#scottythewolf

“How is he?”

  Introductions were overrated, and Jackson didn’t have time for any formal handshakes with people he may or may not have worked with the last time he was in Beacon Hills. He was here to do a job, they weren’t gathering for a tea party. This wasn’t a vacation. There was a killer here somewhere, lurking, blending into the crowd. Everyone was a suspect. All Jackson wanted to do was catch the man who had so senselessly murdered fifteen teenaged boys in his wake. The crimes were estimated to have been committed over the last five months, before different homicide teams started connecting the dots. The last victim was the final trigger, and all teenaged boys were advised to be weary.

  The buddy system was implemented, and hopefully, no one’s buddy was the killer.

  The Sheriff looked at Jackson, blue eyes just as bright, just as keen to catch the bastard who has countless cities in a frenzy.

  “As well as you can expect. He’s been asleep most of the time since you called.”

  “You’re sure he’s safe here?” The detective asked.

  “Safer than anywhere else he could possibly be right now.” The Sheriff replied. “Do you really need to speak to him?”

  Jackson crossed his arms and nodded. “I need to know his state of mine. See if he can possibly remember anything else about that night. Sometimes our subconscious stores the memories our traumatic experiences force us to forget.” He said, looking through the window where the teenager’s resting body lay under a heap of blankets.

  “Do I need to remove Stiles?”

  Jackson raised his brows at the Sheriff. “What’s a Stiles?”

  “My son. On the other couch.”

  The detective could feel his cheeks flush, that warmth in his face when he knew he’d said the wrong thing. Jackson cleared his throat.

  “Oh. Yes, well, I suppose that would be best.”

  The Sheriff couldn’t contain a smile. “His mother wants to see him. Then he’s all yours.”

  “I just have one question,” Jackson said. “What’s his favourite breakfast?”

  ~

  Jackson had been waiting a while. He supposed it was expected, a worried mother smothering her child with tears and love. He sat patiently just outside the room where Scott was being kept for his own safety. Ms McCall looked exhausted when she walked in, a ghostly look in her eyes. He could see it in her eyes, she’s been dreading this day, the day that her son’s life would be in danger once more.

  The door finally opened, and she was led away, but not before looking at him with so many questions in her eyes.

  Why my son?

Who is he?

Why now?

  They were the questions everyone was asking, but none that he could answer right now. Standing up, he reached for the brown paper bag that contained a breakfast from the diner across the street. The sheriff had given him a detailed description of what Scott liked to eat for breakfast, and frankly, he couldn’t imagine why he and Scott’s mother weren’t married. But that wasn’t his focus as he gently opened the door.

  Scott sat on the couch, blankets bundled up around his waist. The room was a little cold, but nothing a nice breakfast couldn’t fix. it was strange, seeing how big he’d gotten. In his mind, Scott was still that ten year old boy who’d cried when he took off; leaving him to face the demons on his own.

  Quietly, Jackson closed the door and walked up to him. The teen lifted his head, their eyes locking. They had that same look, filled with terror and fear and expectation.

  You’re gonna catch the bad man, right?

Yeah, don’t you worry you silly curls about it.

My curls aren’t silly!

  “Hello, Scott.” He said, deciding that after seven years of ongoing letters, addressing each other on a first name basis was appropriate. “Remember me?” He asked.

  Scott managed to crack a smile, a small one, but one nonetheless. The only thing different about it was that his face was far more defined.

  “How could I forget? You saved my life.”

  Jackson placed the bag on the table between them. The room has been reorganised so that the two sofas were closer to each other. It seemed to be the lounge in the building. It was quite cosy, actually.

  “I did that? Are you sure it was me?”

  Scott seemed to brighten up a little. “Yes, it was you! Plus, you still smell like coffee!”

  Jackson laughed softly. “Your senses are still quite keen, I see.”

  The teen looked at the bag between them, then back at Jackson. “For me?” He asked.

  Jackson nodded. “Sheriff Stilinski told me what an appetite you had in the morning, so I figured you must be hungry.”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, taking the bag into his lap and reached into it. “Mm. I smell hash browns.”

  Jackson smiled, then sat on the couch with his shoes off, and his legs crossed. It felt good to just relax, wearing shoes for so long wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. Besides, he wanted to calm Scott’s nerves, his mind, his heart. He knew everything must be racing, crumbling one by one. He wanted to be there to pick up the pieces and mend them back together.

  “Have you read any books lately?” Jackson asked.

  Scott hummed at the crunch of the hash brown in his mouth, then swallowed, that priceless smile melting into a disapproving frown. “I know you didn’t fly all the way out here to ask how my reading list was going.”

  “That’s true, but we don’t have to talk about it.”

  “We don’t?” Scott asked, tilting his head.

  “Not if you’re not ready yet. No one expects much from you, Scott. We just want to keep you safe.” Jackson reassured gently.

  Scott said nothing for a minute. “We don’t have to talk about it?”

  “We can talk about whatever you want. Or if you wanna talk to someone else, I can go and get them for you.”

  Scott shook his head. “No, I mean…will you talk to me? About anything?”

  Jackson smiled. “Of course.” He watched as Scott finished the first hash brown, quite flattered that the teen was comfortable eating in front of him. Then again, he hadn’t been shy about it when he was ten. But ten year olds were bottomless pits. “So, books?”

  “I just finished The Great Gatsby,” He said. “I’m reading The Perks of Being A Wallflower.” He smiled, then reached for the container of eggs, humming when he smelt the cheese.

  “Gatsby, huh? Wow. Didn’t think seventeen year olds read books like that.”

  “Not many do, I guess. Have you read it?” Scott asked, perking up.

  “No, unfortunately, I haven’t.” He laughed when the teen glared at him.

  “You should read it…when you get free time, anyway. Oh! You know what else is a fantastic book? Change of Heart by Jodi Picoult, or Mercy by the same author. Kill The Messenger by Tami Hoag…oh, and Body Double by Tess Gerritsen!” He smiled, eating his eggs with a satisfied bounce.

  “These all sound like crime-fiction.” Jackson mused.

  “That’s because they are. They’re some of the most interesting. I mean, Mercy isn’t so much focused on the crime as much as the reasons behind it.”

  Jackson tilted his head, interest gleaming in his beautiful, cerulean eyes. Scott didn’t think it was possible, but they seemed much warmer than the last time he saw them. They were just as kind, and considerate and patient with him. “How’s that?”

  “Well, this man’s wife is terminally ill. So she asks him to kill her, because she can’t stand it anymore. The entire trial isn’t a question of whether or not he killed her or not. He gave himself in, we know that he did it. But was it for the reason that he claimed? That he loved her so much, he’d do anything for her, even help her end her life? There’s no question about the crime. He pleads guilty, but how guilty is he?”

  Jackson nodded along as Scott spoke and ate and sipped his juice. “That certainly is a twist of events, isn’t it? Was he convicted?”

  Scott shrugged. “Gotta read it to find out.”

  Jackson groaned, and lay outstretched across the couch, laying his head back on the arm rest. “Really. You’re just gonna leave me hanging like that?”

  “Don’t blame me! It’s a good book. No point in me ruining it. Read it.”

  “I’ll pencil it.” Jackson laughed softly.

  Scott had imagined this moment a lot. He’d been writing to this man since he was ten years old. He always thought about what it would be like to just sit and have a verbal conversation with him; make jokes and hear him laugh. Of course, this wasn’t the setting he’d quite pictures, but it was relieving all the same. He reached for a strip of bacon and took a bite.

  “What about you? What’ve you been doing lately, Jackson?” He asked curiously, placing his juice box down.

  The detective regarded the question carefully. Most of his time was spent chasing criminals, and a serial killer that now had everyone keeping their sons under lock and key.

  “I’ve been catching up on a lot of TV shows when I can.” At least that was true, he thought.

  “Like what?” Scott asked, crossing his own legs.

  “Criminal Minds, The Walking Dead, Rizzoli & Isles, Supernatural, Arrow, Bones…”

    Jackson could have sworn that Scott could have flown off his couch with how close he was leaning. Although the most adorable thing he’d ever seen was that adorable gleam in his eyes that he identified as excitement.

  “You watch all of those?”

  “Well…yes. I guess it’s weird because I live most of those shows…but I can’t help it.” He grinned.

  Scott placed the bag on the table and with the blanket around his waist, wobbled his way over to Jackson’s couch. The older man pulled his legs back, bringing his knees to his chest so there was space for Scott to sit. He tilted his head and smiled. It was nice; to see his face, hear his voice, gaze into his eyes. And suddenly, that excited voice his sped on a tangent; about his favourite characters, favourite scenes, all the characters he couldn’t stand, and the villains that he sympathised with but whose actions he didn’t condone. The thing about Scott was that it was difficult not to get personal. Jackson had grown up loving comics and paint using his hands and loved how it felt when a dog licked your face.

  From years of back and forth contact, he knew that Scott was exactly the same.

  The longer they spoke, the closer the teen sat.

  Without even realising, they were sitting side by side, their thighs touching. Scott was much more calmer now, pushed into his comfort zone. He spoke using dramatic hand gestures, and with stars in his eyes.

Scott had fallen asleep at the station, waiting for his mother to return from the hospital. He knew she wasn’t going to finish her shift, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. Everything seemed to collapse all at once; from the news reports to the influx of FBI to being unable to rest in his own comfortable bed. Stiles was asleep on the sofa across from him, in a position that did not look particularly comfortable but his best friend was flexible even in the most awkward positions. Once his eyes were open, it was impossible to close them again. He focused on the teen across the room, only a few feet away, but he was too exhausted to reach for his hand.

  They had been friends for so long that just being near him gave Scott comfort. Stiles was always there when he needed him, and he remained after everything that happened. He could have walked away, saved himself the heartache and effort of keeping their friendship alive but not once did he ever give up on him. He smiled softly to himself, because he had the most amazing friend in the world and he’d never trade him for anything. But now it was all back again, and he didn’t want Stiles getting caught in the middle. If Scott was in danger, that he wanted his best friend as far away from it as possible.

  Stiles was stubborn though, and the further Scott would try to push him away, the closer he’d step toward him. In a pool of their kindergarten class, Stiles had chosen him. All the other kids happily talked amongst each other and Scott was going through a tough time. He’d never quite learned how to socialise with other kids, and too much noise frightened him. It was when dad would always yell and slam doors and throw things against the walls. So when he was supposed to get to know his class mates, he made himself as small as he possible could, hiding his eyes behind his shaggy hair.

Out of uniform.

  As much as Jackson loved his job, he decided his stroll didn’t require him to be identified as someone who upheld the law. The park was often one of the more peaceful areas to be, toddlers running around, mothers talking and laughing – probably about the antics of their children. He wondered if fathers did that as well. Jackson knew that some of the men on his team would often flip out photos of their children at random points of the conversation. He supposed it was a normal thing, but he knew more about some his colleague’s children than he ever intended to.

  Like how Lola’s first word was dada or how Sebastien doused himself in flour, or even how Kyle giggled uncontrollably when you bopped his nose. These were topics Jackson couldn’t contribute to, experiences he did not share with his work mates no matter how many hours in a day he spent with them.

  Jackson had allowed his career to consume him, to take charge and define who he was no matter how many times he tried to have a normal life; with a partner, and kids, and maybe a dog. He’d have worked a 9 to 5 job, and bought them presents. His children would run to the door, eager to see him after a long day without daddy. He sipped his coffee, suddenly smiling.

  My mom always smells like coffee too.

Well, your Mama’s a hard worker. She needs her coffee. And what do you smell like?

I don’t know…probably chocolate chip cookies.

  He pulled out Scott’s letter, and read it again.

  And again.

  This definitely wasn’t healthy, but he had to admit, reading Scott McCall’s letters were probably the highlight of his week. In a way, he got to see that little boy grow up. Through his words, Jackson was able to identify the exact point that Scott started getting better; when he stopped being scared and started blooming through his adolescence. He was always a soldier, but slowly, he put all that armour back on so no one could hurt him. And it truly seemed to work, that he was the type of boy who stood up for himself without getting violent; who always wanted the negotiable solution, instead of playing a game of whose going to throw the first punch.

  He folded the letter up, and tucked into his pocket on the inside of his jacket, reminding himself that’s not why he was here. It’s the other letter, he was concerned about; a page with instructions, a page with a note. There was no name, and the address he traced it back to belonged to someone who didn’t exist. He received pranks all the time, but he could never risk not taking it seriously.

  Don’t read the letter yet

Wait on the third bench from the left of the oak tree

Absorb everything around you

Answer your phone on the third ring

Watch the news at 7 p.m.

  Everything comes in threes, Jackson thought.

  So he waited.

  Practically jumping when his phone finally vibrated, he cursed himself. On the third ring, he finally answered.

  “Detective Whittemore.” He greeted, then waited.

  Silence.

  He waited.

  Something clicked on the other end, like a tape recorder. At first, all he heard were shallow breaths. Then, there were voices. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but being a cop for so long, he easily identified the dominant/submissive relationship between them. The perpetrator and the victim.

  “It’s not polite to cry when I haven’t even started yet.”

  Jackson suddenly stood up, his heart pounding, the words becoming so much clearer as the minutes ticked by. He looked around; anything strange, anything suspicious, anything sinister. The three S’s that he’d come up with during his first year in uniform. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to at least point one out of three, but his mind was working too fast. Slow down, breathe.

  “Please let me go.”

  “I can’t quite do that, deary. That would spoil all the fun.”

  “Please, Mama will be worried, I promise I won’t tell her.”

  “unfortunately, I still can’t let you go.”

  “But she’ll be so mad when I don’t come home. Please, mister, I promise I wont tell anyone.”

  The words became less clear as the victim began to cry, and he knew it was the voice of a young boy. Suddenly, the quality of the sound changed, it was far more distinct. Because it’s not a tape recorded anymore.

  “That was only a snippet of my work. Masterpiece, wouldn’t you agree Detective?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Jackson retorted, spinning, eyes wide, aware as he searched for anyone of interest.

  “Now, now. After seven years, that wouldn’t be fair to just tell you. it’s all about the chase. You’ve been running for seven years, Detective. I can’t have you stopping now.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I think it’s rather simple what I want. I have unfinished business. All because you couldn’t just wait for me to kill him. You burst through that basement door with your bullet proof vests and your badges, and well, I’ve never quite forgiven you for that.” The voice was taunting and unrecognisable, something distorted that sent chills down his spine.

  Is that what Scott had heard in the darkness, when he thought he was going to die?

  “I won’t play your game.” Jackson said, eyes peering through the trees up ahead that could keep anyone hidden. But it was too far. He needed to see a reaction, that’s what he thrived on.

  “You’ll have to,” He said, and Jackson swore he could hear the smile in his voice. “If you want the boy to live.”

  The line cut out.

  ~

  Sheriff Stilinski was not an early riser – that is, he only woke up early only if he woke up by himself, not by something forcing his eyes open. It was one of the first quiet nights when kids weren’t running around the streets after six, or blasting their music. The trend was Fall Disco Romance, or maybe it was Panic at the Chemical? He wasn’t entirely sure, all he knew was that it was men in make up…or so he thought. All the band members looked the same to him, much to his son’s despair.

  It’s not a phase!

  Alright Stiles. Tell me that when you’re pulling their posters off your wall in a month.

  Begrudgingly, he reached over and picked up his phone that was vibrating like crazy. He hadn’t bothered checking the ID, the sun wasn’t even up. He didn’t need to go into Sheriff mode just yet.

  “This had better be good.” He grumbled, laying back in bed and attempted to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

  “I apologise, Sheriff, but you told me to call you if something came up.”

  The Sheriff sat up, leaning against the headboard. That voice was familiar, but his brain was still asleep. Was it…”Who is this?”

  “Detective Whittemore, sir. With the FBI. You called us in on a case seven years ago.”

  “That’s right yes, I remember you. You assisted with the McCall case.”

  Jackson sighed, relieved that he remembered. But why wouldn’t he? The victim had been his son’s best friend.

  “That’s correct. I need you to make sure that the boy from that case is kept somewhere safe and secure.”

  The sheriff leaned forward, listening very carefully. “Is there a problem?”

  The detective looked at the TV, reading raging headlines about several teenaged boys whose bodies had been dumped in the open with extensive traumatic injuries, much like those similar to the case in Beacon Hills. The torture was consistent with those of Scott’s, the photographs of his body lay on his lap in front of him. Each cut was so precise, so specific and accurate; as if he was mimicking the marks on Scott’s body, like he was trying to fill up that desire to kill him by targeting all these boys. The reporters didn’t have a name, but there was no doubt about it. It was the same monster.

Jackson stood in front of his glass board, reading and re-reading the notes he had written down with a red marker. There was a time line, and photographs, and a geographical radius that gave him some sort of idea of where he should be looking. Seven years. Had it really been seven years and he still couldn’t find this guy? He stood with his hands at his waist, eyes scanning all the information he had about the faceless man.

  The truth was, he had no leads, but he didn’t want to give up. The case had gone cold, the trail disappeared. Nothing new came up in the last six years. A year after they rescued the boy, all the dots simply stopped connecting. Any suspect they took into custody had alibis that were rock solid. None of them had this monster’s characteristics; they didn’t have the traits of a psychopath. Jackson didn’t want to just catch some guy, he wanted the right guy. It was no use cuffing a man if he didn’t commit the crime – this job was not about who arrested the most criminals. It was removing them from society so that they couldn’t cause any more harm but these delinquents were like ants under a rock; they just seemed to crawl out of their hiding place from an endless colony.

  He sighed, and massaged the bridge of his nose.

  Looking back at the sofa in his office, a nap was very tempting. Maybe he could just rest for a few minutes. Using the cushion as a pillow, he placed it on the arm of the couch and laid his head. His arm was draped over his eyes, one foot placed flat on the floor while the other hung on the other end of the couch.   

  He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it.

  Jackson thought about the boy he saved seven years ago; he pictured his fragile small body, strapped to a table, a psychopath slicing through him. They were scars he’d carry for the rest of his life, although from the sound of his letters he seemed to be doing quite well. His sketches had improved considerably, which made Jackson happy. Still, he couldn’t help wondering, how many boys had this monster taken? How many had he killed before Scott McCall, and how many after they’d almost caught him?

  He closed his eyes, and did his best not to imagine the horrors that were kept so well hidden that no one in law enforcement knew they existed; in basements and attics and underground cages and even locked bedroom doors. There were all these terrible things happening, and here he was, chasing down one perpetrator.  It was horribly antagonising. If he could just find one more clue…

  The knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts with a gentle tug of reality. Whoever it was was probably used to his lazy office demeanour.

“Come in.” He called out.

  It was Mrs Laurence, he was sure, he could tell by the way she walked. In the last seven years, she’d moved on with her life; got married, had two children, and was still working a steady job that she was good at. She had certainly been a bubble of optimism to have around. Without her, he wasn’t sure he’d have survived so long.

  “Have you been here all night?” She asked, placing breakfast on his desk.

  “No.”

  “I thought we agreed not to lie to each other, Detective.”

  “I can’t remember every promise I make.” He replied, grinning, knowing that she was probably rolling her eyes.

  He sat up and gave a satisfied stretch, looking at her and tapped his foot.

  “Any leads?” She asked, sitting next to him on the couch. After years of working with each other, they’d over stepped some boundaries. They had been friends for a long time now, and regardless of her marital status, the proximity between them wasn’t going to change.

  “Nothing. I’ve got nothing on him, no way to identify him.” Jackson sighed, then rubbed his eyes.

  “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, you know.” She said softly, playing with the hem of her skirt. “It’s not healthy. You need to stop obsessing over one man who may or may not still be alive. If he had anymore victims, we’d have known about it. He likes his work to be acknowledged, he left bodies out in the open. He’s dormant.”

  “Yes, but for how long?”

  “Jackson,  it’s been seven years. For all you know, you could be chasing a ghost. When was the last time you went on a date?”

  Jackson groaned, then lay across his side of the sofa.

  “Oh geeze. Now you sound like my mother.”

  She smiled. “Well, you’re mother is right. This isn’t good for you. You don’t sleep often, and when you do, you have night terrors. Always calling the Beacon Hills sheriff about the boy. He’s safe now. You need to focus on you. Have you been to the doctor I suggested?”

  Jackson raised a brow at her. “I don’t need psychological help. I’m mentally healthy.”

  “After seven years, I’m surprised you can still hold up a decent conversation.” Mrs Laurence stood up, straightening out her skirt. “You have another letter, by the way. Two, actually.”

  The detective suddenly sat up. “Two?” He asked, bewildered by the news. “Same person?”

  She shook her head. “Different P.O. boxes. It’s quite strange. The only letters you receive through a private channel is the boy’s. everything else is delivered to your work, but I thought you might like to know beforehand.”

  He nodded his head, stood up and gave a full body stretch before making his way into the seat behind his desk. It was far more comfortable than the sofa. “Thanks, Scarlette. What would I do without you.” “Starve.” She grinned. “Now eat your breakfast. Don’t you open any letters until you’ve replenished yourself. And no coffee. Go home and go to sleep.”

  Jackson reached for the brown paper bag. It had become routine, she brought breakfast and he bought lunch for her. Or the both of them, if he could let his break last long enough. “Remind me again why we didn’t get married?” He joked.

  She made her way to the door, and stood in between the frames, her hand on the handle. “Now, sweetheart, we’ve had this discussion.”

  “I know, I know. You like older men.”

For seven years, Scott never failed to write the man that saved his life a letter every week since he’d left. The officer had taken his time leaving that first time, because he remembered the man telling him that he wanted to make sure he was better before he left. He remembered every detail of the older man’s features, often drew his face when he withdrew into his mind. The doctors associated it with relief; the moment Officer Whittemore saved him was the moment Scott McCall had his faith restored in father figures.

So every week for seven years, Scott made sure to send Mr. Whittemore a letter, along with whatever artwork he managed that week. They were mainly sketches, of the beach, constellations, his school, even his friends. It often depended on what his letters were about. And Jackson often returned them when he could. Scott knew that he was busy, he was just happy that the officer took some time out of his week when he could to write him back.

He’d received a gift when he was 12; a teddy bear with a deputy’s badge when Mr Whittemore was promoted. Because of you Scott, because I saved you. You are the priceless trophy to my success, and I promise never to forget you. Keep writing me if you wish, and I will return your letters when I can. They make my week. Now that I’m chief director of my team, I’m a whole lot busier. Don’t be a stranger!

Scott kept all those letters. Read them when he was feeling down. he woke up early to write the next letter, so he could send it on his way to school. He reached for the pen Chief Whittemore sent him. The Chief had promised that the ink would take years to finish. He was right.

  Dear Chief Whittemore,

  I know you told me not to call you by that title, but I think it’s more polite because I don’t know you like your friends do. I like to think we are friends, but, you know, we don’t buy each other doughnuts and you don’t punch me in the arm playfully. We don’t tease each other because we have a different kind of friendship. We’re friends because you understand me. You help me understand me. I wish you could come back. Not as Chief…but as Jackson. As my friend.

Seven years ago today, you saved my life. I know you said I didn’t have to keep thanking you but I really do. It’s not just for getting me out of that basement…it’s for giving me my childhood back. You locked my dad up, and he can’t hurt me anymore. You helped me find my talent, and I cant help drawing you sometimes not because I’m weird or anything…but because not all heroes are vigilantes. They don’t need  capes or a city to save. You are that hero for me. If it hadn’t been for you, I would not have lived to see seventeen. I’m turning eighteen this year, almost legal for so many things! And it’s going to be so great! I get to be a man, I get to grow up.

And I know people say that you shouldn’t rush to grow up but when you’ve been through a near death experience, every single experience you have after just becomes exciting. So, yes, I want to thank you.

Again.

Anyway, I have to head to school now. So I’ll see you next week. 

Well…you know what I mean.

This was better than Derek’s hallway.

  Jackson’s bed was way more comfortable. Scott had never really been in the Whittemore teen’s room before, so this was an adventure as much as a mating call. He walked around in Jackson’s boxers, and plaid shirt that was two sizes too big but looked just as good. Jackson sat against his heard board, watching Scott as the beta’s curiosity peeked. If Derek ever found out, they were both dead. He wasn’t supposed to be fraternising with another wolf, especially one outside of the alpha’s pack. But since when did he follow the rules?

  “You look like one of those agents from Criminal Minds, trying to find clues about my behaviour to piece together a profile.”

  Scott laughed, looking at the bookshelf. “If you picture me as Agent Morgan, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Well you should take it as an insult, because you’re sure as hell creeping me out.”

  The darker skinned boy turned around, a swift move on the floor boards with a smirk on his face. Jackson returned it. “You’re just proud that you topped today, aren’t you?”

  Scott glared. “You’re mocking me?”

  “Oh, yes I am. I should get you a crown for the next time you feel mighty.” He laughed.

  Scott crossed his arms, more like an unamused child then an offended sex partner. “You’re a jerk.”

  Jackson tilted his head. “You knew that before climbing up my window.”

  Scott returned the book he’d pulled out to its proper place then moved to Jackson’s desk. He sat in the big leather chair that made him seem even smaller than he was. He brought his knees to the edge of the chair and spun himself around. Jackson simply watched him. He was such a dork, but he was sweet, and kind, and affectionate. He spent his time after they both came, trailing soft kisses over his face. Jackson had fallen asleep for what seemed like hours at the gentility and serene calm Scott’s lips had brought him. The wolf didn’t know how to explain that he liked it. It wasn’t even just the kisses.

  It was how Scott traced patterns over Jackson’s ribs, massaged his fingers until the discomfort fled from his bones, tangled their legs and looked into his eyes, exploring the depths of his iris’ just like he’d journeyed through the countless books on his shelf. Scott was simple. He was the moon that lit up the night sky, gone when the sun came up but always back again. Scott was a promise, held tight in his arms, and could never be broken.

  When the paler skinned boy was caught gazing, Scott gave him this uneven smile that could melt even derek’s heart. “What?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Nothing. You just look good in my shirt.”

  “Yeah?” Scott’s smile brightened, like a pup who’d received a treat. And if scott truly had a tail, he’d be wagging it along with his butt right now.

  Carefully, he stood off the chair then crawled back on the bed. He fit in between Jackson’s legs, the broader teen slipping on his back. Scott looked down into beautiful oceans of blue, with spots of grey when he was lucky to catch them, like watchful clouds over the sea. The wolf’s face was silhouetted by his shaggy hair, and Jackson reached up to stroke it until his hand slid to cup the other’s cheek. Scott turned his head and kissed his fingers.

  He leaned down kissed Jackson, quietly; parting his lips against the blue eyed wolf’s and simply breathed into his mouth. He could feel Jackson’s warm breath, an exchange for his own until Scott pulled away to catch whatever breath he had left.

  Wrapping Jackson’s leg around his waist, Scott leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his chin.

  Slowly, it slid, from his neck and down his throat, in between collar bones and down his chest, following his ribs and abdomen until he reached his waist. It was slow, and warm, and Jackson had never felt anything so wonderful. With each kiss, the wolf’s back arched, bringing his hips upward. Scott placed one hand on Jackson’s lower back, listening to the hitched breaths of pleasure. The other hand travelled from Jackson’s chest, slowly radiating the warmth between Scott’s palm and Jackson’s skin until it met his pelvis.

  Scott was a lover, someone Jackson did not deserve.

  But they weren’t in love.

  This was not love.

  They were not ready.

  Love had not entered their hearts.

  Not yet.

  Gently, Scott brought the other down and looked into his eyes.

  Jackson sat up slightly, uncurling his legs from around Scott. The other sat back on his knees, his dark wavy hair a canvas around his face, his big brown eyes filled with so many things at once; music, theatre, books, poetry, art – so many things that Jackson wondered how terrible the disorganisation inside Scott’s head was.

  “Is our time up?” Scott asked softly.

  “I didn’t know we had a time limit.”

  Scott shrugged, and for some reason, Jackson was finding everything this adolescent did either incredibly sexy or unbelievably adorable. It was worse when it was both, because he was sure his cheeks would flush.

  “Well, we agreed no sleep overs.”

  “Did we? We can make an exception for one night, don’t you think?” Jackson smiled and opened his arms.

  Scott smiled so hard that his dimples dug into his cheeks more than they should have. He nodded his head, then crawled forward and into Jackson like a nest. His head fit against the man’s chest as his arms closed around him protectively. Jackson lay on his side with Scott on his back, pressing a soft kiss to Scott’s forehead.

  It was Jackson’s turn to make him comfortable. Scott snuggled closer, and Jackson pressed kissed over his warm face. He breathed him in, and scott pressed that curious nose – that got all this started in the first place – into Jackson’s neck.

  “Are you going to read me a story, Jacks?”

  “Don’t ruin the moment, McCall.”

  “Oh, were we having a moment?” He teased.

  Jackson grumbled. “I swear…I will push you out of this bed.”