A/N: This is set shortly after the end of season two, and takes place in a universe I like to call "fuck you season 3." Nothing that happened in season three is going be acknowledged by or occur in this story. I'm also including the Alpha Pack in that, even though technically we first saw them at the end of season two. So instead of Chris Argent releasing Boyd and Erica at the end of season two, only for them to be immediately captured by the Alpha Pack, what happened here is that Chris let them go, and they were found in the forrest by Derek shortly after.
Trigger warnings for subsequent chapters include dub-con, non-con, suicide and self-mutilation. Graphic violence and sexual situations will be common. If you have any questions about the specifics of those, feel free to send me a PM.
Merry Christmas :)
"I could have screamed aloud;I sought with tears and prayers to smother downthe crowd of hideous images and sounds with whichmy memory swarmed against me."—Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Neither of them had meant for it to happen. Looking back, Derek wasn't even sure how it had happened. One minute they'd been yelling at each other, and the next Derek had Jackson pressed roughly back against the wall, and Jackson was pulling off his clothes...
Derek had not meant for that to happen. Hadn't meant to yell at him, and definitely hadn't meant for the sweaty, awkward hand-job that had followed. He'd only wanted to make it better.
It had been well past mid-night when Derek had wandered down into the dingy basement that held the abandoned subway car he'd spent a portion of the previous year living in. He'd moved on now, to a more permanent living situation, but he still liked the space. That was where Derek had found him, huddled in a corner, red-eyed and stinking of alcohol. His hand had been bleeding, cut on the bottle of whisky he'd shattered in it when he'd realized it could no longer be used to dull his pain.
Derek had tried to talk to him. To... comfort him, as best he could. Comfort wasn't really his area of expertise, he was more of a "suck it up, bury it down and go on" type of guy... but he was trying to change, he really was. The experience with the kanima, and with Gerard Argent, had been a wake up call. He needed to be there for his pack, not just train them up into little warrior wolves and tell them to try not to get killed. They were teenagers, and they were lost. They needed him to guide them.
The trouble was it wasn't easy guiding someone, when you were just as lost as they were.
So he'd tried to get Jackson to talk to him, to tell him what was wrong... to help him. Ignored Jackson's repeated, biting assertions thats he was fine, and that Derek should just fuck off and leave him be. Ignored the stream of insults and jabs, the relentless sarcasm and the overwhelming urge to grab him and shake him.
Jackson had not made it easy. His attitude made it practically impossible to be nice to him, and niceness was not something that came easily to Derek under the best of circumstances. Derek didn't think he'd ever met someone who infuriated him so much, or so easily, and that said something because Derek was personally acquainted with Stiles Stilinski.
All things considered, Derek had actually been doing alright; keeping his temper down, trying to at least appear calm. Then he'd realized that though they'd been "talking" for over 10 minutes, the cut on Jackson's hand was still bleeding.
That really sent him over the edge, Jackson keeping himself from healing. It was so stupidly, self indulgently pointless.
So he'd lost it, shouted at him and demanded that Jackson tell him what was wrong, and let himself heal, or else Derek was going to claw out his throat. He'd thrown him up against the wall and growled harshly in his face, fully expecting Jackson to laugh at him and tell him to go fuck himself. But talking it out hadn't worked, so it had clearly been time for the old stand by of claws-and-teeth.
It had worked, sort of. Jackson had told him what had happened.
See, when Jackson had been the kanima, he hadn't remembered what he was doing. Matt made him forget, made him not know what he was. Now that Matt was dead, and the kanima curse broken, the memories of what he'd done had been coming back to him. They came back in pieces, Jackson said, in quick flashes—the sound of screaming, the smell of blood, wide terrified eyes... Sometimes memories came back to him out of the blue, but more often than not they were trigged by something.
Today after school, Jackson had found that the fuel line on his Porsche had broken, and he'd taken it into the mechanics to get it fixed. As the kanima, Jackson had killed a mechanic by the name of Tucker Cornish. When he'd gone into the shop, the memory had come back.
Derek had tried to tell him that it wasn't his fault, and that hurting himself wouldn't solve anything. Jackson hadn't listened, still refused to heal, and so Derek had resumed shouting at him. Jackson had been shouting back, his hands on Derek's chest trying to shove him off. And then... neither of them had been shouting anymore.
Derek still didn't understand how it had happened, how he'd lost control like that. In the end, it didn't really matter how or why it happened, just that it never happened again. And it wouldn't, Derek swore.
Still, it hadn't all been for nothing. What had happened hadn't been planned, but it had worked, in a manner.
Jackson had healed as he came.