Jackson likes to pride himself on the fact that he’s particularly observant (it’s observant, not sensitive, shut up Mark) and it’s useful, really it is, when they’re on air or in the middle of a fansigning and he’s the one that swoops in to save the day from an awkward silence with a witty remark or some slapstick humour, and when he’s able to pinpoint certain things out about the members that even their fearless leader overlooks. It’s a gift, just a part of the Wild and y Jackson everyone knows and loves, because the girls love a dude who’s got a sensitive (stupid Mark) observant side, right?

He doesn’t think it’s a gift when he’s the only one who notices Bambam’s unnatural silence after Music Core that night.

“Notice anything up with Bam after the recording?” Jackson tries to ask as casually as possible that night, when the lights are off and the only light in their room is coming from Mark’s laptop. It’s not that he doesn’t dare to confront the team’s fake maknae about it because he at talking about any sort of emotion whatsoever- he just needs confirmation. Yes, that’s right.

“No?” Mark shrugs, half paying attention to whatever’s on his screen (Jackson bets it’s ), the English syllable rolling lazily off his tongue.

“He was real quiet, don’t you think?” Jackson hides the urgency in his voice while trying to pry an answer out of his stupid best friend at the same time. “You think something’s up?”

“Why don’t you go find out?” Mark raises an eyebrow, shooting a mischievous grin his way, and Jackson snorts.

“Yeah, whatever, idiot, why don’t you just go to sleep already,” Jackson grumbles, before grinning back. “Your can wait.”

Mark rolls his eyes, going back to his laptop, unfazed by Jackson’s taunts after years of experience. There’s a comfortable silence after that which Jackson doesn’t notice- too busy mulling over the past few days’ experiences and if there’d been anything to trigger Bambam’s particularly distressing mood.

Mark sighs after a moment, closing the lid of his laptop with a click, before shifting in the covers, sliding further down in the sheets. The silence after only holds for a moment, before he speaks again.

“It’s because he’s homesick, you know,” he says quietly, in Mandarin, this time.

Jackson blinks in the darkness. Homesick? He’d certainly never thought of that.

“What makes you say so?” he voices his doubts in broken Chinese, Mandarin rusty with disuse on his tongue.

“He got a letter from his parents a couple days back,” Mark continues softly. “He missed his sister’s graduation.”

“Oh.”

It’s all Jackson can say to something like that. His mind flashes wildly back to his own older brother, how warm it had been despite being in his shadow for most of his childhood, paving a steady path down the routes of life he’d never been selfless enough to take. You’ll come back soon, yeah, Ka Yee? Come back and help me take care of Ma and Pa.

Jackson had never been able to forgive himself for what he’d done after that.

“So…” Mark drags the word out, jerking Jackson back into the conversation once more. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Jackson leans up to squint at Mark’s silhouette in the darkness. “Why are you asking me?”

“It’s harder for him, you know,” Mark continues as if he hasn’t heard. “At least we’ve got each other, I mean, in terms of our native language, and birthplace, and stuff. Bambam doesn’t have anyone, unless you want him to go talk to Nichkhun-sunbaenim. He’s all alone.”

There’s a silence after that, as Jackson contemplates Mark’s words reluctantly.

“Well if you think I’m going to feel responsible about it enough to do something, you’re wrong, Tuan Yi En,” Jackson snorts, turning over on his mattress.

He can only pretend he doesn’t see Mark’s knowing smirk in the darkness.

(That idiot, seriously.)

It’s all Mark’s fault he’s here.

At 7.30 am on a fricking off-day (one of the few they have during promotions), Jackson stands glumly in the middle of the kitchen, staring at a recipe he’s blu-tacked up to the kitchen cabinet.

Okay yeah, he couldn’t sleep for hours because thinking about Bambam being depressed was driving him up the wall. Sue him. Whatever.

He grabs the few ingredients they happen to have around the kitchen, as a result of having a Thai member in their group, as well as the few he’d made a special trip out to the market to purchase the day before (this was seriously getting a bit far for the great Jackson Wang), sighing and yawning at the same time in frustration. Only half-looking at the recipe, he starts to dump random chopped up vegetables into the boiling pot of water on the stove, muttering darkly about life and all its terrible things as he does so.

Jackson has to squint to see how much chilli powder to add (what the heck is a capful? This thing came in a packet, for crying out loud) and ends up shaking in a bit too much. Swearing under his breath, he scoops a bit out with the teaspoon Youngjae had left on the counter after making his honey tea the night before, before walking over to the dustbin.

It’s testament to how people who have never dealt with chili powder before should never deal with it unsupervised, because even that slight movement blows the angry red dust straight into Jackson’s face.

Jackson sneezes, scattering the powder in his teaspoon. He sneezes again, blinking, and then makes the mistake of rubbing his eyes.

Holy frick.

He’s really swearing now, tearing, rushing over to the sink to wash the stupid powder out of his eyes, cursing everything and anything he can think of. So much that he doesn’t notice the soft footsteps padding into the kitchen, or notice the dark-haired boy holding his water bottle, gaze shifting from the pot on the stove to Jackson, judging him silently.

“This is why children shouldn’t cook without their mommies, hyung,” a sleep-filled, yet somehow still snarky as anything, voice resonates through the kitchen, and Jackson glares with bloodshot eyes from the sink.

“Ugh, this is all your fault, brat,” he mutters, turning his face so the water is running over his eyes.

“Mind telling me how I’m related to your weird kitchen escapades, hyung?” Bambam twists the tap away from Jackson’s face to his water bottle, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips, still looking as plush as ever, even at 7.30 in the morning. Screw this kid, seriously.

Then he straightens, turning slightly, sniffing the air, while Jackson nurses his smarting eyes.

“Are you trying to cook…” Bambam gives him a weird look, before grinning once more. “Tom yum?”

Jackson rolls his eyes, then wails when it hurts. “Yes, you brat. Now can you stop moping about home and come back to us? Your depressing is contagious,” he retorts, dabbing at his eyes with the hand towel.

He looks up after about ten seconds have passed and Bambam hasn’t passed one snarky comment, sniffing questioningly. Instead of the mirth he’d expected, a weird smile is splashed across the young boy’s face, different from the mischievous ones he pulls on broadcast, or the creepy ones he uses to accidentally freak the fans out.

“…wow, that’s really,” Bambam blinks, and his voice wavers ever so slightly, so Jackson isn’t sure if it’s him or all the mucus which has somehow blocked his ears. “Thanks, hyung.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jackson averts his eyes, before something grips him to blurt out the next few words before he can stop himself. “You know we’re always here for you, kid, so if you can’t be with your family right now, let us be the next best thing, okay? We need you as much as they do. Got7 needs you, okay?”

He groans at the surprised look on Bambam’s face, clutching at his face over the sink. “I’m becoming a stupid sap over this group, damn, knew I should’ve just stuck with fencing.”

Jackson starts at the warm, soft-blue-sweater-filled hug he receives next, and looks down in part confusion, part embarrassed contentment at the boy beaming up at him.

“Thanks hyung,” Bambam buries his face in Jackson’s tee, and Jackson feels an odd well of affection bubble up within him, protective and gentle and unfamiliar as at the same time.

“I needed that.”

“N-no problem, kid,” Jackson chuckles weakly, uncertainly running a hand through the rough, dark locks atop the boy’s head, the other patting his shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to come talk to your bro Jackson when you got something on your mind, kay?”

Bambam beams like a kid on Christmas morning at the words, and opens his mouth to say something when there’s a loud footstep, and both of them turn to see Youngjae holding his empty mug, blinking at both of them sleepily.

He does an about turn before either of them can say anything, and Jackson can hear as he opens the door to his room, whining about how Jaebummm, people are gaying in the kitchen againnn, I can’t get to my foooooddd and rolls his eyes.

Later that morning, the seven boys sit at the table and have the tomyum Bambam somehow miraculously saved and made delicious by work of his skilled native hands, and Jackson feels oddly accomplished at the impressed look on Mark’s face, and the proud father look that Jaebum shoots at him every so often (because Jaebum always knows), but mostly at the cheeky, talkative boy throwing insults at Jackson’s cooking skills that’s come back, hopefully to stay this time.

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woot woot never knew jackbam could be this fun wow