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Jackson groans as the sound of his phone pulls him into consciousness. He glares at the thing, noting that it’s the ringtone instead of his alarm and it’s…
He rolls his eyes and tugs one of his pillows over his head to muffle the sound. It doesn’t help much with the enhanced hearing, but it still feels like a proper fuck you to whoever is calling him at almost four in the morning, even if they can’t see him.
After a couple more seconds it falls silent, and Jackson lets out a soft breath of relief. He pulls his silk sheets up closer to his chin and settles more firmly into the bed. Just when he’s back on the cusp of sleep, the ringtone sounds again and Jackson sits up with flared vision that he knows signifies his eyes have gone electric blue.
He rips his phone off the charging pedestal and holds it up to his ear, “What?” He snarls.
There’s a beat of silence and then, “Jackson?”
Jackson blinks, feeling his canines retract and his vision settle. He pulls the phone away from his ear to glance at the contact and finds a ten-digit number glowing back at him. The first three make up the Beacon Hills area code. Jackson slowly puts the phone back to his ear, running a hand through his hair as he thinks about the voice he’s loathe to admit he immediately recognized. Kind of hard not to when he spent eighteen years hearing it spit insults at him in the hallways.
“Stilinski?”
“I—yeah,” Stilinski says, his voice crackly and low through the connection, “Lydia gave me your number.”
Jackson frowns, pulling the phone away again to confirm the number and be sure he’s not hallucinating. He’s pretty goddamn confused to hear Stilinski of all people calling him in the middle of the night, but how he got Jackson’s number is the least of his concerns.
“What the fuck do you want?” Jackson asks, propping his elbows on his knees, “I thought leaving the country was enough of an indicator that I was done with your fucked up Brady Bunch and anything else Beacon Hills drags up.”
“It’s not about—well…” Stilinski pauses on the other end and Jackson has to take a deep breath to keep from hanging up. One of his old therapists was adamant that a lot of his problems would be solved with some practice in patience, “You’re still in contact with Lydia, right? And Danny?”
“Yes, but like I just said, we don’t talk about Beacon Hills shit. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? The other testicle got himself into even more trouble, like always, and you’re trying to do everything in your little nonexistent power to get him out of it. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Jacks—”
“Shut up, Stilinski,” Jackson growls, wincing when his canines poke holes into his lower lip, “I don’t care about you or your boyfriend. I’m sure your little pack can figure it out themselves. Don’t call me again.”
Jackson hangs up and turns his phone all the way off before chucking it into his closet. There, finally some peace. With a scowl Jackson crawls back under his sheets and forces his mind away from whatever reason it was that Stiles called.
Beacon Hills is not his problem. Derek and his pack made sure of that a long time ago.
—
Jackson glances at the clock and frowns. Twenty-two minutes left of class, only two minutes less than the last time he looked. English has never been his favorite—understanding the symbolism of dead authors doesn’t really wet his whistle—but today it’s downright torture. At least in his other classes he could bury himself in work, but English is so boring that he can’t help but let his mind wander, and it keeps wandering to the same thing.
Stiles Fucking Stilinski.
He saved his number, for whatever reason, that morning when his maid woke him up to tell him he was late for school, and he can’t wrap his mind around the call. He half-hoped he dreamed the whole thing, to be honest, other than that would be a weird fucking thing to dream about.
Stilinski would never deign himself to ask Jackson for help with something; it would require him bruising his far too large ego. Besides, wouldn’t it make more sense for Lydia or Danny to call him if they really needed help? Stilinski should’ve known he would get that treatment from Jackson, just like Jackson knows he would hear the same if he ever felt desperate enough to call someone in McCall’s jerk circle.
So why did he call?
“Jackson Whittmore,” Mr. Rivazi says, making Jackson blink and glare up at the man, “I asked you a question.”
Jackson smirks and leans back in his chair, leisurely crossing one leg over the other, “The curtains are blue because she’s sad.”
Rivazi rolls his eyes as giggles run through the room and holds up the book in his hands, shaking it a little, “We’re reading Animal Farm, there are no blue curtains.”
“I think that’s up to consumer interpretation,” Jackson answers smoothly, shooting a wink at Gwen when she turns around in her seat to give him a sly smile, “Hey, can I use the restroom?”
“Only if you promise to have the correct chapters read by tomorrow,” Rivazi says, shooing him away without a second glance. Jackson pushes his chair back with a loud screech and smirks when he hears Gwen echoing his question.
He makes his way to the girl’s bathroom on the third floor—their usual meeting spot—but pauses with a scowl when he feels his phone start to vibrate in his pocket. He’s only half-surprised to see Lydia’s contact and hesitates for a couple more rings before answering with a sigh. They were assholes to each other, but they did still care. After everything, he at least owes it to her to pick up when she calls.
“Lyds!” Jackson greets, faux cheerful as he leans into an alcove with a window above the courtyard, “If you’re also calling about Beacon Hills shit, I’m going to have to ask you to fuck right off.”
“Charming as always, Jackson,” Lydia says drily, “This isn’t about Beacon Hills, this is about Stiles.”
“Last I checked, Stilinski lives in Beacon Hills. Not sure your statement checks out.”
“Danny and I still live here, and you still talk to us.”
“You and Danny didn’t kidnap me in a prison van and then hit me with your car,” Jackson hisses. He rubs at his temples and closes his eyes, knowing if anyone came across him right then they’d have questions, “I’m serious, Lydia, leave me out of all that shit. I’m done with them, which you fucking knew when you gave that idiot my number. You’re a bitch for that, by the way.”
“Jackson, please,” Lydia says, which gives Jackson pause. Lydia Martin does not say please. Lydia Martin gets what she wants, when she wants, with no questions asked and no begging on her part. This is more than the usual Beacon Hills Shit.
“Fine, what’s so important that someone in Derek’s pack decided to contact me after a year of silence?” Jackson grouses.
Lydia hefts a sigh that sounds as relieved as it is hesitant, “Okay, look, I don’t want to say too much because it’s not really my place, but it’s Stiles. There’s nothing going on right now, the whole thing ended a couple months ago, but… Stiles isn’t handling it well. He needs help.”
Jackson barks a laugh and feels something so dark and serpentine slither through his gut that he has to tear his sleeves back to check for scales, “He need help finding your clit, Martin? Buy him an anatomy textbook, I’m pretty sure he’s more attracted to weird old books than people anyway.”
“Jackson Whittmore,” Lydia admonishes. Jackson can picture her furrowed brows and full, pursed lips, “Allison is dead.”
That stops Jackson cold. He has to lean out and put a hand on the window to keep his knees from going weak enough to drop him to the floor, “What?”
“She’s—” Lydia cuts herself off with a hitched breath and sniffle, “She’s dead, Jackson, and so is Aiden. It’s not Stiles’s fault—it’s not—but the circumstances surrounding it… it was like you.”
Jackson feels numb in a way he hasn’t since he realized he’d tried to kill Danny, of all people, while he was the kanima. Allison Argent, badass hunter and good girl next door, dead. They were friends, her and Jackson, actual friends. Sure, it started as a twisted way to get back at Lydia and Scott, but she was still kind to him when others weren’t. Allison…
“How?” Jackson croaks, hunching himself further into the alcove and praying Gwen doesn’t come by this way, “What happened?”
“Like I said, he should be the one to tell it,” Lydia says, her voice brittle, “Jackson, he really does need help. Can you just talk to him, for at least a couple of minutes, for me?”
“You sure you aren’t fucking?” Jackson asks, half to lighten the terrible mood and half because he’s possessively curious. He knows they went their separate ways, and he knows that they’ve both been with other people—Jackson probably too many people—but she’s still his anchor and there’s something about the thought of her and Stiles together that makes his wolf curl up in his chest.
“He’s a good guy,” Is all Lydia says, which doesn’t really answer the question, but he supposes is enough. Jackson nods and sighs.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m calling on my own time, though. The fucker woke me up at four in the morning on a school night.”
“You’re losing your touch, Whittemore, you’ve never cared about staying up late into the night before.”
Jackson smirks and looks away from the window, catching a streak of blond hair as Gwen pushes into the restroom, “Or during the school day. Speaking of, I’ve got an important appointment to get to, Lyds, and I’m running late. Talk to you later.”
“Grab an anatomy textbook on your way,” Lydia quips before hanging up. Jackson scowls and pockets his phone, grumbling as he loosens his ridiculous tie on the way to the bathroom.
—
Jackson stares at the contact on his phone, feeling his claws elongate and retract over the name as he weighs his options.
Lydia said that Stiles’s situation was like his, which means he must have been controlled. Someone must have gotten into his head like Matt and Gerard. Someone must have taken his free will from him, tore his senses and his memories away, gave him orders that were expected to be followed, made him kill. Made him kill Allison.
Jackson shivers and drops his phone on his bed. He stands and paces the long length of his room quickly, running his hands through his hair and blinking as his wolf threatens to break through the surface at the sign of panic.
It’s not like he really handled his own situation, if he’s being honest. He just… repressed. His parents took him to a bunch of very expensive therapists once he’d told them all about the supernatural world, but it wasn’t like he could tell them what was actually going on. He would’ve gotten locked up in the looney bin faster than he could say mind-controlled lizard.
Jackson groans and picks up his phone again, glaring at Testicle #2 glowing on his screen. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t owe the asshole anything, and he’s sure there’s no way they’ll be able to hold a civil conversation with their history. He also really doesn’t want a reminder of that part of his life, and he doesn’t give a shit about Stiles Stilinski’s precious feelings. He shouldn’t do this.
He presses call.
Jackson breathes hard through his nose as he hits speakerphone and throws the phone back on his bed, pacing again as the dial tone goes through. It rings once, twice, three times… just when Jackson is fuming at the thought of Stilinski sticking him with voicemail after all that buildup, the tone clicks away and breathing comes through.
“Hello?”
“Stilinski,” Jackson says gruffly, stopping to hover over his phone. There’s some rustling on the other line and then just breathing again, quicker than usual for a healthy human.
“Jackson,” Stilinski says eventually, his voice quiet yet loud to his wolf ears.
“Look,” Jackson snaps, tired of the same name game they pulled the previous night, “Lydia talked to me today, and I get that you apparently have something to talk about, so talk.”
Jackson holds his breath and starts pacing again, feeling every inch of his skin breakout in goosebumps the longer Stilinski stays silent. After a minute of pacing, when all that comes through the other end of the line is hitched breathing, Jackson whirls on his bed, fully ready to hang up.
“Scott has a new girlfriend.”
“Wha—I don’t care,” Jackson growls, snatching up his phone, “Also, why the fuck is that the only thing he uses his wolfy powers for?”
Stilinski snorts and Jackson feels something like pride simmer in his stomach, which is weird because they aren’t friends, and they never have been, so it doesn’t matter if he gets Stilinski to laugh.
“It’s part of the lore, Whittemore, so listen up. Kira, Scott’s girl, is a kitsune which—”
“Is a fox spirit,” Jackson interrupts. He smirks at the silence on the other end that he knows is surprised, “You’re not the only one to do research, Stilinski. I want to be prepared if anything weird shows up in London so I can bore it to death with bestiary passages.”
“Huh. Well, I’m glad I rubbed off on you,” Jackson scowls at the smugness in his voice, “Anyway, the kitsune. So, her mom is one too, and it turns out that she’s, like, a billion years old, right? Which, by the way, she looks super hot for her age.”
“Jesus—”
“She released a dark spirit a really long time ago called the—the nogitsune.”
Jackson is silent as Stilinski tells him about the nogitsune. He talks about how it took over his body and then created a new body. He talks about Eichen House and why he thought he was losing his mind from all the images and lost time the spirit gave him. (Jackson has to check his arms and legs multiple times throughout the explanation for scales, feeling more and more on edge with every word.) He talks about his guilt and the after.
“They don’t—they don’t understand. They keep telling me that it wasn’t me, and I—”
“But it was you,” Jackson murmurs, leaning back on his bed and closing his eyes, “You—we—killed people.”
“Yeah,” Stilinski replies, his voice taut, “And I know something else was controlling me, but it was still my body that killed, most of the time. It makes my skin crawl whenever I look at myself. I understand why the others are on edge when they see me.”
“Wait, is McCall being an asshole to you? Look if that dillweed thinks it’s your fault that Allison—”
“Down, Fido,” Stilinski cuts in, his voice dry, “He doesn’t blame me, like, at all. It almost makes it worse, if I’m being honest. Of course the True Alpha doesn’t blame me for killing his first love. Fuck him for being so good, honestly.”
Jackson hums, thoughtful, because he can see that. It feels—wrong to be told he’s completely devoid of blame after the situation. Uncomfortable. He doesn’t fully believe everything was his fault anymore, but he still knows he did it. He was part of the cause. A catalyst, at the very least.
“I’ve looked up tons of information on survivor’s guilt. I bought books and research papers, but there’s nothing on the guilt of the killers because serial killers are almost always guiltless psychopaths. Does that make me one if I blame some supernatural spirit and refuse to be guilty about all the deaths I caused?”
“If there’s anything I learned after the kanima, it’s that the supernatural world needs more therapists.”
“You went to therapy?” Stilinski asks, surprised. Jackson snorts.
“Duh, are you telling me you didn’t?” There’s a deliberate pause that makes Jackson frown, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Cop insurance isn’t very good, okay!” Stilinski explodes. Jackson can picture his plush lips in a pout and his upturned nose all scrunched, “And we’re a little low on funds after someone filed a restraining order against me and got my dad fired.”
“You kidnapped me!” Jackson shouts, leaning forward and feeling his eyes flash, “You can’t tell me you didn’t deserve it!”
“I was trying to help you!” Stilinski shouts back, his voice cracking, “You don’t have a grateful bone in your body, Whittemore. First, Derek gives you the bite after you begged for it like a little bitch, and all you did was complain after it. Then, I try to keep you from killing people, and you get my dad fired from the job he loves. And after Lydia risks her life to save you, you jet off across the ocean for tea and crumpets and break up with her over text. You’re something else, Whittemore.”
“You wanted to save me after chaining me to that van? Right,” Jackson scoffs, fuming, “I heard you talking to Scott, when you said he should just kill me. You wanna know what I think? I think you’re the one that’s something else, and I think the nogitsune chose you for a reason.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath and then the line goes dead.
“Fuck,” Jackson hisses, feeling his canines and claws retract as his anger fades to cold dread, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Jackson jumps out of bed and immediately redials the number, starting to pace the well-worn path in the hardwood. He raises his hand to his mouth and gnaws on his thumb nail for a second before spitting it out with a scowl. He dropped that habit after elementary school, knowing that bitten down nails shows weakness. He’s not going to start again because of Stiles Stilinski, of all people.
Except—Except he knows he fucked up. Badly. He knows, intimately, the headspace Stiles is in. He knows how the blame game works, and he knows self-hatred, and he knows he should not have insinuated, in any way, that it was Stiles’s fault.
“C’mon, come fucking on, Stilinski,” Jackson mutters as the phone rings to voicemail. He hangs up and dials again.
He should not have been the person to do this. He knew it wouldn’t end well. He knows who he is, and that person isn’t understanding or kind or gentle or whatever else the carebear McCall pack stands for. No wonder no one wanted anything to do with him back in Beacon. Fuck, if anything happens to Stiles he’ll have a real reason for his blue eyes. He won’t be able to stay in London either, knowing what he’s done. He’ll have to—
“Whittemore—”
“Stiles!” Jackson half growls, clutching the phone in his hands so hard the screen cracks, “I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m—I’m sorry. The spirit wasn’t your fault and—”
“Jackson,” Stiles cuts him off tiredly. His voice sounds stuffy, like he’s been crying, and it makes his wolf whine and whimper in his chest, “It’s fine. It is my fault. You weren’t wrong.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jackson says bluntly, resuming his pacing, “It’s not. Don’t say that.”
“It is,” Stiles hiccups, “That spirit was roaming around without a host for centuries. It didn’t—It never popped up until I let it in. I let it in! I just—I let it take my meat sack for a spin, and then I let it clone my meat sack, and then I killed Allison!”
“Did you ask for a killing spirit to possess you?”
“I—What?”
“Did you ask,” Jackson repeats, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed, “For something to take control of you? Did you ask it to kill people? Did you ask for that kind of power?”
“Of course not, dipshit.”
Jackson gratuitously ignores the insult and sighs as he leans back on the mattress, “Okay. You might have let something inside you, and I asked for the bite, but neither of us asked to be controlled like that. That part isn’t on us.”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’m sorry about that night. I didn’t… well, yeah, I meant it when I said we should kill you, but you were forced to kill half the police station, and my dad—” Stiles cuts off with choked breath. Jackson swallows and forces himself not to get defensive as Stiles gets ahold of himself, “In the moment I wanted to because he’s all I have left, but I would have regretted it. I’m glad we got you back, and I’m sorry.”
Jackson blinks rapidly at the ceiling, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone, Stilinski. I’m feeling honored.”
“Don’t get used to it, lizard breath,” Stiles sighs, though it sounds lighter, “Uh, is it—could I—can I, maybe, call you? Again? If I—”
“Yes, Stilinski, I give you permission to booty call.”
Stiles laughs, short and airy, and Jackson grins.
“Your game is getting weak, Whittemore. The menu across the pond must be bland.”
That startles a laugh out of Jackson, and he finds himself unable to tamp down on his smile, “It is, actually. No one here talks back to me. All the yes, Jackson’s can get boring after a while.”
Stiles just hums, but Jackson is sure he’s grinning too. He suddenly aches to know what his scent is like. He can’t remember ever smelling it after all the chaos that went on after his death and rebirth. Is it spicy and sweet like Lydia’s? Lavender and eucalyptus like Danny?
“I’ll keep you humble, don’t worry,” Stiles says softly. He clears his throat and Jackson hears some rustling on the other end, “Uh, thanks for this. For letting me talk. It did help a lot.”
“Yeah, it’s whatever,” Jackson says gruffly while his wolf settles pleasantly in his chest, “Like I said, my line is open. I won’t be a dick to you. Well, I won’t be a dick on purpose.”
“That’s way more than I expected, honestly,” Stiles snorts, “Bye, Jackson.”
“Bye, Stiles.”
Jackson is still smiling a little as he changes into his silk sleepwear and slips into bed. He knows he’s going to have nightmare about ripping people apart—he can feel it—but he also feels a little better. Lighter.
He would never wish what he went through on anyone, but he can admit it’s nice to have someone to talk to. He moved away from Beacon Hills to forget his past, but maybe it won’t be as bad as he thought to talk to someone that knows him.
—
“I’m failing my classes right now.”
“Jesus,” Jackson mumbles, grabbing the stress ball and pausing in where he was throwing it toward the ceiling.
“I know,” Stiles sighs, “My dad is more stressed about than I am, since my college fund is basically pray Stiles get a scholarship, and I have to keep playing the misunderstood murderer card so he leaves me alone.”
“Jesus,” Jackson says again, laughing a little this time, “We’d have a monopoly the personal essay part if we’re allowed to talk about supernatural shit.”
Stiles laughs and Jackson grins proudly, throwing the claw-poked ball up again and catching it with a flourish.
“Dear MIT, please extend affirmative action to let in serial killers. I have proof that I can be very threatening if you say no.”
“Oh my God—”
“I know, I know. Let me cope how I want to,” Stiles giggles. Jackson can almost picture his grin, but it’s frustratingly fuzzy after the year they spent without seeing each other face to face.
“Hey,” Jackson says after a moment, squeezing the ball thoughtfully, “Do you need a tutor? I can get the contact information of the guy my parents hired back in Beacon Hills.”
“No,” Stiles snarls. Jackson blinks as he clears his throat, “I don’t need help. I can do it myself.”
“You don’t have to.”
“…I know. I called you, didn’t I?”
—
“We’re reading The Raven in my English class.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Jack—"
“It gets me thinking, you know? I can hear heartbeats, everyone’s, all the time. What if I kept one when I was the kanima? What if it’s under the floorboards in my room in Beacon Hills? What if I go back someday and it’s—it’s there?”
“…I feel like that here. Everywhere. It feels like this whole city has a heart buried underneath. It always calls out to me. Beacon Hills never lets me forget—not for a second—what I’ve done. I can’t say I don’t I deserve it, though.”
“That’s why I had to leave.”
“I get it now.”
—
“Jackson!” Stiles gasps. His voice sounds thin and reedy and Jackson can hear his heart pounding through the phone as clearly as if he were next to him.
“Stiles,” Jackson says lowly, squatting on the bathroom floor and ignoring the angry muttering from the guy he just left in his bed with blue balls, “You need to breathe.”
“I can’t,” Stiles pants, “I woke up and I couldn’t move, and it felt—I-I thought—"
“You can and you will,” Jackson hisses, sliding down until he’s sitting on the tile, “Just listen to my voice, okay? Breathe with me. You need to slow your heart rate down.”
“Thank you,” Stiles says, his voice small and wet, “I’m sorry to call when I’m like this.”
“Don’t apologize. It sounds weird coming from you,” Jackson says, rubbing a hand down his face, “Try to get some sleep, okay? You can call me again if you can’t.”
—
“He looks better.”
Jackson hums noncommittedly, even as his ears are straining to listen to the faint echo of Lydia’s heartbeat on the other end of the line, poised to pick up any lies.
“I’m serious, Jackson. I think he still has some trouble sleeping, but he’s finally starting to look alive again. You’re doing a good thing by him, and I wanted to thank you for it.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Jackson says before he can really think about it. He sucks in a breath in anticipation of a fight, but all he hears is a low laugh. He knows her well enough to be certain it’s not amusement at his expense.
“I know,” Lydia says softly. She sounds a little sad, but her heart rate is steady.
—
“Do you play lacrosse at your new school?”
“No, they don’t have lacrosse. I’m on the swim team, though. Captain, of course.”
“Of course,” Stiles scoffs, mockingly haughty. Jackson doesn’t fight his grin; Stiles sounds good today, more upbeat, and Jackson isn’t about to take that for granted, “I, uh, I quit lacrosse.”
Jackson blinks, tightening his grip around the spoon that about fell from his grasp, “Really?” He asks lightly. Stiles was ass at lacrosse, everybody knew that, but he stubbornly stayed on the team despite his bench warming because he genuinely liked the sport. It wasn’t an ego boost like it was for Jackson.
“Yeah, I couldn’t—” Stiles stops and clears his throat, “It feels weird doing something that makes me happy when I’m the reason so many people can’t be happy anymore.”
“I got really into swim as a fuck you to Matt,” Jackson offers tentatively, wanting to say it but not really knowing how Stiles will take it. There’s silence for one long second and then a bark of laughter that turns into soft chuckles.
“Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Get it? Strokes, like swimming—”
“You’re so fucking weird,” Jackson sighs, uncaring of how fond he sounds.
—
“Sometimes my parents will look at me a certain way and I know they’re disappointed in what they see. I can smell it on them. They regret adopting me. I don’t get why they didn’t put me back when they realized it all those years ago.”
“Perfection isn’t attainable, Jackson. You need to learn to let it go for your own happiness. It’s why you wanted the bite, right? Look where that lead you.”
“Whatever.”
“…I’m glad they brought you to Beacon Hills.”
“Goodnight, Stiles.”
—
“I don’t mean to freak you out, but I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” Jackson asks, turning away from the stove briefly to glance at Stiles’s name on the screen. They’ve been talking for almost two hours.
“Be in a pack. Serve under an alpha that—that makes you submit.”
Jackson freezes. He thinks about the handful of times that Derek used his alpha voice on him before he packed up and moved to London. He thinks about the monthly full moon meetings he’s required to attend with the pack that reluctantly let him join so he didn’t go feral, and the way the alpha stares him down every time.
Jackson clears his throat and flips the turkey burger over in the pan, “You freaked me out.”
“…Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jackson sighs as he turns off the burner and watches the meat cook. It doesn’t look very appetizing anymore, “Derek was the worst about it. It’s one of the main reasons I had to leave. Every time he made me do something, even a command as stupid as doing his laundry, I felt like tearing my skin off. The pack here is better. No one talks to me, so they don’t command me to do anything.”
Stiles is silent as Jackson slips the patty off the pan and onto a bun, “That really sucks, man. Derek… Derek had no idea what he was doing—he’ll be the first to admit that now—but that’s no excuse for how you were treated. You deserve an actual pack bond. A strong one.”
“You’re my pack,” Jackson says mildly, even as his heart goes haywire. He’s glad Stiles isn’t a wolf and can’t hear it, “You and Danny and Lydia.”
“…You’re my pack too, Jackson.”
—
“Do you still get nightmares?”
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. There’s some rustling on the other end, and Jackson can imagine him lying in bed with his dark hair all messy over the pillows. He ignores the fluttering the image gives him deep in his abdomen, “It’s down to about five nights a week instead of every night, though. Bitches call that progress.”
“You’re bitches,” Jackson says drily. He adds dark circles to the mental image he has of Stiles and swallows roughly, “I had them too. It was the only thing therapy helped with.”
Stiles hums and Jackson closes his eyes when he hears more blankets shifting and stuttered breathing. He waits with easy patience, running his fingers through the grass absently.
“What were yours like?” Stiles whispers, sounding hesitant, “I thought you don’t remember anything from being Godzilla.”
“I don’t,” Jackson says honestly, gazing across the courtyard with vacant eyes. All he remembers is waking up in the woods or a field or a ditch completely naked, on a different day than it had been when he went under. He had no idea what was going on, and the possibilities always scared him shitless, “I used to dream about what I imagined it was like. I was never the kanima in my dreams, though, I was always me.”
“That’s kind of deep, Whittemore. I gotta say that I’m impressed by your subconscious.”
“Shut up, you dweeb,” Jackson tries to growl, but his wolf doesn’t feel like cooperating in being menacing today.
“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles sighs, “It’s just… the nogitsune didn’t have another form. I wasn’t a lizard when I was attacking people, all the victims saw—saw me when I was killing them. It hurts to think about sometimes. I get why your nightmares sucked so bad. Mine are like that too.”
Jackson pauses, pursing his lips and wondering why he feels like he’s about to cry. Stiles didn’t deserve this. Jackson didn’t deserve this. Why were they cursed to bear this burden? Why were the creatures that used them allowed to leave without feeling the consequences?
“How good are you at poetry? I have a comp test in an hour, and I refuse to study that flowery shit.”
Stiles graciously doesn’t comment on the topic change and ignores the wobbly tone to his voice, “Lucky for you, I’m a poetry god.”
—
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Jackson leans forward as he takes Stiles in, squinting at the pixelated screen. He’s paler than he remembers, obvious even in the shitty light of his desk lamp, and it makes the moles on his face and neck stand out. Dark smudges under his eyes make them seem smaller, dimmer, and he looks thin. Jackson lingers on the jut of collarbone peeking out of the collar of his oversized BHHS Lacrosse hoodie for several moments before moving on. His hair is longer, finally grown out of the awful buzzcut, but it sits limp across his forehead.
Jackson drags his eyes back to Stiles’s face and mentally slaps himself for feeling embarrassed. He straightens his shoulders when he sees Stiles’s eyes doing the same lingering perusal of his frame. His wolf curls up tight in his chest and he fights the urge to hide himself away.
“This is weird,” Stiles blurts. Jackson grunts a laugh and Stiles smiles. He drinks the sight up like a man starved, committing the quirk of his lips and the way it crinkles his eyes to memory.
“You look like shit, Stilinski,” Jackson says, the softness of his voice cutting any edge the words present. Stiles still winces and duck his head, hunching his lanky frame even further in on himself.
“Not all of us can be you.”
Jackson smirks at the compliment—he can’t help it—even though he still feels twitchy about Stiles avoiding eye contact, “Do you even eat? You’re just skin and bones.”
“I try,” Stiles says, locking eyes with him again. Jackson couldn’t look away if he tried, “I get full really quickly now.”
“Try harder.”
“Yes, mum.”
Jackson tries to glare but can’t help the laugh that ekes out at the awful accent. Stiles relaxes at the sound, a small smile on his face as he looks at Jackson while sitting in a bedroom half a world away. They take a wordless moment to simply stare again.
“I never thought this would happen,” Stiles says, tilting his head. Jackson aches to see more of his casual mannerisms, “Us being friends, I mean.”
“We’re friends?” Jackson blurts, feeling a mortifying warmth rush up his neck and cheeks. Stiles squints, looking affronted, before it smooths out into something that looks a little sad.
“Yeah,” Stiles grins, “Sorry, man. You’re stuck with me now. No takebacks, motherfucker.”
Jackson thinks about the curve of his mouth for a long time before he goes to sleep that night.
—
“London hasn’t helped me, not really,” Jackson says, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder and frowning at the mess of people going about their own lives around him, “I’m the same exact person I was in Beacon Hills. I’m at the top of the social ladder but no one actually knows me, I fuck around but don’t get attached, I throw money at anything I can’t fix. I just ran away from the problem, and I can feel it catching up. It’s only a matter of time now.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line and Jackson wrings his hands together, more anxious for his reply than he’s been for anything else in his life. He hasn’t cared this much about anything else in his life. The realization sends his wolf prancing and his heart racing.
“You’re not the same person,” Stiles says eventually, “Maybe when you first got there you were, but not anymore. I don’t have to be with you physically to know you’re a changed person. For the better. Far you have come, Young Padawan.”
I wish you were with me, Jackson wants to say. Instead, he says, “You’re the biggest nerd I know.”
“Why, thank you, M’Sir,” Stiles says, laughter in his voice, “You can’t see me, but I’m tipping an invisible fedora at you.”
I wish I could see you.
“Nerd.”
—
“This is literally a mukbang.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mukbang,” Stiles repeats, waving his cup of ramen around. It’s not what Jackson would have picked for him, but at least he’s eaten most of the container, “Look it up. They’re so gross but you can’t look away. Like a car crash. Or your mom.”
Jackson hates that that makes him laugh. He’s a cool guy, all of his classmates tell him so. He’s almost nineteen and about to go to college, so he shouldn’t find mom jokes funny. But for some reason, they are when Stiles is the one telling them with a goofy grin on his sodium-soaked lips.
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe later, your dad’s on the lineup tonight.”
Jackson’s jaw drops, full of half-chewed sushi, as Stiles erupts into laughter. He’s bright, almost hard to look at, even in the darkness of his room and covered in splotches of ramen stock that keeps splashing out with his erratic movements.
Jackson makes a silent goal to get him to laugh like that again as soon as possible.
—
“Does it ever get easier?” Stiles rasps, “Will I ever get over it?”
Jackson sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “I’ll let you know if I get an answer to that.”
—
“I’ve been hearing from you a lot more recently. It’s nice, man.”
“Gross,” Jackson says, even as he feels himself warm at Danny’s words, “Get that sappy shit out of my face.”
“I’m just saying!” Danny laughs, “I like talking to you, but it does make me miss your presence in Beacon Hills.”
“Yeah, you can definitely get that shit right out my face.”
“I know. This place is a shit hole, and definitely one of the circles of hell. We need to raze the whole town one of these days.”
“I will get on a plane back just to help with that.”
Danny laughs again and then falls silent, “You know, Stiles is looking better, and I have to say that you definitely are too. You guys are really good for each other.”
“I told you to stop with the sappy shit,” Jackson snaps, hiding his warm cheeks in his shirt even though Danny can’t see him.
“So cute.” Danny deadpans. It sounds like he’s smiling
—
“You lost your virginity in an insane asylum?”
“I lost my virginity in an insane asylum,” Stiles wails, “It happened so fast, dude. Malia just fucking—jumped me. I’m gonna be real, for a little while after I thought it was a hallucination or something because no one has been that into me that they’re ready to pop my cherry in Eichen, of all places.”
Jackson laughs and hands his card to the cashier, ignoring the urge to tell Stiles that he understands this Malia whole-heartedly, “You seriously can’t do anything normally, can you?”
“It’s my curse,” Stiles sighs dramatically, “I can’t ever go to Vegas because I just know I’m gonna wake up with a marriage certificate to someone I don’t even know and signed by Elvis as a witness. I’ll probably have a tattoo of, like, Michigan on my ass too. Just for shits and gigs.”
“I hope that the unlucky person is sober enough to sign a prenup before. And that they find Michigan sexy.”
“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, going on to mutter other various insults under his breath that he knows Jackson can still hear, “You would be the prenup type.”
“I’m everybody’s type, and my money is a big part of that.”
“…Huh,” Stiles says, sounding thoughtful, “What about Lydia?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she’s stupid rich too, and she loves you.”
“Look, I loved Lydia—still love her—but we’re not like that anymore. There was too much weird history to really get over,” Jackson says, hunching his shoulders a little as he ducks into the Tube entrance, “Which is fine, we’ve both moved on.”
Stiles hums and Jackson purses his lips, “Mature Jackson is weird. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.”
“Fuck you,” Jackson says without heat. He hesitates for a moment, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, “What about you and Lydia?” He continues, trying for nonchalant even as he feels something tighten around his lungs.
Stiles snorts, “There is no me and Lydia. I mean, I guess I loved her back then in a creepy, obsessive, prepubescent way.”
“You said it not me,” Jackson smirks, feeling his chest lighten at Stiles’s mocking sigh.
“But, it’s not like that anymore. We’re friends, which is really nice, and more than I ever expected. Probably more than I deserve.”
“You’re wrong, you deserve people caring about you,” Jackson says immediately, “What about the coyote?”
“Oh, uh… also just friends,” Stiles sighs, “I mean that whole thing happened really fast, and she had just turned back into a human, and I had all the murdery stuff going on. It didn’t amount to anything, obviously.”
“Is there anyone else sniffing around you?”
“Why are you so interested in my love life?”
Jackson freezes in the motion he was making to sit on an empty bench, blinking at the dirty tile across the line. He tries to scramble for something to say—he knows why, but he really, really doesn’t want to think about it—feeling more panicky with each silent second.
“Just curious about the kind of person that would go out with you,” Jackson blurts and then immediately winces. That was not what he meant to say at all.
“Gee, thanks,” Stiles says with an edge, “I need to get some of this make up homework done, so I’m gonna go. Bye, Whittemore.”
The line goes dead, and Jackson finally sits down with a sigh. He scrubs a hand down his face before resting it on the back of his neck, “Bye, Stiles,” He mumbles.
—
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
Stiles’s eyes are narrowed as they stare at Jackson through the screen of his phone. He’s biting his lip nervously, his teeth making indents in his full bottom lip, and Jackson can’t stop tracking the movement. He wants to make the same indents with his own teeth.
“You’re in your uniform.”
“Yeah,” Jackson says, shrugging. He tailors his shirts to fit his shoulders just right, and he’s more than a little pleased when Stiles’s eyes drop to admire them just as he intended him to, “I’m at school right now. You do realize there’s a time difference between California and England, right? I thought you were supposed to be smart, Mr. Salutatorian.”
Stiles rolls his eyes and sits back on his bed, but Jackson can tell he’s pleased by the way his chest puffs out. Jackson is pleased that he can pick out those things about Stiles from the smallest of tells.
“There was something on my porch today,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow, “Would you happen to know anything about it?”
“That depends,” Jackson says, feigning confidence even as he feels a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, “On if you liked it.”
Stiles purses his lips then turns the screen around to face his desk. In the center is an almost comically large vase filled with white and red flowers, “Ranunculus. They were my mom’s favorite. We put them on her grave every year.”
“Really? I had no idea,” Jackson clears his throat nervously when his voice cracks. He had every idea. He asked Danny to ask Scott what Stiles would like. He’s nervous. He doesn’t know if this is overstepping and he’s never done this before or felt like this before and—
Stiles turns the camera back around to show shining eyes and a small smile that makes Jackson’s cold black heart thump hard enough to bruise his sternum. He wishes he could scent him right now. He knows he would smell better than the flowers. Christ, he wishes he had fucking paid attention when he had the chance.
“Thank you, Jackson.”
—
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
—
“Well, you definitely have better taste in men than I do. Nice job.”
“That’s honestly not very hard, Danny.”
“Shut up, you know Ethan would’ve been perfect if his brother wasn’t a psychopath.”
“Looks like I have better taste than Lydia too.”
“And Stiles.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you have that one.”
—
“Good evening, MIT.”
“Good three in the morning, Harvard.”
Jackson and Stiles grin at each other before breaking into incredulous laughter. Jackson has to clench his hands into tight fists to keep them from shaking and Stiles shoves his face into a pillow and squeals like a fifteen year old girl at a boy band concert.
“Holy shit.”
“Holy shit,” Stiles echoes, his doe-eyes even bigger with the way he’s staring at Jackson through the screen, “Dude, we’re gonna be in the same city!”
“A bus ride away,” Jackson agrees with a grin.
“We can see each other! Face to face! We can talk and do real people things and stuff!”
“And stuff,” Jackson repeats with a raised eyebrow. Something curls in his gut at the way Stiles’s cheeks go pink. He promptly shoves his face back in the pillow with another scream.
“I can’t wait to see you,” Stiles says wistfully. The pink on his face hasn’t gone too far all night and it makes him look healthier than he has in a while. It makes Jackson feel so giddy that he wants to punch something, “Only a couple more months until move in.”
“Yeah,” Jackson agrees, fighting to keep his eyes away from the envelope holding one-way plane tickets to California, “Soon.”
—
Jackson sits at a dented stop sign a block away, his knuckles white where they clutch the steering wheel.
You can do this, Jackson tells himself, prying his fingers from the wheel one by one before running them through his hair. He pops down the sun visor and opens the mirror to check his hair for the twentieth time since he left Danny’s house. It’s still perfect, obviously, but it never hurts to check.
Just pull into his driveway and knock on the door, Jackson takes another moment to look over his face, going through the routine of checking for any blemishes or unattractive wrinkles.
You’ve been talking to him for months now, he’ll be happy to see you.
But if he’s being honest with himself, that’s the whole problem.
Jackson has never done relationships, real ones with feelings. He had Lydia for a while, but that was mainly a business agreement, a symbiosis for making it through high school. It had also been very physical, which is what made up every single other ‘relationship’ Jackson has had since then.
He’s never been one to talk about himself or his feelings and he doesn’t know how to do that. It feels backward, since he’s spent the past months doing that exact thing with Stiles, but there was always the barrier of the phone screen, like he could pretend it wasn’t real if it got to be too much.
That isn’t the case now. Jackson is back in Beacon Hills, the place he vowed he’d never step foot in again, because he couldn’t stand just sitting around London all summer and counting down the days until he could move to Boston. He’s here, in person, where Stiles could very easily turn him away and tell him everything was a big fat lie.
There’s a honk behind him and Jackson growls. He forces his claws and canines to retract and sets the car in motion again, rolling through the intersection at a snail’s pace. Maybe he should drive around the block again? He drives past the Stilinski’s house with Stiles’s beloved piece of blue junk in the driveway and parks his car.
“You’re a wolf,” Jackson tells himself in the mirror, “You’re a predator who hunts for what he wants. Don’t be a pussy.”
Jackson gets out of the car and straightens his clothes. He strategically undoes one more button on his shirt, nods to himself, and forces his legs to walk to the porch. He’s just about psyched himself up to knock on the door when it flings open, and Stiles is standing right in front of him. A mere foot away.
“Jackson?” He breathes.
Jackson freezes. Stiles’s plush lips are slightly parted in surprise, his hazel eyes wide. He’s a little taller than Jackson, which he doesn’t remember being the case when he left, and his pale skin is steadily turning pink as he leans heavily on the door frame.
Jackson had bits and pieces of a speech planned, because Stiles’s lameness apparently rubbed off on him through phone osmosis or something, but that all goes out the window with the realization that Stiles is here, in front of him. He’s in touching distance and—
Jackson reaches out to grab the front of Stiles’s shirt and pulls him into his chest. He wraps his arms around Stiles as tightly as he can without breaking him and buries his nose in his neck. He feels good in his arms, whole and real, and it feels even better when Stiles’s returns the embrace. Jackson inhales shakily and melts.
Stiles smells like a rainstorm. Like dew on the grass in the early morning. Like moist earth, just soft enough for sprouts to burst from on the first day of Spring. Jackson wants to bury himself in Stiles’s scent. Everything about Stiles is beautiful, and Jackson doesn’t hesitate to tell him so.
(He can’t help but think about his own brimstone scent and how it smells mixed with Stiles’s. How the fire doesn’t smell as crispy burnt when it’s intertwined with Stiles’s soft rain. It feels kind of poetic, the way their scents compliment each other. He thinks Mr. Rivazi would be proud of him for saying so.)
Stiles starts shaking and Jackson starts to pull back in alarm before he realizes that it’s just from his laughter.
“You’re so cute,” Stiles breathes, tightening his grip around Jackson’s shoulders as if Jackson was trying to get away from him, “Just like a puppy.”
Jackson frowns, but doesn’t say anything in argument because he knows scenting is definitely something puppies do (and seeing Stiles in person makes him feel like one, a little bit).
“I’m marking you,” Jackson murmurs, slipping his hands under the hem of Stiles’s nerdy graphic tee for more skin-on-skin and smirking at the way he shivers and his cheeks turn pink. His waist still feels too thin, but they’ll have time to work on that, “Letting everyone know that you’re mine.”
Stiles’s mouth drops open, and his eyes go beautifully wide. He brings his hands up to cup Jackson’s cheeks, swiping his thumbs over the bones under his lashes, “I’m yours, am I?”
“Yes,” Jackson snarls. He feels his eyes flash the bright blue that made packs in London keep him at an arm’s length. Stiles doesn’t flinch. He grins and pulls Jackson closer until their noses brush.
“Good. Because you’re mine too.”
Kissing Stiles is one hundred times better than any of the fantasies he let himself fall into in the odd hours of the night. His lips are plush and soft and firm, and his tongue is warm and tastes like hot cheetos—which isn’t that bad when he reminds himself that he’s only tasting it because he’s kissing Stiles.
Stiles hums deep in his throat when Jackson digs his thumbs into his hip bones and scratches gently at the delicate skin of his back with his claws, and then he tugs gently on Jackson’s hair until he gives an answering moan. When they pull apart, Stiles’s pupils are huge and his mouth is bright red and swollen, and Jackson has to close his eyes and grip tightly at Stiles’s hips to keep himself from leaning forward again.
“Hey,” Stiles says softly, waiting for Jackson to open his eyes before speaking again, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Jackson blinks, “I’m in love with you too.”
Stiles grins and leans forward to kiss him again. And again. And again. And again. Jackson feels a little winded when Stiles finally pulls back with a small smirk, his eyes narrowed.
“We’re probably a little co-dependent.”
“Oh, definitely,” Jackson says immediately, leaning in to rub his cheek against Stiles’s neck with a sigh, “But I wouldn’t want to be this fucked up with anyone else.”
Stiles laughs and Jackson grins at the way he can feel the vibrations in his chest and throat. He’s grown to love the sound, but feeling it is so much better. Stiles’s lips brush Jackson’s ear and he eagerly leans into the touch, “Hey, if you’re all done scenting me, do you want to get to work on my sheets?”
Jackson growls and grabs him by the thighs, hoisting him up until he’s straddling his waist. Stiles laughs between the kisses he plants all over Jackson’s cheeks and neck, and Jackson finds himself laughing too, giddy with a happiness he didn’t know he was allowed to feel, after everything.
When he deposits Stiles on his bed and leans over him with his fingers woven through Stiles’s on each side of his head, he can tell by the look in his eye that he’s thinking the same thing.
“Thanks for talking to me, lizard breath” He murmurs, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to Jackson’s lips that he easily returns.
“Thanks for getting me to talk, asshole.”