Chapter Text
Prologue
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London wasn’t quite what Jackson had expected. It wasn’t bad exactly. But different, definitely different. Maybe when his parents had found out about his lycan condition and decided to uproot their family and move them (him, let’s be honest, they moved because of him) to the U.K., Jackson had pictured a city similar to Beacon Hills but with British accents.
Hah. Not quite.
And honestly, he should have done his research first. Taken a BritLit class maybe. There were a plethora of British T.V. shows he could have watched in preparation for the move. The Fall, Southland, Shameless… hell, Lydia wouldn’t shut up about that show Skins when she was binge-watching it back home.
He should have done some sort of research, because the culture shock left Jackson wide-eyed, dumbfounded, and quite humbled. Things were smaller here, crowded and cramped. The houses felt more like hallways squished between other houses that felt like hallways. Another thing, people here liked to drink. A lot. Jackson had no qualms about guzzling down a flask and a half of booze on prom night back in high school or engaging in the occasional bar hop, but too much beer would ruin his pristine abs.
Plus, werewolves can’t get drunk. So.
Maybe perfect werewolf abs can’t pudge out either? Every werewolf he knew had pretty nice abs. Add that to the Unknown Werewolf Facts list.
Whatever. The point is, the move to London a few years back left Jackson kind of shell-shocked. It changed him, but it was a change for the better. Even Jackson could admit that. Without the pressures of his social group to be cool and his coach and lacrosse team to be the star, he was able to quiet down and become less of, well, a douche. The werewolf thing probably changed him a little bit too.
After Jackson’s parents had re-relocated to Paris (because they wanted Jackson to live every werewolf cliché in the book), it left him pretty much alone in the world to do his own thing. Because Jackson had wanted to stay in London, because he was not ready to do the whole culture shock thing again, no way. Just the thought of leaving and starting all over again for a second time, in a place that was unfamiliar, in a home that didn’t smell like home (werewolf thing? Add it to The List), where they spoke a different language, made him nauseous. It was fine with him that his parents left. He was close to his parents, sure, as close as any adopted kid could be. But there was never a real, true familial connection between them. No common thread of a shared bloodline that bonded them together. Jackson had never really felt that in his life, but he knew what it would feel like if he had it. He knew because he missed it, craved it like some kind of ever-present, nagging ache.
Once, for a moment, Jackson thought he felt it, his junior year of high school right before he moved here. Thought he felt that skin, bone, soul deep bond that made him think he finally understood the phrase “blood is thicker than water”. That connection of family.
But it was too fleeting to really tell.
He reminisced on that time now, while his forearms were braced against the pillows on either side of the red-haired girl’s face. A few beads of sweat were dewed up in the crease of his spine that ran all the way from between his shoulder blades down to his lower back, and the girl ran her fingertips over them. Her eyes, a muddy brown mixture, briefly met his before she snapped them shut. Jackson continued his methodic thrusting.
“Mmmm, yeah. Right there, yes.” She urged. And really, how did he land himself in the middle of a bad British porno? He rolled his eyes, then quickly snapped them back down to make sure the girl didn’t catch the gesture. Luckily, her eyes were still firmly clamped shut.
He’d picked her up in one of the bars near his college earlier that Friday evening. Well, to be precise, she’d picked him up. He hadn’t been meaning to leave with anyone, just to blow off some of that freshman-year-just-ended-and-finals-killed-me steam with his buddies. But this girl had flipped her locks over her shoulder and for a second, Jackson could have sworn he was staring at Lydia across the bar. It didn’t take much after that for her to coax him away from his classmates.
(“Take me home,” she’d whispered, and Jackson got that strange jolt in his chest that he felt anytime someone mentioned the word “home”. His apartment was only a few blocks away, but to take her home, he’d have to fly her five thousand miles away from here.)
However, it didn’t take longer than the seconds required to get their clothes off for Jackson to realize that this girl was absolutely not Lydia Martin.
Rubbing a thumb over her tiny breast (so not Lydia), Jackson shut his eyes and willed his body to feel what it used to, to recognize the sensations and pulses and warmth surrounding him. It did, eventually, because hey. He may be jaded, but he’s still a guy with needs.
-
“I dunno if they make them all like you in the states,” the redhead, he hadn’t gotten a name, said as Jackson walked her out to the sidewalk. “But, bloody hell, if they do, I’m hopping on a plane tomorrow.” Jackson grinned in answer; then she pecked him on the cheek and was off.
Jackson leaned against the brick wall of his building, watching her go but not really seeing her. It had been almost four years since he left Beacon Hills, yet he still thought of that town as his home. Which was stupid. So stupid. Who even thinks about where they were four years ago? Washed up athletes with knee problems. Girls whose freshman fifteen pushed them over the line from curvy to fat. Students whose top ten GPA got them into the best colleges, only so that they could flush their scholarships down the toilet, along with their alcoholic vomit. Losers that can’t come to terms with the fact that their glory days are days gone by.
And Jackson, apparently.
He crossed his arms over the thin tank top covering his chest. He thought about home a lot. He functioned here; he didn’t hate it. But this place wasn’t his home. He fished his phone out of the deep pocket of his sweatpants, pulling up his contacts. Scrolling past Danny and Derek, and pushing so fast past the L’s that he could barely see them, Jackson paused on the name McCall.
It wasn’t the first time he’d considered texting Scott, but he never followed through. They were never actually friends…but Scott was decent. If anyone would accept a call from Jackson now, it would be McCall. But once again Jackson was sure he was the only loser that still thought about calling someone he knew four years ago and then didn’t even actually do it. McCall had probably forgotten about him; he probably had a life and friends, was probably googly-eyed over some new girl, probably still butt-buddies with Stilinski, cause that was a forever thing. Jackson didn’t want to interrupt his life, to be a nuisance, especially when he didn’t have a real reason to call (‘I miss you’ was simply out of the question).
It was appropriate, really, that amidst all these thoughts about home, old friends and his past life is when he’d heard him. That smooth, familiar voice he was sure he would never hear again.
“Well, she was cute.” It teased from an alley between his building and the next. “You certainly have a type, Jackson.”
And there, halfway down the alley, leaning surreptitiously against the wall and starring at him with alpha-red eyes, was none other than Derek Hale.
-
“So why are you really here?” Jackson posed the question carefully. Their reunion had been amicable thus far, comfortable even. True, Jackson and Derek had had their issues in the past. Derek had even threatened to kill Jackson several times but hey, what’s done is done. There’s something about seeing someone from your past after a long period of time, even someone you were never close to, that renders a sense of comradeship between you. Derek was lumped in with that whole clique from Beacon Hills that he sorely missed. His was a face that came from home.
But the question of why had loomed over them as Jackson led Derek back to his apartment and they sat chatting at his crappy kitchen table. Jackson rarely had dinner guests, so he’d had to dig a folding chair out of the closet. He made tea.
Pretty weird, huh? Tea in England with Derek Hale.
Derek placed said tea down before meeting Jackson’s eyes. “I need a place to stay.”
“For how long?”
“Until I can find my own place.”
“Your own place where?”
“Here.”
Jackson quirked an eyebrow. “You’re leaving Beacon Hills?”
“For now.”
“Not only Beacon Hills, but…the entire United States of America?”
“That’s right.”
Jackson furrowed his perfectly manicured brows. “And you tracked me down, all the way to the U.K. Me. A person you’ve previously threatened to kill. To the exact bar I was in tonight. Waited for me to have my fun with that girl and for her to leave. All to ask me if you could crash on my couch?” Jackson nodded more to himself than to Derek. He wasn’t as shocked as maybe he should have been.
His query was met with a silent stare from Derek. He waited, but it was clear that their friendly conversation earlier didn’t translate when it came to any personal information.
“Why?” Jackson pressed.
Derek shrugged. “Cheaper than a hotel.”
Jackson scoffed. “Why are you leaving?” More silence from Derek. Good to know some things never change.
“Cheaper, huh?” Eventually Jackson gave in. “Alright, I’ll put you up.” He pushed himself up from the table and headed around the counter into the small kitchen. “But not because you need a place to stay. No. I’ll put you up because I think you need a friend.” Jackson chuckled at his own self-progress. “It’s always been clear that you’re loaded, don’t try to deny it. I know you lived in that shell of a home for a long time back in Beacon Hills, but I also know that it’s not because you didn’t have the money to go somewhere else. Your family was well off even before that fire, and there’s no way you didn’t get some type of insurance settlement when you were old enough.” He busied his hands with tidying the kitchen. “There are plenty of cheap motels around here even if you somehow pissed away all your money since I left. There are other places you could have gone.” Jackson finished cleaning his mug and put it in its proper place in the cabinet. “But maybe not many other people you could have called.” Then he turned and braced his arms on the counter, looking Derek straight in the eye. His voice softened. “I think you’re running, Derek. I think you’re running and you need a place to hide.”
Still, Derek was silent. But he was also the first one to break eye contact, dropping his gaze down to read the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.
“The couch is a pullout.” Jackson offered, slipping around the counter to grab some extra blankets from the closet. “Sheets are fresh-”
“Pack.” Derek mumbled into his mug.
Jackson paused. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t need a friend, Jackson. What I need is a pack.” Derek stood and took the blankets from Jackson’s arms. “Thank you.” He said, and Jackson’s mind almost exploded because he never thought he’d hear such sincere gratitude from Derek freaking Hale. It wasn’t desperate; it wasn’t pleading. Just a genuine appreciation of hospitality.
He also recognized Derek’s confession about needing a pack for exactly what it was: a proposition.
As Jackson lay in bed later that night, he wondered if it was that easy all along. To simply show up in someone’s life and suddenly feel like you were no longer alone.
Shivers erupted down his spine when he also wondered what the hell could have been so terrifying to make Derek flee the country.