Archive of Our Own

It was Danny’s idea.

Even before their good intentions inevitably turned into another colossal shitstorm, Jackson always credited all inspiration to Danny. He was the heart and soul of SuperLink. Jackson was just the money and means.

It was meant to be a forum for lost, confused people to research the supernatural. Beacon Hills can’t be that unique; they can’t be the only ones who struggled to stay alive with more casualties than survivors when thrown into this new way of life. So from all the information that they’ve gathered over the years and some favors called in - from the Argent Bestiary that Chris apparently lent to Lydia to translate fully to the notes Stiles took from all corners of the internet that turned out to be true - Danny built SuperLink as a supernatural guide. Everything they know to be true about supernatural existence. It’s disguised as a fantasy blog that a normal person wouldn’t blink twice at seeing, but the three wolves with three different eye colors as the site's logo is a pretty good sign for those in some kind of know.

Of course that good fortune morphed into something rotten fast and effortlessly.

Four years after the websites launch in the middle of a worn Tuesday, June afternoon when some stooge in a black suit shows up at Jackson’s apartment flashing a badge and gun, saying that he and Danny had to shut down their creation.

Twenty-six users dead.

Twenty-six people who had posted questions or responses on the forum section of the website. All ranging from hours to weeks after their interaction. All the murders were different in methodology, but they were systematic and calculated.

Twenty-six more victims caused by Jackson.

“Where’s Kyle?” Jackson asks just to break the silence.

Four hours after that first knock on his door - one of which was dedicated to convincing him this wasn’t some sick prank - Jackson is transferred through two different cars and brought to some boringly plain office building. One of the stereotypical high-rise glass buildings you see on every city street corner but never really know what they are for. Danny had apparently been brought there faster than Jackson, probably has something to do with the added hour of convincing, and his stooge hands him off to the one already babysitting his friend.

The stooge doesn’t bat a single eyelash at the question. Fine. It wasn’t meant for him anyway.

“For the love of god, Jax,” Danny sighs. It’s not overly fond, moreso tired, but Jackson can still hear the caring in the action. “We’ve just been informed that our website has gotten people killed and you still think this is a good time to keep acting like you don’t know my husband of three years?”

“Yeah,” he agrees because this would be the time to act at least civilly towards Danny’s husband of three years. But Jackson is petty and Jesse insulted his Porsche by calling it compensation when they first met. Granted, the idiot didn’t know it was Jackson’s car at the time, but still. That was reason enough for him to be rooting for their break up. By the time he had to start organizing the bachelor party that his best friend did not want, he came to terms with the fact that the goofy twit was sticking around. Didn’t mean he was going to like it though.

“They separated us when we first got here. I’m guessing he gets a different rundown than we do.”

“Correct,” their stooge says in a baritone voice. He looks over his shoulder at the two of them with a wide, shit-eating smile. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” The bastard even winks after the comment, then turns back to face the elevator doors just in time for them to chime open.

They are led into a stereotype of a conference room. On the ceiling there’s a built in projector that he’s sure will display a slideshow depicting their mission should they choose to accept it and in the dead center of the room is a table ridiculously long like you see in those stupid spy movies Danny enjoys hate-watching. It makes the entire situation seem even more tangible yet unbelievable, like he’s walking into a nightmare.

There’s several people already in the room spread out amongst themselves. A man that looks more qualified for the acronym of AARP instead of FBI, stands from the chair he was seated in at the trios entrance and takes a few steps closer to them, probably to shake their hands or some old person shit. He strides past a slender brunette woman leaning on the table with her lean legs crossed in front of her, and she catches Jackson’s attention with her light green eyes. She smiles prettily when she gazes at Jackson. He’s about to smile back at her until his eyes forcibly shift over her shoulder to the person in the back of the room.

Like the attuned best friends they are, Jackson and Danny recognize the person at the same time.

“Stilinski?” “Stiles?”

The oldest man stutters midstep and freezes all progress. His face proceeds to cycle through at least a dozen different emotions as it steadily morphs into a disturbing shade of red. Once his features finally settle on barely held in anger, he whips around to the boy Jackson hasn’t seen since the battle against Monroe. “You know them?” the man practically hisses.

“Since diapers,” Stiles responds easily, leaning further back into his chair. Two seconds in and it’s good to know that Stilinski is still a little shit. It’s comforting to know that some things never change. “We grew up in Beacon Hills together. Maybe next time you’ll do your own damn reconnaissance instead of passing it off to me so conflicts of interest like this don’t pop up.”

The red faced geezer looks ready to explode with solely Stiles directly in the splash zone. It almost gives Jackson nostalgia for high school chemistry.

“Outside. Now.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Unlike the Stiles Stilinski the Werewolf remembers from high school, this Stiles shares a shit-eating grin with Jackson on the way out.

The blond watches them leave, scoffing at the entire situation.

“Fucking idiot,” the woman says under her breath.

“Fucking idiot that has a point,” their stooge says, making his way to a seat at the table, clearly unbothered by events. “You guys can take a seat. They probably won’t be long.”

Jackson shares a look with his best friend and business partner, mentally shrugging at each other, before they both decide to follow suit with no other lead to go on. They sit side-by-side and a few chairs down from their stooge who is messing around on his phone now. The woman finally stands properly, though does so in an annoyed huff, and takes her own seat directly across from the Werewolf.

True to the man’s word, the geezer comes back, face still a vibrant pink, but Stiles follows in after him somehow looking even more smug than when he left.

“Pardon the interruption,” the old man begins. He stands at the head of the table while the younger man goes back to the chair he previously occupied. “Both to this meeting and to your day. We appreciate the cooperation you’ve both shown thus far.”

“Of course,” Danny replies.

Jackson doesn’t say a thing.

The old man nods in thanks anyway. “I know this is a lot to process. My name is Adam O’Neil. I’ve been an FBI Agent for twenty-seven years after being a sergeant in the marine corp. I’ve been in charge of the supernatural division since its conception. We understand the good your website has brought to the community, often we use it as a resource for newly turned or informed persons that have questions about what has happened to them. Unfortunately, it seems that hunters have also realized what a valuable asset it can be.”

“How did they track down the users? That was a precaution I made at the very start. I don’t see how they could have - ”

“We think they’re using stolen systems,” Stiles cuts off Danny. “Or hacking into servers not meant for public access. It’s just a question of whose. Ours are clean, so either they're less advanced than a bored teen tech wizard or more advanced.”

“We took the site down already,” Jackson points out. “So what else exactly do you want from us?” He waves a hand between himself and his human companion.

“Your lives are under threat.”

The wolf snorts at that answer from the old, human man. He clearly doesn’t know what a threat Jackson can be. “Really?”

“Yes,” old man Phuket replies without missing a beat. What a disrespectful elder. Jackson’s glad he has the misfortune of having to deal with Stilisnki’s ass. “You, Mr. Whittemore, are actually in the most danger. To these people, Mr. Māhealani is seen as a traitor to humanity. To them you are a plague to humanity. Stomping out a plague takes priority.

“Mr. Māhealani, we plan on having Agent Anthony Johnson monitoring you at all times.” Danny bites his lips as he watches the old man declare the change of his life directly. “To accomplish this, we ask you to inform your work places that you will need an undetermined amount of time away due to an emergency of some sort. For now we believe that staying within your own homes will be acceptable as we have eyes on the surrounding areas, but Anthony will have to stay in the home with you. You are not to leave without explicit instruction or without escort.”

“We can say I’m a college friend down on his luck and you’re both just being really good friends,” the stooge Agent explains. The man’s informal tone in comparison to Agent O'Neil's stressed seriousness makes the bored quality of the younger man’s voice more acceptable. Like this is a typical Tuesday for him. It doesn’t actually console either Danny or Jackson, but it’s reassuring in a way. “You and your husband spend your days home with me, trying to cheer me up and get my depressed ass out of bed. Or because you don’t trust me alone in your house. Either works. And the name is Tony, only the Boss and my mom call me Anthony.”

Tony leans across the table with one hand reached out. Danny hesitates for a moment before also leaning forward to shake his new homesteader’s olive branch. However, when Danny’s hand meets his, Jackson notices something deathly concerning.

The human’s scent rubs off on the Agent and lingers. Not mixed with, not layered on, not even overpowered by. Danny’s scent is stuck on the man. Agent Tony smells of only the things he interacts with: Danny, his black coffee, the car’s minty air freshener. But he has no scent.

A quality Jackson knows from a single supernatural creature.

“Vampire,” he rumbles, low and threatening. Danny, a little slow on the uptake, turns to look at Jackson before the word processes and he hastily takes his hand back from the undead being.

“Species-ist but okay,” Tony says, leaning back into his chair.

“Originally we had Agent Olivia Bents assigned to be working alongside you, Mr. Whittemore, but due to recent developments, we think the safest option would be for Agent Stiles Stilinski-Hale to be assigned to your protection. Agent Stilinski-Hale, will your contacts be willing to work alongside Agent Bents in cooperation with our hunt for the responsible parties?”

“You mean can I give Scott’s number to Ollie?” Stiles asks. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

No, no, no, no. Jackson is not just moving past this.

“Hale?” He questions.

“Sti is normally the Emissary for the Hale Pack. He got called in special, away from his precious family, to be here for this,” Tony butts in before Stilinski can speak for himself. And they all know the mostly-human can speak for himself.

“So you finally tamed Miguel?” Danny asks Stiles with a smirk that’s soft around the edges.

“I mean,” Stiles shares the smile back, “in a sense. But that’s completely unrelated.”

He’s not on board with this.

Before anyone else can dare to get another stupid word in edgewise, Jackson growls, “So what I’m hearing is that you want my best friend to literally invite a bloodsucker into his house and for me to foster a stray dumbass.”

“It is just for the time being,” Adam tries to placate, causing more hairs on Jackson to stand up. He does not need to be patronized. “We still do not know the full reach of this group or how organized it is. We need to keep you close,” to keep you cornered is what Jackson hears, “until we are able to verify your absolute safety.”

“You want us to drop everything in our lives for two humans and a Vampire to babysit us?” He flashes his unnaturally blue eyes at the old man. “I don’t think I need much protection, but thanks for the offer.”

“Mostly-human,” Stiles interjects the old man from whatever professional retort he had planned. The brunette flashes equally unnaturally silver eyes back at the blond. “One human, one mostly-human, and one Vamp. Just to have all our bases covered.” A subvocal growl is still rising in the Werewolf’s chest, a hiss stuck in the back of his throat, but Stiles doesn’t back down. Never has. He looks the angered beast in the eye as he says, “These people know what you are, Jackson. Know how to weaken you, how to catch you, how to kill you; and unlike small town Beacon Hills, they can be anywhere. I know you’re the big strong wolfy that can take care of himself, but lone wolves don’t get far when faced against a Pack. Even if it is just a Pack of silly humans with a superiority complex. You’ve seen that first hand. How even a rogue Alpha can be brought down by a ragtag team of teenagers with molotovs.”

“Fine, whatever,” Jackson relents. Danny loosens his shoulders beside him, and now he feels like shit for making his probably already stressed friend even more tense, but this is complete and utter bullshit.

But one thing he learned in small town Beacon Hills, is that Stiles is the best molotov shot. Jackson rather have him on his side.

Typically, Stiles takes this moment to make Jackson regret that decision by advocating to his boss. “See? You also need me on this case because I’m one of the few people who can speak fluent Whittemore.”

The rest of the day is spent briefing Danny, Jesse, and Jackson on more bullshit; the dos and don’ts of being in discount witness protection. By the time it’s been deemed that the trio is conferenced enough, the sky is darkened with clouds obscuring the start of a new moon cycle. Jackson had been home from his latest Full Moon trip to upstate less than 48 hours before this new disturbance to his life occurred. The solo good thing among this mess is that they have a whole month before the next full moon to get this over with. So long as Stilinski and his coworkers can do their jobs in a timely fashion there shouldn’t be an issue.

So Jackson has little hope.

For now, he just wants to go home and sleep. Even the Wolf in him has a headache from today. Being subjugated to passenger princess for a second time as he has to rely on his new mostly-human pet for a ride back to his home. Color the Hybrid mildly surprised when Stilinski’s assigned car is a black SUV and not a Jeep of any sort.

“I’m surprised you even agreed to this,” Jackson remarks during a red light, tired of only listening to the other man drum his fingers against the steering wheel.

“I spent too much time in high school trying to save your ass just to watch all that effort go to waste.”

Unfortunately, a good point.

“So how long do you think this shit is going to take?”

Stiles hems and haws before admitting: “Dunno.”

Jackson is still in the middle of sighing when he tacks on, “But I do know that we should totally be fake dating.”

That’s an insanely fucking stupid idea for a 50 page document worth of reasons. Though Jackson’s top reason may not be the same as Stilinski’s. The Wolf hasn’t dated in months because he doesn’t play games he knows he can’t win, and relationships of any sort have been known to explode on his end. And now that he’s no longer denying that his body-building posters growing up weren’t just for straight, masculine purposes, he’s a little more willing to admit that his rivalry with Stilinski growing up also may not have been as straight as intended.

But the bitch decided to go marry Hale.

Not that Jackson is bitter.

Sure, turns out the other man turned out to not be as heterosexual as originally assumed either and he comes roaring back into the blonde’s life at full force looking like puberty hit him with the Can-Fucking-Get-It Stick and wearing a confidence that suits him very well. But Jackson doesn’t care.

It’s fine.

“Or we can just say that you’re a hometown nobody who is visiting to bask in my presence again.”

“That’s too similar to Tony’s cover-story. Where’s your flare?”

“I don’t care about my flare, I care about my sanity. Take a left here - ”

“Taking the back roads is a no, don’t care if it’s faster.”

“Are you going to be this much of a pain in my ass the whole time?”

“Yes, but you can leave me a terrible review at the end. I’m sure Adam will be thrilled to hear all your hissy fits.”

Despite how exhausting this day as a whole has been, Stiles still has precautions before going inside Jackson’s house. He gets a front row seat to Stilinski’s new eye trick as he searches for any possible bugs or hexes lying in wait for the Were-Hybrid. Even after the perimeter is cleared to the Agent’s liking, he’s not satisfied with Jackson’s home alarm system that’s a rung below being Fort Knocks.

“I'm going to start by putting up some wards around the place,” Stiles declares, clearly not asking for permission. He’s already opening the trunk of the SUV to pull out whatever devices he needs for warding.

“You ruin my walls, I ruin you.”

“It won’t leave a mark, I promise.” Stiles leans out of the trunk of the car to make a show of raising his right hand in the air with his left hand across his chest like he’s swearing himself into some kind of court. Jackson is a lawyer, he knows a lying defendant when he sees one, but he just rolls his eyes and Stiles smiles to himself as he goes back to his task. “You can supervise me and everything if you want.”

Coming back out of the trunk with a box in hand, Stiles locks up the car and they finally, finally head inside. Jackson doesn’t even have the capacity to question Stiles on why he needed to dig out a literal shoebox from the vehicle.

They agree that Jackson is ‘allowed’ to go take a shower while Stiles starts on whatever project he’s launching.

He takes his time under the warm spray of water, takes even longer to get changed. He tries on two completely different outfits before he realizes that he’s being a complete and utter moron and decides to just put on a plain black t-shirt that’s one size too big and a pair of gray sweatpants. Having only had tap water and stale break-room cookies all day, he stops by the kitchen to get a drink of sparkling water and take a couple bites of an apple before he makes his way towards the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat. The mostly-human has made some progress already, having started somewhere in the living room to now being in the guest bedroom.

“Hope you know this is your room for however long you’re going to be here,” he informs the man as he talks around his apple. “I’m not buying into your fanfiction reality of needing to share a bed. No matter how much you nag me.”

Stiles snorts without even looking away from what he’s doing. He’s stolen the desk chair in the room to stand on by the window. The shoebox is open on the windowsill revealing not a pair of expensive high heels like shown on the side of the box, but a bunch of vials with various powders and slimes with several paint brushes shoved to the side. One hand, the one with a mole just below his knuckle on his thumb, not like Jackson is paying attention, grips one of the larger brushes as he focuses on spreading the goo on the tip just right while the other hand balances him on the wall right.

Jackson intends to keep his earlier made promise if that goo doesn’t wipe off.

“I’m not worried about that,” Stiles admits. “I think I’ll stink appropriately of Whittemore by the next time we have to go anywhere outside.”

He pointedly ignores that comment.

Deciding that he can’t fulfill the promise if the idiot falls off the wheeled chair, Jackson goes to lean against the wall Stiles has himself propped against this way he can at least stop the moron from hitting the ground from this angle. Won’t stop him from getting a broken nose from smashing his face against the wall during the fall, but some actions truly need consequences.

Unfortunately, standing there silently watching gets old very fast. He’s starting to get itchy in a way he can’t quite describe.

It takes more than five minutes for Jackson to figure out what that itch is.

Stiles isn’t talking.

“So Stilinski - ”

“Stilinski-Hale,” Stilinski corrects.

Instead of given into being wrong, Jackson says, “I can’t believe you had the opportunity to change your dumb fucking name and decided to make it dumber.” He pauses on that thought. “Actually, yes, I can. That’s exactly your brand of stupid.”

“Hey, I had to declare myself an official Hale somehow,” he replies with a sickeningly proud smile. Jackson has half a mind to call up Derek and inform him how his mate wants to play lovers with someone else. But if he did that then maybe Stiles won’t want to play lovers . . .

“You’re definitely psychotic enough to be a Hale.”

“Amen,” Stiles says without missing a beat. “Don’t tell any of them I said that. Derek would get growly, Cora would get violent, and Peter wouldn’t care but he’d tell the other two the goddamn snitch he is.”

“Never met Cora,” Jackson says because he’s feeling generously conversational.

“Lucky you.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” He dots the metaphorical ‘i’ on the ward and leans away as it starts to shine a radiant neon blue not unsimilar to Jackson’s eyes. The Wolf is about to use all his creative vocabulary in revenge for his poor windows - seriously it’s ridiculous how expensive windows can be and you bet your ass his aren’t cheap - when the light dies down and the goo is no longer in sight. Stiles turns to him with a satisfied smirk. “But she’s the mother of my first born child, so it’s apparently an obligation to like her now.”

Oh.

Not Derek then.

Weird.

Stiles climbs down from the chair and moves it a couple of inches to the left so he can do the identical window right next to him. Jackson shuffles over too. Just to stay close.

“What happened to McCall?”

The stroke of the brush falters before he even really begins. Stiles side-eyes him. Jackson raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“Still the True Alpha,” he says, accessing the blond after every word. “Still fighting the good fight against Monroe. It’s been years coming, but it seems like the last of her believers are in sight.”

“But you choose to be the Hale Emissary instead,” Jackson needlessly points out. “Is the pussy that good that you pass up your best friend?”

Stiles no longer side-eyes him, instead throwing the paint brush down into the jar he keeps dipping it into and shifts to make direct eye contact with Jackson. The air changes and something - whether it be Human, Wolf, or Kanima - starts to pace under his skin. He’s uneasy with this new feeling of not knowing if he’s the predator or the prey in the situation.

“Where’s Ethan?”

Hackles immediately raise. “Fuck you.”

“I mean, I did do my rec on you, so I know he left three years ago. Just after his twenty-fifth birthday, so I have to assume you fucked that up somehow.” Jackson growls back at the blatant insult but this certainly-not-human just bares his own teeth in reply. The glowing silver returns to Stiles’ eyes and everything about him turns cold. “Being mean is easy; continuing to hate each other like emotionally stunted high schoolers is easy. Being nice is harder, but I’m willing to put in that work so long as you do. I can play nice, but I can also easily play mean. Your call.”

He hasn’t talked to anyone but Danny about what really happened between him and his long-term boyfriend. You don’t throw away a seven year relationship for minor shit, so that meant something massive happened. Jackson hates that everyone assumed he was the massive thing; even his parents looking at him disappointedly at the news of the breakup like it was all on his shoulders.

He hates that they’re mostly right.

But Stiles is also right. Falling back into old ways never helped him before and it’s definitely not going to help him now. So he gives the condensed truth: “We wanted different things.”

Ethan was fine with that. He was willing to compromise on wants, but he felt like Jackson was a need. Ethan, despite always having been part of a Pack since Wolfy conception, knew that Pack didn’t equal good things for either of them. So when Jackson refused to make nice with the local D.C. that was far too accepting of two Blue-Eyed Betas, Ethan understood. It was so blatantly obvious that he was missing a connection to Packmates, but he had his actual Mate with him. That was enough.

But a week before his twenty-fifth birthday, after a few glasses of Wolfsbane laced Merlot to unwind after work together, he whispered to Jackson that he wished to have twins when they were ready for kids. When Jackson abruptly told him he wasn’t planning on having any kids, everything felt like shattered glass. Life felt like they just dropped it to the point of breaking with everything leaking out uncontrollably. The heartbreak in Ethan’s eyes gutted the blond, wanting to clean up the mess he’s made, but he didn’t waver. After a full night of fighting - Ethan asking why he can’t have more in life and Jackson asking why he wasn’t good enough by himself - they came to the decision that they’d celebrate the sole twin’s birthday together one last time, but they knew their time was over.

It was a good celebration. It was one last night of fun. But that didn’t change the outcome.

The thing that Ethan could never get over is how Jackson remained firm on all stances even when his heart blipped every time.

Jackson waits for Stiles to make the next move. Without looking away

Stiles lets that statement breathe the air back into the room. There’s more to each other’s story, but they can settle on this. “He’s not a bad Alpha. He just wasn’t the right one for me.” The eye-contact loses the challenge, the intimation of each other, and it doesn’t feel like either of them win or lose when they both turn away. Stiles picks up his brush again. “And it’s not like I just completely dropped him after I joined the Hale Pack, we’re actually allies so we have a lot of business talk. But he’s still my friend.”

“But not your best one?”

“We can’t all be you and Danny. Though I will admit that I’m a little jealous how you two are still close after all this time.” That certainly hadn't been easy. Not even just for Werewolf reasons, though those did not help either. No, reasons like getting in a long-term relationship with the other’s high school fling and dropping out of contact for months at a time were challenges Jackson made for himself. He doesn’t deserve Danny and he knows it. Danny does too. But the care is still there and that’s what they work with.

“So you don’t keep contact with anyone besides Hale?”

“Hales,” Stiles once again corrects him. The intrusive, high school regressed thought of shoving the mostly-human off the latter is tempting. It is easy. Choosing not to, though, is not as hard as he thinks it is. “But, I guess Lydia is closer to what people would classify as my best friend.”

“What the fuck is that phrasing? And whatever happened to that frankly creepy as fuck ten year plan you had all mapped out?”

“Hey, technically,” the man points his magic goo brush at Jackson, “it worked. There were a lot of wrenches and werewolves thrown in along the way, but I got the girl in the end. It’s probably better that it ended this way too. It was kinda creepy.”

“Kinda?” Jackson questions, remembering that love-sick, girl obsessed boy stalking down the halls every period of the day hoping to catch a glimpse of the red-haired student.

“Alright,” Stiles concedes, “definitely creepy. Matt levels of gross at times. But Lydia and I have talked and argued and buried that part of history. We’ve moved forward from it with knowledge that we shouldn’t go grave robbing the past, but that’s why we leave tombstones. Gone but not forgotten.”

“Please tell me you don’t write poetry.”

The other man laughs humorlessly at the sarcasm. “Very funny, but I think I would be a great writer. The next Shakespeare or J.K. Rowling minus the twitter and terrible hot-takes. But none of my girls would appreciate my lyricism, so my way of words shall remain a hidden talent.”

“So you made Lydia your side bitch?”

“No, and if you don’t behave I’ll tell her you called her that.” He finishes the last touches on the window and this time Jackson has the knowledge to shield his eyes from the moment of blinding light. Opening his eyes again, he watches as Stiles jumps down from the chair. “The thing with her is not romantic anymore. I don’t know if it ever was. She’s just my partner.”

Asshole is talking in vague cryptic sentences that feel more akin to the quack of a vet back in Beacon.

After chewing on that last sentiment for a bit, he finally comments:

“So you’re her side bitch.”

It’s worth the brush thrown at his head.

Working from home is both easier and harder in ways he hadn’t expected.

After informing his boss that he had an unexpected surgery, and needed a couple of days (weeks) from home, the pot-bellied man who needs a new toupee bends over backwards to accommodate him.

Honestly, as much as he complained to the AARP FBI about not wanting to impact his life too much, if he had gotten fired for this shit he’s not sure he would have minded. After passing the Bar exam, he was so prepared to enter into the law division of justice. Truthfully, he wanted to work on supernatural cases. Ones where lives get changed simply because he knows something the rest of the court doesn’t. He’s poured over past murder trials where can pinpoint signs of supernatural activity but that’s not something you can use in a court of law. He can find the right points though. He can maneuver towards the truth without pulling back the curtain.

That’s what he wanted to do.

But he’s young. And every interview he got resulted in peaked interests about his father and why Jackson doesn’t work at his firm.

Lipkin & Bentley, the divorce lawyers were his best hedged bet. They suck up more to him because he’s better at their jobs then most of their long-term team, not because of his adoptive father. The money is also good.

Now that he’s working at his home office, he’s done with files on his own time and gets to dick for the rest of his day, which would normally be great if not for being under lockdown by authority of Agent Dumbass.

The only outings permitted are to and from the grocery store shopping together - Stiles, as it turns out, is more of a cook than Jackson so it’s more the Hybrid just watching Stiles choose between thyme or oregano even though the blonde will end up buying both for him - and the occasional meet-up back at HQ. Olivia is there, pouting worriedly about not having any further leads. Apparently McCall still isn’t exactly a True Sleuth. It never ceases to amaze Jackson that somehow Stiles was the brains of the duo. It amazes him even further that he’s still the brains of operations, as the Wolf watches him single handedly make more progress on the case from Jackson’s couch than the office filled with grunts.

There’s a handful of FaceTime “dates” - as Stiles, Danny, and even Tony have taken to calling them - where it’s basically just Jackson being more bitchy about this than he has to be for the first twenty minutes, Jesse and Danny being more relaxed about this than they should be for the next ten, and then everyone talking about whatever episode of Masked Singer or CSI (the original one because Stiles has a weird thing for Ted Danson that Danny agrees with for some reason) they binged up to that week. Jackson’s pretty good at guessing the celebrities and Stiles is pretty good at debunking all the evidence they find on the fake crime show. Guess Danny isn’t the only one with a boner for hate-watching inaccurate shows.

The month passes by faster than he’s comfortable with. Mostly because of how comfortable it has been.

Listening to Stiles talk about how that’s not the way blood spatter works while they sit close enough that their thighs press together, one arm laid along the back of the couch so he feels every shift of the mostly-human’s shoulders, isn’t the worst way Jackson could spend his Friday night.

Until it’s time to acknowledge that painful time of the month for him.

“Full moon is coming up.”

Jackson nearly grimaces at the idea of having this conversation, but he remains blank faced as Stiles broaches the topic during the commercial break to their show. The moon is in the waning phase right now so they do have to start planning, no matter how much the mythical mishmash of a man doesn’t want to have this discussion.

“From our records, it says you normally travel to your family’s cabin north of here to let your wolfy side out. Which, not to get off topic but of course you have an empty second house by the lakeside waiting for you, but moving on . . .”

He’s tempted to mention the house they have in Colorado with the perfect view of the mountain, but Jackson contains himself for now. Instead, he settles for a cocky smirk that Stiles wrinkles his button nose at.

Then Stiles actually moves on.

“Since we can’t exactly have you running around footloose and furry free all by yourself right now, I’m going to take the trip up with you. We can make it seem like it’s our first adventure together as a couple and - ”

“No,” Jackson speaks for the first time during this conversation. “I do full moons by myself.”

The mostly-human stares at the mostly-wolf with a familiar gaze. The prolonged silence is unfamiliar, Jackson never knowing Stilinski had the capability of being this substantially quiet before this eventual three weeks, but he chooses to focus on the sound of whatever not over-the-counter prescription is being advertised on the T.V.

“We’ve already been over this, you can’t lone-wolf this shit, Jax,” Stiles finally breaks his silence right as the next ad for a yeehaw-cowboy truck begins. “But I won’t try to impede on your routine more than I already have. My job is to make sure you see tomorrow, but to ruin it.”

He doesn’t respond. Stiles continues to watch him watch the television for a bit longer until it takes too long for his ADHD riddled brain.

“Dude, listen,” he says next as though Jackson hasn’t been listening this whole time. “Ideally it wouldn’t even just be me and you going out to the woods.”

“They gave me just you for here,” Jackson points out, annoyed with both how this convo is going and about how they are now missing the show because of this stupid talk.

“Here is populated and not out in the middle of the woods by ourselves,” Stiles counters. Jackson absolutely loathes when he actually makes good, sensible points. Completely unfair. “Limiting it to just me for this adventure is the literal best offer I can give you, and unless you want to have a losing negotiation with Adam about your conditions this is your only option.”

“If it’s my only option then why the fuck are we still talking about it?”

Jackson unceremoniously gets up from the couch at this moment, no longer in the mood to guess which B-List celebrity thinks they can break out into a vocal career. There’s better things he can do with his Friday night.

“Nice place,” Stiles comments as they walk into the cabin they’ll be staying in for the next three nights. It’s more than roomy enough to house the two of them with one master bedroom, two guest rooms, three separate bathrooms all installed with bath/shower space, a kitchen the size of a living room, a living room the size of a (local) movie theater, and an in home theater the size of, well, an in home theater. Stiles was very excited about this mentioned feature.

Well, as excited as he can be when they’re both giving each other the lukewarm shoulder. They can’t exactly fridge out the other given the unique circumstances they are living together under, but they haven’t gone back to being a pair of couch potatoes that occasionally, unspokenly cuddle close.

The long drive up to the more mountainous area of the state was . . . interesting. Stiles, while having quit his addiction to constantly talking, can’t commit to being a stoic silent type. So he asked Jackson questions. Mostly about what his college life was like - fine, not as notable as his high school social life had been as he’d still been attending a lot more therapy at the time and was more focused on finding what parts of him have survived this long and how. A little about what his most interesting cases were like - he severely enjoyed draining the bank account of a man that had three different families with three different women, none of which knew about the others until a month prior to all three women marching into Jackson’s office, demanding their collective husband’s head. If he ever thought about moving back to Beacon Hills - yes, then no, then yes again.

Jackson wants to ask questions back - How did he marry Hale? What was the wedding like? Who is in the official Hale Pack line-up? - but he doesn’t. Can’t. Won’t. As much as this feels like reconnecting or reintroducing each other, this is just Stilinski’s mission. Nothing more and nothing less.

So they play a one-sided 20 questions and listen to the radio and Jackson giving precise directions when they get closer.

It’s time to unpack for the night, but he’s honestly already feeling a little antsy. It's running through his skin and shutting down some important parts of his brain.

“So about your nature walk tonight, I was thinking I’d just sit on the edge of the woods. I don’t need to be close to your territory, just close enough that I can feel what’s running around in the shadows.” Jackson has zero idea what he means by that, still not even sure what qualifies as mostly-human, but doesn’t want to have to ask. So he doesn’t.

“That’s not going to be an issue.”

“Good. I don’t want to make you feel preyed on while your in predator mode, but I just have to be - ”

“No, I mean that’s not going to be an issue.” He makes no attempt to clarify the meaning, but says the statement more firmly.

While the brunette still looks at him with confused interest, the Hybrid walks to the back of the house where a padlocked door resides. He picks up the key left on the hallway table like always and unlocks the room. Knowing from how close and rapid the heartbeat is behind him, he rounds on Stiles to hand him the key.

There are so many questions written in his expression. Amber eyes keep flickering back and forth between Jackson, the now unlocked but still closed door, and the key Jackson is holding out for him to take.

“Please tell me you don’t have a red room in there.”

“You aren’t exactly Anastasia Steele.”

Stiles takes a moment's delay to eye him from head to toe. “Putting the fact that you know references to 50 Shades of Grey on the back burner, wanna tell me exactly what we’re doing because this is all very mysterious in a way that I am no longer into.”

Pocketing the key for now since the idiot can’t just trust him, Jackson turns to open the door. He feels for the switch on the side of the wall and flicks it to life so that the stairway lights up. “Think of it as my version of a transport van.”

Then Jackson starts heading down. He doesn’t need Werewolf listening to hear the second pair of steps take the path down the creaky floorboards.

“This is the most depressing basement I have ever seen,” Stiles comments as Jackson leads him down the steps to the place he’s spent most his full moons out of high school. “And that’s really saying something.” He’s staring intently at the metal cage dead center of the room with ankle and wrist chains inside it. In a defense that Jackson will never give, there isn’t much else to look at in the room. At the bottom of the stairs Stiles examines the cramped space then back at Jackson who’s half way down the steps. “So this is your plan?”

This sounds like an insult. “It works,” the Hybrid sneers back.

“It’s fucked. And not in the kinky way. In the mental way.”

What insightful commentary that Jackson did not ask for.

“You lock the cage with me inside by five p.m.” Jackson instructs instead of giving away his nastier internal dialogue, because being cruel is easy, and takes another two steps down the stairs as he talks. “Then you go hide away like good prey, twiddling your thumbs for the rest of the night or trolling reddit forums or whatever the fuck you do when not being a pain to my existence. Just don’t forget to come back at seven tomorrow morning to let me back out.”

“Oh, you actually think that’s happening. That’s truly adorable.”

“Can’t you ever do what you’re told?” Jackson says through a sigh that is very real and very long.

“You’ve known me long enough to damn well know the answer to that question.”

“I don’t need you sitting around like bait and causing me more trouble than you’re worth.” Money can get him out of a lot of things, but tearing apart an FBI Agent probably isn’t one of them. “You’re batting out of your league here, Stilinski.”

“Oh, I can handle you, Jax,” Stiles hits back with a hint of a purr in his voice. The automatic, instinctual response to rumble back in pleasure is held back by the reminder that they are in the middle of a fight and more importantly in the middle of the staircase. Also Stiles is married. A reminder Jackson doesn’t want right now in this moment, but it’s become a new mantra.

Getting this agitated with this much pressure inside of him from the moon looming so close, Jackson doesn’t have the patience for this. “I’ve got a higher body count in blood than in bed. There’s more death on these claws than there are people in your inept agency.” Seventy-four if you count the twenty-six. Jackson does. “You really want to show off what big balls you have just so I can rip your ass to shreds like it was high school all over again?”

“I’ve seen worse monsters than you,” Stiles spits back. “I’ve been a worse monster than you. You’re not that scary anymore, Jackson Whittemore.”

The silver shines bright in the mostly-human’s eyes. It’s pretty and pale, like him. This was a losing battle, Jackson knew it. Even before he began he should have known it. Just like how no matter how he fought, he would inevitably end up watching the Notebook most nights in high school.

In retrospect, that was probably the moment Jackson was fucked.

It was a bad full moon.

He doesn’t remember any of it, of course. He never does.

But the amount of blood and fur and fileted parts scattered on the cement floor is a good indication how bad of a night it was. There’s this ache in his body that racks through him in waves despite that he’s healed from everything he’s done to himself during the night.

Normally, he’d have to wait at least an hour or two before someone - first Ethan returning from his own night out with the moon, now more recently Danny who likes him enough to make this monthly trip up north for some reason - and he’d save himself some pride by cleaning up his mess, but Stiles is a bitch. A bitch who is wearing a blanket like a shawl, sitting on the pillow he brought to the basement with him, and staring at Jackson curiously.

“You good?”

Jackson snarls back.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” This idiot always has to be so damn witty. “If I come over there and unlock you, am I at risk of losing a limb? Because as cool as that may look, I don’t think Mr. Discount Nic Furry would appreciate it.”

“Shut up.”

“There’s my man.” The smile Stiles wears is soft and warm and Jackson stupidly wants to lean into him. He’s not entirely sure if it's his wolf or himself wanting more, but either way he beats down that feeling.

The mostly-human gets up from his nest and walks over to the cage. Jackson doesn’t stop him because he’s got no fight left in him and the moon feels mostly distant now. It’s probably safe enough.

“You could at least bring some blankets or pillows down here with you,” Stiles comments as he unlocks Jackson’s chains.

“They’d be ruined by the morning,” Jackson replies in a half growl-half snark.

“So?”

Jackson looks at the other man, tilting his head in a manner he knows Stiles would compare to a dog in a situation that Jackson didn’t already have his claws out for. They maintain eye contact as the mostly-human looks like he should know what he’s thinking. “It’s not exactly like you’re struggling to replace a comforter or two.”

Unlike in high school when the brunette would poke fun at him for being a trust-fund baby, this remark didn’t sound as mocking. But old habits die hard and Jackson isn’t exactly feeling kind-hearted after a full moon while still covered in his own blood, so he rips another snarl.

Stiles immediately raises both hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, it’s so depressing and murdery down here. I doubt that vibe is helping your poor little wolfy when he comes out to play. As someone who has kidnapped and contained you in a big metal container before, I know you didn’t appreciate it much. And I even gave you a sandwich. So I don’t get why you’re treating your wolf the same way.

“You should probably start being kinder to all parts of yourself so the whole of you doesn’t collapse in.”

Jackson chews on that crumb of . . . wisdom? Is Jackson about to admit that Stiles Stilinski is wise? No, never. There’s more likely to be a snow-day in hell. But well, there’s some merit to it he supposes.

But he’s obviously not going to say it.

He rubs at his tender wrists now that they are freed with the rest of him as he stands up in all his naked glory. Stiles eyes wander down to his chest before shooting back up, seemingly embarrassed with the tips of his ears going rosy. It makes the Hybrid puff up a little.

“Either go make me breakfast or you’re going to be my breakfast.”

Stiles laughs at the threat. “Kinky.”

“I need to go to this charity auction.”

Jackson needs to. He’s been away from the office for so long now, it’s already going to look bad that he’s communicated with less than a quarter of his coworkers simply through emails. Despite having done the same amount of work as them while in his own home, he knows they’ll think he’s being allowed to slack off.

Say whatever the fuck you want about Jackson Whittemore, but he’ll be damned if someone ever called him a slacker. Even during his stint of being a full homicidal lizard, he kept his grades above a B.

He will not stand for this slander.

Hence needing to make an appearance and good-hearted, modest donation to the chosen fundraiser for the evening. Whatever it is.

“And I need a stable income, which only happens if I keep your reptilian ass alive and well,” Stiles snipes back, not even giving Jackson the dignity of looking up from the pot of pasta he’s stirring. “Besides, do you really have to? Isn’t your boss friends with Daddy?”

Prodding at that nerve isn’t what Jackson needs right now.

“Did McCall’s Daddy help you keep your job?”

That at least gets Stiles to look at him.

He’s got a hard sneer on his face, with a little bit of pink on his cheeks from the heat of the kitchen and tensions boiling over, as he turns to Jackson. He’s got his big mouth open, no doubt ready to counter the blond in nastiness, but his face gets stuck. The anger begins to melt away and that big mouth slowly starts to close with a slight gap left open for a tongue to come swiping out to wet those lips. An action usually reserved for when he’s thinking. Not that Jackson makes it a habit to stare at Stiles’ mouth enough to know subtle giveaways.

“Alright,” Stiles says. “Sorry. I know you work hard. No nepo babies in this house.”

They both avoid each other’s gaze. They both sigh. They both go back to what they were doing.

Jackson looks over the latest cases that hit his metaphorical desk despite how he’s already been in contact with the other spouses’ lawyer about a negotiation that he’d be stupid not to take. Stiles continues to stare into the depths of penne.

When Stiles’ heart rate speeds up an unprovoked amount, Jackson looks up to see if the brunette is having one of his panic attacks. He’s not. Not that Jackson can tell at least.

Right as he’s about to ask what the fuck his problem is, nicely of course, the mostly-human speaks up again.

“Do . . . do you talk to your parents at all? You don’t have to answer me obviously, but I just . . . haven’t noticed much sign of them. I know you hear me call home basically every other night, but I . . . ”

It’s true. Stiles’ phone goes off at all hours of the day. Sometimes it’s Tony texting him memes, other times he says it’s Lydia checking in on him and giving him updates about back in Beacon, most of the time it’s a ‘family’ groupchat blowing up the man’s phone to the point he has to mute it. He gets calls from Olivia asking him for more info that he doesn’t have yet which gets her mad at him. He also gets plenty of calls from his dad, the small town’s sheriff - Ex-sheriff? Jackson doesn’t even know if Stilinski is still the law around those parts - sounding older and softer around the edges when he asks how his son is holding up.

Jackson hasn’t called anyone. No one calls for him.

“We want different things in life.”

That at least gets Stiles to do a rushed exhale of breath that counts as a form of laughter. Thankfully, no longer being the no-filter bumbling idiot he was at sixteen, the brunette doesn’t push for more of an answer.

Two more minutes of less awkward silence passes by them before the chef disguised as an FBI agent plates the pasta with the already prepared sauce.

“I go with you,” he says as he places Jackson’s dish in front of him. The Wolf gives him a weird look. Stiles rolls his eyes but clarifies, “to the rich people gathering. You have permission to go, but I have to go with you.”

Jackson bobs his head back and forth like he’s considering the offer even though he knows he’s probably not getting a better deal than this.

“Fine.”

“And we’re totally fake dating.”

“Fine.”

With a mouthful of noodles and a slutty wink, Stiles finishes this conversation the only way it could. With a smart-ass remark. “You really know how to make a boy feel special, babe.”

“Are you putting on makeup?”

“Concealer,” Jackson corrects despite the fact that concealer is still makeup. “Don’t tell me you've turned into a judgmental dude-bro since high school.”

Stiles snorts at the comment which is a good sign for it to be false. “I have to show you a picture of me and Lydia in college. Literally almost any picture. I wasn’t good at blending the concealer into my eyebags yet so they were spotty as hell. My eyeshadow was hot as fuck though.”

“What do you need concealer for?”

Pores, blemishes, his own shadows beneath his eyes. Not that Jackson thinks his face is anything less than perfect, obviously, but . . .

A hand comes under his chin and with a gentle force lifts his face, guiding the Werewolf to look at Stiles directly. Honey saturated eyes observe him in silence, the mostly-human tilting his head ever so slightly in a way that indicates actual observation and consideration.

“You’re covering your freckles,” Stiles says at long last. It’s not even a complaint. Just a statement. A statement worthy of promotion from sergeant oblivious to captain obvious.

Jackson scoffs and knocks away the hand still loosely holding his chin

He continues applying his precisely matched liquid skin color as Stiles finishes whatever the fuck he’s doing in their room. Once he’s gone and Jackson counts to ten mississippi, he takes out a bag of makeup wipes and keeps in mind to ask Danny for help finding those pictures. Just out of curiosity.

“You do anything to ruin my reputation and I’ll kill you.”

“Cool, but let me grab one of those shrimp kabobs first.”

He should have just not come to this stupid thing.

They arrived late because Stiles insisted that was a better idea than being caught up in a sea of autonomous paparazzi and hand-shakers upon arrival, so here they acting like love-bird wallflowers because all of Jackson’s associates have probably run off to empty rooms with anyone willing to suck a dick just to have a Pretty Woman experience. The Wolf has one arm securely wrapped around Stiles’ waist to keep the flight risk from straying away to go commit social suicide.

For someone so completely lacking social etiquette, observation skills do seem to be one of Stilinski’s strong suits. From the stories Jackson hears second hand, that’s part of how the dumbass has survived this long.

This particular skill is also a fucking curse as it turns out. God truly is not a fan of Jackson Whittemore, and at this rate the feeling is mutual.

Not even a full minute passes by after Jackson spots familiar auburn hair tied up neatly, contrasting against too tanned skin before Stiles pulls him a little closer, bringing their faces closer together. The Hybrid feels the mostly-human’s breath tickle at his ear.

“Name?”

Deciding to entertain whatever game the brunette is playing, Jackson whispers back, “Of?”

“Whoever you just puffed your chest out for,” Stiles says as he knocks his knuckles against one of the blond's pecs. “Who are we making jealous?”

Jackson pushes the hand away from his chest and scowls. “No one.”

“What? You think I can’t make them jealous? I’ll have you know that this suit is Lydia and Peter approved. It does wonders for my ass - ”

“Please stop talking about your ass at a charity event,” Jackson hisses. Plus, he knows that the Emissary has a nice ass regardless of clothing, the suit pants just show it off best.

“She also wants other things in life?”

“Bold of you to assume that it’s a woman.” He’s a little bitter that Stilinski assumed right. “But yes, if you must know, she did. She certainly wanted a lot of things,” Jackson replies. “Mostly coke.”

“Oh.” The way he says the single syllable, his big brown eyes bugging a little in shock before schooling his features again, makes the Wolf bite at his lips to keep from laughing. “Not your style I assume?”

It’s probably not a good idea to be telling his literal FBI Agent this information, but Jackson knows from a lifetime of experiences that Stiles isn’t a snitch. “Tried it once and that was enough. Overloaded my senses.”

“Huh, I guess that makes sense. That must have been one bitch of a night though.”

“It lasted for about an hour.”

“Right, supernatural metabolism.”

Jackson doesn’t mention how he trashed his hotel room that night, lucky that his then girlfriend wandered away for the night on some sort of euphoric adventure. Having his first ever panic attack, he hid in the bathroom convinced something was coming for him. That no one was coming for him. That he was going to be killed and no one would ever come looking. It probably didn’t help that Ethan left only two months before that night.

Penny was a mess of a rebound. Jackson was a mess of a person.

“Penelope VonBerek,” he finally gives away her name, still watching her from across the room. They could have ended in worse ways. They could have gotten together in better ways too. But they were fun at best and a distraction at worst.

Still didn’t mean she had to go and sleep around with half his office. He’d be more bitter about it if he’d actually had any feelings about her at that point in their situationship, but he honestly cared more about the whispering happening behind his back. There’s a brief thought; Jackson wonders who she came with this time and who she might leave with tonight.

“Are you shitting me? That is the snobbiest rich person name I have ever heard,” Stiles says. “ I have to meet this walking stereotype.”

Without seeing the need to discuss any of this further, the mostly-human places his free hand that’s been on the small of Jackson’s back higher so that he can apply more pressure and encourage the Were’ to move forward with him.

Like he was going to let Stilinski wander off alone.

She notices the pair approaching rather quickly, obviously alerting the rest of the men she’s mingling with to allow the couple room to join. Stepping into the loose circle of people he vaguely knows - two men he knows by name from his office but only exchange documents with and assumedly one of their wives - Jackson addresses the group. “Greg, Mr. and Mrs. Carver, Penelope. I hope you’re all having a good evening so far.”

“You as well, Mr. Whittemore,” Mr. Carver replies in kind. It’s notable that Mrs. Carver stands a little straighter at hearing Jackson’s last name. It’s odd how much respect a name’s history can get you. “I don’t believe that we’ve had the pleasure of your guest yet.”

It was too good to be true for Stiles to remain behaved for more than two seconds and Jackson should have known better.

“I’m Stiles Stilinski-Hale, soon to be Stiles Whittemore-Stilinski-Hale.” There’s a reason Jackson bullied the shit out of this doofus.

“Oh,” the older associate sounds surprised. “I wasn’t aware you were engaged, Mr. Whittemore.”

Neither was he, but here they are.

Mrs. Carver is basically beaming at the news, smiling like a giddy school girl. “Do invite us to the wedding. We’d love to attend. I’m sure your mother is positively thrilled; it’s been so long since I’ve last seen her.”

Great.

Penny takes his uncertain pause, unsure what to say since Jackson hasn’t told either of his adoptive parents about any of this situation and now he’s probably going to have to explain a mysteriously new fiancé to them sooner rather than later, as an opportunity to lead the conversation. “Stiles,” she sweetly says the brunette's name. “What a unique name.”

“Thank you!” Stiles says sweetly back. Neither of them are getting an Oscar for this passive-aggressive performance. “It’s a nickname since my real name is a Polish disaster that only my dad and Jax can pronounce correctly.” Jackson has never in his life pronounced that abomination of a name correctly. Stiles’ heartbeat seems to know that too. “Your name was Penelope, right? So pretty. Do you work with Jax at the firm?” The little lost-puppy head-tilt was a nice touch.

“No,” Penny says shortly. “My date does.”

“Where are they?”

“I believe I saw William over with Mr. Caston by the water fountain earlier,” Mrs. Carver says as Penny’s un-saving grace.

Jackson has no idea who the fuck William is.

“Off talking business as all these men do. Abandoning their arm candy until they need something sweet after all that bitter work.” No one points out Jackson and Mr. Carver were still physically attached to their dates; but maybe the Hybrid blatantly readjusts his grip on Stiles’ side to run his hand up and down the silky fabric covering the mostly-human’s ribs briefly before settling on his hip bone again.

“So how did you two meet?” Mrs. Carver seems to like to talk, or at least doesn’t like silence.

“Oh, we went to high school together.” Stiles equally likes to talk. Wondering what he’s going to say next, Jackson lets him. Because there is nothing stranger than the truth of how they know each other. “We didn’t really run in the same circles then, knew each other through friends of friends. But we ran into each other again a year ago and it was like fate.” He sighs in a dramatic but not too over-the-top way that still leaves it believable. What a bitch. And Jackson isn’t even allowed to laugh or he’ll give it away. “Truth be told, I always kinda had a thing for him while in school. He was always the prettiest boy in the room back then.”

There’s no blip in his heart.

There’s still no blip when Stiles turns to face Jackson, eye to eye. He lifts a curled hand to the Were’s face, waiting for only a beat to see if the other pulls away from his touch, before dragging a knuckle down the blonde's nose. Right where most of his freckles are centered around and disperse from. “No surprise to me that years later he’s still the prettiest boy in any room he walks into.

“Anyone who lets him go is a complete idiot.”

Stiles has a grin like a cat who got the cream as he pulls away and Penny looks like she’s eaten something much too sour. Jackson’s not entirely sure what he looks like right now, but he feels the wolf half and human half equally go belly-up and defenses-down.

That’s the night Jackson knows he’s fucked.

“So we’re fake engaged now?”

“Yep. You proposed last May while on a picnic.”

“Of course I did.”

“You told me in tears that you couldn’t imagine the rest of your life without me in it and how you are just utterly obsessed with me.”

“Of course I am.”

“And obviously I couldn’t say no at that point. It’d just be cruel.”

“Obviously. What a saint you are.”

“You’re welcome, babe.”

It’s unbelievable that this has taken so much time that Stiles has to accompany him to another Full Moon Trip.

Ever since the gala, it’s been harder and harder to keep up with having Stiles around constantly. The main issue being that it’s comfortable; preferable even.

And what a shitty asshole that makes Jackson.

Drooling after someone else’s husband.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know Cora but he’d let her deck him for principle alone.

His feelings were shitty enough when in high school as his frontal lobe was catching up to his sexuality and his go-to solution to finding another guy attractive was to bully the shit out of him. It was easier then because at least Stiles was shitty back to him. But no, now he has to make Jackson weak in the goddamn knees like some stupid Victorian damsel while the half Wolf-half lizard has grown and matured as a person - to some extent - only to be taken off the market. Not for sale. Just for viewing purposes.

(But god, what a view.)

He’s caught himself concocting scenarios to feed the mostly-human so that they would have to prove their relationship status - going to another company event and paying off a random coworker to encourage some PDA, pretending like he hears a hunter or two following them so they have to impromptu make-out to throw off their assailants, inviting his parents to D.C. just so he has to introduce Stiles to them properly - but after fantasizing for a minute or five he knows that’s fucked. It’s lying to Stiles and it’s taking away his agency.

Jackson and Stiles both know what losing bodily autonomy is like. Whether that be from being tricked or being manipulated, they know. He’s not about to be one of those monsters who takes because they can.

So he’s been locked away in his office for longer hours, attempting to file himself to death. He’s been taking more cases than he needs since there’s never an end to how many people are looking to get divorced. He’s got some pretty cut and dry ones going; all parties satisfied with who is leaving with what. That still leaves him with a billion papers to sort through which gives him reason to eat lunch and dinner at his computer and away from the pretty man that his Wolf is calling mate.

He takes any and all reason to stay away.

Hence why he’s a little grumpy when it’s time for another drive seven hours away from the city alone together.

“We’re making a pit stop in ten minutes, so get your checkbook ready.”

“I’m not your ATM.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a company credit card. A complete oversight that I’ll have to bring up to Adam.” Jackson will have to warn Adam. He fears what Stiles would do with an allowance. “Plus it’s not actually for me.”

Said pit stop is a Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Jackson looks at Stiles for an explanation. Any sort of reason for this stupidity.

Stiles beams back, “We’re pimping out your cage!”

If there weren’t active threats to his life, he’d hitchhike back to the city. He’s still entertaining the idea.

However, he knows that Danny would find a way to resurrect his body for a second time just so he could lecture him on his pride. So he follows Stiles into the store. It smells like the armpit of a cabbage-patch doll.

Where the hell Stiles got a cart from is unknown but somewhere along the way they have one that the mostly-human starts to fill up. He keeps grabbing random blankets and throws and pillows then shoving them in Jackson’s face until the blonde either approves or throws it back to the piles.

They leave with a trunk full of three hundred dollars worth of soft things of all varieties.

Everything in Jackson tingles under the care from the moment they enter the store to the time they are finished stuffing the cage with all his new bedding.

For the first time in ever, the human part of Jackson has consciousness while still shifted for the full moon. It’s not as though the humanity takes over fully, but merely exists alongside the predator part. It’s an odd, odd feeling being animalistic with a developed frontal-lobe, but as a whole he thinks it's an improvement to however his blacked out full moons usually operate.

Among the cluster of fuzzy softness, Jackson spots the mostly-human sitting cross legged and wide awake much closer to the locked crate than he should be.

“You there?”

He doesn’t know what response the other man is expecting considering he is still in fur form. So he just huffs.

That seems to be adequate because it earns him a smile. Then the man is rising and making his way even closer to the cage. To no one’s amazement he does the dumbest thing imaginable and unlocks Jackson’s self-made jail only to take a tentative step inside.

In hopes of trying to spare the squishy, fleshy man, Jackson attempts to shrink back into the corner, buffered slightly by the added home décor.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Stiles scolds as though he’s talking to a child. Jackson growls back. And because the idiot still has not gained any self preservation skills since high school, Stiles grabs Jackson by the bottom of his jaw. His long ass fingers reach near the top of his snout, acting as a lackluster muzzle.

A thumb keeps making slow, steady swipes back and forth just above his top lip.

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

With another tapering growl, the Wolf sighs as he feels something in him soothe under the other man’s touch. He opens his mouth just enough to lick at his chomps, and maybe he laps at Stiles’ hand still stroking his muzzle at the same time.

“There’s my man.”

Jackson would rather take a straight shot of Wolfsbane than ever admit to the happy rumbling sound he makes that sounds suspiciously close to a purring noise.

Smart enough to at least move slowly with some caution, the mole-kissed man continues to approach, keeping one hand on Jackson’s muzzle at all times as he maneuvers himself alongside the Hybrid. Giving up and giving in to a pretty face yet again, Jackson follows the lead and lays down across Stiles’ lap once he is seated among the sea of pillows and blankets.

“At the very high risk of sounding like a furry, you're pretty even as a Wolf. That just seems unfair.”

Jackson huffs once more and lays his head down. A hand tangles in the fur on his ribs, sure fingers running up and down his coarse coat. They lay like that for a while.

Long enough for the pressure under Jackson’s skin to lessen and for his body to contort back into a bipedal state. Even in his sweaty, naked state Stiles doesn’t seem all that bothered. Well, maybe a little bothered but not in a way Jackson minds though his spouse would. That hand still soothing up and down his back really should stop now.

“Careful or I’ll tell your wife,” Jackson says, trying to sound playful but mindful.

The forceful, blatantly fake gagging sound Stiles makes next catches the blond off guard. He looks up from his position about to ask what the fuck that was when the idiot answers first, “Please do not call Lydia my wife. That’s just wrong. Plus it normally pisses Cora off.”

There's a sudden, crashing halt in Jackson’s mind. He plays that sentence back in his head again, but no matter how he examines it, it’s wrong.

He moves so he’s facing up to look at Stiles so he knows what stupid looks like. “I was talking about Cora.”

Stiles stares back down at Jackson like he’s equally as stupid. “Cora? Cora, my wife?”

“Yes.” Jackson takes a moment to sit up because this no longer feels like an appropriate time to have his head in the other man’s lap. “The mother of your child.”

The slow morph of disgust and abject horror that pinches the mostly-human’s face starts to make Jackson unsure who the stupid one in the conversation is.

“Dude,” Stiles sounds so purely offended. “I’m not married.”

“What?”

“I’m not married. Not to Lydia. Definitely not Cora. Not to anyone.”

“Stilinski-Hale,” Jackson stresses the name.

“Hale Emissary,” Stiles stresses back. “I’m an honorary Hale, a member of the family by every means but blood.”

No, no, no. Stilinski isn’t gaslighting him right now. Stiles is about to have blood in the Hale game, he’s admitted to that himself. “The mother of your child?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles pulls at his own hair, “the only kind of dick that women takes is of the plastic variety. Neither of us want anything to do with each other’s bits; I’m just her sperm donor.” A new version of distress appears on his face. “Have you thought I’ve been married this whole time?”

Jackson fears what the truthful answer to that question will get him so he flounders for a bit, though because he’s a Whittemore floundering is just stunned silence because he’s too cool to make word salad like Stiles does under duress.

This was unfortunately answer enough for Stiles.

“Wow,” he says as he throws his hands up in defeat. “I can’t believe Lydia was right. I thought I had better game than that.” Shaking his head and letting out a built-up agitated breath, he continues, “or at the very least the confidence that you wouldn’t think I’m a slut.”

Jackson wants to rewind the clock to five minutes ago when he was cuddling up to a not-married man and couldn’t open his mouth to ruin it.

Neither of them felt like talking or looking at each other after the truth gets shattered into their reality. It’s a quick and quiet shift from morning to afternoon from there on.

After chucking the ripped, blood-stained blankets while salvaging the select few intact ones and cleaning up the cabin for this go around, they are on the road again. Jackson has resolved that he’s now bound to his part as passenger princess since Stiles has started needing to accompany him everywhere. Once he got over the unwillingness to hand over control, he kinda liked it. Getting to shut his brain off as he watched the scenery of D.C. flash by.

Weaving out of another interstate, they come to a linear road, paved through a forest consisting of a canopy of vibrant green, still-growing August leaves that spread apart the breaks of golden light spotlighting the dirt road. It’s nice. Something he would have overlooked if not for this different view.

It’s nicer when he reaches out to place his hand across the tops of Stiles’ resting one on the car’s gear shift and the mostly-human waits a couple seconds before angling his grip off the stick and takes Jackson’s hand in his own.

They break the hold whenever Stiles actually has to change gear on the terrain, but they always go back to holding each other’s hands.

He waits to ask Danny until the next HQ meeting they have, a routine repeat of the past five weeks worth of meetings that center around Agent Old Fart telling them they are close to leads and Stiles plus Tony going over their babysitting updates.

Olivia is there too, but she’s kind of useless.

Jesse and the Vamp stick around as well, but Jackson figures this is about as minimal he’s going to get.

“Give me Lydia’s number.”

Tony’s eyebrows raise.

Jesse’s eyebrows furrow.

Danny’s eyebrows stay the same.

“Magic words?”

“Please, may I have Lydia Martin’s phone number,” Jackson appeases his best friend. “I assume it’s not the same one from high school.”

“It’s not,” Tony comments, all too amused, before he takes a sip of his water.

Danny doesn’t even bother to blink as he stares Jackson down, assessing the Wolf and all his intentions. The blond meets his gaze head-on, much too used to stare-downs now that Stiles has made himself prominent in his life again, but fidgets a bit by crumbling one of the napkins in his fist. You would think being a lawyer would make him better at scrutiny, and it has, but there is something about the man you grew up from Pampers with and knows every shitty, twisted thing you’ve ever done having to deem you worthy of trust. That’s kind of nerve-wracking. Especially because Jackson can’t fault him for whatever decision is made.

“I don’t talk to her a lot,” Danny finally breaks the silence. Jackson is still holding his breath even as the tan man pulls out his phone from his back pocket. “So if you mess this up for me I’m posting all your worst selfies from middle school.”

He really doesn’t deserve Danny, but he’s so fucking grateful for him.

Three days pass by before he opens the new number on his phone.

It wasn’t because he’s scared of Lydia. Mostly. It’s also because Stiles is around constantly, and Jackson thinks this is more of a one-on-one thing. Something he has to do separate of Stiles.

So three days later, while Stiles is downstairs making some pasta dish for dinner, Jackson is laying down in his bedroom after sending his last email for the day and pulls up the number Danny gave him.

You: I’m sorry.

He closes his phone for about five seconds before it lights up with a response.

New Contact: Who is this?

“Shit,” he curses himself. That probably should have started there instead.

You: Jackson

The phone immediately starts to ring in his hands.

“Shit,” Jackson curses in a panic. Talking was not in the plan. At the last possible second he answers the call.

Her voice is heard before he even brings the phone to his ear.

“It takes your life being in danger and you fake dating Stilinski to acknowledge my existence again?”

He stares off into the distance, watching the wallpaper of the bedroom hoping that it doesn’t start turning yellow and dancing around. “That’s private information,” the blond hears himself saying and dear god how is that the first thing he says?

“Private doesn’t exist between Stiles and I. What he knows, I know. What I know, he knows. This is the only way we stay alive.” She pauses her speech and he thinks it’s his turn to say something, but he comes up short. “Are you going to answer my question?”

“I - ” he was woefully unprepared for Lydia. No less an extremely pissed off Lydia. “I’m sorry?”

“You better be. You have the fucking nerve to ghost me not once but twice. You have some goddamn balls.”

Another pause.

Another space meant for him to be filling.

But Jackson, no matter how far he’s come in his process of being a somewhat decent human, isn’t used to pushing that heavy load of pride to the side and apologizing to someone else.

Taking a deep breath, inhaling the scent of home while hearing rooms away how Stiles hums to himself as he cooks, Jackson finds some strength to push.

“I know I fucked up with you. In more ways than just that,” Jackson admits for the first time. “Running has always just been easier. Leaving before getting left; acting like I was above you so that when I abandoned you, I could convince myself that was what I wanted. It wasn’t. But I didn’t want to risk the chance of you deciding you didn’t want me first. I’m glad that you have Stiles and that he has you. That you have people there for you like you needed. God, you deserved everything out of life, Lydia.”

Jackson takes his pause now, waiting for divine judgment. The silence drags on and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He can’t say more, he knows he’ll find a way to ruin it if he does.

“Do you know what a QPR is?”

“A what?”

“A Queer-Platonic Relationship,” she says with precise diction. “Learn about it because that’s what me and the boy you’re currently interested in are part of. And before you decide that your poor, fragile Werewolf ego can’t handle sharing a partner, please do note that I am actually married to a Hale Wolf with no issue. So make your decisions wisely because if you harm a single cell on his body they will be finding pieces of you across multiple state lines for months.”

The click at the end of the line is deafening.

Universal truths of the world: the sky is blue, coffee smells better than it tastes, and Lydia Martin has the last word.

Now Jackson has some googling to do.

They are driving to an old parking garage on the outskirts of the city to meet up with Olivia and Tony, with Danny and Jesse. Stiles argues against this remote location. He makes vague comments of how nothing good ever happens in a parking garages, let alone an abandoned ones, but is overruled by Olivia’s higher rank and Tony’s more lenient nature. She claims that the info she has is too sensitive to be shared anywhere else, so they are to meet at five tonight.

It’s 4:44 when Stiles’ phone rings in the cupholder of the driver’s seat. Before the mostly-human can even dare to take a hand off the steering wheel, Jackson picks up the phone for him. He snorts at the name flashing on the screen.

True Bro

“McCall.”

“Answer it.”

Jackson does, but puts the call on speaker so that McCall’s breathing can be heard and spoken to through the car speakers.

“Hey dude, how you doing?” Stiles answers casually, smiling appreciatively at Jackson for a moment before focusing on the road again.

“I’m doing okay man, a little sore from the latest bust we had on some hunters this week, but nothing serious.”

“You still playing the sacrificial hero?”

“I’m the Alpha, I wasn’t going to let them hurt Theo if I had a way to stop it. ”

“I know dude, that’s why you’re a good Alpha,” Stiles says even as he shifts in his seat in a way Jackson has been with him long enough to know is uncomfortability.

“Uh, that’s actually what I was calling you about. Not that I wasn’t calling to talk to you too, but I just - I know I’m supposed to stay out of your mission now. But they had all types of tech this time around that Theo is playing around with to figure out and it just seems like something - ”

“Woah, woah, what?” Stiles squints up at the red light as he tries to understand what his friend is saying. Jackson keeps looking back and forth between the car’s radio dials and Stiles, which probably isn’t helping the unease clearly building. “What do you mean you’re supposed to stay out of the mission?”

“. . .”

“Scotty?”

“I was told that the mission was being handled without outsider help.”

Tension fills the air in the car’s confines. Stiles’ knuckles turn white from his grip on the wheel. “Who told you that?”

“Olivia.”

The Agent doesn’t say anything for a couple of moments. He stares intently at the stoplight ahead as it finally changes to green, but still remains halted. No one pays any mind to the other cars honking behind them. They’ve got bigger shit happening right now.

“Scott,” Stiles answers as he finally steps on the gas again and remains on route to their meeting place. “I have to go, but I need you to keep working on whatever it is you’ve got so far. I think things are about to get messy.”

“Stiles - ”

“You can’t worry about that part,” the mostly-human says with a voice of authority. “I need you to keep following the trail of breadcrumbs. I’m pretty sure we’ve found our witch, or at least one of them, but you have to burn down her candy house for us. Can you do that for us? For everyone’s safety?”

“I’ve got you.”

“Thanks dude. I have to get off now, but remember what I said and be careful out there.”

“You too, buddy.”

A heavy breath is released after the click of the Bluetooth disconnects and the radio station turns back on. Jackson reaches over to shut off the whole system.

“We’re walking into a trap,” Stiles states blatantly once he’s driving through the now green light. As though Jackson hasn’t gathered that already. It’s just a question of how big of an ambush they are facing. “I should drop you off -”

“And give me more abandonment issues?”

Stiles doesn’t find this funny, which is fine because neither does Jackson, but the brunette looks more serious than the Wolf is comfortable seeing him. “She’s going to be after you.”

“And Danny,” Jackson tacks on.

“We’ve been over how you’re a bigger target.”

“That doesn’t mean that there is any less of a target on Danny.” Jackson argues back, refusing to be useless. That body count of his can’t get any higher. “You are not about to make me walk around Washington like a goddamn tourist when I know that you and Danny are fighting for your lives.”

“Fine,” Stiles says as he drives past the next turn he’s supposed to take. “But we do this my way. Deal?”

There’s no other real option. “Deal.”

“Alright, so here’s what’s gonna happen.”

“You’re late,” Olivia says.

“Yet we’re here first.”

Olivia doesn’t even flinch. Brave of her since Jackson can literally still smell the metallic tang of blood and the scent of fear. She’s really banking on him being an oblivious dumbass. Since he’s smarter than he apparently looks, he places his hand on the small of Stiles’ back and carefully unsheathes his claws to press against the agent, alarming him that the threat has already struck.

“You know how Tony can be,” she waves them off.

Stiles nods along. “Just us here so far? No word from Tony or Danny or whats-his-face?”

Under other circumstances Jackson would laugh at the adopted on-going joke.

“Is it so shocking that I’m the only one of us that showed up on time?”

“No,” Jackson butts into the conversation. Olivia lights up at the appearance of him coming to her defenses. She tries to do that same pretty smile she did when they first met, but it’s not as attractive when all you smell while looking at it is your best friend’s fear and his husband’s blood. “But then who do the extra heartbeats on the upper floor belong to?”

That wipes the smile off her face real fast.

The next ten minutes move even faster.

She’s quick to draw the gun from her holster. Jackson’s faster at pulling the one he already had in hand from Stiles’ belt behind his back. She’s even less smiley as she realizes she’s lost this standoff already. Her extended fingers twitch on the butt of her still sheathed weapon, looking like she’s tempted by it but when Jackson cocks the trigger she lifts her hand away obediently.

Then Jackson hears it before it hits; the bullet that misses his head by a too-close-to-call margin. That’s enough to startle him and lose his steady shot at the hunter bitch. She’s quicker to the draw this time while he’s distracted and has her gun locked on Stiles. The best Jackson can do in that moment is shove the mostly-human out of the trajectory; watching him trip and stumble to the ground is better than seeing him bleeding out on it. They both make a scramble for cover. It’s a shame that the parking garage is truly abandoned and has two equally abandoned cars inside it, so the sole place to hide are the pillars holding the structure up. They both take cover behind parallel columns, just narrowly missing the traitor’s gunfire.

Jackson slides the gun across the cement floor back to Stiles. With trained reflexes, the Agent catches it easily and nods to the Were’. “Stick to the plan. I’ll cover you.”

It’s not a complex plan. Knowing that they were more than likely going to be outnumbered, Stiles accounted for having to split up. Jackson, with his claws and venom-laced tail, is to find Danny and the others while Stiles provides distraction and protection. Not complex, but they’ve worked off fewer fumes before.

The best shot Jackson has is to get from pillar to pillar for physical cover. Most heartbeats he hears are making their way down the ramp of this building’s level, so he’s just gotta make his way up to where three remaining heartbeats are heard. Taking a deep breath, he takes his actions.

The dash from shelter to shelter is even smoother than he thought - having expected to take a bullet or two while out in the open, but that doesn’t happen because after the first step out each time a film of blue light acts as a protective shield from the array of ammo launched his way. He really has to ask what the fuck qualifies as mostly-human.

The evil henchmen wannabes he encounters are better fighters than him, a bitter thing to admit but he’s spent his last four years ready to fight the bar exam rather than the next irritation of autocrats, but all it takes is one stray cut to the thigh or chest or ass and they get sent to the ground where they will stay paralyzed for the next twenty minutes. Still having some Kanima in him has some perks.

The other perk is having a mostly-human on his side because something and most probably someone blows up behind him but he doesn’t have time to look back.

Stiles’ magic does have a limit apparently. A limit of ‘out-of-sight-out-of-mind’. The moment Jackson climbs to the second level he hones in on Danny and Jesse muffled fighting. They already look bloody and beaten, Danny having dried blood crusted around his nose and Jesse with a clawed slash on his cheek. There’s a singular hunter up there with them, but he’s got Danny pressed to the ledge of the building and a gun in his face.

“I’ll drop him!”

Jackson halts at the threat. He’s fast, but not fast enough to reach his human friend in time. He’s still rushing through his mind a play he can make in this situation when more action occurs without his interference.

Jesse, from his spot tied to the metal rail lining the lip of the framework’s edge, launches himself forward on a hope and a prayer and manages to headbutt the man from behind, making the goon stumble forward but gets him to release Danny. It stuns him long enough that Jackson can slip in and cut him some venom. Some of the man’s muscles must haywire as the poison drips into his bloodstream because in a flash and a bang and Jesse hits the floor.

“NO!” Danny screams and drops to the ground alongside his fallen partner.

“Are you okay?” Jesse asks through labored breath.

“You’re the one who got shot!” Danny shouts back in hysterics. He pushes his palms against the wounded area, making his husband groan in a less than happy way. Jesse just bobbles his head in response as he grips Danny’s wrist in a tight grasp like he wants him closer. The new expression on the tanned man’s face breaks into a tender devastation. “Yeah, Jes,” his voice soft. “I’m okay.”

Jackson wants to interject and scream that they are still in a battle situation, not a movie where they have time to declare undying love. But he thinks he manages to keep calm enough to ask, “Where’s Tony?” Sure it might be a little more desperate than he would want, but he’s not screaming. That’s a win.

Much less of a win when Danny looks up to stare at Jackson then over to the corner of the cement level. The corner that has a crumpled body collapsed into itself. He can’t see any distinguishing features, but he can use context clues to know who it is.

“Shit.” “Shit.”

He hears Stiles curse at the same time. There’s a lack of bullets being exchanged at the moment and from the sounds of it, all sides have to reload.

“You know I’m just doing what’s right,” Olivia shouts among the prolonged silence of waiting each other out. “These creatures are a threat to all of humanity; you’ve been on the tail end of too many cases where humans get blamed for monstrous acts. They are tearing us apart.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles calls back to her.

“And it starts with him. Whittemore is a danger. He’s an abomination, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “He is.”

Jackson’s heart falls into his gut. Dread is an oddly cold sensation while betrayal is more of a burn, and that combo makes him go numb. The sound of his own heart beating echoes through his ears to the point that he nearly misses the next part of his statement.

“He’s an abomination for having the car windows down while also blasting the air conditioning at the same time,” Stiles says as Jackson hears slotting more bullets in his gun. “And for using cinnamon flavored toothpaste, and walking down escalators, and thinking lyricless Jazz is an acceptable favorite music genre.” Olivia is hissing at some of her pals on the other side of the room, clearly seeing that she’s not getting Stiles on her side of things. “But not because of who he is. That’s some tired hunter rhetoric that I’m just so bored of listening to, so if you don’t mind can we stop the misplaced grandstanding and get back to shooting at each other?”

Then the bullets do start back up.

And now Jackson is a fucking hypocrite, standing around a battle field, letting a renewed desire to make it out of this alive wash over him.

He knows he has to move to make that happen, though., though. Sliding to the ground, he kneels down next to Danny and grabs at the man’s wounded husband.

“I’ve got him,” Jackson reassures his friend. His friend does not look reassured in the slightest, which Jackson will give him a pass for this one time, but he nods in answer before shuffling to his feet.

Carrying Jesse bridal style, Jackson makes Danny be the line leader back down the ramp because he’s more adept at dodging than Jackson is like this.

Again, it takes seconds for Stiles’ lightscreen to come up as they descend back to the first level.

“Thank god,” Stiles says just under his breath, clearly only meant for Jackson to hear. “Get back over here quick. I’ve got the spell set to launch us away from this hellhole.”

He takes that as a sign to forget stealth and Leeroy Jenkins this shit. He literally kicks Danny in the ass to keep him going - he’ll get yelled at for that later, he’s sure - and they sprint to the finish line.

There’s not much space for two men built like Jackson and Danny to cover behind the one pillar Stiles is still behind so Danny takes the one most close. Jackson is about to ask “Now fucking what,” but Stiles moves before he can say it. Fine, who needs communication?

But then he notices more context clues.

There’s some magic powders sprinkled onto the concrete by his feet, along with some rocks that look suspiciously like bones. It’s some satanic looking shit, with a six-sided star and everything, but he’s shit out of ideas, so if they are resorting to deals with the devil so be it. Maybe they can get a two for one deal.

Stiles crouches down and pulls out a mini-switch blade from his boot. That’s hotter to watch than Jackson thinks should be, but he’ll unpack that later. Stiles slashes the back of his forearm with the knife and lowers the slightly bloody arm down to the center of his Satan sacrifice. He lets a few drops fall and bubble on their target. Jackson has absolutely no idea what this is supposed to do, but he hopes that whatever it is works fast.

“Get over here, around the circle,” Stiles shouts to them. They all do as told. Stiles grabs Jackson by the back of the neck and takes Danny’s hand just as the bubbling gets faster and expands.

The last thing Jackson registers is an all-encompassing blood-red light taking over his field of vision, the stinging at his nerves, and one last bang.

In a world that is spinning at a disgusting rate and filled with a popping sound echoing through his ears like he’s just reentered the atmosphere, the crickets are the first thing Jackson registers.

He latches onto the harmonious chirping to ground his senses. It’s ear grating, but it works because the next noise that hits him is the sound of panting; his own specifically. Danny’s too, somewhere to his right. He’s more concerned about the fact that’s all the labored breathing he hears, but the echo of varying heartbeats makes that a little better.

Refusing to lose a battle to gravity, Jackson lifts himself up by the elbows off whatever dirt pile he’s landed in. No matter how slowly he does it. Even with regenerative powers his body fucking aches from every crevice.

It’s unsurprising how when his vision decreases back to singular, rather than double or triple, that they are no longer in the parking garage. No, they are instead laying in a patch of dirt surrounded by piles upon piles of filthy garbage. He almost wishes he had admitted defeat to gravity because now that he sees the trash, he can smell it.

They are in a landfill. Oh joy.

Looking around, he sees that they all landed relatively where they had been relative to each other; Danny next to Stiles, Stiles in the middle, Jesse now inches away from Jackson, and Jackson on the end. Danny is better than him, in more than just the moral way now, as he’s also up on his knees and strong enough to crawl over to Jesse’s side.

He looks over to Stiles who’s still on the ground. Even with the stench of moldy food and rusted equipment, Jackson can smell the blood.

With more adrenaline filled panic, he crawls to his fake boyfriend/fiancé/Whatever-Stiles-Wants-Him-To-Be side. “Stiles!” He shakes the man’s shoulder to no response. He flips him over so he’s facing the night sky instead and toward Jackson. The fact that he’s out cold is a bad sign. The red staining the midsection of his shirt is a very bad sign. The amount of pain Jackson that shoots through him, even for the briefest second, is the worst sign.

“We have to get them help, right now,” Danny says before Jackson is even done processing everything. But, yes. They do.

The wound on Jesse, while technically a better place to be shot in - if you can believe there is such a thing - still has lost too much blood and has remained untreated for longer. He’s not sure how long and exchanging info with Danny right now doesn’t feel right.

For a second time tonight, Jackson heaves a man bridal-style into his arms. They don’t have time to mention that Jackson holds him tighter than he probably should. Danny struggles just a bit with lifting up his husband then readjusts. Those toned muscles aren’t just for show. There’s not much indication on which way is out so they start heading in one direction and stick to it. They hit the fencing of the property. Jackson waits for Danny to rest his arms for as short a span as possible and then they follow along the fence.

It leads them to a parking lot. One with a few empty, but clearly still in use, cars towards the back of it, away from the prime parking spots up front.

“Danny, hotwire the car,” Jackson demands out of sheer desperation.

“You think I know how to hotwire a car?”

“You know how to break into the FBI’s security systems, I’m pretty sure you can figure out how to hotwire a car!”

Whatever assumedly wonderful things the human says under his breath next is lost to the wind, the crickets, and Jackson’s limit for bullshit right now. They rush over to the closest vehicle, gently lowering all injured parties to the ground before committing some crimes. All it takes is Jackson’s elbow to the front window for it to crash into itself.

Going back to draining the coursing pain from both men still in limbo to the world, he just briefly acknowledges the noise of Danny fiddling with shit. A few curses here, a threat to God there.

“You are not allowed to rub this in later!” Danny shouts, eventually, from beneath the driver's seat. The next second the car rumbles to life. Jackson doesn’t even feel smug, just relieved. Especially with the amount of pain he’s taking in.

It’s a blur of throwing the men into the backseat of the cruiser without further harm. Jackson packs himself into the middle so he can focus on pain management and heartbeat monitoring. Danny gets behind the wheel.

The Hybrid reluctantly lets go of Jesse’s wrist just long enough to reach into his back pocket and grab his somehow still intact phone, tossing it up to the passenger’s seat for the human to use. “Find where the nearest hospital is.”

One hand on the wheel, one hand grabbing at the cellular device, Danny breaks yet another law tonight as he Googles and drives. Jackson swears he hears his best friend’s heart skip a beat at one point, but he’s got other things to focus on and the heartbeat goes back to normal after he puts the phone down.

It takes two sharp turns out of the landfill for them to land on a local road that has a speed limit of 65. This obviously does not apply to them, as they fly down the admittedly dead road. They don’t even slow down as Danny purposefully passes by a walk-in clinic. It is equally dead looking inside the establishment, but it’s their safest and only bet right now.

But Danny’s foot is still hitting the floor.

“Go back, there was a - ”

“We’re not going to the hospital,” Danny declares.

“Fucking why?”

“Because Beacon Hills is ten more minutes away.”

Fuck.

Danny visits Beacon Hills sometimes.

Not often since his parents moved back to the islands among the chaos that was junior year. Still, he visits. Says hello to Deaton, stops by the school to see Coach, grabs lunch with Jackson’s parents.

This is a topic of division in their friendship. A quiet one. Danny stops asking if Jackson wants to come and Jackson stops asking how it was.

But at this moment the Wolf is grateful that his friend knows his way around the town so well. He drives onto a dirt path into the preserve. Putting the tires to work, they are still driving faster than probably legal. Jackson doesn’t exactly expect for the Hale’s burnt husk of a home to still be there at this point, but he’s a little surprised by the mansion that starts to come into view little by little in the horizon.

There’s a cluster of old familiar faces waiting out front of the large house.

Said faces all start making their way over to the approaching car. Some sprinting and others trotting, but all too impatient to even wait for the car to break.

Lydia is opening the back door of the car while Danny is still rolling to a stop. She does an awkward shuffle with the vehicle as she reaches in and across Jackson so she can place her hand on top of where Stiles’ own hand is clutching at the bloody wound.

Derek and a woman he doesn’t recognize both run up shouting demands.

“Get him to the med room!”

“Let me carry him.”

Jackson growls and flashes his eyes at the other male, not wanting anyone else to hold Stiles that closely in this state.

Two pairs of neon Wolf eyes answer his challenge: Derek’s bright blue and the woman’s blinding red.

“Jackson carries him to the med room,” Lydia speaks for the first time, getting in between a territory war all while still holding Stiles’ limp hand. She looks up to stare at Jackson, sending him a look that is a mixture between daring him to question her authority and asking if this appeases his own. He gives a jerked nod in response. Lydia returns the gesture then looks over her shoulder to the other two Were’s and now the Sheriff who’s panting as he catches up to the scene. “Derek you’re going to grab the other injured man and you’re going to take him to the infamy as well. He also needs our aid. You are going to lead Jackson to the room and he’s going to keep up with you, do you both hear me?”

Jackson assumes Derek silently agrees along with him.

“Then get going.”

Derek rounds the stolen vehicle and gathers Jesse in his arms at the same time Lydia moves out of the way long enough for Jackson to get himself and Stiles out. Danny is standing by his open driver's side door, seemingly unsure what to do with himself other than follow the orders not meant for him.

Being the loner of little words Jackson remembers to a T, Derek takes off at full supernatural speed towards the house without looking to see if the Hybrid is ready to tail him.
In passing he hears a part of an exchange between Lydia and the other woman.

“You’re always hot when you take charge.”

“So long as you don’t mind me taking over your role.”

“We both know I like when you dominate.”

He has a guess on who the woman is.

The med room is bigger than he would have thought. With the appearance of a converted guest chamber, there’s three twin-sized beds in the room with space still left for two chairs on either side of the beds. That’s concerningly good planning.

Jesse takes up the bed on the right with Stiles laid in the middle one. Neither has woken up yet, but their hearts are still relatively steady. Spikes occur along with shooting pains creeping in.

Danny stands beside his husband, Jackson stands slotted in the space between the two occupied beds, and Derek stands on the other side of the room with his arms crossed against his chest. No one dares to say a word in the tense silence.

Which makes it sound ten times louder as John Stilinski enters.

“Thank you, Mel,” he says before getting off his cellphone. He joins the blond Wolf at his son’s bedside. He gently wipes the sweaty hair off Stiles’ forehead and out of the way. Running his fingers over his son’s scalp, he finally asks, “what the hell happened?”

“Olivia has been playing all of us,” Jackson answers.

“Olivia Bents?” Derek questions. He sounds disbelieving and Jackson has to reign all parts of him in to not start a fight. The cruel question of were you fucking her too? on the tip of his vile tongue.

“Yes,” Danny confirms for him. That’s for the best. “She set us up. It was an ambush.”

No one says anything for a bit after that. Not really a good time to catch up with old acquaintances.

“Thank you for getting him here,” Derek says softly in the quiet. His eyes flirt back and forth between Jackson and Danny though the human man doesn’t seem to pay him much mind. “I don’t want to lose another brother.”

Jackson really feels shitty about his behavior after that remark but at least it also eases some darker, possessive part of him. Stiles is a Hale. Derek is Stiles’ family. Derek has lost enough family. That is their story.

There’s really no good response to something like that and luckily he doesn’t have to scrounge for one long because a short threat of a woman enters the med area with the presence of an awoken, unrested mother. She’s still wearing her pajamas with a zipped jacket and running shoes.

“Everyone out,” Mrs. McCall, not looking a day older than Jackson remembers her, orders the room.

No one moves a muscle.

“I know for a fact each one of you heard what I said, so don’t make me start counting to get you out.” Everyone flinches and slowly, slowly makes their way to the door. “That’s what I thought.”

With John being closest to the exit, he’s one foot out the doorway when the nurse changes her mind, “Wait, I need a Wolf to be my ECG. Monitor heart rates for me while I do this.”

“I will,” Jackson rushes out first, turning back around to return back into the room right next to Stiles where he had been.

Derek glowers at being too slow to the draw. “I’m - ”

“Nope,” Melissa cuts off any potential argument. “No time for pissing contests. Jackson volunteered so he stays, the rest of you out. You,” she looks at the blond, “go stand in that corner. I don’t need you in the way, I just need you to be my machine. Let me know when heart rates rise or drop.”

He dutifully nods his understanding, though he rather stay next to Stiles and try to alleviate more of the pain. That want does not overpower his need to remain in the room, so he does as instructed and watches from the sidelines as she goes to work.

She pulls some stuff out of a mini-fridge located in the closet for some reason and gives both men an injection of something he assumes must be for anesthesia or pain or both. Next she pulls out a tray of various metal medical tools he assumes are sterilized.

It’s best to forget the gory details after that. All that matters is that it goes as smoothly as an impromptu, house-call surgery can go.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. The night before was a blur of blood and pain. He hasn’t had one of those since high school. The last thing he recalls is Melissa opening visiting hours back up, but warning not to crowd then what Jackson assumes is the entire populace of the house piling into the one room. He’s not sure at what point he fell asleep after that.

“Hey handsome.”

Jackson blinks the sleep out of his eyes as he rights himself in the chair, looking at the man in the bed. Stiles is awake, but to say bright-eyed would be a lie. He looks groggy and still half asleep. Yet the half-smile, half-smirk he gives Jackson still looks heart-skippingly good.

“Hey idiot.”

The smile only grows and Jackson has the terrifying thought that he’s met his match. “Oh be still my heart, Lizard man. Hiss your sweet nothings into my ear.”

It takes longer than it should to realize that there’s someone else on the other side of Stiles’ bed, and the main giveaway is the annoyed sigh they do in the middle of the pairs’ exchange. The woman he assumes to be Cora Hale; evident by last night’s nightmare, the definition of her eyebrows, and the protrusion in her middle. She sits slightly slouched in the wooden chair with her arms crossed against her chest and he guesses that has to be a Hale trait. Guard your heart.

There’s a hard scowl written all over her face as she stares holes into the side of Stiles’ head. She seems unbothered by the whole of Jackson’s presence judging from the way she never even looks his way as he stares questioningly at her. With an annoyed sigh of his own, the brunette man slowly shifts his head and gets met with an even deeper scowl.

“What.” It comes across more as a statement than a question, and that’s the first time Jackson has seen Stilinski act like a Hale.

“You’re hell spawn is trying to kill me is what.”

The first response he gives, to Jackson’s amusement is much more Stilinski than Hale, is an unintelligible exasperation of noises.

“I have literally been shot, Cora,” Stiles replies when he finds coherent words again.

“And I’m pregnant. You got the easy route of having something foreign collide into you, I have to grow it inside me. And you already got it out of you; I have to keep this thing in me for another five fucking months.”

“You’re not even halfway along!”

“And yet your demon is ruining me.” She waves at her body with both hands as though that is evidence. Other than the bump in her midsection, the evidence is lacking. “My tits hurt, Stilinski. Why do my tits hurt?”

“Listen,” Stiles says in a defeated breath. At least he’s smart enough to know he’s not winning any fight against a pregnant woman. “You asked me to jerk off in a cup, I jerked off in a cup. I did my job. I don’t know what more you want from me.”

“I want you to be in our son’s life!” She flashes those Wolf red eyes at the mostly-human. And maybe it’s been a while since Jackson has been around other Wolves so maybe he whines in sensitivity at an Alpha’s rage. Her eyes flicker to him briefly to which he shows some neck, but then remain on target. With a forceful sigh, her eyes go back to forest hazel. “I want you alive. You can’t give us heart attacks like this.”

“I know,” Stiles whispers back. “I’m sorry.”

Jackson feels like he’s the intruder in the situation now. He half wonders how close he can make it to the door without either of the two ripping his head off.

Almost like reading his mind, Cora takes that moment to give the blond Were’ her consideration. For once he prefers not being the center of attention. Not her attention at least. Every bat of an eyelash feels like criticism. That requires true talent.

He can see how her and Lydia would make a fitting couple.

“Go get breakfast,” she instructs him bluntly. Bold of her to bark orders when he’s a Packless Beta. Bold and evil of her. The cherry on top is the added, “Then bring us breakfast too.”

“Why me?” He doesn’t know his way around this place like either of them. They’re the ones who actually live here.

“Because I’m pregnant and he’s injured.”

Stiles now is staring at him too with those big-ass doe eyes of his, seemingly more alert then he was at the start of this odd conversation. He’s pretty sure he’s being ganged-up on here. “You’re not about to argue against a pregnant woman, are you Jax?”

Someone remind him why he likes this worm of a man?

Navigating his way through the ridiculous amount of hallways in this place actually isn’t that hard in reality. Perks of Werewolf senses.

Most heartbeats are located in the same area downstairs alongside the smell of eggs, bacon, and toast. But maybe he pretends to get lost to prolong interaction. Goes down one hallway too far only to loop back around. Pops his head into one of the many open rooms along the way to find a huge ass library he knows Stiles must gush over. Stops to admire a hung picture of Derek, Cora, and Malia posing together at the top of a mountain somewhere blue and peaceful. However, he rather not be known as a lurker upon first re-introduction, so he finds the kitchen eventually.

They all look like a real family sitting down at the dining table together munching away at their meals, talking in between bites to one another about this or that. Although that chatter dies the moment Jackson takes his first step into view.

It helps marginally that Danny is also sat at the table, looking dead tired but still alive enough to wince in compassion for his best friend.

Peter is the first to ‘greet’ him, extending his arms out like he’s celebrating Jackson’s arrival. An obnoxious grin on his obnoxious face. “The Return of Godzilla!”

“Peter behavior or we’ll put you in a kennel,” Lydia quips back promptly.

The smile does not leave the bastard’s face as he turns to show his teeth off to the Banshee sipping her coffee. “Dog jokes are normally reserved for your other, other half.”

“He’s bedridden, so I have to take up his duties in his stead.” She decides she’s done playing with the old man and instead focuses back on the blond still stuck in the doorway. “Get in here and eat something.”

Like he said, a very fitting couple.

“Still bossy I see.”

“Watch yourself,” she warns, “you just got back into my good graces.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He takes a seat at the end of the table next to Isaac because he’s probably the person he has the least amount of beef with in the room. Derek stands to go over to the kitchen’s cabinets and grab an extra plate to pass off to Jackson.

Despite all the fanfare of the previous night, he’s honestly not all that hungry. Yet now he feels like he’s rejecting the Pack providing them help if he doesn’t take anything, so he places a few strips of bacon on his dish. He’ll pick at it if he has to.

Conversations start back up slowly. Mostly by Lydia’s will. She loudly asks Derek to continue telling her about the possibility of the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse actually being distinct supernatural creatures. Isaac goes back to talking to the Sheriff about going to see a lacrosse game last week and seeing Coach.

Jackson relaxes bit by bit, chewing on his beacon on a distraction, when a bigger distraction comes wobbling into the room.

“Danny!” Jesse shouts in glee, throwing his arms up in the arm before he flinches at the pain in his shoulder and pouts about it. It looks like he’s some combination of sleep deprived and sloppy drunk. Cora appears right behind him and grabs the man by his good arm.

“I told you not to run down the stairs!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Danny asks. The Alpha helps chaperone the loopy adult to the chair Danny gives up so Jesse can sit without harming himself further. He examines his husband with concern but comes up empty for an answer.

“Relax,” Cora says. “Melissa just has him on some pain meds. Good ones. I was going to leave him to rest but then he started to whine that he wanted to see you, and more importantly wouldn’t let go of me. So here he is. Your problem now.”

“Sorry I’m your problem Danny,” Jesse says in that same drunkenly, sleepy tone.

With a half-hearted sigh, Danny picks up the man’s hand and places a delicate kiss on the back of it. “My problem forever, honey.”

Jesse positively beams in response.

Cora ungracefully falls into the chair still open next to her wife, most likely reserved for her return along with the plate stacked with bacon and peanut butter covered toast in front of said chair.

“Here,” the Sheriff gets up to offer his own chair to the Hawaiian man. “I have to get going to the station anyway. You kids keep each other safe. No more surgeries. We can’t pay Melissa back in enough yarn at this rate.”

The second half of the statement is aimed back at the entryway of the room and all eyes land on Stiles appearing. The father ruffles his son’s hair in passing and the man is gone leaving only Stiles standing there with a smile.

Jackson immediately scrambles up from his chair. “You shouldn’t be walking!”

Walk it off does not apply to gunshot wounds.

“Relax, I’m only mostly-human.” Stiles waves him off as he waddles his way to the table. The Hybrid is about to get up and help him - e.i. Pick him up and bring him back to bed - when the injured party flops down on the little room available on Lydia’s chair, mostly ending up on her lap.

She grunts and shifts over more so that his ass has more room, but says nothing in protest to the egregious invasion of personal space. She doesn’t even bat a single perfect eyelash when he picks up a piece of egg from her plate with his fingers and pops it in his mouth.

“I told you to do your research,” Lydia finally comments, but it’s towards Jackson openly gaping at the entire interaction. “You’ve been thoroughly warned.”

“Is Whittemore going to have to fight Lydia for Stilinski’s hand?” Isaac asks with an amused grin. “Because I’d pay to see that.”

“I’d pay to see him in nothing,” Jesse whispers under his breath. Melissa must have him on some hard shit because he didn’t whisper it low enough even for the humans in the room to miss.

Danny doesn’t smell the least bit mad. Just ocean-wave amusement and some sea salty arousal. Repulsive. The human leans over to Jesse, whispering back in the same non-whispered voice, “me too.”

Lahey is redder than a radish. Jackson holds his breath so he doesn’t have to find out what the other curly-haired Beta smells like.

Stiles reaches out to grab at Lydia’s coffee cup next, but her perfectly manicured hand smacks his away from her drink.

“Get your own coffee.”

Interesting that she draws the line at sharing caffeine but not space.

Especially interesting since Stiles smoothly shrugs in response and moves his arm to wrap around the back of the shared chair and the attacked hand then rests where his thumb rubs circles into Cora’s clothed shoulder.

He must stare a hair too long because Cora pinpoints on him for a second time this morning. He can’t really blame her. A pregnant Alpha letting a not-quite Wolf outsider into her Pack Home must not be very easy. Being the outsider not-quite Wolf in a Pack Home isn’t easy either.

“She and I fuck, she and him are best friends with emotional benefits, he and I are friends.” The she-Wolf bares some teeth. “It’s not as hard as everyone seems to think it is. Boundaries have been set on every side possible and established for years now, and we’re happy. Happy enough to have Stilinski be our selected sperm donor. Our child will know who and where he,” Lydia mumbles ‘she’ under her breath better than Jesse did but still no one acknowledges it, “comes from. Lydia and I will be the parents but at least the bio father will still be part of their life, and love them like we want them to be. We’re a weird family, but it works for us, so either get used to it or get out.” Cora growls loudly at the end and all the Betas present stiffen.

Stiles’ thumb stops the circle motion and digs into the Alpha’s shoulder. It definitely won’t hurt her, but it will get her attention. As will Lydia leaning over to link their arms together and be sure to whisk her fingers up and down her wife’s inner arm. With a necessarily hard sigh, Cora picks up and takes a sip of Lydia’s coffee. The redhead crinkles her nose cutely at the lost battle, but she doesn’t protest.

The Alpha rumbles in appeasement and apology. The Betas unstiffen and it’s been a shitshow of a morning but what else would the first morning being back in Beacon Hills look like? He remembers his therapist once telling him that growing pains happen in every aspect of the self. Maybe the past too.

Jackson assumes from Cora’s tirade that they get this type of reaction a lot. He feels kind of shitty for making them feel like spectacles in their own home.

From the way everyone starts shifting, it’s obvious that everyone is done with breakfast but then unfortunately this scene is not done playing itself out yet because a smarmy bastard needs his kicks.

“You could even say,” Peter says from his side of the kitchen. Preemptively Derek curses, putting his head down on the table in defeat. Cora sighs lightly with an eye-roll, but that’s the most anyone else objects. “We’re a tad creepy and . . . kooky.”

“Mysterious and spooky,” the sheriff adds on with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“All together we’re a little ooky.” The little finger wave Isaac does at the end of phrase is the gayest thing Jackson has ever seen and maybe Danny and Jesse have hope yet.

Then in perfect sync, every single one of the Hale Pack - including Derek who doesn’t even bother to lift up his head to participate - snaps twice to the beat of the Addams Family.

“Babe,” Jesse tugs at Danny’s oversized, borrowed shirt. “Did we join a cult?”

“Probably.”

He tries not to.

He tries not to for this exact reason.

But Jackson ends up following Stiles around for most of the day.

It’s a combination of the man still being hurt and Stiles being (however ridiculously) a safe person to him in this new territory.

So it’s expected when Isaac looks at him funny when entering the kitchen right behind Stiles even though the mostly-human just wanted to get himself another drink of water. He wouldn’t let Jackson do it for him - i.e. wouldn’t let Jackson steal his glass without so much as actually offering to refill it - so he went with him.

“I can’t tell if you’re the baby duck who can’t go without the mother or the mother hen hovering over the chick.”

People think Isaac is all sweet with those big eyes and tragic backstory. Lies. All of it.

Stiles snorts at the comment and Jackson growls a little but even he’s not sure which one of them he’s growling at. Both is fine though.

“In spite of all the lizard and canine DNA in him, Jackson is most like a cat,” Stiles replies instead, unphased as he pours himself more water. “Usually an asshole, but occasionally affectionate so long as you show the affection by his terms.”

“Funny,” the Sheriff comments without looking up from his newspaper at the dining table. “Stiles was always more of a cat person. Would bring home strays constantly and secretly keep them in his room for weeks at a time until I started sneezing again and figured out his operation.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow and grows a smirk. Peter, for his part, remains neutral faced as he carefully watches the events play out from his spot next to the sink where he is very clearly not washing any dishes like Derek told him to an hour ago.

Stiles goes pink in the cheeks and ears and neck and Jackson wants to see how far it goes down.

“I want to kiss you.”

The moment a still pink Stiles tenses next to him, Jackson regrets the confession. He’s planning his escape in his head, thinking about taking that hotwired car they dragged into the backyard so local police wouldn’t find it just sitting out from, but then the other man turns and points a finger in his face. “Do not lose that idea. Don’t you dare lose that wonderful, beautiful idea.”

“Lydia!” Stiles shouts as he sprints out of the kitchen. Jackson doesn’t even have the chance to yell at him to stop running while hurt.

The sound of every single one of his footsteps can be heard hit the ground as he makes his way up to the second floor. The grin on the Sheriff’s face along with the little huffed laugh matches his amusedly satisfied pine scent. Peter and Isaac both also look amused but more like they’re watching a show play out right in front of them.

An audible Clunk of a noise is heard upstairs where Lydia and Cora’s room is. “Lydia, let me have your ex-boyfriend!”

“We already discussed this,” the Banshee’s more muffled voice can be distinguished in the same area. “He’s all yours.”

“Alpha!”

Clunk.

“Oh my god, you can keep the lizard, just let me eat my wife out in peace!”

“I’m taking that as consent!”

More stomping up and down the stairs occurs before Stiles comes barreling back through the kitchen doorway without either of the slippers he had previously been wearing.

“Okay!” Stiles shouts as he reappears, racing in with only socked feet. The mismatched gray socks offer him no traction on the wooden floor as he rushes in recklessly and he’s lucky that Jackson is so gone on him already because if the blond didn’t reach out and act as a barricade, the brunette would have brained himself on the counter like a graceless idiot. Continuing his graceless idiot streak, he doesn’t even acknowledge Jackson’s heroic actions. Instead, he clutches at the arms the supernatural crossbreed has around him and looks up with this breathlessly joyful expression. “Okay,” he repeats, “I’m ready for kissing now.”

How is he attracted to this moron? Why does he want to kiss him even more? Something must be wrong with him. Other than the abandonment issues. And the Kanima issues.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Noooo,” Stiles loudly whines. He clings into Jackson tighter, like a kid not getting his way, and pulls them closer together. It’s a very concerted effort for the Wolf not to purr at the contact. “Stiles wants kisses.”

From the corner of the kitchen that had remained silent, although judgmental, Peter takes a step forward. “Well, if you’re really that desperate - ”

Stiles’ hands move from Jackson’s arms to his shoulders and he pulls himself up on the Hybrid even further, as though he is trying to climb up him. “Away foul beast!” he shouts over his shoulder at the older Wolf.

Jackson takes that moment to brush his lips at the top of Stiles’ hairline. Again, the other man tenses then suddenly relaxes and goes warm in his arms. Turning back so that they face each other again, Stiles looks up at him with those stupidly brown eyes and how is Jackson not supposed to want to kiss those lips?

He does.

And Stiles does back.

And it’s really, really fucking nice.

Nice enough that they can ignore Isaac’s wolf-whistle and Peter’s applause.

“Jackson.”

“Sheriff.”

God hates him. She really, really hates him.

Cora and Stiles are resting in the living room together, both having fallen asleep while watching the Price is Right since there’s nothing else to watch on cable on a Wednesday afternoon.

It’s been a learning curve, but Jackson’s figured out pretty quickly that the mostly-human is truly intertwined with the Pack Alpha and Alpha Mate. Watching how closely Lydia and Stiles interact - the little touches they share, the way they just confirmed all the things he’s been warned about; but seeing Cora and Stiles together shows how Stiles is the unofficial third presence in the relationship. If this wasn’t a Pack house, providing shelter for all members, Jackson has no doubt that Stiles would still be living with the wives.

Jackson’s been hiding in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone reading emails he’s been meaning to get back to even before the Olivia fiasco. It was a matter of time before someone else walked in on him, but he’s wholly unprepared for it to be Stiles’ father.

“It’s been a while,” the man says, as he opens up the refrigerator for himself. What a goddamn understatement. “How’re your parents doing?”

Shit if he knows.

“They’re fine,” Jackson answers best to his knowledge. It’s been a couple months since the last time his dad called to ask how work was going. “My mom wishes I’d move closer to home, but that must be a mom thing.”

The sheriff chuckles at that. “It might be,” he replies as he reaches into the fridge and pulls out some lettuce, mayo, and deli meat before placing them all down on the counter beside the Wolf. “Lord knows I was the opposite for a long while. I begged Stiles to move away and go find life out there away from this place.”

A reasonable wish of a concerned father. Especially one who had to see the bloody brunt of many Werewolf misadventures.

“Never does listen, does he?” Jackson comments.

“Wouldn’t be him if he did.”

They both go quiet as John puts together a sandwich for himself and Jackson fidgets with his phone.

“So what are your intentions with my son?”

He almost drops his phone.

Stiles and Jackson are both grown, adult men. Twenty-eight years of life, they shouldn’t be scrutinized to the same standards they were as rebellious, troublesome teens. But like a virgin high schooler, Jackson still has a pit in his stomach when confronted with this question.

“Calm down,” the father states good-naturedly but that’s easy for him to say. “I can’t exactly forbid either of you from doing whatever it is you’re doing.” Jackson thinks the man underestimates how high Stiles holds his opinion. “I’m just curious about whatever it is you are doing.”

“I’m not entirely sure either, sir.”

“Hmm.”

Judgment has never felt so palpable.

“Stiles is loved no matter your involvement in his life.” Fucking ouch. Jackson shifts to his weight so that he’s leaned away from the man a bit more. He doesn’t know what good distance will do him from words, but his lizard brain is licking some wounds right now.

Perceptive like his son, or more likely the other way around, John places a hand on Jackson’s elbow. “But he seems to like you in it,” he comments with a genuine voice and steady heartbeat. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned to do in all these years, it’s to trust my son’s judgment. So maybe stick around for a bit longer. Let the rest of us like having you too.”

They both sit with that as the older man finishes up his sandwich. He thinks he should comment on how that’s more layers of ham than Stiles would be happy with the Sheriff piling on, but he decides that he needs more brownie points so keeps his mouth shut.

“You like baseball?”

Absolutely not. “Of course.”

“Good,” John claps him on the shoulder as he wanders out of the kitchen and towards the den. “Mets play in thirty minutes. Grab a beer and join me in waking up Stiles. He’ll be a drama queen about losing out on some beauty sleep, but he’ll be a hellion if we let him miss the game.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Jackson states under no uncertain terms.

“Well, what can I say? The American education system implanted a lot of those in me,” Stiles argues’ back. Annoying little shit. “Jax, how many times do we have to go over this? Lone wolves - ”

“Oh my god! Will you stop that, I get it! But calling up the guy who hired the bitch that just tried to tar and feather us doesn’t seem like the back-up we need or want at this moment.”

It’s been three days since their impromptu evasion of the law following their subsequent asylum in Beacon Hills and now Stiles wants to phone-in-a-foe for help. And what better time than at seven in the morning. Jackson wants to crawl back into bed. Though maybe not the guest one he’s been staying in down the hall from Stiles’.

But here they are having a tactical war meeting out in the hallway to the nearest bathroom. Stiles and Jackson lean on one of the corridor’s walls, toothbrushes and toothpaste in hand since Stiles now also uses the Hybrid’s cinnamon flavored one, with Derek and Cora mirroring their position on the other side. The Hale’s have their teeth cleaned already and now the other duo wait for Danny and Jesse to finish up their turn. The bathroom door stays open during this bizarre process since half of them have to superhearingly listen to each other spit up into the sink either way and at this point they’ve all seen worse body fluids come out one another.

“Jackson’s right,” Derek agrees. “We don’t know who may or may not be part of this anymore. It’s better to play things safe.”

“This is the FBI, how safe can we play it from them?” Danny counters after spitting out his paste-mush.

“Listen,” Stiles cuts back in before they can dig themselves deeper into that particular hole. “Adam is a cranky grandpa who doesn’t know the definition of retirement, but I know that he is good people. I’m not saying he’s going to believe me without a lick of evidence, but he’s going to make his best calls with all the info he has. Past and present. Patterns matter.

“But he can’t make those best calls with only Olivia’s side of the story. I need to reach him and explain ours.” Stiles waves at Jackson to his left and Danny with Jesse coming out of the bathroom. Neither Jackson or Stiles makes a move to enter after just yet. They can deal with morning breath for the rest of this conversation. “It helps that we have you three here to vouch.”

“Or be misrepresented as a hostage situation,” Peter shouts from two rooms away. Not caring enough to be present but also still just the right amount of petty to critique them.

“Hush you!” Stiles shouts back before getting back to topic. “Guys, I know Adam. You’ve got to trust me on this.”

“Past experiences say listen to Stiles,” Cora declares. “No matter how much I also think this is a bad idea.”

“Thank you!” Stiles gestures full bodily towards her.

His celebration is cut short when she glares back at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you conveniently brought up this conversation without Lydia or your dad around, the only two people able to knock some sense into you. Which means you think they’re going to find this is a bad idea too.”

“Go back to agreeing with me.”

“We’re doing this,” she reassures, “but with precautions.” It’s easy to see her take her Alpha role over like this. It makes Jackson want to show his neck. Instead, for now, he just leans closer to Stiles. “We need a burner phone and Danny . . . doing something to help techy to keep them from knowing our location.”

Said tech man snorts at the vagueness but nods. “I can jam the satellite signal statewide. The FBI won’t be happy about that, but depending on how this goes that might not matter.”

“Wouldn’t they know you’re here anyway though?” Jesse points out.

“Probably,” Stiles concedes. “But if it goes south we’ll need that cover to hightail it anyway. Better to have it prepped now.”

“This is going to end terribly,” Derek grumbles as he’s the first one to break away from their meeting and head back down the hall.

“Ever the optimist, Sourwolf!” Stiles calls back to the retreating Wolf. Then he spins on his heels and pushes Jackson into the bathroom. “Come on, I have to freshen up before we go to war.”

“I thought your point was that Adam would save us from war.”

“Hush your pretty face and hand me the toothpaste.”

One hour later, in clean (still borrowed) clothes and clean bodies, they meet in the library all together again. Jackson isn’t sure where Stiles got a burner phone so fast and really isn’t sure if he should ask. Danny is logged into Peter’s laptop and ready to go, a feat allowed by Cora’s and Stiles’ insistence that the older Wolf hand it over for use since he’s by far the most tech savvy in the house therefore having most of what Danny needs.

Cora gives the signal and Danny starts up whatever he’s using to deflect their signal. They wait five minutes to make sure it's working and stays working. Danny gives the next approval to move forward.

Stiles dials the number.

It picks up on the second ring.

“Adam?” Stiles asks.

“I was wondering how long it was gonna take you to reach out. I’m assuming you’re at the Hale residence?”

“Surprised you wouldn’t have a field operative or five here to answer that question for you.”

“I would,” Adam replies back. He doesn’t sound as tense as the rest of the room feels, but that could be Jackson’s imagination. “If I weren’t sure you have all targets alive and under your care. You do have all targets alive, correct?”

There’s an exchange of glances between everyone at the wording. There’s an unspoken question of whether Jackson, Danny, or Jesse should speak up to prove their safety, but the question of loyalty is now in play. So instead Stiles answers, “Yeah, but - ”

“No game of he said, she said. I’m too old for that playground business. We had a stroke of luck as it turns out that Anthony wasn’t as dead as Olivia thought him to be when we searched the garage.” Nothing is said aloud, but the sudden rush of relief that fills Danny, Jesse, and especially Stiles is apparent. “Kept that to myself, of course, until our vampire friend recovered enough to give his version of the story. One that lines up much more cleanly than the one she spun to us. Don’t know how, but she knew she got made and hasn’t been answering her calls and no longer lives in apartment number 2B on fifth street.”

“So are we safe now?” Jesse is finally the one to speak up.

Adam, to his credit, seems to know who the new voice in the conversation belongs to. “Yes, you boys are safe now. Time to go back to regular citizenship. Unfortunately we can’t put your site back up because we fear a resurgence of hunters with the same cause. We’re unsure when it could be launched again, truthfully.”

“That’s okay,” Danny replied, probably already resigned to that fact.

“No warrant out for my arrest, then?”

“Not this time. I need you all to come back to the HQ as soon as possible, we have a few last-minute things to settle and some documents to finish. But for all intents and purposes, the mission is over. Congrats boys, you survived.”

They have to wait for Stiles to get a bit more strength back before he’s able to do another transport spell, since that’s their method of travel back to. Jackson wasn’t overly fond of air travel even before getting bit, being trapped in a tin can thousands of feet from the ground, so he’s okay with a little delay.

And maybe he’s okay with getting caught up in the dynamics of the Hale Pack too, but who’s to say?

Along the way he learns that Malia is part of the pack too, but she’s off exploring the world past the Preserve for herself before she’s ready to call this place home again. Jackson gets that a little too well. There’s also a guy named Jordan who can light himself on fire - Jackson fails to understand the usefulness of that but whatever - who like Melissa is Pack Adjacent and stops by with John for a while. Chris Argent is of a similar but less pressing status. He sends postcards and life-updates and visits for a Christmas or five with a lady friend.

Peter is currently ranting on about some misadventure of his own that resulted in one of his many bans to public spaces and it has Lydia and Stiles sharing weirdly synced eyerolls. It’s difficult to even tell Lydia is paying attention from how her eyes never leave the book in her hands, but the little disbelieving huffs she makes and the mentioned eyerolls. Stiles and Derek are playing chess on the couch, using a cushion between them to lay the board, and Jesse is passed out on the other side of the mostly-human leaning against Danny’s shoulder for a pillow. Jesse’s shoulder is healing well although obviously not as fast as Stiles’ wound, so Mel has been giving him less loopy painkillers. This just makes him more sleepy than drunk-ish, which is much more manageable of the two options. Isaac is cramped into the room left on the other end of the furniture. He doesn’t seem to mind all that much with how Danny is pushed up right against his side.

Jackson is sitting on the floor in front of Danny, his friend’s knees bumping up on either side of his shoulders, as he texts coworkers and a boss about the non-progress he’s made in the past few days.

He’s promising to be back in the office by the start of next month when the entire mellow afternoon shifts.

Danny yanks Jackson by the back of the collar in the same way you would to a misbehaving dog and if it weren’t for the shock of it all he’d have fought harder against it rather than rise with it to a standing position. “I want coffee, so we’re getting coffee,” the human announces to both Jackson and the room at large. He takes a moment to lean his still slumbering spouse against Isaac who once again seems more than okay with the contact of having the new man asleep in his lap.

“We are?” Jackson questions.

“Yes,” Danny bites. “We are.”

Alright, they're getting coffee.

“Take the Camaro,” Derek enters the conversation. He’s still staring intently at the chessboard that has far less of his white pieces on it than Stiles’ black. “It’s noticeable and identifiable around town so it’s less likely someone will do something unprovoked. Better safe than sorry. Keys are by the door.”

Jackson’s about to point out that the bowl by the door is filled with various keys, but Danny swoops in, takes him by the arm and snatches the keychain with a plastic angry emoji hanging on it before leading them out the door.

The Werewolf is once more shafted to the passenger seat and he’s starting to wonder if he’s ever going to drive again, but he’s also not about to argue with an annoyed Danny Māhealani. Not right now.

Almost surprisingly, they actually do go get coffee. Danny orders for them both since he’s making all the decisions right now. He order’s Jackson’s actual favorite drink rather than the normal one he gets himself: a macchiato with two pumps of mocha and two pumps of caramel and oat milk versus an americano. He gets himself a chai latte.

They make small talk while in the café, but nothing meaningful. Comments about the new stores in town and the old stores still in business. How the hell the high school is still up and in one piece.

They get their drinks then continuing with their new trend, Danny walks right past the Camaro in the parking lot and guides them to the park down the block and across the street. Jackson was never brought to any parks all that often as a kid, and definitely not this one. He has no idea about Danny’s connection or lack thereof to it but they circle around the area as they sip their sugary bean water in silence.

Away from the screaming children playing tag, throwing sand at each other, and overall being nuisances in their own little worlds, the pair find an empty bench to sit at in the far distance.

“Alright,” Danny finally lets the tension he’s been building break. “Spit it out.”

“Me? You’re the one who wanted to do all this shit, dragging me around by a leash. Cock-teasing me with whatever you’re pissed off at.”

“I’m pissed off that you can’t just let good things happen, Jackson!”

“What the fuck are - ”

“You’re really just going to go back to D.C. and act like none of this happened?”

“Of course not!” Jackson yells. It’s hard to forget the twenty-six dead people. Despite everything that’s occurred from start to finish from this fiasco, that number is ingrained in him now.

“The terrible parts!” Danny yells back. “You are going to latch yourself onto every single terrible part of what has happened during this and toss away all the better parts. You’re going to toss away Stiles and the Hales because that’s what you do!”

That’s when Jackson realizes what prompted this. The last message he sent to his boss over text was a promise to be back in the office by the start of the month. Danny must have seen it from his spot behind the blond at the time.

In a time-out, they both turn to watch the kids in totally non-creepy ways. Jackson watches as two little boys help push a third one on the swing before he jumps off and they rotate. He can’t imagine a time he was that naively innocent.

“Do you ever feel not good?”

It’s not as hard to describe as he’s making it seem, but the words feel not real. Jackson isn’t good. It’s one of the things he’s sure about in life. He latches onto the terrible because he himself is just the sum of every terrible thing that has happened to him. The mess of all the worst things. There’s hardly anything pretty to look at past the surface.

“I knew something was happening with you and I never said anything.”

Jackson blinks twice, processing this non-answer, before turning to look at his friend again. “What?”

“In high school, I knew something was happening,” the man repeats, still not looking at the Werewolf. “I was inadvertently part of that something during the whole bar incident. I knew you were there that night rubbing yourself all over Erica and Isaac, but you never came to the hospital to see me. I got a little bitter at that so I just never checked up on you either.”

There was a lot going on at that time. A lot. But even after all this time it never occurred to him that Danny probably needed him at that time too. The same way Lydia was getting dragged into all the supernatural shit, Danny was too just with much less context.

“It was a two-way street,” Jackson says. He should have been their first; he doesn’t fault Danny for high school pettiness. Lord knows they have done worse to each other.

This seems to upset the man further as he turns again to stare Jackson in the eye for the rest of this conversation.

“Yeah, but I don’t have PTSD and immeasurable guilt about not being able to move my body for an hour. I have guilt that I knew something was wrong with you and never said anything about it. I doubt me saying anything would have changed anything, but I just . . . I wish I had been there for you.

“I’m the bystander, Jackson. I figured out Werewolves and magic people and a lot else wrong with our town, and my response was to run. Go live with my grandma in Kauai for senior year. Find shelter somewhere else. I didn’t want to play hero.”

In this moment the reason why Danny was so passionate to make SuperLink in the first place becomes most clear.

“The days I feel bad are the days I remember I’m someone who looks out only for myself.”

“Danny you can’t - ”

“I can, actually,” the human interrupts. “And I will. But I can also be good. Some days I don’t know whether I hate the world or myself more, but I haven’t let that be all my days. I limit my time for pity partying and remind myself that if I draw the line there, then I will forever be not good.” “Dude, I love you. You know, I do. But I’m tired of seeing you act like you are the pinnacle of evil in this world. It’s starting to get insulting actually, since you are my best friend. I just want you to put the fucking partyhats away and cross your goddamn line already.”

The next morning they . . . well they don’t have anything to pack-up but they get ready to leave.

“Bet you guys can’t wait to get back to your old lives, huh?” Peter asks.

They’re circled around the Hale’s backyard as the mostly-human finishes up the travel ruin that got them in California in the first place. This time without a bullet in the gut to distract him, Stiles swears they’ll land right at HQ.

Jackson and Danny exchange a look at the question, and it’s obvious they have similar opinions on the answer.

Jackson has stopped counting how many times he wanted to get back to a time no longer present in his life. He knows that there is no getting back to the old life. Any of them. He just has to figure out what this rendition of his life looks like now.

“This is insanely cool,” Jesse comments instead. He’s been avidly watching Stiles make his powder star for the past thirty minutes. Isaac’s slightly pouting in the background about it. Poor puppy.

“Thanks,” the mostly-human dusts off his hands and rises to his feet. “Maybe I could teach you some time. Most magic is easy when you have the right tools and ingredients.”

Something lights up in Jesse’s eyes but Danny butts in and loops his arm around his supernatural-newbie husband. “Let’s get you fully healed first before you go prancing into the occult.” There’s a whine and a smack of a kiss that Jackson pointedly doesn’t pay attention to after that.

Instead he glances at Stiles who’s looking back at him with a bittersweet smile. “Ready to go?”

That answer is a longer conversation than Jackson wants to have in front of the entire Hale Pack, so he replies by unsheathing his claws and extending them out for Stiles’ use. There’s no real hesitation on Stiles’ behalf to nick his arm against the presented weapon of choice.

The magic-user holds out his arm to let the blood drip into the center of the powder star.

Derek nods at them like the silent macho man he acts like and says, “Come back any time.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” John calls.

“Ghost me again and I bury you,” Lydia says. Wonder who that’s meant for. “Alive. Until not.”

Peter says nothing, thank God.

There’s a way in which Cora fixates him one last time even among the flare and pandemonium that feels deliberate in a different way than before. “There’s always space here.”

The last thing Jackson hears this time before the light engulfs them is Isaac shouting, “CALL ME!”

Wonder who that’s meant for.

The spell works perfectly this time.

A little too perfectly since they all four come crashing into Adam’s office out of thin air. They’re just lucky that the man himself was out in a different meeting at the time during arrival. Here’s to hoping he doesn’t mind having to buy a new desk.

Several things happen at once when they walk out into the bureau. Namely that they all get carted away from each other so varying Agents can question them separately and make sure that they really do have their story straight and that Olivia is the right catch. Yet again, most of his day is wasted staring at these walls. He just hopes this is one of the last days.

By the time the sky is darkened, another Agent comes to collect him from his allotted room. This Agent is much more familiar.

“Sup, Wolf.”

“I forgot you’re still alive,” Jackson comments. “Guess it’s harder to kill the undead than Ollie thought huh?”

Tony grins back. “Stiles has always picked up the slack in the research department.”

No surprise there.

The Vampire nods to the exit. “Come on, boss wants to see ya and then you’re free to go.”

“Really?” Jackson asks even though he’s already on his feet and ready to go.

“Well, for tonight. We’ll probably still monitor you for a while and have you sign all sorts of shit, but yeah. For the most part freedom. Enjoy it.”

The taller man brings him back to the office the quartet of them broke in from. Through the glass window he can see Adam sat in his chair, no longer positioned behind the split desk, as he scribbles faster than Jackson thinks is legible. Danny and Jesse are standing around awkwardly, assumedly waiting for him.

Which reminds him, he should probably say something just in case this is his last chance to.

“Thank you for keeping Danny and Jesse safe.”

“It’s my job,” Tony replies with a shrug. “Plus they seem like good people. So you take care of them now.” He pauses to hit his knuckles on the Wolf’s bicep. “All of them.”

When he reflects back on this moment later, he’s not sure why this was his turning point but it was.

There’s a passing second where they stare in quiet agreement about something unsaid and take that moment to shake each other’s hand. After that Tony grins lazily and Jackson feels a little lighter and they go their separate ways for now.

Jackson enters the room and takes his spot next to Danny. Unbelievably they wait another full minute before Adam looks up from his papers. It must be payback for the desk.

“Mr. Whittemore, Mr. and Mr. Māhealani, I once again offer my thanks for your full cooperation. At this time we believe all active threats have been detained or located, so we think it would be in your best interest to return to your lives as they should be. I am sorry for all distress this has caused you and your families, and we are willing to help in any way we can. Just contact Agent - ”

“So that’s it? This bitch has been trying to kill us for the past two and a half months and now we’re just to sit on our fucking thumbs while you arrest your own people?”

She tried to kill them.

She tried to kill Danny.

She shot Stiles.

And now Jackson is just supposed to go back to his life like none of this happened?

“Sorry, but I have to agree.” Danny crosses his arms over his chest as he stands a little taller. “Our lives get uprooted and now we’re expected to be tossed back into normal life?”

The noise of the office life beyond the room fills in the gap of space as they all just sit around staring at each other. Adam leans back in his chair and for the first time since the trio stepped foot in this building months ago, he looks at them like he’s actually paying attention to them for once.

“This unit was proposed by an Agent McCall a decade ago,” he starts to explain. No one asked for this lore drop, but the friends are listening. “The super-natural society was already in our awareness with cases handled discreetly by a select few people. Mostly myself and eight other Agents. A whiff of supernatural in any case, they were sent to one of us. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. We developed this special force unit because of McCall’s persistence.

“From my understanding, you two know the history between McCall and Stiles?” The burning hatred? Yes, they know of it. “That’s what I thought,” Adam confirms despite how no one answered him. “There aren’t many things those two see eye to eye about. Except that people, no matter how they were born or made, shouldn’t have to fight to exist. We are here to ensure you don’t have to. Both those men fought and do fight for that. You don’t have to.

“Go home. Live your lives. Keep your peace.”

Jackson goes home.

Leaning against his Porsche, he’s been attempting to talk himself into thinking this is a good idea. He’s ashamed to look at how long this self dialogue has taken.

He stands in front of the Whittemore estate. It has new shutters, pearl white instead of eggshell white, but there’s nothing else new about it. The one different detail causes him a complex pause as he takes in the house’s new look.

His freak-out apparently does take too long because it ends (and worsens) when the front door opens.

Mrs. Whittemore. Mom. His adoptive mother. Formerly known as Cynthia Port, born to Diana and Robert Port - two of the most bitter old, rich farts Jackson had ever met. Diana used to look at him like he was some changeling who slipped into her picture perfect family. Sometimes he wonders how bad it would have been if he were anything but white. Wonders what amount of ridicule would have been his parent’s line before deciding that it wasn’t crocodile tears he was shedding in protest in having to visit Mama and Pop for Easter.

But Cynthia looks older now. Not bad, but she’s more rounded at her edges. Weirdly she looks more like a mom now than he has ever seen her.

“Jackson?” She sounds more hopeful than confused. That kind of hurts.

“Hey,” he greets back. “I was in town and thought I’d stop by.”

He hasn’t been back to Beacon Hills in five years, so the excuse of being in the neighborhood shouldn’t be buyable, but she doesn’t seem to care what he’s selling. She leaves the front door open and strides down their walkway straight to him. She’s wearing a nice (pearl) white pants suit and some pearl jewelry, looking like she was on her way to somewhere.

“I can come back some other - ”

“Nonsense, come in. Have you eaten? I haven’t gone shopping recently, but we have some leftovers from that old Chinese place you used to love. They’re thankfully still in business even after your departure. They ask about you sometimes.”

She takes him by the arm to lead him inside, her grip a little tighter than necessary, but he follows nonetheless. The inside is a little newer than the outside. A new coat of paint on the walls making the old pale blue from memory look lacking in contrast to the brighter, fresher version layered on top of it. The L-shaped couch in their living room is similar to their last one. The one that’s probably older than him, but it’s also newer and less worn down.

They go to the kitchen and he readily takes a seat at the table. It’s the same one he ate at every night for dinner, whether that be with company or by himself since he wasn’t allowed to have food in his room growing up, just more shiny with wax.

He feels out of place in this new familiar environment.

He scents the air and finds that it's mostly the same. His mother’s cardamom and his father’s smoky aromas mixed with a heavy dosage of perfume and aftershaves on all ends. Picking up on another old scent he didn’t expect still to be around, he asks about its presence.

“Lydia’s been here?”

Mrs. Whittemore looks startled by the question but then seems to understand. “Oh, yes, I forget you can do that now.” Next she looks a little guilty. “And, yes she was here a week or so ago. She comes over for coffee every month or so, usually along with her wife and her . . .” She stumbles on what Jackson presumes to be the married couple’s elected third wheel.

“Stiles,” Jackson finishes for her.

“Yes,” she confirms with a shrug. “They are all such an odd unit. But I am happy for her.”

There’s more quiet between them and she busies herself with grabbing those leftovers and nuking them in the toaster oven.

“How have you been?”

She puts on one of her gala ready smiles as she answers, “Oh, we’re fine. Both your father and I are dwindling down our hours away from home and counting days until retirement at this point. We’re both a little bored, truth be told. We miss having you around. I was wondering if you gave any more thought to my proposal of us visiting you for a week? Though, if you’re visiting us now I suppose you don’t want to plan out more time . . .”

“How are you dear? I haven’t heard anything from you in a couple of months. Is the firm still okay? How’s D.C. weather treating you?”

This entire thing is winding them up tight with tension and Jackson just sits in it for a bit. He’s never noticed that she picks at her cuticles. He wonders if that’s new too. Or if they’re just paying each other enough attention for once.

This isn’t the right time to ask. He doesn’t know when the right time is but his first time returning home in ages - when he should be asking how are you, what’ve you been up to instead - isn’t when. “Why did my bio parents give me up?”

Her eyes widen and pupils dilate at the question but for some reason doesn’t startle her as badly as the Lydia one. Almost like she was prepared for this one.

“I don’t know,” she says with no blip in her heart. “It was a closed adoption. And truthfully? We didn’t think it was that important at the time. We were just so excited to have our baby home with us at last. If I had thought about it more, if I had planned for your feelings better, if I had planned beyond my own joy at all, maybe I would have looked harder. I’m sorry that I didn’t. That we didn’t.”

“I’ve never been good at apologizing.” She places the plate down in front of her son and pulls the chair next to him out for herself. There’s a cut below her right knuckle. That’s definitely new. He wants to ask about it. It’s not deep or painful looking, but it’s something that mars her. He wants to hear the story. “My therapist is still trying to help me understand if that’s a Whittemore quality or a rich person one. But I know that I owe you one. For many things. I don’t think your father and I were ready to be parents and that is the hardest thing I have had to come to terms with. I don’t think we loved you in the way you needed. I’m sorry. We chose you - ”

“You chose a baby,” Jackson corrects. Because they might have chosen any blond haired, blue eyed kid that was being passed up. “Don’t make it sound like you know anything about me. You chose something without a personality or agency or a say in what was happening.”

“We loved the ideal,” she agrees. “But then you started filling out different shapes. And you would keep doing it. Kept molding yourself to what we asked. It’s the way we loved you most and that wasn’t fair. Until when we asked for you and you pulled away.

“Then you went off and became someone. You did that sweetheart, and I’m proud of you for everything you have accomplished for yourself. I’m sorry we impeded on that journey so much. Your father and I never got to meet that someone. My selfish wish is . . . I would be nothing but grateful to have a second chance to love the person you ended up being.” She reaches across the table but hesitates to touch him, if she’s allowed to fully, so instead her fingertips graze lightly across her son’s cheek. “I wish you’d let people choose to love you.”

His dad comes home to find his mom and him cuddled up on the floor in front of the couch in the living room. They sit cross-legged together as they look through old photo albums placed on the carpeted floor, still crying on and off together.

Not a single person looks surprised when Jackson shows back up at the Hale House. He’s not surprised that Danny and Jesse are already there, sharing a cup of coffee with Isaac and Derek in the kitchen with the curly haired blond sitting much closer to the couple than when they first started out.

He finds a slot for himself in the library, where both Alpha and Alpha Mate are. Cora has the largest, coziest recliner resting in front of the low burning fire and she only opens her eyes long enough to nod at Jackson as he enters. Lydia is further away, standing at one of the room’s many shelves with an open book in her hand. She gives no form of greeting like her wife, but closes her book and brings it over to the large oak table right in the middle of the room. He follows her to the table and sits opposite of his ex.

“So,” she starts. One manicured hand reaches across the way and stops to sit on top of his own nervously clenched fist. “Tell me everything.”

He does.

Then she does.

By the end there is still so much left to tell each other still, but it’s enough for today. He didn’t realize that he had this burning, missing thing inside of himself, forgetting what it was like to have Lydia in his life. They stop for tonight, after hours of going back and forth, to make their way back to the kitchen where Isaac called for dinner, Cora making him play the role of her crutch as she waddles down the houses’ hallways but Jackson thinks it’s her way of scenting him without the pressure of asking.

John serves him a hearty portion of meatloaf and Isaac passes him the mashed potatoes that he passes on to Jesse. Derek talks about this new online class about mythological literature he’s helping run, Peter talks about his latest trip to . . . somewhere beachy apparently, John talks about retirement and how he’s not done yet but the horizon is in sight. Isaac talks repeated about the new news of Chris who is still overseas just proposed to his girlfriend - the curly-haired man seemingly brimming with pride for the older man, only for Jesse and Danny to exchange ‘isn’t-he-cute’ glances at each other - which prompts Derek and Lydia to immediately start a side conversation about how they are going to plan and pay for the entire event no matter how big or small.

They give him one of the guest bedrooms that night even though partially everyone says that Stiles wouldn’t mind it if he slept in his room. He’s not making that step without Stiles here, though, so he falls asleep content enough with hearing other heartbeats and soft chatter surrounding him.

It’s five in the morning when the commotion wakes Jackson from his soundful sleep. Heavy footsteps on the hardwood, bounding their way to the front of the house. He opens the guest bedroom door and sticks his head out to see the tail-end of John disappear down one of the many corridors, the man close behind whoever was running.

Deciding to see what the fuss is, Jackson follows. Less dramatically and while rubbing the sleep out of his eye, but he follows.

Like a reenactment of one week ago, the majority of the Hale Pack are standing out in the dewy yard surrounding a car.

Stiles is home.

Lydia has him clutched tight to her and the other man clutches right back. Once they both finally let go of each other Stiles pulls Cora in next, giving her the chance to scent his neck first before they do a side hug where he plants a kiss on the Alpha’s temple. As he’s still connected by the hip to her, the mostly-human spots Jackson coming up to stand among his family, right between Derek and Danny. The warm, sweet look Stiles gives him is one he wants to recreate over and over again.

Letting go of Cora, Stiles typically goes for his dad next, crushing each other in a Man Hug, then he moves to Derek next where they both playfully just punch each other’s biceps. Then he gets to Jackson.

That smile is so bright and Jackson wonders how long he’s going to be able to keep that smile in his days. He hopes to make as many as possible. The almost-Wolf pulls him in first for a hug. One of the mostly-human’s hands wraps around his waist while the other comes up to his neck, and he maneuvers them so they are brushing cheeks together.

And right before their lips finally connect, he hears Stiles whisper, "There’s my man."

And here Jackson will stay.