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Lately Jackson had been…reevaluating things. There was something about changing species, dying, and being resurrected twice over that had shifted his perspective. It hadn’t made the hole in his chest feel any smaller so much as less important. Since now he was riddled through like Swiss cheese. There were Lacrosse shaped holes, Danny and Lydia shaped holes, and the blood-tinged holes that hid the memories of his time as the Kanima. He wasn’t going to stop trying to claw his way to the top but he couldn’t pretend anymore; he knew it wouldn’t make the ache any less.
His parents’ London flat (apparently it lost half its value if he called it an apartment) was not helping him “get his mind off those terrible things that happened back home”. It was all modern art, stark lines, and polished metal glinting in the light of the setting sun. Smooth. Cold. Hard. Like the skin of a snake.
He shook himself and plopped down on the uncomfortable couch. The full moon was the next day and he could already feel it crawling up his spine. So far the only positive thing about London was the short summer nights. The last moon had only lasted a few hours before the sun rose. He’d told his parents everything but it was safer not to confront them the reality of his “condition”. Things would be a lot harder come winter.
After three months he’d learned how to manage his enhanced senses, and to trust them. So at first he just ignored the feeling of apprehension that was seeping into his bones. He could hear and smell anyone long before they reached his door, and there was nothing. Neighbors cooking, arguing, watching tv, but nothing to explain the creeping dread that was literally starting to make him twitch. Nonetheless he let himself be pulled towards the door and the silent hallway behind it.
As he leaned in to press his ear to the door it shook in its frame under a series of heavy blows. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. He froze in place straining to hear, to catch a scent, but there was nothing. It was impossible. He could clearly make out three separate fists rapping in unison and yet his senses told him the hall was empty. BANG. BANG. BANG.
There was nothing else for it “Wh-Who’s there?” And here he’d thought leaving Beacon Hills behind would spare him from things like terrified stutters. He hated feeling like a coward.
“The Ghosts of Alphas Past, Present, and Future. Open up, lizardbreath, or we’ll huff and puff and cliché the house down.”
Stilinski!? Apparently his transatlantic flight had strayed into the Bermuda Triangle and landed him in a Hell Dimension London. His fear evaporated in flash of rage. That fire petered out and died all of two seconds later when he threw open the door and took in the sight on the other side.
Stilinksi stood there flanked by Derek and McCall. He looked…different. It wasn’t the muscle he’d put on or the longer hairstyle, though. It was his smile. That stupid, insufferable knowing smirk had taken on a knife edge that Jackson had become all too familiar with. It held the promise of violence now, tightly controlled. That look, the casual confidence in his stance; they made him look like a different person. The leather jacket was definitely new too, and deep scarlet (Little Red was trading up, he supposed). Scarlet. Just like the sunset sparkling in the stones set in his earrings. Just like the light glowing in all three pairs of eyes staring at him.
Three Alphas were in his territory and standing all of two feet away. His reaction was instinctive and immediate. The wolf rushed to surface as a roar of challenge rose in his throat…and died there. The shift didn’t come. The shift didn’t come. He moved on to his second initiative: slamming the door in panic. That didn’t go any better. The door wouldn’t budge, not an inch.
The smirk on Stilinski’s face turned smug. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” he asked sweetly. “I thought they were big on manners here in England.”
“Fuck you, Stilinski.” Not the epitome of razor wit, so sue him. Somehow Stilinski had become a werewolf. And here he’d thought Derek had some standards about what he put in his mouth. Worse he was an Alpha, and McCall too. McCall. This wasn’t hell; this was a lower place.
Jackson’s all time low fell another couple of notches when Stilinski sent him flying through the air into the love seat with nothing more than a sigh and a brightening of the glow in his eyes. While Jackson sat there feeling the last foundations of his worldview crumbling, Stilinksi and Derek sat down on the sofa across the coffee table from him, Scott hanging back and looking constipated.
He felt a flicker of shame coil in his stomach as he tried to bolt for the open door, which slammed shut and locked itself before he even made it to his feet. Feet that went out from under him as soon as he was vertical, roughly pitching him backwards into loveseat a second time.
“Stiles, stop showing off. You’re upsetting Scott,” Derek said disinterestedly, leafing through a magazine from the coffee table. Scott whined in agreement from where he was pretending to be engrossed by a Jackson Pollack hanging in the foyer.
“Ugh, fine!” he said throwing his back dramatically in disappointment. “Anything for you.” He darted in for a quick kiss from Derek, sending Jackson into a slack-jawed fugue.
“I’m pretty sure that still counts as showing off,” Derek said in mock chastisement.
“What? How? Huh?” Jackson asked when remembered how vocal chords worked.
“Cliff notes?” Stilinski asked.
Jackson nodded dumbly.
“I have magic. I was targeted by vampire assassins because the Courts are at war with the White Council of Wizards. Scott became a True Alpha trying to save me but it wasn’t enough. We were trapped in a failing protection circle and these two buried the hatchet so we could all be pack and I might be strong enough to hold out. Something funky happened and now we are the Alpha. Royal we. It’s a thing”
“But you’re not a werewolf?”
“Like I said, funky.” Stilinski, magic. Stop the world, Jackson wanted off. But it looked like the three (Alpha) stooges had other ideas. “Anyway, we’re doing the majority rules thing. I was all for letting you enjoy your remake of American Werewolf in London but Complexes Martyr and Messiah here felt responsible for you.”
The usual blend of “I don’t need you’s” and “I have my own agenda’s” must have shown on his face because Stilinski’s eyes flashed a threatening red the second Jackson opened his mouth.
The smug look got a reprise when his jaw clicked shut reflexively in submission. “Good boy, that’s deference enough for me; not expecting miracles here. Welcome to the pack.”
Jackson’s head spun at the rush of power that punctuated those words. It was amazing. He could rail and scheme later. Right now he was overwhelmed by the sudden lack of empty in his chest. He was still sitting there stunned when Derek and Scott appeared on either side of him, giving reassuring squeezes on his shoulders. Jackson love/hated how good that contact felt.
“Until I’m strong enough to make an enchantment that will let you travel the ways alone, you’ll be taking the Unicorn Express to pack meetings and full moons.”
“The what now?”
“I kept in touch with that crazy unicorn from back in May. He agreed to bring you through the Nevernever. Be grateful, I had to bargain my dignity to get him to agree o the deal.”
“What, was he having a clearance sale?” Yes! He still had a bit of the old Jackson in him yet. And what the hell was the Nevernever? Was this a Peter Pan thing? He wished he didn’t fit the Lost Boys metaphor so well. And now there were vampires too. Wait, that was another Lost Boys entirely. Jackson worried he’d begun to crack. He settled on giving Stiles his patented bitch face.
“Is it weird that I’ve missed this?” Stiles asked Scott and Derek who shrugged. He hopped over the table and pulled Jackson to his feet. He was strong. Not like a werewolf but way stronger than a normal human. And Jackson still couldn’t smell or hear them. “One more thing.”
The reassuring hands became restraining ones as Stiles grabbed his ear, a sharp point of pain burning in the lobe. For a moment Jackson was confused until he remembered Stiles’ pierced ears and the matching studs in both Derek and Scott’s left ears.
He was about to shout a protest when he was assaulted by sensation. His senses sharpened and expanded until he felt like he was aware of everything. What really shocked him was how he could feel the comfort and support radiating from his Alphas (and holy crap his brain had already switched pronouns without even asking him). Chaos was too mild a word for the maelstrom of emotion that scrambled his thoughts as the absolute reality of pack simply asserted itself within him. The Alphas all looked kind of green just from sensing it.
Sometime later his mind found its way back to the here and now. “How?” he asked.
“Magic,” Stiles replied. Right, of course. Magic. “The earrings are charmed; they bring the subliminal bond between pack members up to the conscious level and intensify it.”
Jackson could feel the all the others too, even though they were practically on the other side of the planet. Too many others and too familiar. “Lydia? Danny?”
“Yeah, dude. They’re kinda pissed at you though,” said Scott, earning a derisive snort from Derek. Jackson could feel them, feel the moment they became aware of him. Confusion. Anger. Frustration. Loss. He sent apology and longing along the bonds between them, ignoring the whole “wtf how!?” issue for now. Scott had the nerve to look sympathetic. “Don’t worry, Stiles wiped Lydia’s stash of wolfsbane and molitov cocktails.”
That was sooooo comforting. Something else bothered him too. “The full moon is tomorrow; I can’t just vanish.” He imagined Derek could afford plane tickets just fine, but he doubted the trip involved anything so wondrously normal as flying through the sky at 30,000 feet.
“No problem,” said Stiles. “It’s a ten minute walk from here through the spirit world. Lydia tried to explain it to me but I zoned out somewhere around P-brane oscillations and M Theory. Sheriff Dad went ahead and got permission from your folks for us to wolfnap you for a few days, leaving out the dimension hopping thing.”
Spirit. World. Something snapped in Jackson’s head and he surrendered to the utter bizarreness of the evening. Assuming he didn’t wake up in straight jacket the next morning he could deal with all this later. Apparently he had a pack backing him up now. Even if he’d rather not. He could work on re-reevaluating…things after his trip back home. Of course, if he was still thinking of Beacon Hells as “home” then maybe not enough had actually changed to warrant re-anything. He couldn’t decide if that was horrifying or enheartening. Later.
“Where to now?” he asked. For the first time he could remember he didn’t feel particularly worried about not knowing the answer.