superlative

He’s not here to beg to be part of the pack, to be welcomed by everything he left behind. He doesn’t need that, he doesn’t think he even wants it anymore. All he knows is he spent weeks thinking about how wrong he’d done by her. 

“How would you know? You weren’t here for any of the times that Scott saved us all.”

“You’re right.” The words are sour on his tongue, sound stilted from disuse, but they’re genuine. “I wasn’t. I think we can all agree that me leaving worked out best for everyone. No one here to mes everything up. I couldn’t even take the bite right.” 

So much is different in Beacon Hills, it’d be impossible not to notice. Things feel darker, like the shadows are bigger. Even kids that have no clue what goes bump in the night look like they’re on edge. Maybe the whole of the town is getting ready to accept the supernatural. Jackson would rather not be around when it does, but - 

that’s not really true. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and the idea of going back to London makes him frown. 

They aren’t the same people they were when they dated. They’re not even the same people they were when she handed back that key. 

The world has worn Jackson’s sharp edges down into something smoother, easier to handle. 

It’s hard to be mad at someone who has been drug through the mud as much as he has. 

He’s not here to beg to be part of the pack, to be welcomed by everything he left behind. He doesn’t need that, he doesn’t think he even wants it anymore. All he knows is he spent weeks thinking about how wrong he’d done by her. 

He walks in a library that isn’t his, and no one notices him. It’s been that long, another lifetime. Back then, he would have cared, not being seen, not being acknowledged. Now it’s a relief. 

Spotting her has always been the easiest thing, that red hair, those clever eyes. He approaches with his hands in his pockets, intentionally casual. She’s gonna see right through it, because she’s Lydia Martin and nothing gets past her. 

This isn’t a premonition, this isn’t a dream. 

There is no death in the brightly lit room, no beast lurking near. At least…for the moment. 

Lydia makes an effort to sit up straighter, to brush the hair from her shoulders. 

So much is different in Beacon Hills, it’d be impossible not to notice. Things feel darker, like the shadows are bigger. Even kids that have no clue what goes bump in the night look like they’re on edge. Maybe the whole of the town is getting ready to accept the supernatural. Jackson would rather not be around when it does, but - 

that’s not really true. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and the idea of going back to London makes him frown. 

Her lips are chapped. It’s something to focus on, that feeling of skin stretched too tight, dry and on the verge of cracking. And no matter how many time her tongue flicks out to wet them, it only makes it worse.

“She was…she was beautiful. And a bad ass. She was everything she was ever supposed to be. Everything.”

The vehemence of the words surprises even Lydia. 

Now, without Allison at her side, and over a year’s worth of something at her back, her head’s just as tall, but she’s letting the cracks show. On one hand, Jackson finds it a good thing - she looks less like porcelain and more like marble. On the other, he knows she deserved better than what she’s had to deal with. 

And he left. 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t have the word, none to sum up Allison Argent. He wants them, but they won’t come; all that’s left is a hollow sadness, more loss that shouldn’t have happened. And above all that, he feels like an ass, like he could have helped. 

Just goes to show how self-centered he still is, huh?

A grief that might have finally softened at the edges was razor sharp once again, leaving her with the taste of blood on her tongue. It shatters in her chest, and no amount of girl power, I-Will-Survive mentality was going to keep the tears at bay, not even with Jackson looking right at her.

Jackson freezes, eyes going wide and how hard it strikes, how violent Lydia’s emotion hits like a train. 

It shouldn’t have been her. Shouldn’t have been any of them. Allison, she was still trying to find herself. And Lydia, they’d both - 

“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks halfway through, and it sounds so insincere, but he’d - he’d liked Allison. He’s not just sorry for Lydia’s sake. 

A brief look around assures him that no one has given them more than a cursory glance, and they really need to get away from the crowd and somewhere less likely to cause a scene.

Then he’ll call Scott.

The question should have been expected, but Jackson’s left with a gut-punch, and a rough noise that’s embarrassingly close to a keen leaves his throat before he can cut it off. There’s nothing for it, he’s not anchored to anything anyone, only a sense of longing for that fleeting feeling of being part of something, of being better. 

“They’re dead.”

It tastes even more bitter than he thought possible, the words pulling out of his throat like they’re tied with barbed wire.

He ignores the quiet street around them, the chill on the air, the heat pooling on his cheeks, the itch of his eyes. In vain, he tries to cling to something, and finds himself staring at Stiles’ moles and scattered freckles, counting them, looking for patterns.