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Title: letting go [ficlet]
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 475 - Titanic
Warnings: General spoilers up through 3B.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~580
Summary: Stiles and Jackson cross paths in London.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: This takes place in the home is a three-letter word ‘verse.
-- = --
If, when Stiles had been a sophomore, you would have told him that he and Jackson Whittemore would be friends, he’d have laughed in your face, loud and long, and recommended possibly seeking professional help. But as an adult, much older and wiser at twenty, a lot has changed and many of the things Stiles had once believed impossible aren’t just probable but definitively true. Like werewolves. And magic. And a couple dozen other myths, legends, and fairytales.
But Stiles finds himself in London to help facilitate the merging of two small packs, one alpha relinquishing their power to the other, and it’s all pretty basic as it’s a willing concession. He watches the transfer ceremony, oversees new territory maps being drawn up, and witnesses betas of one pack submitting to the alpha of the other. Neighboring packs have been invited to attend the ceremony and that’s where Stiles and Jackson cross paths for the first time in almost four years.
The look on Jackson’s face when he enters the Davies Pack alpha’s back garden, flared nostrils and wide eyes, was downright hilarious. Stiles just waggled his fingers at him in a cheeky wave, inexplicably grateful for a familiar face, even if that face belongs to Jackson Whittemore. Maybe especially because it does. Because, if there’s anyone that can relate to weight on Stiles’ chest, the horror of his nightmares, it’s Jackson.
So, during the celebration following the final ceremony, Stiles approaches Jackson with a glass of the good aconite whiskey and a proposition. “Any chance you might want to grab coffee sometime in the next couple of days?”
Jackson accepts the whiskey warily, sniffing at the liquid as he swirls it in the glass. “Why?”
Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “To talk.”
“About?”
“Stuff. And things.” The way Jackson raises just the one eyebrow at him makes Stiles wonder if that’s a Hale werewolf or all werewolf trait. “I’m sorry for hitting you with my Jeep. If that makes a difference.”
The corner of Jackson’s mouth quirks up. “Milk Bar on Bateman. Tomorrow, nine AM.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Stiles doesn’t actually wear bells, although he totally would have if the whole point of asking to meet Jackson for coffee was to annoy the absolute shit out of him. But Stiles legitimately wants to talk to him about the things that Matt and Gerard made him do, what the nogitsune made Stiles do. None of his friends could understand what it felt like to have all that blood on his hands — logically, he understood that it wasn’t him, wasn’t his fault, but it was his body and he was trapped in his mind and still completely aware of what was happening.
The next few days—Stiles’ last in London—are spent in Jackson’s company forging an unexpectedly strong friendship. Something seems to settle in Jackson, the same weight Stiles feels lifted off his chest as he shares his burden easing off of Jackson’s allowing them both to stand taller and breathe deeper.
As a matter of fact, it’s Jackson that drops Stiles off at Heathrow for his flight to Buenos Aires. They part with a hug that Jackson initiates, Stiles clinging to him, making a scene, loudly proclaiming, “I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go!”
Jackson shakes his head and shoves Stiles away with a smile. “Have a safe flight, loser. Call me when you land.”
“Will do,” Stiles says with salute. “See you in a few months.”
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 475 - Titanic
Warnings: General spoilers up through 3B.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~580
Summary: Stiles and Jackson cross paths in London.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: This takes place in the home is a three-letter word ‘verse.
If, when Stiles had been a sophomore, you would have told him that he and Jackson Whittemore would be friends, he’d have laughed in your face, loud and long, and recommended possibly seeking professional help. But as an adult, much older and wiser at twenty, a lot has changed and many of the things Stiles had once believed impossible aren’t just probable but definitively true. Like werewolves. And magic. And a couple dozen other myths, legends, and fairytales.
But Stiles finds himself in London to help facilitate the merging of two small packs, one alpha relinquishing their power to the other, and it’s all pretty basic as it’s a willing concession. He watches the transfer ceremony, oversees new territory maps being drawn up, and witnesses betas of one pack submitting to the alpha of the other. Neighboring packs have been invited to attend the ceremony and that’s where Stiles and Jackson cross paths for the first time in almost four years.
The look on Jackson’s face when he enters the Davies Pack alpha’s back garden, flared nostrils and wide eyes, was downright hilarious. Stiles just waggled his fingers at him in a cheeky wave, inexplicably grateful for a familiar face, even if that face belongs to Jackson Whittemore. Maybe especially because it does. Because, if there’s anyone that can relate to weight on Stiles’ chest, the horror of his nightmares, it’s Jackson.
So, during the celebration following the final ceremony, Stiles approaches Jackson with a glass of the good aconite whiskey and a proposition. “Any chance you might want to grab coffee sometime in the next couple of days?”
Jackson accepts the whiskey warily, sniffing at the liquid as he swirls it in the glass. “Why?”
Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “To talk.”
“About?”
“Stuff. And things.” The way Jackson raises just the one eyebrow at him makes Stiles wonder if that’s a Hale werewolf or all werewolf trait. “I’m sorry for hitting you with my Jeep. If that makes a difference.”
The corner of Jackson’s mouth quirks up. “Milk Bar on Bateman. Tomorrow, nine AM.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there with bells on.”
Stiles doesn’t actually wear bells, although he totally would have if the whole point of asking to meet Jackson for coffee was to annoy the absolute shit out of him. But Stiles legitimately wants to talk to him about the things that Matt and Gerard made him do, what the nogitsune made Stiles do. None of his friends could understand what it felt like to have all that blood on his hands — logically, he understood that it wasn’t him, wasn’t his fault, but it was his body and he was trapped in his mind and still completely aware of what was happening.
The next few days—Stiles’ last in London—are spent in Jackson’s company forging an unexpectedly strong friendship. Something seems to settle in Jackson, the same weight Stiles feels lifted off his chest as he shares his burden easing off of Jackson’s allowing them both to stand taller and breathe deeper.
As a matter of fact, it’s Jackson that drops Stiles off at Heathrow for his flight to Buenos Aires. They part with a hug that Jackson initiates, Stiles clinging to him, making a scene, loudly proclaiming, “I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go!”
Jackson shakes his head and shoves Stiles away with a smile. “Have a safe flight, loser. Call me when you land.”
“Will do,” Stiles says with salute. “See you in a few months.”