[Teen Wolf] Gen | He Ate My Heart
Title: He Ate My Heart
Summary: Jackson comes to his senses after being cured. No longer the kanima, he tries to cope.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Jackson, Derek, Stiles, pack/ensemble
Genre: Gen, angst, AU (ignores 2.10)
Rating: PG; non-graphic violence
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 525
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #24: image.
After he comes to, Jackson is confused as to why he's bundled up in the Hale house. The mattress below him is thin, but at least the blanket that's draped over his body is warm enough. He's still groggy enough for past night to be fuzzy, but then Stilinksi comes into the room with a mug of fresh coffee. The aroma hits his nose quickly, and Jackson is grateful for the rush for exactly five seconds before everything comes rushing back.
A palm pressed against a window. Matt's face. Feeling connected, feeling Matt in his head. Back in school, waiting for the change. Chasing people. Killing people. And all the time, Matt before the faces of his victims. Jackson's victims.
He's a murderer.
Stilinksi doesn't say anything when Jackson freezes in mid-snatch for the coffee. He just places the mug onto the nightstand, and tries patting Jackson's back as he dry-retches and sobs into the pillow. Jackson wants to push him away, wants to be left alone to claw his own face off, because he now remembers every swish of his tail, every cut to the back of the neck-Danny-every bloody body he left behind. But Stilinski stays grounded, sitting by his side as the others come in to witness Jackson's breakdown.
Normally, Jackson would care.
Now, Jackson doesn't give a shit.
*
"This was my sister's room," Derek says quietly. Jackson still doesn't see the point in getting the full tour of the Hale house, but Derek's hand is on his neck, a rough reassurance that everything is fine. Or will be fine. Jackson's cynical nature itches to hurt himself, but his Alpha is there with his pack, and Jackson struggles to relax. "She used to paint."
A charred easel leans against the open window. Derek's hands are gentle as he picks up a half-burnt piece of canvas and places it on the wooden frame.
*
Funnily enough, Jackson takes it up. His brush strokes are crude at first, but Jackson's always been a perfectionist; he spends hours refining his technique until his paintings evolve from childish blobs to the pictures he sees in his head.
His parents don't notice. They never do. Jackson tells them that it was a last-minute academic camp at school, and they buy it, going back to their negotiations over email and phone.
He likes the paint. Likes the chaos of splatter. Loves the delicate violence of applying the colors to the canvas. Jackson is no artist. His works are no masterpieces. It's not quite a hobby; Stilinksi calls it his coping mechanism. Jackson has no plans to see a professional, because he can deal, as long as he has this and his pack and his Alpha.
He copes.
The painting stares darkly at him when he's finally finished, when he can go to bed at night without thinking about adding another dab of paint here and there.
In the morning, he burns it. Matt's face and the shadow of a reptilian hand crumple into flames, and gets soaked by the rain. Jackson buries it in the ground, buries it in his mind, buries it way inside his heart, and goes home.
Summary: Jackson comes to his senses after being cured. No longer the kanima, he tries to cope.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Jackson, Derek, Stiles, pack/ensemble
Genre: Gen, angst, AU (ignores 2.10)
Rating: PG; non-graphic violence
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 525
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #24: image.
After he comes to, Jackson is confused as to why he's bundled up in the Hale house. The mattress below him is thin, but at least the blanket that's draped over his body is warm enough. He's still groggy enough for past night to be fuzzy, but then Stilinksi comes into the room with a mug of fresh coffee. The aroma hits his nose quickly, and Jackson is grateful for the rush for exactly five seconds before everything comes rushing back.
A palm pressed against a window. Matt's face. Feeling connected, feeling Matt in his head. Back in school, waiting for the change. Chasing people. Killing people. And all the time, Matt before the faces of his victims. Jackson's victims.
He's a murderer.
Stilinksi doesn't say anything when Jackson freezes in mid-snatch for the coffee. He just places the mug onto the nightstand, and tries patting Jackson's back as he dry-retches and sobs into the pillow. Jackson wants to push him away, wants to be left alone to claw his own face off, because he now remembers every swish of his tail, every cut to the back of the neck-Danny-every bloody body he left behind. But Stilinski stays grounded, sitting by his side as the others come in to witness Jackson's breakdown.
Normally, Jackson would care.
Now, Jackson doesn't give a shit.
*
"This was my sister's room," Derek says quietly. Jackson still doesn't see the point in getting the full tour of the Hale house, but Derek's hand is on his neck, a rough reassurance that everything is fine. Or will be fine. Jackson's cynical nature itches to hurt himself, but his Alpha is there with his pack, and Jackson struggles to relax. "She used to paint."
A charred easel leans against the open window. Derek's hands are gentle as he picks up a half-burnt piece of canvas and places it on the wooden frame.
*
Funnily enough, Jackson takes it up. His brush strokes are crude at first, but Jackson's always been a perfectionist; he spends hours refining his technique until his paintings evolve from childish blobs to the pictures he sees in his head.
His parents don't notice. They never do. Jackson tells them that it was a last-minute academic camp at school, and they buy it, going back to their negotiations over email and phone.
He likes the paint. Likes the chaos of splatter. Loves the delicate violence of applying the colors to the canvas. Jackson is no artist. His works are no masterpieces. It's not quite a hobby; Stilinksi calls it his coping mechanism. Jackson has no plans to see a professional, because he can deal, as long as he has this and his pack and his Alpha.
He copes.
The painting stares darkly at him when he's finally finished, when he can go to bed at night without thinking about adding another dab of paint here and there.
In the morning, he burns it. Matt's face and the shadow of a reptilian hand crumple into flames, and gets soaked by the rain. Jackson buries it in the ground, buries it in his mind, buries it way inside his heart, and goes home.