looked to Scott. He was trying to stay in control, eyes closed, his breathing deep again, but his teeth were beginning to grind and his fists clenched. He had opened the window, hoping the fresh, cool air would help. It didn't seem like it was to his two teammates.

"So that," Jackson huffed, gesturing to the lacrosse stick still in Stiles' hands, "is how you chose to do it? Seriously?"

"You have a better idea? A school bus isn't exactly equipped with weapons to hurt werewolves," Stiles shot back in a low hiss. "This isn't the Argent's Mystery Machine."

Jackson kept his face neutral and replied knowingly, "Well, Stilinski, maybe I do have a better idea."