Jackson's POV
It isn't on any particular day that I realize McCall has been a little off for the past week.
I wasn't surprised anymore to wake up in the early hours of the morning to find him already sitting at our kitchen table looming over a single letter. And when he's not doing that I don't see him at all. I, in my own special way, have asked him what's up. He always shakes his head; nothing.
So on no particular morning, as I've come to expect, McCall's sitting at the old rickety table in our apartment looming over that single letter. If I wasn't looking for him I probably wouldn't have noticed him.
It takes me a minute to realize McCall's dressed in a disheveled black suit but when I do the colors are almost suffocating in the dimly lit room and I ,honest to God, have to open the blinds more. The thin rays of sunlight offer a more pleasant feeling inside the room and I instantly feel I can breathe again. Still, I cock my eyebrow in McCall's direction, still looming over mail—and apparently a thin silver ring between his fingers, because for some reason he still hasn't acknowledged my presence.
Finally done with this behavior of his, I choose which topic I want to address first. The black clothes it is. Around the last carton of milk, with my particular skill of being blunt yet aloof, ask, "What's with all the black McCall, some one die ?"
I expect an equally snarky response but instead I get a vapid, "My mom." and I nearly choke on the milk over my miscalculation. Shit. Suddenly, but understandably, there is a heavy weight clinging to my heart and an unsettling feeling in my stomach. I feel like an asshole.
Wiping at the milk around my mouth, I place the carton down on the table but choose to brace myself on the kitchen counter. There it is again that unsettling feeling, those words I want to say but they're stuck at the base of my throat. I've never apologized to McCall before, it occurs to me out of nowhere, but I scold myself for even thinking that.
For the past couple of minutes I've been silent, and McCall is seemingly too preoccupied to care. So I lean off of the counter, arms folded over each other, as the words catch in my throat, but I force them out. "Hey. McCall. I didn't—"
"It's okay. You didn't know." and for the first time in a week, he looks at me. Well, more like past me. I get clear view of the bags under his eyes and the bangs he's carded to one side, as if he's been doing that all day.
I finally get a glance at the paper under his arms, it's from Stiles, and I'm assuming it's about his mother. He notices my line of sight and explains it's exactly what I thought.
I don't say anything for a while and neither does he, not until I ask how long he's had the letter.
"About a week." he says, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes.
"Shit, Scott. why didn't you say anything?" there's a small pause when we both realize I haven't called him Scott since we'd become roomies. Still, he manages to confess he didn't think I'd care, the idiot.
And I tell him that, in a way. "What the hell McCall!" and there goes that name again. "Jesus, Scott. I know I can be an asshole but I'm not a monster you know."
And for some reason he laughs, bitterly, because apparently that's funny. Although now that I think about it, it's kind of is. Werewolf powers aside though, I'm not a complete jackass, and I tell him that part too.
He seems to get what a stupid move that was and apologizes. I don't pay it much mind though because he doesn't really need to apologize. I get it, I prefer to deal with my own shit on my own time as well.
The room grows awkwardly quiet then. Having nowhere to look, I keep my eyes trained on the floor. McCall—Scott, damn it , is breathing rather sharply.
I look up to see him struggling with every breath he takes. He clutches the ring and letter for dear life and can't seem to straighten himself out.
I rush to his side, griping his shoulders with the intent to keep him sturdy. He grips my arm and I wince at the intensity, but I keep holding on.
He blinks, once, three times, and then his breathing is back to normal. I can't help but stare at him like he grew a second head. "Scott, what the hell was that ?"
"I think—I just almost had a panic attack." he says, looking just as shocked as I am.
I can't wrap my head around it though. "How did you—how ?"
" This' the first time I've said it aloud," he says and it causes me to wince, it's hard seeing him look so—vapid. " I guess it didn't seem real 'til now."
He let's go of my arm then, which feels strange with out it, like he was keeping me grounded as well. He stands up, I do too. When he starts to leave I'm stuck at the table, my body not responding when I tell it to move.
I feel strange, alien almost. Like there's a part of me changing under the surface, but not like werewolf change, at least I don't think so. There are butterflies in my stomach, and a sudden rush of blood to my brain, I feel dizzy just standing here.
Scott halts in the doorway, turning back toward me with a sheepish smile, "Thanks, Jackson."
he stands there for a bit, shifting on his legs.
And then I hear the sound of a door closing, because he's gone.
I put the milk back in the fridge, I can't really think of anything else to do, but when I grab my jacket I suddenly get an idea. That whole conversation with Scott had suddenly put a damper on my mood, and I don't like having my buzz killed. So what's a better way to get it back than to drink myself drunk; it's not like I wasn't planning on going out tonight anyway.
Though as I climb into my porsche, I think; maybe I should have invited Scott. He looked like he needed some time away from his thoughts as well. But then I remember this is the first time he's said anything in a week, he probably still hasn't dealt with his emotions or some shit. So I guess I'll let Scott stay in tonight.
Some where between my ride to party and when I arrive, I wonder; when did I start caring about Scott's feelings ?
I don't bother thinking too much about it though, I leave my baggage at the entrance.
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