Chapter Text
Scott can’t be sure what’s worse: the horror that crosses Jackson’s face, the betrayal on Allison’s, or the realization that—oh god—he’s a dad. Or going to be, Deaton claims as Jackson rests a trembling hand over his stomach. For a moment, no makes eye contact, no one breathes, then there’s a choked sob and Allison’s storming out the door in a flurry of hair and angry tears. Scott instinctively makes to go after her, but then Jackson’s making a distressed sound of his own, burying his head in his hands.
Scott’s heart clenches for the both of them and for the first time in a long time, he isn’t sure that chasing after Allison is the best decision he could make. He finds himself stuck, hallway out the door, halfway in, and he hangs there helplessly as the saline smell of Allison’s tears reaches his nose and the broken stammer of Jackson’s denials reaches his ears.
A hand, large and warm, squeezes his shoulder, and Scott finds himself reassured. Surprisingly, it’s Derek’s hand, Derek’s low mutter of, “Go after her,” that gives Scott the strength to calm his frantic heartbeat, to move his feet.
Allison didn’t make it far at all; Scott finds her just outside the vet’s office, leaning against the wall, hugging herself. She’s huffed breaths and silent tears and the guilt constricts Scott’s throat, his lungs, and he approaches clumsily, unsure of what to do. “Allison …”
She stiffens. “Don’t.”
“But—”
“Don’t,” she grits, clutching her arms tightly, “Please, Scott, just—just—” She looks up then, her face red and wet and as furious as it is upset, and demands, “How long?”
Scott worries at his lip, then, “Once. Just once while you and I were—were broken up.”
“And you never thought to tell me?”
“We swore never to talk about it again.” Scott insists. “It was the full moon. We weren’t—we didn’t—It just happened.” The worst part of it, Scott thinks, is that he actually doesn’t know exactly what did happen that night. But, sometimes when he closes his eyes, he swears that his body remembers. His hands remember gripping Jackson’s hips; his lips remember Jackson’s biting kisses; and his nose remembers the overwhelming stink of sweat, dirt, spunk, blood, grass, andJackson.
(Sometimes he remembers barking words he would never admit to saying, things like, breed and pups and knot and mate and fuck fuck fuck fuck—)
How could he have told her that he snaps awake some nights, flushed and trembling and hard, because of a phantom memory of a night he couldn’t be sure actually happened? He knew that she would look at him as she does now, with furious disbelief. Hell, he barely believes what’s happening himself.
Scott licks his lips, scrambling for words. “I-It didn’t mean anything, Allison. I promise you that.”
She pushes off the wall then, Allison, then, as Scott opens his mouth to speak, she slaps him with a sharp crack and storms down the street. And, Scott just … stands there, the stinging in his cheek and the quickly staling scent of Allison the only concrete evidence that what happened happened. Minutes pass before he musters the strength to go back into the clinic.
Scott doesn’t know what he expects, but it isn’t Jackson leaning against the examination table quietly, Deaton rubbing small circles on his back. The door snaps shut, turning all attention on him, and the hopelessness on Jackson’s ashen face is quickly replaced by rage.
“You did this to me!” Jackson hisses, ignoring his Alpha’s warning rumble. “You—You bastard, you—!”
Scott almost doesn’t argue. Almost. “But, I—we—”
“This is all your fault, McCall! I—”
Derek growls. “Jackson, don’t—”
“You’re all to blame,” Deaton declares, his words not loud yet still harsh enough to drive the other three to silence. He pins Derek in particular with a firm frown. “All of you.” Derek looks horrified, but, surprisingly, bites his tongue. “But, we aren’t here to point fingers. We need a plan.”
“Plan?” Jackson jerks away from Deaton’s continuing touch. “The only plan is to get this thing the hell out of me! You’re some witch thing, right? You’ve got something for this somewhere?”
At Deaton’s silence, Jackson’s anger falters and Scott feels as much as sees the despair that crosses his face.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, don’t be fucking sorry. You can’t expect me to just stay like this!”
“For now, you have no choice,” Deaton says gently, giving Jackson’s thigh a comforting squeeze. “Until I see what we’re really dealing with, I don’t want to take any risks.”
Jackson becomes increasingly pallid, shaky, in the following silence until, “I’m gonna puke.”
And, Scott is at his side with a wastebin just in time. It’s strange to be so close to Jackson after so long, even if it’s just to be there as he gags and chokes, the sickly sweet reek of vomit burning his nose. Scott frowns when Jackson begins to cry quietly, physically and mentally strained, and carting his fingers through Jackson’s hair turns into the most natural thing to do.
Scott catches Deaton’s raised eyebrows, swallows. “S-So, what do we do now?”
Jackson spits into the bin, wipes his mouth. “We? What do you mean we? We’re not doing a goddamned—” The sentence fades into nothing as Derek curls his hand around the back of Jackson’s neck, his thumb softly stroking the hairs along his nape. No one expects it, not even Derek from his wide eyes, but Scott finds himself grateful for the gesture.
Scott scratches at Jackson’s scalp. “This is my fault, too, Jackson. You’re not doing this alone,” he insists, “I mean, I—I wouldn’t let you do this alone. That’s our—our—”
The unspoken word hangs heavily as the seconds pass. Yet, Jackson doesn’t wrench away from them or yell or anything like that. He just hangs his head, dangerously close to butting his forehead with Scott’s, and mumbles, “I just want—I want to go home. Let me go home.”
Deaton offers a sympathetic frown. “I don’t—”
“Of course,” Scott interrupts, setting the wastebin aside. “I’ll drive you, okay? I mean, if that’s all right.”
Jackson stares at him for moment, but then wordlessly fishes out his keys, hands them to Scott. Nodding at Derek’s sharp, “We’ll talk later,” look, they make their way into Jackson’s car. The ride is silent, tense, with Jackson curled up in his seat, face pressed against the window. He sniffles from time to time, tries and fails to cover it with coughs and snorts, and it takes Scott everything he has not to reach out for him.
When did that start? When did he start wanting—needing—to touch Jackson?
Scott exhales deeply, eyes trained on the road, trained away from how good Jackson’s presence feels beside him, like home, like pack, like—like— He doesn’t know. There’s something there, something mixed up and fucked, that he doesn’t understand.
The steering wheel squeaks as his grip tightens. “Jackson, look, I—”
“Don’t.”
“Jackson—”
“Don’t.”
The deja vu sends Scott reeling and he bites his lip hard. “Can you just listen to what I have to say? Please? Please, I can’t—” He can’t take anymore rejection, not after—after Allison. Fuck.
Jackson squeezes his eyes shut; his swallow is loud to Scott’s ears. “What is it?”
“Okay. I—I—”
“Fuck, McCall. Don’t say that you—”
“No!” Scott almost shouts. He catches Jackson’s wounded look in the rearview. “No, I mean—I know we haven’t really seen eye to eye, well, ever, but I just wanted to say that I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that night and I’m sorry for—for this.” Scott licks his lips, tastes copper. “I want you to know that I’m here for you, okay? Every step of the way.”
A beat, then Jackson purses his lips. “Fuck you.”
“Wha—”
“Do you mean me or the—the baby?”
Shit, there it is, the word they’ve been dancing around for hours, the word not even Deaton could bring himself to say. They pull up in front of Jackson’s house and turn to each other. They don’t frown or glare; they just look.
With no hesitation, Scott breathes, “You. Both of you,” he adds, reaching to rest a tentative hand on Jackson’s stomach. Jackson’s body quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t make to pull away. “I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
Eyes flash blue. A feral whimper pulls from Jackson’s throat, unbidden, and Scott feels his wolf growl possessively in return. But, then, Jackson shoves him off and the moment is gone.
“Don’t feed me that shit, McCall!” Jackson scrambles for the door latch and starts climbing out. “Go fuck—” He chokes at the hand grasping his. “What are you—”
“You smell like me,” Scott blurts, startled by the realization himself. “I think you have for a while, since—since that night.” You smell like mine, he doesn’t say.
Jackson’s dumbstruck, his jaw slackening slightly, then he quickly sets his jaw. “Tell me, McCall. Do you—Do you really want this?”
That takes a bit to consider and Scott finds himself curling both hands around Jackson’s. A strained smile. “I—I really have no clue. You know, I’d probably make a shitty dad in hindsight. Besides, I want to do right by you, Jackson. Do you want to have the, er, baby?”
Jackson’s stare is insistent and Scott finds himself lost in his discomfort. He finally breaks the gaze and sighs down at their hands. “You’d make a pretty incompetent dad,” Jackson agrees with a slight nod. “But, I don’t think you’d be a bad one,” he finishes. Before Scott can even comprehend the words, Jackson’s drawing away, accepting the keys and walking up the lawn. It hits Scott just as he climbs out of the Porsche, just as Jackson unlocks his front door. Jackson casts a final glance over his shoulder and Scott finds himself grinning broadly, dopily, for the first time in what feels like forever.
Because, when Jackson places his hand on his stomach, he mouths, Thank you, and it isn’t a yes or a no, but is enough to save Scott a few sleepless nights. And, until shit starts making sense, that’s enough.