Why Are You Scared?
The night is young, and it is cold. Colder still is the spot where he stands – it reeks of death (the human variety, the same scent that once clung to his then-mortal soul) and the decay of nature. It's early into the autumn and he spares a glance downwards, blandly watching a thick, fat beetle slither across the toe of his designer boot, before it disappears under a soggy, rotting leaf.
This spot is between two thick trunked trees that grown unbothered – the two tallest trees of the forest. Stiles, the loud mouth, calls them the sentries sometimes, and he murmurs about how they watch the forest.
It's a spot that until this day, he has avoided like the plague. It's always cold here, between these trees. He'd run through them on his fourth moon, claws digging up grass. A chill had run up his spine, bone deep. The thick fur that covered his body has stood on end and unable to hold it in, he'd howled his fear for the pack to hear.
That had been months ago, when it was still summer. Derek, his Alpha, had found him cowering.
That had been the night Jackson learned what his wolfs anchor was – fear. He had let Derek take him to the burnt up Hale house, ignoring the worried questions. Instead, he'd curled against Isaac's side and ridden out the night, nose pressed close to pack.
He stands here now as a human and lets the fear wash over him. "Hello?" Jackson calls, pacing back and forth between the trees steadily. "I know you're here." He adds, trying not to feel like an idiot. "Who are you?"
The laugh is gentle. It's not mocking, more self deprecating, and he spins on the spot to see who it belongs to.
She's breath taking and he wonders how he's never noticed her before.
Her hair is black, hanging past her shoulders. It's wavy, curling over her sharp cheekbones, framing her pretty face and drawing attention to sad green eyes. They remind him of full moons through the forest, the scent of life around him.
She reeks of death.
"What do you want?" He asks, impressed when his voice doesn't waver. Without looking, he crunches the beetle beneath the toe of his boot, satisfied by the sharp crack it makes. He watches her watch him, her green eyes focused on the black of his shoes, lips pulled into a faint smile.
"Jackson. Right?" She's older; maybe twenty six, twenty seven. He wishes he could smell past the death. She looks like she should smell of damp grass and sunshine, and the red of her mouth hints at wild strawberries plucked in the summer.
"You're dead." He says, jerking his chin towards her. The cocky smirk he's perfected over the years slips onto his face, eyes going cold with practiced ease. "You're dead." He repeats.
It only makes her look more sad. She takes a deep breath – which is odd, so odd, and her exhale smells like the wood rot of the Hale basement – and steps closer towards him. "Right. And you're Jackson." Her fingers twitch like she wants to touch, but she keeps herself in check.
She's wearing blue jeans and a black jacket, and a multicolored scarf that looks handmade, clinging adoringly at her neck. He wonders, vaguely, who would give her such a pretty gift. Mother, lover, friend? He knows that it's not the kind of question one can ask, so instead he nods and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "Yeah." He doesn't ponder over how she knows.
"I'm sorry." Her apology is quiet and sincere, as is the expression on her face. She glances away from him, towards the sun, something like longing radiating off of her in waves.
What would it be like to sit in the heat, and never feel it touch you ever again? To be cold for all eternity?
"For what?"
"That I brought you here."
He waits for her to explain but she doesn't, and he can't bring himself to follow that line of thought. It feels painful. Or like it will be painful. "Why are you here? I didn't think ghosts existed."
"I'm stuck." She sighs. It should ruffle her hair, but it doesn't – no real breath escaping her lips. "I can't move on, Jackson. I'm sorry that you found that I was here. I was." She shrugs then, and sits down on a piece of jagged rock, propping her chin on a fist. "I was content to wait. When you came through here a few months ago, you startled me. No one...No one remembers where I am. Where I died. You came through here and you...you felt me. No one else has ever felt me before."
"Is it lonely?" He thinks of Matt, chest tightening at the thought of water and death. He hesitates for a minute before sitting next to the rock. "Being dead, I mean."
"Yes." No bullshit answer. He likes it. He glances up at her face, and he thinks that maybe, he could like her too. "I'm not just stuck on Earth, I'm stuck here. Where I was killed. I will be until I'm put to rest. Or anyway, that's what I think. I don't really have anybody else to ask."
"Lot's of people have died in the woods." He says, guilt striking him like lightening. He thinks of the man in the trailer, of his pregnant wife. "Can't you talk to them?"
His body turns to ice when her hand strokes over first his head, and then the nape of his neck. "Oh Jackson." She sounds pained and he can't fight the soft whine, high in his throat. "Not everyone becomes a spirit. I have unfinished business here on Earth. When all my worries are laid to rest, I'll be able to move on. No one else has been killed near here, I don't think. Or if they have, they've...moved on."
In the distance, he can hear Derek calling him.
"Who are you?" He asks a final time, rising. Her hand falls from his neck, leaving a bitter cold behind.
Her eyes fill with tears and she cocks her head. She says nothing.
Derek howls for him again and Jackson realizes he won't be getting an answer. The wolf inside of him is unable to deny his Alpha, no matter how much Jackson wants to stay. He doesn't say goodbye as he turns and drops to all fours, letting his claws come out as he barrels through the woods.
He wonders if he would have become a ghost too, if he had stayed dead. If he would have been trapped. Or maybe, if he would have been free to wander as the Kanima did – if he would have met that strange girl. Maybe he could have been her friend.
Jackson knows that he's lonely too.
I
He goes to her on his next moon. It's still September, although October is fast approaching. Derek has given him free reign since he's learned to control his wolf on these nights, so he's not worried about his Alpha seeking him out. He'll have his hands full, trying to keep Erica and Boyd in line for the evening.
Even with Scott, Isaac and Peter's help, the other Beta's are having a hard time with their control. Jackson, callous as he is, doesn't envy them a lick.
He calls out to her softly before he approaches the trees. He can smell her, of course; death. His wolf realizes that it's a game, and he growls to himself as he prowls between and around the trees, chasing the tail end of a rainbow scarf.
Eventually, his wolf gets the upper hand and he tackles the girl, no – the woman to the ground. He presses her to the leaves and watches laughter fade from her eyes. She cups his cheek, head tilting. He's amazed to see leaves tangle in her hair. "You're scared." She muses, brow furrowed. "What are you afraid of, Jackson?"
"I don't know." His voice is rough gravel and dark whiskey, raw from the wolf. "Everything."
Understanding dawns upon her face. "Being afraid won't help you, Jackson. It's only going to hold you back." She uses her elbows to push up underneath him, cheek brushing his in a soft caress.
"I'm afraid of dying." He admits into the shell of her ear, before he tugs at the loose flap of her scarf. "Where did you get this from?" He sits back on his haunches, offering her a fang filled smile. She doesn't return the look, watching him instead with muted concern. "If you're not going to answer my questions can you show me what it's like? I don't remember dying."
"You've died?"
"I was murdered, technically. But I came back. It seems to be a reoccurring theme in this Pack." His voice is dry as he hitches an eyebrow, nostrils flaring. "I don't remember much." He tells her about the Kanima, about Derek's botched bite and he lets her feel the scars on his neck, even though he knows she's already touched them. She clearly understands the supernatural exists and he doesn't feel like an idiot for telling her. "I'm a killer. I can't remember the people I murdered, but I...I asked a. He's not a friend. He's...Stiles. I asked Stiles to show me who they were and I can't remember killing a single one of them. I don't remember what it felt like to die, either. I just know that Peter and Derek sank their claws into me, and then...I woke up back at the Hale house." He can't ever remember talking so much.
"I remember what dying was like." She says, sitting across from him. "I remember what it feels like to be murdered, what it was like to lay there and have the life drain out of me. I can't show you, Jackson. Death isn't something you should want to look at."
He smiles, humorlessly. "Death follows me everywhere I go." He thinks of the parents he's never met, of Lydia, whom he'd almost lost to Peter's fangs. "I can't get away from it." There's rage building in him now, and he belatedly notes that the wolf is gone, leaving behind plain old Jackson. "And I'm scared. Help me."
She presses her lips into a thin line, standing. She's wearing boots. Was it autumn when she died, he wonders? He watches her cross to her sitting rock, head tilting up to the moon. "I died right here, Jackson." She calls to him, smile flat as she lowers herself to the ground. "Do you still want to see?"
He does and so he goes to her side.
She screams. It makes his blood turn to ice as he watches her throat rip open. Her scarf is destroyed. Her lips turn blue and her eyes bulge, vessels bursting so they're a bruised, milky red-white. Her stomach follows, jacket and shirt – her shirt is blue, such a pretty blue and it looks so soft – ripping open and staining the ground with blood. She screams until blood gurgles past her lips and from her throat, until she falls silent.
She does not look peaceful in death and he is suddenly acutely aware of why the grass in that spot does not grow. Not even a weed is willing to birth itself in blood.
"Are you still afraid?" She asks with blue lips, sitting up. Her hands squelch in her own blood as she flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Does this bring you any peace, Jackson?"
"No." He doesn't clarify; she doesn't ask him to. They both turn to the side when they hear Derek's shoes crunching over the gravel. Without thought, Jackson bends to press a kiss to her blood smeared temple. It feels right. "Can he see you?"
"No."
"Why?"
Her eyes are teary as she pushes him away. Her bloody hands somehow don't stain his chest. "Because I don't want him to."
"Jackson." Derek scents the air, concern in his eyes as he watches his pup, crouched low in the gap between two trees. "Let's go. Stiles brought pizza."
He exhales roughly, and stands. "Okay."
He's not afraid anymore. Now? Now for some inexplicable reason, he is angry. It is just as good an anchor as his fear, and he feels that now he knows Derek better.
I
It clicks into place one early October morning, as he sits across from Peter. The adult wolf is eating cereal – all bran cereal, of all things, creepy motherfucker – and Jackson is leaning into Derek's legs, reading a book about ghosts. He narrows his eyes over the leather bound pages – of course, it's a book from the Hale library, so it's leather and creepy and smells of fire – as he watches Peter crunch his little grainy breakfast into pieces.
He's seen those marks before.
The video store, the Alpha staring him in the eyes, the dead attendants gaping throat mocking him and aaah, see there, he does remember death. He does remember death. He does remember death. He does. He does. He.
Running to the school with Lydia, watching her bleed out in his arms and he.
He.
He does remember death.
"Jackson." Derek's voice is sharp, and he realizes he's been hyperventilating at his Alpha's feet. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know. I. I'm going for a run." He shakes his head as he bounds to his feet, running a hand over his hair. "I'm okay. I just – restless." He grins. "That's all. I'm going to run and – I'll be back. Okay?"
"Don't eat anybody." Peter drawls, picking up the abandoned book.
Jackson grits his teeth against the bile and turns, darting through the woods. She is sitting on her rock, watching birds dance in her trees. When he's close enough he knows that only she will hear, he stops. And he says, crystal clear – his mind perfectly calm, everything falling into place – "Laura."
She starts at the sound of her name, turning towards him. The noise that rips from her throat is broken, hands coming up to press to her mouth. "Jackson." She croaks. "You're smarter than you look." She sounds like she's trying to make it an insult, but its weak. He stares at her.
"You're Laura Hale." He speaks slowly, approaches her slower still. "You're Derek's sister. The real Alpha." She nods, confirming what he already knows. "You're..." His fingers close over the scarf. "Who made this for you?"
"My mother did." She whispers. "Before she died."
He shudders and drops to his knees, eye level with her. "Can you tell me why you're really here?"
"I already told you. I can't rest." His gaze is unrelenting, and for once, she continues. "I died here but I didn't stay here. They...that. That bitch, Kate. She cut me in half while I sat here and watched. I couldn't pass then because I was so afraid for Derek. When Peter died, I should have been able to go. But they cut me in half and spread me around so far, that I'll never be whole again, Jackson. I'm going to be stuck here for eternity." She lets him press his forehead to hers, allows her eyes to close.
"What if I could find a way to help you?" He murmurs into the space between them, heart thundering. "What if I could find a way to help you rest?"
As sudden as the panic came, there is calm. "You can't." She kisses his forehead this time, pulling away.
He doesn't let her, hand coiled tight over the back of her neck. He laughs; a similar sound to the one he gives Scott and Stiles – an arrogant chuff, deep in his throat. "Fuck. Laura Hale. Death follows you too, doesn't it sweetheart?" He lowers his voice. "Follows you and takes out all of the good."
"No. It doesn't take away our good, Jackson." She argues. "I died to protect Derek, to keep this town safe. Trying to save Peter. That was good, Jackson." She cups his cheeks, forces him to look into her eyes. "You died to protect Lydia. You told me. You died for love. Death doesn't take the good out of us, it shows us the way."
"I could bring you back. Lydia could show me. I could –"
"I don't want to come back Jackson." She kisses him then; ice on his mouth, slipping past his lips to make his lungs burn with cold. It's fierce. "I don't want to be alive anymore Jackson. I just want to be able to rest."
He pulls her to his chest, nodding. "I can do that. I can do that for you."
She doesn't understand and she doesn't believe, but Jackson feels love in his heart and the promise of repentance on the horizon. It feels cheap, like he's using her to save himself but he knows that he is going to do this to save them both.
He visits her every single day.
I
"It's Halloween." He explains, wolfed out and sitting atop her rock. "October thirty first." He grins at her confusion, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. "'And the Dead Roam Free on Halloween'." He pushes himself up, clawed hand gripping her human one. "Come with me."
"I can't."
"You can at least try, Laura." He rolls his eyes at her, an expression she's grown to hate and love in the past month of seeing him. "Trust me. Please." He raises his eyebrows at her, lips pursed. "Come on."
"You're going to feel so dumb Jacks." She grips his hand anyway, and lets him lead her to the edge of her small sanctuary. "This is never going to work."
"The full moon turns us into killing machines and Peter brought himself back to life with a moon cycle and magic. If you can believe in that, live that, you can believe in this. At least try Laura." He glares this time. "You have to try."
"Why is it so important to you, Jackson?" She screams at him instead of moving forward, ripping her hand away. "Why can't you leave that idea alone, huh?" She's not used to losing her cool like this; it's always been Derek's gig.
His nostrils flare at her, angry. "Because you don't just smell dead, you smell sad. And as lonely as I am, I can't imagine what it feels like to never eat pizza, or feel the sun, or go for a swim. I know that this is going to work and I know you're going to go away but I can't just. I can't leave you here. I'm not always going to be able to be here, but I can't leave you here, I can't. So please, for me, just try. And if not for me, then for Derek. He might not talk to you but he misses you and if he dies and you're stuck here, do you know what that will do to him?"
"Jackson. Why are you scared?" Her nostrils flare.
"I don't know. Please, Laura."
She crosses her arms tight over her chest and walks towards him, closer and closer even as he backs away. It feels like a game and it will end in a kiss, as most of their evenings do, but then she's past the tree line and walking along the edge of the creek, and she can't bring herself to focus on that because fuck. Oh, fuck.
She is dead and she protests, but they have sex on the creek bank, gurgling water and chirping birds a soothing background noise. She thinks that she should feel bad – he's so young, and he's her brothers Beta. But he could be her Beta, and she realizes that it was always heading to this. Kisses and secrets shared over a month...they know each other inside out despite only knowing each other for such a short period. It has all been building to this frantic, gentle love in the outdoors, where for the first time in a year?
Laura is alive, and the wolf, freed from its cage, roars in her unbeating veins. She is a ghost, though, and not a body, and it all feels so wrong despite being so right. If someone were to happen upon them –
But no one does. No one happens upon them and they dress in the cold autumn air before taking to all fours and barreling towards the cemetery. Not before they slink by the Hale house, before Jackson points out where Stiles lives, the exact spot where Peter died.
Not before Jackson shows her where he died. Not before, but after. Eventually they arrive.
She stops at her mother's grave. She is able to see her own; Tombstone simply reading LAURA HALE and her dates. No words of love, just her name and date of birth and death. She is afraid to go close, now, despite having ached for her rest since Peter's death. Now, standing here, with the warmth of a living body at her shoulder, she is unsure.
"Why are you scared?"
The question shocks a wet laugh from her and she turns to face him. "Jackson. Promise me you'll tell him that I'm sorry, and that I love him." Her voice wavers and her throat feels tight, and this is what it feels like to be alive. This is...
His eyes are wet, too, and she wonders if he looked at Lydia that way when he accepted his death, like he is now finally forced to accept hers. "I promise I'll tell him. I'll tell him...as much as I can." He'll leave out how he's fallen in love with a ghost, how they shared her final moment on Earth in the wilderness, like animals. "Laura. Will I see you again?"
"I don't know." And that is what they're both afraid of, isn't it? That this is over, now. "Please don't be scared. You're so young, Jackson. You don't need me anymore."
"The first day I felt you was the day I learned to control my wolf. First with my fear, then with my anger. I was so angry that you were gone. That I'd...never gotten to meet you in person. Derek's lucky."
"Now?" She prompts, backing away from him. A flash of heat shoots through her when she steps on her mother's grave. It feels like acceptance, and love. Like home.
He smiles but he doesn't answer her. She doesn't ask him again. "I'll miss you." He tells her.
Brave finally, Laura takes the final step back. In this moment, she confronts her death head on, standing on top of her own body and staring at a boy she wishes she'd known all along. "Jackson, I love you."
He doesn't cry but he does sit with his back to her tombstone. That is how Derek finds him, when it's late enough to be called morning. Jackson smiles and he begins to talk. For once – just this once. Derek listens.
I
It is October thirty first, and it is the year twenty thirteen. He thinks the thirteen adds an air of mystery to the whole affair. It's been a total of three hundred and sixty five days. His heart is tight in his chest, and he can hardly hear over the rush of blood in his ears.
He stops at the foot of a grave.
The chill has frosted over the grass that lives there, but the ivy, beautiful and wild that had begun to grow in early spring is still going strong, obstructing the name from his view.
It's a path he's walked many times, and he watches ghost-pale fingers brush a leaf away, revealing an elegantly simple L.
"Laura." He murmurs.
She smiles at him. "Jackson."