Inspired by the shot of Stiles and Jackson in the police van with the fluorescent light cutting the scene in half.
. . .
The line between right and wrong is sometimes hazy...
Stiles would never admit it, ever, but he seriously thought about it. Sitting in the police transport van with it's one fluorescent bulb spanning the length of the ceiling and it's unforgiving stainless steel walls that gave no reflection but that barely perceptible, annoying blot of darker color among the silver, Stiles looked very seriously at the idea of simply eliminating the threat right here, right now. People were dead and Jackson was sitting directly across from him, head hung slightly as thought about Stiles words, chained to the chair and virtually helpless. It would be so easy to just take out his pocket knife, put the point against the pompous jock's super perfect neck, and draw a line in blood. He could practically feel the tug before the skin gave way and the blade sliced through and his muscles working as he drug it across his jugular, his trachea, his tendons, his nerves, and maybe even scrape bone. He could feel Jackson fighting for breath, hear the blood bubbling in his lungs and spilling out past his lips, feel the muscles and trying to work, and the see the panic in his eyes as he drew no air. Stiles could hold the knife there so the wound would stay open, let Jackson bleed out or suffocate on the very stuff that kept him alive, or he could make the cut jagged, deep, like Derek's claws in Peter's neck.
It would be what the douche deserved. What had Jackson Whittemore ever done for anyone else anyway? Won some lacrosse games? He was rude, arrogant, and self centered. He wasn't good enough for Lydia, had broken her heart. He could do her a favor and break Jackson. This wasn't about her though, he reminded himself and shoved that reason aside almost as soon as it surfaced and distanced himself from the emotions of it.
Lizard man or not, aware or not, Jackson just murdered people and he would do it again if he got out. Stiles could save a lot of people. That's what this was about, wasn't it? Scott wouldn't approve, he wanted to save Jackson, but how many lives was Jackson's worth?
There were too many loose ends on this for it to work properly. Sure, he could dispose of the body and clean up the van or leave the scene just so and throw his dad off the trail, he knew the ropes. But if Jackson fought back, which he would, and injured Stiles, maybe even drew his claws, how would Stiles explain that? Then there was the problem of the other two, Scott and Allison. He trusted Scott with his life but things would change if he did this, he might lose his best friend. Allison would understand it better than Scott would but she was still a wild card, could she keep her mouth shut about this? Probably, but did Stiles really want to risk it?
So in that split second that Stiles stared at Jackson, he thought about it. But that's all it was in the end, just a thought. He had many of those of those in day and this was no different really. Jackson wasn't going anywhere right now or threatening anyone so, for now, that thought he would never admit to could wait.
. . .