Fic: Long Live Us [Teen Wolf] - 4/4
Link to Masterpost ~><~ Link to Chapter 1 ~><~ Link to Chapter 2 ~><~ Link to Chapter 3
Title: Long Live Us
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Jackson, Jackson/Derek, with other implied use-your-imagination ships. Lydia, Cora, Talia Hale, Scott, Isaac. (Okay, this list makes it seem like there's far more romance in this fic; there's not. Most is pre/post-ship or slow-burn.)
Rating: PG-13/Teen
Wordcount: ~25,000
Summary: Some can see him, some can hear him, some can even feel him, but he remains a ghost. Stiles thought he was done with the whole 'half-dead' bit, but a resident evil doer had different plans. Which somehow resulted in Talia Hale as his spiritual Yoda, Derek as his anchor to a life he wasn't living anymore, and Jackson, of all people, as his...something. Canon divergent past season 3.
Warning: While this story contains no dub-con, I do suggest the possibility of an off-scene dub-con type situation. Also, there's some graphic violence and adult language.
A/N: Written for
bigbang_mixup for
tryslora's wonderful mix "The Reckless and the Brave" (which is where my title comes from).
sadfasdf
Chapter 4: Steady Hand
It's dark, the moon is high but not full, and to the rest of the world, it's a fairly normal night. Except for the part where it isn't for Stiles Stilinski, because his body is missing. The body he's not currently inside.
"How could it be gone?" Stiles says. And he's pacing the room. Which is a large room. Rather nice, if a bit too clean for his taste. And, why shouldn't it be? The Whittemore family can afford to give their teenage son a flat screen and Ralph Lauren sheets, or whatever the Hell it is that rich kids like in their too-clean rooms. Frankly, Stiles has never wanted to spend enough time in Jackson's room to notice how nice his goddamn bedding is.
He doesn't want to be here, but it's where he was left, when the calvary got the call and ran out. The call. The one where Melissa says his bed is empty. And no one saw a werewolf sneak a friggin' body out of the hospital. That call.
"Shit, shit, shit! Shouldn't I be able to feel that it's moving or something?" Stiles waves his arm at the window. "And I should be out there, looking for me, with everyone else? Why am I even here?"
"Because you'd do something stupid if you were there," Jackson answers, lounging back against his headboard as if he doesn't have a care in the world. The dick even has a Calculus book sitting on his lap, which means that sometime since he's arrived he's rejoined the public school system. "And I don't know why you're complaining. I'm the one stuck babysitting you."
"Yes, poor you, Jackson, being forced to sit on your ass." Stiles sneers when Jackson reaches over to turn up his i-pod speakers. "Did your last pack ask you to do such difficult tasks, too? Is that why you decided life was too hard in London and came running home?"
Stiles stumbles when Jackson jumps up off the bed. The book hits the floor hard. Stiles hits the floor harder, then scrambles back when he realizes that Jackson's still approaching.
"You shut your mouth!" Jackson growls through a set of canines, looming over him. "You don't know shit, Stilinski."
Stiles raises his head defiantly. "Then why don't you explain it to me, douche nozzle. Apparently, I'm probably going to die sometime in the near future, so it's not like I'm going to tell anyone you got kicked out of your old pack."
"I didn't get kicked out! I left. I left because I heard about Allison. You know, our friend? The one you killed."
The world is spinning. Stiles tries to scoot away and fails when Jackson blocks his way. Jackson drops down to one knee, leaning in to stare at the side of Stiles' face, and he flinches as if he's been hit.
"You're bleeding," Jackson says, swallowing so hard his whole body sways slightly with the effort. "Your mouth."
Stiles can taste it now, the metallic splash on his tongue, blood dripping from a busted lip. He thinks maybe he bit it, when he fell, then remembers that isn't possible. Stiles reaches up, tries to touch it, but his fingertips come away clean. He tries again and fails. It's maddening.
Jackson grabs hold of his fingers to stop him, and they both stare down at their hands, surprised at how easy it is to touch. Neither of them pull away, and the world stops spinning.
Strength from contact, one of the things Talia taught him.
"You must be hurt, wherever you are," Jackson says, after a moment.
"Yeah." Stiles can't focus though. "Or I'm dead...Do you think I'd know?" He can't catch his breath, can't find his voice. When he does, it spills out in a rush. "Do you think I'd know if I was dead already? Do you think I'd be able to feel it? I didn't know I was weaker. I didn't have a clue. What if I stay like this forever?"
Jackson squeezes his hand so tightly Stiles is sure it should hurt, but he can barely feel it. "I shouldn't have said that. About Allison."
"Why not?" A broken laugh escapes Stiles. He's close to hysterics, but he tries to keep himself in check. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Everyone says it's not my fault that she died. That I wasn't responsible for the deaths, the destruction...That the nogitsune did it. But it wore my face. It wore my face...And now, I'm right there again. Only this time, Talia or Peter or whoever the Hell is going to use my body to do something terrible. I don't want to live through that again. I don't want to still be around after it happens."
Jackson leans back on his feet and lets go of Stiles' hand. "I'm somewhat familiar with the idea of someone using you to kill people."
Stiles winces. "Kanima. Yeah. Guess you would be. Does that make me the asshole now?"
Jackson shrugs. "The pack in London was different," he says, quietly.
Stiles doesn't reply, and he doesn't know why Jackson chooses now to change the subject, but he wants to hear more. He folds his legs in front of him, staring intently back at the other boy, and Jackson rolls his eyes, as if it's amusing. But there's no mistaking anything in his tone for humor.
"They had these traditions, these beliefs. They took me in, even though I was dick to them. After training with Derek, I realized I needed to be part of a pack, and they seemed like the only option, but..." He makes a face, as if there's a bitter taste in his mouth. "I should have stayed Omega or searched for another pack, but I didn't want to risk going through the full moon alone. This pack, it didn't believe bitten wolves were as good as born wolves. But any wolf was better than a human. They said the only purpose in having bitten wolves as pack was for breeding."
Stiles sits up a bit straighter and waits for the punchline, because he thinks surely Jackson's just kidding here. Surely this is one of his stupid jokes that isn't actually funny.
Jackson misreads the expression and snorts. "Don't get your panties in a wad, Stilinski. No one forced me to do anything. They just suggested it. If I wanted to stay pack."
"That's not better, Jackson," Stiles says. He wants to grab hold of the idiot and shake him and shout the comment, but it comes out as a barely-there whisper that Jackson pretends not to hear.
"So, I screwed this woman in the pack, got her pregnant, like I was supposed to." Jackson rolled one shoulder, like he'd been asked to put in a lightbulb. Like it didn't matter. "They told me I didn't have to tell my family about it, since it wasn't a human concern. Thank God. I didn't really see the woman much after that, even on the full moon. Another tradition. But the Alpha let me know when the baby was born. Last month."
Stiles leans forward, his voice hushed, as if someone might hear him through the door. "Are you seriously telling me you have a kid in England somewhere?"
"No. I don't." Jackson eyes go blank again, and Stiles sees the mask slide down. "There was a way of testing it...The baby was a human. There isn't room for humans in their pack."
"Jesus, Jackson."
"When I got Lydia's call, about Allison, I used it as an excuse to leave. I didn't tell the pack. I just left." Jackson's eyes widened slightly, panic just beneath the surface. "I thought there would be a pack here when I came back. I thought Derek would take me but...Everything's different. I don't know what I'll do, if my Alpha calls me back."
Stiles wonders if Jackson is doing the same thing he is, mentally counting down the days to the full moon. Stiles is familiar enough with werewolf-related emotional blow-outs to know those nights were particularly dangerous for someone hurting. And despite the fact that on more than one occasion, he's declared that Jackson isn't actually capable of feelings, he recognizes the despair on the young man's face. In fact, he's certain their expressions look particularly similar at the moment.
"Jackson, look at me."
Stiles reaches out, grabbing hold of Jackson's shoulders, letting his hands slide down to his arms. It's a gesture that's never felt quite so strange when Scott is on the receiving end, but it feels bizarre knowing it's Jackson. Jackson, who broke Lydia's heart. Jackson, who learned about werewolves and immediately made the leap between mythological creature and self-serving agenda. Stiles is fully aware that he should even care enough about Jackson to touch him, much less try to help him, but he can't pretend that he himself is innocent, that he's never hurt people. And, he thinks, maybe that's why he can't just tack on a 'sucks to be you' at the end of their conversation and pretend it never happened.
Stiles makes sure the guy is staring back at him before he goes on. "No matter what happens tonight or tomorrow or whenever. I don't care how much you hate him, when you see Scott, you ask him to be your Alpha, okay? And if I'm not there to say it, you tell him Stiles said so. He won't say no. Just, for once in your life, listen to me instead of that over-sized ego, okay?"
Jackson snorts dismissively, but he doesn't say he won't.
Stiles tries to stand back up and falls down, feeling light, unfocused again. It reminds him of the way he felt the first time he met Talia, before she asked him to reach out, touch her hand...
"What's wrong?" Jackson asks.
It's obvious now. "The first night I was like this, I met Talia Hale, and she tried to help me remember what happened to me...She was so insistent that I remember exactly what Peter did, and I remembered some of it, but...I blacked out. I just, poof, faded. And I thought I was in the hospital. I thought I was somewhere else."
"So?"
"So, when I came back, Talia told me I'd pushed myself too far, that I'd weakened myself, but what if...what if she realized how I was connected to her. What if she told me to quit trying to remember so that I'd stay weak." Stiles meets Jackson's gaze. "I think I know how to find my body. But we're going to need to hold hands again."
"You're such a freak, Stilinski." He holds his hands out, nevertheless, palms up in invitation.
Stiles gifts him a grim smile and presses their palms together. Then he closes his eyes.
Derek's claws are digging into the man's coat, shredding the white fabric lapels, and he holds him in place, refusing to let him move so much as an inch. Only Scott's presence, at his shoulder, keeps him from drawing blood.
Deaton isn't squirming in fear, though. He's giving Derek that same, sad expression he's been wearing for days now. As if he knows something horrible is coming.
"Tell us," Derek growls.
"It'll be over soon, Derek," Deaton says, his voice level, "and then you're going to regret taking this path."
"Is that some sort of threat?" Derek asks.
Deaton shakes his head. "No. Just an observation, I'm afraid. I would hope that you, Scott, would at least believe that I would never wish to harm Stiles."
Scott takes a step forward, nodding to Derek to loosen his grip. "I don't believe you'd hurt him," Scott says, "but I think you'd protect Talia Hale, and she is going to hurt Stiles. I heard what you told her."
Deaton glares at the teenager. "You didn't hear enough, Scott. Talia was never going to hurt Stiles. But judging from the fact that you're here, I have to assume something has happened to convince you otherwise."
Derek let go of him entirely, taking a step back. "You're telling the truth."
"Yes, I am. Now, what's happened?"
"Stiles' body is missing," Scott answers, after a moment. "We came here because we thought you might know how to find him."
Deaton nods. "Yes, you're right. I do. But you should know, if he's gone, it's because Peter took him, not Talia. You have to understand, she's been waiting for this to happen, for her chance to catch Peter. This was the only way..."
"You knew he'd be taken," Derek says.
"And you know where he'll be taken." Deaton shifts his attention back to Scott. "The same place you found him."
"I'm sorry, Stiles. I am."
Stiles wants to tell Jackson to shut up, that it's not his fault this isn't working. But he doesn't, because his mouth doesn't behave. It won't open on demand. That voice. That voice circles back through his head, and it's not Jackson's. It's Peter Hale's.
When his eyes open, he's staring up at the werewolf, trying to not tremble under his weight.
"...I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You'd have made a great addition to my pack, but, unfortunately, you have a door in your head. One that's ever so slightly open. And I intend to use it."
Peter slips a hand behind Stiles' head. There's a pinch, then...
Pain. The pain blacks out everything else, and Stiles' world spins. He thinks he's being lifted, carried, but he's not sure which way is up and which is down.
But he's expecting it this time, and the panic the agony brings with it isn't enough to pull him from the memory, especially now that he realizes that the pain was never real, at least not at that magnitude. The pain is a warning, one Peter slipped into his subconsciousness to keep him from looking any further. The pain was to keep the memories away.
He drifts, his eyes opening a sliver, and the world is upside down and backwards, and he's too tired to lift his gaze. He just stares down at the ground, sways to the rhythm of the Peter's confident walk, watches the werewolf's bare feet. It smells like wet earth, like soil, like the forest.
The forest. He's in the preserve.
He's almost certain of it, even if he doesn't have a good reason to be so confident.
He drifts, and his mouth opens with a groan.
"Shh, Stiles, it's alright," Peter says, kindly. "You're tired, remember? You're dreaming."
Stiles' head hurts. It feels like something's scraping at his skull. Or maybe from inside his skull. He's not sure if the thoughts want in or out, but he's vaguely aware of the fact that he's lying down again, on something flat, and his barely open eyes are staring up at the moon in the sky. Peter isn't leaning over him, but he's close. Very close. Peter is in his head.
Peter walks him down a corridor. It looks like the hallway in his house, but it's too long with too many doors, too bright. It isn't right. Something isn't right.
"Just a dream," Peter reminds him, by his side.
"What are we doing?" Stiles asks.
"We're looking for something, Stiles, remember? We're looking for an open door. And when we find it, you're going to step inside."
Stiles wants to stop, but his feet keep walking, keeping pace with Peter. "I don't want to go inside. We're supposed to shut the door."
Peter gives him a playful smile, touching him on the back of the neck. When hand pulls away, Stiles can see there's something wrong with his fingertips. They're doused in blood, and the claws are strange. They look as if they've been shoved beneath his nails. Like they're not real.
"Don't worry, Stiles. You can close the door on your way out. All you have to do is step inside and find something for me."
The door. The door is there, at the end of the corridor. It's waiting. It's not quite closed. It's ajar. Just enough for him to slip through the opening.
"What do you want me to find?" Stiles asks.
"Oh, you'll see it. It's a tiny thing, really. A spark." Peter stops and jerks his chin up, gesturing him forward. "Go on. Go inside, Stiles."
It's cold. It's cold. It's cold inside.
But it's there, just out of reach, a small thing. A flame, bright red. It matches the eyes of the woman holding it. She holds her hand out, the one not holding the spark, and in the light, he can see her faint smile.
"You don't belong here, Stiles," she says. "Take my hand, and I'll show you the way out."
"But he wants the spark."
"It'll light our path."
"But then he'll get what he wants."
"He won't, Stiles. I promise."
Stiles drifts. It feels like running. Or flying. But his eyes aren't open, so he can't tell if he's moving at all. He hears voices, two of them. An owl. The wind. It's all background. Stiles blinks and realizes his eyes are already open again, and he's staring down at his body.
Not from far away. He's only standing a few feet away, the body laying across the tree's uneven stump. Or is it a corpse now?
The skin is pale as the white sheet wrapped around his body. Without the wires and tape and machines, he looks like he's in a funeral shroud that's been pulled back for one last glance at his face. There's a blue shadow of a bruise at the corner of his mouth, another on the shoulder, signs of their journey from the hospital. But there's no movement. No rise and fall of his chest, no twitch at his eyelids. No sign of life.
Stiles just stares, overcome with numbness. He was right. He didn't feel it when he died.
"He's dying." The voice that corrects him belongs to Peter Hale.
Stiles looks up sharply and realizes two people are talking on the other side of his body, and they aren't speaking to him, but to one another. Talia turns he head from her brother, as if to stare down at the body, but her eyes flicker up knowingly. She can see Stiles. He can't hide from her, but he pulls back just enough, and Peter never looks his way.
"He's dying," Peter says again. "Suffering. If you were planning to stay, sister, you should have put him out of his misery a long time ago." He cocks his head, a small pout at his lips that's almost chiding. "You're attached. Literally. The once mighty Talia Hale, now has a frail, human ball and chain keeping her grounded. You might look like you're real. You might feel real. Hell, I think I can even smell you. But you're not. Your just a spirit that's too strong for this world."
Talia only stares back at him. "What would you do?" she asks, as if it's some slight curiosity. "Would you let me kill him, take his life from him?"
"Oh, I'm rather hoping you will," Peter says, grinning back. "See, it makes it particularly hard for us to fight to the death if you can simply decide I can't touch you. Plus, he was never supposed to survive your resurrection. I fully expected him to simply fade. Peacefully. But, somehow he managed to hang on."
"Because someone taught his spirit how to be strong." Talia steps closer, and Peter steps back, as if they are dancing. He wags a finger at her, warning her off. "Why, Peter? Why disturb my rest?"
"You shouldn't get to rest," Peter says. All playfulness disappears from his voice. His eyes narrow. "I warned you. I warned you about the Argents. Told you they were a threat. You didn't listen and we died because of you. There should be no peace for you!" He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, I considered going after McCall to get what I want. And I will, when I'm strong again. But I saw another opportunity open up. You know as well as I do, every born-wolf family carries an Alpha's spark with it. Derek let ours weaken and die to save his sister...If I'd just wanted you back, I could have found a way to tie you to a banshee, but if I wanted the spark and you, I needed more than a window to the other side. I needed a door."
"So you're sacrificing this boy's life for the chance to rip out my throat?" Talia asks.
"Oh, I would cut my way through a crowd," he assures. Peter straightens and gestures out at the body. "But you'll get a fighting chance. Don't be shy on my account. Surely, you were already planning to kill him...No mother would give up the chance to live again, with her children, if the cost was a simple as a stranger's life."
Stiles stares back at her, and he can almost feel Talia refusing to meet his eye. He thinks he should be furious, but he can relate. He can understand the temptation perfectly.
Talia moves slowly, reaching behind the belt of her dress, and she pulls out a wide, sheathed dagger, then lets its leather cover fall to the ground. It's modern and deadly, something an Argent might carry, and its edge catches the moonlight perfectly.
"Good." Peter nods. "Alpha kills made with teeth and claws can have less that optimal results, just ask Kate."
He stares down at Stiles' body, as if studying it. Talia does the same, then moves closer, and eases down to sit on the edge of the stump, as if she's watching a child sleep.
"Finish him," Peter urges.
Stiles wants to close his eyes, will himself away. Be anywhere else. "It's okay," he says, without meaning to. "It's okay, Talia."
Talia Hale is powerful. She can mold the world. She can beat Peter Hale, if she tries. Derek and Cora will have their mother back...
Talia winces, as if in pain, and its the most emotion she's shown tonight. She lowers the dagger, sitting it down between his body and hers. Then she turns her head away from it. "I can't. Derek would hate me, if I killed him. My son was never meant to be an Alpha. But he's made for pack. The boy's his pack. I can't take that away from him."
Talia glances over her shoulder, watching Stiles.
Stiles hears the echo of something Cora once said, "Losing pack isn't like losing family. It's like losing a limb." Stiles nods to Talia. He understands. He understands perfectly.
"Someone has to do it," Peter reminds her, moving closer. "Unless...There is one way young Stiles makes it out of here alive, but I've already pointed out the complications of that plan."
"You're right, you'd pass right threw me, if I wanted you to." Talia stands, blocking his path. "But I won't fade. I won't disappear. I'll let you finish this right now. If you kill me now, the door will close, I'll be severed from the boy, but you'll have the spark. You'll be the Alpha."
"You'd let me?"
Talia reaches out, putting her palm to Peter's cheek. Stiles knows the touch is enough, enough to ground her. Enough to keep her solid.
"I'm sorry, little brother. I'm sorry this happened to us."
"Thank you, sister," Peter says, softly. "That's all I ever wanted to hear."
His whole body jerks as she shoves his claws into her sides and pulls forward. A wet tear of flesh, followed by the muted crack of the bones beneath. When he pulls free, her corpse collapses against the side of the tree stump, and he slips to one knee beside her, watching the life leech away.
Stiles feels the line sever. It's painful, but it's more like ripping off a bandage than being cut. As soon as it happens, there's a sense of freedom, of relief. And he takes a shallow breath. It tastes like blood and mildew, and it's wonderful. His eyes open, and he's laying down, the angle of his head awkward, but he can see Peter kneeling, eyes directed just a few inches to Stiles' side. They're a bright, burning red. And they're too caught up in the body on the ground to notice Stiles moving.
He pulls one hand free from the sheets, and the dagger is there, his fingers wrapped around the handle before he has time to second guess himself. He understood Talia. He understood her perfectly well.
Grunting with the effort, Stiles punches out with the blade, burying it in Peter's neck. And he lets go.
The werewolf falls, but his clawed fingers scrape at the nemeton, holding himself up, and Stiles watches in horror as one hand gains leverage and the werewolf lifts himself back up to his knees.
Peter's face is livid. A stream of blood spills over his lips when he opens his mouth speak and fails. He reaches up for the dagger's handle, and for a moment Stiles thinks he's going to pull it free. Stiles scrambles to move away, but the sheet's tangled around his body, and he's not going anywhere fast. He's too caught up in watching the squirt of blood as Peter slowly pulls the blade out to notice the crash through the woods behind them.
Derek tackles Peter from behind, holding back both of his arms, and the Alpha struggles against his nephew, a wet attempt at a growl splattering blood over Stiles. And Stiles is suddenly pulled from his shock. He reaches out, takes hold of the handle with both hands and pulls it forward. The blade cuts free, leaving a wide, red, gaping smile in place of Peter's neck.
The Alpha's eyes go wide. The spark goes out.
The world stills.
Stiles feels hands touching him, seeing if he's alright. The hands pull away, stained red, but it's not his blood, he wants to remind them. At some point, he's aware enough to realize Scott must have been right behind Derek when he burst into the clearing. Scott's arms are around him, keeping him warm, and the two of them are sitting up straight. Derek is at their feet, staring down at his mother's body. Or the spot where her body was a moment earlier.
When Stiles leans forward, she's gone. She's faded. And Peter is going cold a few feet away, where he's been kicked aside. His head doesn't quite fit on his body from this angle, and he isn't healing.
The world doesn't stay still.
"She had to leave," Stiles says, and he's never seen Derek grieve until now.
They hold the funeral in the woods, but there's still no body for Talia Hale. In the daylight, they did find the claws, the last physical evidence of her existence. They bury them at the nemeton, and then they drive Peter's body back to the edge of the Hale property. They burn him and put what's left in a deep hole.
Stiles watches. It's going to be a hard habit to break, watching instead of acting. Forgetting he's not invisible.
Derek is by himself, Lydia and Cora are talking quietly and keeping a close eye on him, as if afraid he might collapse. Stiles understands the sentiment, but he knows Derek appreciates not being disturbed more. He needs some time. Scott won't give him that. Stiles smiles at his best friend when he sees him, and Isaac, approaching Derek with a purpose in their step. Looks like the little talk they had about on the drive over, about letting their pack know they're pack, is paying off.
If Derek thinks he's going to slip away without being hugged, he doesn't know his Alpha.
Stiles wonders off from the group, in search. It's nice, not being the focus. He's spent the whole morning being with his dad, Melissa not far away, insisting he go to the hospital. They don't understand how he can be as strong as it he is, how he's recovered. He hasn't told them yet, where he was over the past ten days. He's not sure if he should. He doesn't want his dad to know what he did.
Stiles finds what he's looking for a couple yards away, sitting with his back against a tree, despite the fact that's he's in crisp black on black. Jackson hasn't lost his knack for looking like a grumpy Calvin Klein model at all times. Stiles eases down beside him, arms balanced over his knees, and he takes a draw from the flask when Jackson finally offers.
"This is stupid," Jackson contributes.
"The funeral?"
Jackson doesn't answer, so Stiles assumes he's simply referring to everything in existence ever. Stiles taps Jackson's leg with his foot, to shake him from his thoughts.
"Did you talk to Scott yet?" Stiles asks. He already knows the answer. That Scott didn't even question the request, because he's Scott. "Then why aren't you with the pack?"
"I am," Jackson says. The answer is simple enough, so Stiles doesn't know why it leaves him grinning like an idiot. It's a funeral, he reminds himself. That still doesn't stop him.
Jackson twitches slightly, as if he's waiting for something, and Stiles thinks about making him ask outright, but he takes pity. "Derek's fine. I mean, he's not. Fine. But he's okay. He's hurting. Maybe you should talk to him?"
Jackson snorts. "Maybe you should," he insists, shooting Stiles a glance.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "So, we're both cowards. That's nice to know...But you're right. I need to talk to him...But, God, what do I say? I'm sorry I didn't die so your mom could stay? How do you tell someone that? How do you tell Derek that?"
"You don't," Jackson snaps. He looks pissed, which is a standard look for him, but the level of anger is a notch above average, and Stiles is confused by it for a moment. "You don't ever say you're sorry you're alive," Jackson finishes. "Not even to Derek."
"So you're glad I'm alive?"
"I wouldn't go that far." But Jackson's hand slips down, happens to land on Stiles'. After a moment, Stiles feels a thumb softly scraping at his wrist, letting him know. The touch is warm, alive.
"I'm not going to say I regret getting my body back," Stiles says, with a small frown, "but things aren't going to be the same any more. I was getting used to...I don't know, used to Derek caring. To him being a friend or something... Just feels like there's hole there in life, where he was, but that's stupid, right?"
"I already said that," Jackson notes. "I felt the same way, after Derek trained me. The asshole basically wanted me dead...or the kanima dead...Same difference. Then he goes and trains me, and when it's over, when I leave..."
"How does he do that? What, does he have some sort of magical advanced-werewolf power to get perfectly sane people to have insane thoughts about him?"
"Maybe it's because he's hot," Jackson answers.
It's so blunt, so unexpected, that Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue before bursting with laughter. "I think you've drunk half this flask."
Jackson smiles back, brow raised. "You're disagreeing?"
No. He's not, and that sobers Stiles up too much, so he takes the flask out of Jackson's hands and takes a sip that leaves him coughing. "This can't end well," he says. "And we can't tell him. We'd screw things up if we ever did."
"No, you'd screw things up," Jackson corrects. "Which is why it's good I'm here." He pauses, long enough for Stiles to turn and meet his eye, see if he's serious. He looks deadly, and maybe too close, but Stiles only leans in.
"I always get what I want," Jackson explains, with a slow smile. "Stay with me, and you will too."
"Now, that sounds like the old Jackson," Stiles says.
Jackson pulls away. "Good. Because he's back. And he's staying."
Stiles feels warm, flushed. It's better than being numb, and it feels like it's the first time he's felt anything but in a long while. "So am I," he finally replies. "I'm not going anywhere."
And it feels like the truth.
FIN
Title: Long Live Us
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, Stiles/Jackson, Jackson/Derek, with other implied use-your-imagination ships. Lydia, Cora, Talia Hale, Scott, Isaac. (Okay, this list makes it seem like there's far more romance in this fic; there's not. Most is pre/post-ship or slow-burn.)
Rating: PG-13/Teen
Wordcount: ~25,000
Summary: Some can see him, some can hear him, some can even feel him, but he remains a ghost. Stiles thought he was done with the whole 'half-dead' bit, but a resident evil doer had different plans. Which somehow resulted in Talia Hale as his spiritual Yoda, Derek as his anchor to a life he wasn't living anymore, and Jackson, of all people, as his...something. Canon divergent past season 3.
Warning: While this story contains no dub-con, I do suggest the possibility of an off-scene dub-con type situation. Also, there's some graphic violence and adult language.
A/N: Written for
bigbang_mixup for
tryslora's wonderful mix "The Reckless and the Brave" (which is where my title comes from).
sadfasdf
Chapter 4: Steady Hand
It's dark, the moon is high but not full, and to the rest of the world, it's a fairly normal night. Except for the part where it isn't for Stiles Stilinski, because his body is missing. The body he's not currently inside.
"How could it be gone?" Stiles says. And he's pacing the room. Which is a large room. Rather nice, if a bit too clean for his taste. And, why shouldn't it be? The Whittemore family can afford to give their teenage son a flat screen and Ralph Lauren sheets, or whatever the Hell it is that rich kids like in their too-clean rooms. Frankly, Stiles has never wanted to spend enough time in Jackson's room to notice how nice his goddamn bedding is.
He doesn't want to be here, but it's where he was left, when the calvary got the call and ran out. The call. The one where Melissa says his bed is empty. And no one saw a werewolf sneak a friggin' body out of the hospital. That call.
"Shit, shit, shit! Shouldn't I be able to feel that it's moving or something?" Stiles waves his arm at the window. "And I should be out there, looking for me, with everyone else? Why am I even here?"
"Because you'd do something stupid if you were there," Jackson answers, lounging back against his headboard as if he doesn't have a care in the world. The dick even has a Calculus book sitting on his lap, which means that sometime since he's arrived he's rejoined the public school system. "And I don't know why you're complaining. I'm the one stuck babysitting you."
"Yes, poor you, Jackson, being forced to sit on your ass." Stiles sneers when Jackson reaches over to turn up his i-pod speakers. "Did your last pack ask you to do such difficult tasks, too? Is that why you decided life was too hard in London and came running home?"
Stiles stumbles when Jackson jumps up off the bed. The book hits the floor hard. Stiles hits the floor harder, then scrambles back when he realizes that Jackson's still approaching.
"You shut your mouth!" Jackson growls through a set of canines, looming over him. "You don't know shit, Stilinski."
Stiles raises his head defiantly. "Then why don't you explain it to me, douche nozzle. Apparently, I'm probably going to die sometime in the near future, so it's not like I'm going to tell anyone you got kicked out of your old pack."
"I didn't get kicked out! I left. I left because I heard about Allison. You know, our friend? The one you killed."
The world is spinning. Stiles tries to scoot away and fails when Jackson blocks his way. Jackson drops down to one knee, leaning in to stare at the side of Stiles' face, and he flinches as if he's been hit.
"You're bleeding," Jackson says, swallowing so hard his whole body sways slightly with the effort. "Your mouth."
Stiles can taste it now, the metallic splash on his tongue, blood dripping from a busted lip. He thinks maybe he bit it, when he fell, then remembers that isn't possible. Stiles reaches up, tries to touch it, but his fingertips come away clean. He tries again and fails. It's maddening.
Jackson grabs hold of his fingers to stop him, and they both stare down at their hands, surprised at how easy it is to touch. Neither of them pull away, and the world stops spinning.
Strength from contact, one of the things Talia taught him.
"You must be hurt, wherever you are," Jackson says, after a moment.
"Yeah." Stiles can't focus though. "Or I'm dead...Do you think I'd know?" He can't catch his breath, can't find his voice. When he does, it spills out in a rush. "Do you think I'd know if I was dead already? Do you think I'd be able to feel it? I didn't know I was weaker. I didn't have a clue. What if I stay like this forever?"
Jackson squeezes his hand so tightly Stiles is sure it should hurt, but he can barely feel it. "I shouldn't have said that. About Allison."
"Why not?" A broken laugh escapes Stiles. He's close to hysterics, but he tries to keep himself in check. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Everyone says it's not my fault that she died. That I wasn't responsible for the deaths, the destruction...That the nogitsune did it. But it wore my face. It wore my face...And now, I'm right there again. Only this time, Talia or Peter or whoever the Hell is going to use my body to do something terrible. I don't want to live through that again. I don't want to still be around after it happens."
Jackson leans back on his feet and lets go of Stiles' hand. "I'm somewhat familiar with the idea of someone using you to kill people."
Stiles winces. "Kanima. Yeah. Guess you would be. Does that make me the asshole now?"
Jackson shrugs. "The pack in London was different," he says, quietly.
Stiles doesn't reply, and he doesn't know why Jackson chooses now to change the subject, but he wants to hear more. He folds his legs in front of him, staring intently back at the other boy, and Jackson rolls his eyes, as if it's amusing. But there's no mistaking anything in his tone for humor.
"They had these traditions, these beliefs. They took me in, even though I was dick to them. After training with Derek, I realized I needed to be part of a pack, and they seemed like the only option, but..." He makes a face, as if there's a bitter taste in his mouth. "I should have stayed Omega or searched for another pack, but I didn't want to risk going through the full moon alone. This pack, it didn't believe bitten wolves were as good as born wolves. But any wolf was better than a human. They said the only purpose in having bitten wolves as pack was for breeding."
Stiles sits up a bit straighter and waits for the punchline, because he thinks surely Jackson's just kidding here. Surely this is one of his stupid jokes that isn't actually funny.
Jackson misreads the expression and snorts. "Don't get your panties in a wad, Stilinski. No one forced me to do anything. They just suggested it. If I wanted to stay pack."
"That's not better, Jackson," Stiles says. He wants to grab hold of the idiot and shake him and shout the comment, but it comes out as a barely-there whisper that Jackson pretends not to hear.
"So, I screwed this woman in the pack, got her pregnant, like I was supposed to." Jackson rolled one shoulder, like he'd been asked to put in a lightbulb. Like it didn't matter. "They told me I didn't have to tell my family about it, since it wasn't a human concern. Thank God. I didn't really see the woman much after that, even on the full moon. Another tradition. But the Alpha let me know when the baby was born. Last month."
Stiles leans forward, his voice hushed, as if someone might hear him through the door. "Are you seriously telling me you have a kid in England somewhere?"
"No. I don't." Jackson eyes go blank again, and Stiles sees the mask slide down. "There was a way of testing it...The baby was a human. There isn't room for humans in their pack."
"Jesus, Jackson."
"When I got Lydia's call, about Allison, I used it as an excuse to leave. I didn't tell the pack. I just left." Jackson's eyes widened slightly, panic just beneath the surface. "I thought there would be a pack here when I came back. I thought Derek would take me but...Everything's different. I don't know what I'll do, if my Alpha calls me back."
Stiles wonders if Jackson is doing the same thing he is, mentally counting down the days to the full moon. Stiles is familiar enough with werewolf-related emotional blow-outs to know those nights were particularly dangerous for someone hurting. And despite the fact that on more than one occasion, he's declared that Jackson isn't actually capable of feelings, he recognizes the despair on the young man's face. In fact, he's certain their expressions look particularly similar at the moment.
"Jackson, look at me."
Stiles reaches out, grabbing hold of Jackson's shoulders, letting his hands slide down to his arms. It's a gesture that's never felt quite so strange when Scott is on the receiving end, but it feels bizarre knowing it's Jackson. Jackson, who broke Lydia's heart. Jackson, who learned about werewolves and immediately made the leap between mythological creature and self-serving agenda. Stiles is fully aware that he should even care enough about Jackson to touch him, much less try to help him, but he can't pretend that he himself is innocent, that he's never hurt people. And, he thinks, maybe that's why he can't just tack on a 'sucks to be you' at the end of their conversation and pretend it never happened.
Stiles makes sure the guy is staring back at him before he goes on. "No matter what happens tonight or tomorrow or whenever. I don't care how much you hate him, when you see Scott, you ask him to be your Alpha, okay? And if I'm not there to say it, you tell him Stiles said so. He won't say no. Just, for once in your life, listen to me instead of that over-sized ego, okay?"
Jackson snorts dismissively, but he doesn't say he won't.
Stiles tries to stand back up and falls down, feeling light, unfocused again. It reminds him of the way he felt the first time he met Talia, before she asked him to reach out, touch her hand...
"What's wrong?" Jackson asks.
It's obvious now. "The first night I was like this, I met Talia Hale, and she tried to help me remember what happened to me...She was so insistent that I remember exactly what Peter did, and I remembered some of it, but...I blacked out. I just, poof, faded. And I thought I was in the hospital. I thought I was somewhere else."
"So?"
"So, when I came back, Talia told me I'd pushed myself too far, that I'd weakened myself, but what if...what if she realized how I was connected to her. What if she told me to quit trying to remember so that I'd stay weak." Stiles meets Jackson's gaze. "I think I know how to find my body. But we're going to need to hold hands again."
"You're such a freak, Stilinski." He holds his hands out, nevertheless, palms up in invitation.
Stiles gifts him a grim smile and presses their palms together. Then he closes his eyes.
Derek's claws are digging into the man's coat, shredding the white fabric lapels, and he holds him in place, refusing to let him move so much as an inch. Only Scott's presence, at his shoulder, keeps him from drawing blood.
Deaton isn't squirming in fear, though. He's giving Derek that same, sad expression he's been wearing for days now. As if he knows something horrible is coming.
"Tell us," Derek growls.
"It'll be over soon, Derek," Deaton says, his voice level, "and then you're going to regret taking this path."
"Is that some sort of threat?" Derek asks.
Deaton shakes his head. "No. Just an observation, I'm afraid. I would hope that you, Scott, would at least believe that I would never wish to harm Stiles."
Scott takes a step forward, nodding to Derek to loosen his grip. "I don't believe you'd hurt him," Scott says, "but I think you'd protect Talia Hale, and she is going to hurt Stiles. I heard what you told her."
Deaton glares at the teenager. "You didn't hear enough, Scott. Talia was never going to hurt Stiles. But judging from the fact that you're here, I have to assume something has happened to convince you otherwise."
Derek let go of him entirely, taking a step back. "You're telling the truth."
"Yes, I am. Now, what's happened?"
"Stiles' body is missing," Scott answers, after a moment. "We came here because we thought you might know how to find him."
Deaton nods. "Yes, you're right. I do. But you should know, if he's gone, it's because Peter took him, not Talia. You have to understand, she's been waiting for this to happen, for her chance to catch Peter. This was the only way..."
"You knew he'd be taken," Derek says.
"And you know where he'll be taken." Deaton shifts his attention back to Scott. "The same place you found him."
"I'm sorry, Stiles. I am."
Stiles wants to tell Jackson to shut up, that it's not his fault this isn't working. But he doesn't, because his mouth doesn't behave. It won't open on demand. That voice. That voice circles back through his head, and it's not Jackson's. It's Peter Hale's.
When his eyes open, he's staring up at the werewolf, trying to not tremble under his weight.
"...I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You'd have made a great addition to my pack, but, unfortunately, you have a door in your head. One that's ever so slightly open. And I intend to use it."
Peter slips a hand behind Stiles' head. There's a pinch, then...
Pain. The pain blacks out everything else, and Stiles' world spins. He thinks he's being lifted, carried, but he's not sure which way is up and which is down.
But he's expecting it this time, and the panic the agony brings with it isn't enough to pull him from the memory, especially now that he realizes that the pain was never real, at least not at that magnitude. The pain is a warning, one Peter slipped into his subconsciousness to keep him from looking any further. The pain was to keep the memories away.
He drifts, his eyes opening a sliver, and the world is upside down and backwards, and he's too tired to lift his gaze. He just stares down at the ground, sways to the rhythm of the Peter's confident walk, watches the werewolf's bare feet. It smells like wet earth, like soil, like the forest.
The forest. He's in the preserve.
He's almost certain of it, even if he doesn't have a good reason to be so confident.
He drifts, and his mouth opens with a groan.
"Shh, Stiles, it's alright," Peter says, kindly. "You're tired, remember? You're dreaming."
Stiles' head hurts. It feels like something's scraping at his skull. Or maybe from inside his skull. He's not sure if the thoughts want in or out, but he's vaguely aware of the fact that he's lying down again, on something flat, and his barely open eyes are staring up at the moon in the sky. Peter isn't leaning over him, but he's close. Very close. Peter is in his head.
Peter walks him down a corridor. It looks like the hallway in his house, but it's too long with too many doors, too bright. It isn't right. Something isn't right.
"Just a dream," Peter reminds him, by his side.
"What are we doing?" Stiles asks.
"We're looking for something, Stiles, remember? We're looking for an open door. And when we find it, you're going to step inside."
Stiles wants to stop, but his feet keep walking, keeping pace with Peter. "I don't want to go inside. We're supposed to shut the door."
Peter gives him a playful smile, touching him on the back of the neck. When hand pulls away, Stiles can see there's something wrong with his fingertips. They're doused in blood, and the claws are strange. They look as if they've been shoved beneath his nails. Like they're not real.
"Don't worry, Stiles. You can close the door on your way out. All you have to do is step inside and find something for me."
The door. The door is there, at the end of the corridor. It's waiting. It's not quite closed. It's ajar. Just enough for him to slip through the opening.
"What do you want me to find?" Stiles asks.
"Oh, you'll see it. It's a tiny thing, really. A spark." Peter stops and jerks his chin up, gesturing him forward. "Go on. Go inside, Stiles."
It's cold. It's cold. It's cold inside.
But it's there, just out of reach, a small thing. A flame, bright red. It matches the eyes of the woman holding it. She holds her hand out, the one not holding the spark, and in the light, he can see her faint smile.
"You don't belong here, Stiles," she says. "Take my hand, and I'll show you the way out."
"But he wants the spark."
"It'll light our path."
"But then he'll get what he wants."
"He won't, Stiles. I promise."
Stiles drifts. It feels like running. Or flying. But his eyes aren't open, so he can't tell if he's moving at all. He hears voices, two of them. An owl. The wind. It's all background. Stiles blinks and realizes his eyes are already open again, and he's staring down at his body.
Not from far away. He's only standing a few feet away, the body laying across the tree's uneven stump. Or is it a corpse now?
The skin is pale as the white sheet wrapped around his body. Without the wires and tape and machines, he looks like he's in a funeral shroud that's been pulled back for one last glance at his face. There's a blue shadow of a bruise at the corner of his mouth, another on the shoulder, signs of their journey from the hospital. But there's no movement. No rise and fall of his chest, no twitch at his eyelids. No sign of life.
Stiles just stares, overcome with numbness. He was right. He didn't feel it when he died.
"He's dying." The voice that corrects him belongs to Peter Hale.
Stiles looks up sharply and realizes two people are talking on the other side of his body, and they aren't speaking to him, but to one another. Talia turns he head from her brother, as if to stare down at the body, but her eyes flicker up knowingly. She can see Stiles. He can't hide from her, but he pulls back just enough, and Peter never looks his way.
"He's dying," Peter says again. "Suffering. If you were planning to stay, sister, you should have put him out of his misery a long time ago." He cocks his head, a small pout at his lips that's almost chiding. "You're attached. Literally. The once mighty Talia Hale, now has a frail, human ball and chain keeping her grounded. You might look like you're real. You might feel real. Hell, I think I can even smell you. But you're not. Your just a spirit that's too strong for this world."
Talia only stares back at him. "What would you do?" she asks, as if it's some slight curiosity. "Would you let me kill him, take his life from him?"
"Oh, I'm rather hoping you will," Peter says, grinning back. "See, it makes it particularly hard for us to fight to the death if you can simply decide I can't touch you. Plus, he was never supposed to survive your resurrection. I fully expected him to simply fade. Peacefully. But, somehow he managed to hang on."
"Because someone taught his spirit how to be strong." Talia steps closer, and Peter steps back, as if they are dancing. He wags a finger at her, warning her off. "Why, Peter? Why disturb my rest?"
"You shouldn't get to rest," Peter says. All playfulness disappears from his voice. His eyes narrow. "I warned you. I warned you about the Argents. Told you they were a threat. You didn't listen and we died because of you. There should be no peace for you!" He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, I considered going after McCall to get what I want. And I will, when I'm strong again. But I saw another opportunity open up. You know as well as I do, every born-wolf family carries an Alpha's spark with it. Derek let ours weaken and die to save his sister...If I'd just wanted you back, I could have found a way to tie you to a banshee, but if I wanted the spark and you, I needed more than a window to the other side. I needed a door."
"So you're sacrificing this boy's life for the chance to rip out my throat?" Talia asks.
"Oh, I would cut my way through a crowd," he assures. Peter straightens and gestures out at the body. "But you'll get a fighting chance. Don't be shy on my account. Surely, you were already planning to kill him...No mother would give up the chance to live again, with her children, if the cost was a simple as a stranger's life."
Stiles stares back at her, and he can almost feel Talia refusing to meet his eye. He thinks he should be furious, but he can relate. He can understand the temptation perfectly.
Talia moves slowly, reaching behind the belt of her dress, and she pulls out a wide, sheathed dagger, then lets its leather cover fall to the ground. It's modern and deadly, something an Argent might carry, and its edge catches the moonlight perfectly.
"Good." Peter nods. "Alpha kills made with teeth and claws can have less that optimal results, just ask Kate."
He stares down at Stiles' body, as if studying it. Talia does the same, then moves closer, and eases down to sit on the edge of the stump, as if she's watching a child sleep.
"Finish him," Peter urges.
Stiles wants to close his eyes, will himself away. Be anywhere else. "It's okay," he says, without meaning to. "It's okay, Talia."
Talia Hale is powerful. She can mold the world. She can beat Peter Hale, if she tries. Derek and Cora will have their mother back...
Talia winces, as if in pain, and its the most emotion she's shown tonight. She lowers the dagger, sitting it down between his body and hers. Then she turns her head away from it. "I can't. Derek would hate me, if I killed him. My son was never meant to be an Alpha. But he's made for pack. The boy's his pack. I can't take that away from him."
Talia glances over her shoulder, watching Stiles.
Stiles hears the echo of something Cora once said, "Losing pack isn't like losing family. It's like losing a limb." Stiles nods to Talia. He understands. He understands perfectly.
"Someone has to do it," Peter reminds her, moving closer. "Unless...There is one way young Stiles makes it out of here alive, but I've already pointed out the complications of that plan."
"You're right, you'd pass right threw me, if I wanted you to." Talia stands, blocking his path. "But I won't fade. I won't disappear. I'll let you finish this right now. If you kill me now, the door will close, I'll be severed from the boy, but you'll have the spark. You'll be the Alpha."
"You'd let me?"
Talia reaches out, putting her palm to Peter's cheek. Stiles knows the touch is enough, enough to ground her. Enough to keep her solid.
"I'm sorry, little brother. I'm sorry this happened to us."
"Thank you, sister," Peter says, softly. "That's all I ever wanted to hear."
His whole body jerks as she shoves his claws into her sides and pulls forward. A wet tear of flesh, followed by the muted crack of the bones beneath. When he pulls free, her corpse collapses against the side of the tree stump, and he slips to one knee beside her, watching the life leech away.
Stiles feels the line sever. It's painful, but it's more like ripping off a bandage than being cut. As soon as it happens, there's a sense of freedom, of relief. And he takes a shallow breath. It tastes like blood and mildew, and it's wonderful. His eyes open, and he's laying down, the angle of his head awkward, but he can see Peter kneeling, eyes directed just a few inches to Stiles' side. They're a bright, burning red. And they're too caught up in the body on the ground to notice Stiles moving.
He pulls one hand free from the sheets, and the dagger is there, his fingers wrapped around the handle before he has time to second guess himself. He understood Talia. He understood her perfectly well.
Grunting with the effort, Stiles punches out with the blade, burying it in Peter's neck. And he lets go.
The werewolf falls, but his clawed fingers scrape at the nemeton, holding himself up, and Stiles watches in horror as one hand gains leverage and the werewolf lifts himself back up to his knees.
Peter's face is livid. A stream of blood spills over his lips when he opens his mouth speak and fails. He reaches up for the dagger's handle, and for a moment Stiles thinks he's going to pull it free. Stiles scrambles to move away, but the sheet's tangled around his body, and he's not going anywhere fast. He's too caught up in watching the squirt of blood as Peter slowly pulls the blade out to notice the crash through the woods behind them.
Derek tackles Peter from behind, holding back both of his arms, and the Alpha struggles against his nephew, a wet attempt at a growl splattering blood over Stiles. And Stiles is suddenly pulled from his shock. He reaches out, takes hold of the handle with both hands and pulls it forward. The blade cuts free, leaving a wide, red, gaping smile in place of Peter's neck.
The Alpha's eyes go wide. The spark goes out.
The world stills.
Stiles feels hands touching him, seeing if he's alright. The hands pull away, stained red, but it's not his blood, he wants to remind them. At some point, he's aware enough to realize Scott must have been right behind Derek when he burst into the clearing. Scott's arms are around him, keeping him warm, and the two of them are sitting up straight. Derek is at their feet, staring down at his mother's body. Or the spot where her body was a moment earlier.
When Stiles leans forward, she's gone. She's faded. And Peter is going cold a few feet away, where he's been kicked aside. His head doesn't quite fit on his body from this angle, and he isn't healing.
The world doesn't stay still.
"She had to leave," Stiles says, and he's never seen Derek grieve until now.
They hold the funeral in the woods, but there's still no body for Talia Hale. In the daylight, they did find the claws, the last physical evidence of her existence. They bury them at the nemeton, and then they drive Peter's body back to the edge of the Hale property. They burn him and put what's left in a deep hole.
Stiles watches. It's going to be a hard habit to break, watching instead of acting. Forgetting he's not invisible.
Derek is by himself, Lydia and Cora are talking quietly and keeping a close eye on him, as if afraid he might collapse. Stiles understands the sentiment, but he knows Derek appreciates not being disturbed more. He needs some time. Scott won't give him that. Stiles smiles at his best friend when he sees him, and Isaac, approaching Derek with a purpose in their step. Looks like the little talk they had about on the drive over, about letting their pack know they're pack, is paying off.
If Derek thinks he's going to slip away without being hugged, he doesn't know his Alpha.
Stiles wonders off from the group, in search. It's nice, not being the focus. He's spent the whole morning being with his dad, Melissa not far away, insisting he go to the hospital. They don't understand how he can be as strong as it he is, how he's recovered. He hasn't told them yet, where he was over the past ten days. He's not sure if he should. He doesn't want his dad to know what he did.
Stiles finds what he's looking for a couple yards away, sitting with his back against a tree, despite the fact that's he's in crisp black on black. Jackson hasn't lost his knack for looking like a grumpy Calvin Klein model at all times. Stiles eases down beside him, arms balanced over his knees, and he takes a draw from the flask when Jackson finally offers.
"This is stupid," Jackson contributes.
"The funeral?"
Jackson doesn't answer, so Stiles assumes he's simply referring to everything in existence ever. Stiles taps Jackson's leg with his foot, to shake him from his thoughts.
"Did you talk to Scott yet?" Stiles asks. He already knows the answer. That Scott didn't even question the request, because he's Scott. "Then why aren't you with the pack?"
"I am," Jackson says. The answer is simple enough, so Stiles doesn't know why it leaves him grinning like an idiot. It's a funeral, he reminds himself. That still doesn't stop him.
Jackson twitches slightly, as if he's waiting for something, and Stiles thinks about making him ask outright, but he takes pity. "Derek's fine. I mean, he's not. Fine. But he's okay. He's hurting. Maybe you should talk to him?"
Jackson snorts. "Maybe you should," he insists, shooting Stiles a glance.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "So, we're both cowards. That's nice to know...But you're right. I need to talk to him...But, God, what do I say? I'm sorry I didn't die so your mom could stay? How do you tell someone that? How do you tell Derek that?"
"You don't," Jackson snaps. He looks pissed, which is a standard look for him, but the level of anger is a notch above average, and Stiles is confused by it for a moment. "You don't ever say you're sorry you're alive," Jackson finishes. "Not even to Derek."
"So you're glad I'm alive?"
"I wouldn't go that far." But Jackson's hand slips down, happens to land on Stiles'. After a moment, Stiles feels a thumb softly scraping at his wrist, letting him know. The touch is warm, alive.
"I'm not going to say I regret getting my body back," Stiles says, with a small frown, "but things aren't going to be the same any more. I was getting used to...I don't know, used to Derek caring. To him being a friend or something... Just feels like there's hole there in life, where he was, but that's stupid, right?"
"I already said that," Jackson notes. "I felt the same way, after Derek trained me. The asshole basically wanted me dead...or the kanima dead...Same difference. Then he goes and trains me, and when it's over, when I leave..."
"How does he do that? What, does he have some sort of magical advanced-werewolf power to get perfectly sane people to have insane thoughts about him?"
"Maybe it's because he's hot," Jackson answers.
It's so blunt, so unexpected, that Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue before bursting with laughter. "I think you've drunk half this flask."
Jackson smiles back, brow raised. "You're disagreeing?"
No. He's not, and that sobers Stiles up too much, so he takes the flask out of Jackson's hands and takes a sip that leaves him coughing. "This can't end well," he says. "And we can't tell him. We'd screw things up if we ever did."
"No, you'd screw things up," Jackson corrects. "Which is why it's good I'm here." He pauses, long enough for Stiles to turn and meet his eye, see if he's serious. He looks deadly, and maybe too close, but Stiles only leans in.
"I always get what I want," Jackson explains, with a slow smile. "Stay with me, and you will too."
"Now, that sounds like the old Jackson," Stiles says.
Jackson pulls away. "Good. Because he's back. And he's staying."
Stiles feels warm, flushed. It's better than being numb, and it feels like it's the first time he's felt anything but in a long while. "So am I," he finally replies. "I'm not going anywhere."
And it feels like the truth.
FIN