The flat was beautiful, Jackson had to admit it. Bronson, David Whittemore's major domo, had arranged everything. His new home on Upper Belgrave Street in one of West London's priciest neighborhoods was fully furnished, all of Jackson's things packed, shipped and unpacked in time for his arrival.
All of his things…but it still felt empty as shit.
He spent a month settling in, roaming the neighborhoods, introducing himself to locals, finding the best spots to eat. When thirty days had passed, Jackson placed a call to both the house phone and his parent's cell phones. All of them went to voicemail. That was the first clue.
The second clue was when Bronson finished squaring away the legal and financial aspects of his move, shook his hand in an extremely formal manner and told him that it had been a pleasure working with him before he departed in a hurry to catch the next flight back to the States.
The third clue came the next day in the form of an e-mail. Well, perhaps 'clue' was the wrong word.
'Jackson,
Your mother and I…well, let's just say we know everything. I am a man of means, and had the unbelievable facts corroborated by several different informants. For reasons that I'm sure you understand, we think it's best that you remain in London, or if you prefer anywhere else that we can set you up. You're a grown man now, and your trust fund should see to your needs until you become independent. I chose London for you since you had such a great time there when you were a freshman and the dual citizenship you get from your mother, but you can be easily moved somewhere else, except here in California. If you insist on returning, as is your right, I will have no choice but to dismantle your trust fund after which your mother and I will relocate. I think this arrangement is best. You were a great son, and I have no regrets about adopting you…but we cannot forget the…side-effects of your previous condition. Or your new condition. I strongly advise you to break off all contact with the people you were associated with here. No one here had your best interests at heart. Your absence will insure that they will not accost us in the future.
We have moved on. Lydia has moved on. We hope you can, too.
David Whittemore.'
Jackson stared at the computer screen for a second, then deleted the e-mail. None of this was surprising. Despite Jackson's appearance to his friends as a spoiled rich kid whose parents doted on him, Jackson had long ago learned that their 'love' (financial support) was conditional on Jackson excelling in sports and academics as well as never embarrassing them by doing drugs or getting anyone pregnant…or getting turned into a kanima and a werewolf. Deep down, he knew that when he asked Derek for the Bite that it would mean the end of being with the Whittemores…of being a Whittemore. Looking back, he thought maybe he wanted more from Derek. A mentor? A brother? But Derek was on his little power trip, recruiting Lahey, Reyes and Boyd into his Pack of misfits.
'You're with ME now.' Derek said.
'What, you think I'm going to go running around through the woods with you and McCall? I have my own agenda.'
What agenda did he have? Nothing. Derek didn't pick up on the lie, but that might have been because Jackson was suddenly leaking black blood from his ears. The newborn wolf Derek had given him rejected him, just like his parents did and just like Derek did. Jackson was replaced by the three other losers Derek bit…brought into the Pack because Jackson alone was never enough for anyone…not his parents, not Lydia and not the Alpha who only wanted expendable soldiers.
If it had been just him and Derek, Jackson would have gone running through the woods anytime.
Jackson was considering Cambridge; his grades were good enough to get him in, but he was still unsure if he would actually go. He already had enough credits to qualify for graduation from High School in January, and David (Jackson refused to think of him as 'Dad' anymore) pulled some pretty long strings to make it official, and to get him admitted to Cambridge right away. He was registered as a Business major with a Chemistry minor.
No one from Beacon Hills wrote him the whole month.
Jackson checked Lydia's Facebook page. Pictures of her new man were posted all over it, and quite a few had the lens flare in the eyes that gave away his werewolf status. Another one of Derek's? Jackson studied the guy's face, then clicked over to Danny's. It took him a few minutes to register what he was seeing.
Danny was seeing the same guy Lydia was? Was the world insane? Jackson's lips quirked in a smile at the thought that the only people he ever cared about were now in a threesome with this new random werewolf…mutual bonding over the loss of Jackson in their lives gone too far.
Looking closer, he realized that the boys were identical twins and sighed disappointment. Still, what were the odds of that happening?
Lydia and Danny of course answered none of Jackson's messages. They were united in their belief that Jackson should have told the Whittemores to fuck off and stayed in Beacon Hills, that he didn't need the lousy trust fund. When Jackson actually got on the plane, they both wrote him off. Scott and Stiles already had him blocked, but that was even before any of this. Allison never wanted to see him again after that scene in the locker room, even though that douchebag Matt was pulling the strings. Derek didn't have a Facebook page.
Derek had also tried to kill him. Several times. But…Jackson had to admit he had it coming …once for threatening Scott with exposure, and once for being an unstoppable killing machine. Now that Jackson was no longer a threat, would Derek help him or cut him off like everyone else?
Jackson sent off a text. "Derek. I need an A. All alone here. Don't like being an O. Let me join and I'll come back."
Despite it being in the middle of the night in Beacon Hills, Jackson received an immediate response. It was ten minutes before he could bring himself to read it.
"Not an A anymore, got my own problems. Help yourself, you always have."
Jackson took a hammer and smashed the phone into a thousand pieces.
{}{}{}{}
Jackson took the tube to Hyde Park and sat down next to the statue of Peter Pan…the boy who would never grow up. He stared at the statue, now and then glancing at all the nannies wheeling prams up and down the winding lanes. The statue had an Omega symbol carved into it which pissed Jackson off, so he got up and walked along, not paying any attention to where he was going. He wandered onto a bike path, deftly avoiding the whizzing cyclists with his superior senses while still focused on his dark inner thoughts. Eventually he saw the Prince Albert Memorial in the distance, and he smirked at its horrible extravagance. He walked on.
The sun shone down, glinting off a sundial in the middle of a wabe. He smiled, remembering 'Alice In Wonderland'. They called it a wabe because it goes a long way before it and a long way behind it, or some such nonsense. The gnomon cast a shadow indicating it was now 4:00 pm. 'TEMPUS EDAX RERUM' proclaimed the large golden letters. Some crazy lady nearby was shouting about feeding the birds.
Not a few of the younger nannies gave him interested glances as they walked by, and even some of the older ones too, though they were more subtle about it. A male cyclist glanced at him briefly, turned back for a second look…and then promptly crashed his bike into a "KEEP OFF THE GRASS" sign.
Jackson bit back a laugh and trotted over to help the guy up.
The young man groaned as he got to his feet, his knees bloody and his body covered in grass stains. He was thin and wiry, and piercing blue eyes gazed at Jackson through rimless spectacles. He wore a bizarre helmet that was blue with green polka dots. His t-shirt matched it. Definitely a frequent shopper at Stiles-Mart.
"Oh, bloody hell…" he looked down at himself, then up at Jackson. He flushed a deep red, and looked away muttering too low for even Jackson to hear.
"Are you alright?" Jackson picked up the overturned bike. The front wheel was bent. The guy wasn't looking, so Jackson straightened it using 'extra' strength. He wheeled it over.
"Oh, I'm fine. I make a fool out of myself every day, so at least I'm used to it." He took a few steps, hissing at the pain in his knees.
"You live around here? You should patch that up." Jackson pointed at the man's bloody knees.
George took a seat on a bench close to the sundial, inspecting his knees with a grimace of distaste.
"I live in Bristol, or I used to anyway. I'm up here looking for a job since my flat mates decided to get married and move out. I'm George, by the way." He put out his hand, saw the blood and dirt on it and pulled it back.
"Jackson Whittemore."
George looked at him shrewdly. "American? Sounds a bit poncy."
"I have dual citizenship, but yeah I was raised 'across the pond'. Just got here a month ago."
"Oh, how do you like it? Do you have a flat? If you know anyone that is looking to share, I need a place. The one I'm staying in now is rubbish. I've got maybe another week before I'm skint, but it's hard to look for a job and go flat-hunting at the same time. All my things are in storage."
Jackson rolled the idea over in his head. There were a million reasons why this could go wrong, but he felt so damned alone in the huge dwelling. Something in him yearned for camaraderie, for the kind of friendships he never had in Beacon Hills. This was a chance to re-invent himself; no one here had any pre-conceived notions of him as the asshole he was, or the monster he became later. He could start over.
"Actually, I am looking for a roommate. Don't worry about money until you get settled, it's more important to me that I find someone I get along with. Let's hit the tube."
George looked thrilled. "Brilliant! Where in London?"
"Belgravia." Jackson started walking towards the tube entrance. George didn't follow.
"Sorry, chap…that is way out of my price range. Thanks anyway!" George painfully got on his bike.
"George, pay me whatever you can afford! I don't care about money! I just want someone I can…" Jackson flushed beet red. How pathetic he must look. "…talk to."
George gave him a long look. "Look, you seem nice, but I don't know. I like to keep it formal with flatmates. I do a proper rota for cleaning, cooking…"
Jackson laughed. "I have a cleaning service…the place is kinda big. I usually eat out or order in."
"Got bags of money, have you? Well, that must be nice." George's voice got a little colder, his strikingly blue eyes turning stormy.
Jackson sighed. It was happening again. "Yeah, bags of money. No friends or family, but I'm set on cash. Look how happy I am."
George's gaze softened, and he wobbled a bit on the bike. Finally: "Well, no promises, but I'll come look at the place. And I'll want a proper contract so you can't toss me at a moment's notice when you get bored."
"Deal." They got onto the tube, and in a short while were outside of Jackson's flat.
George whistled. "Blimey…you've landed on your feet, Georgie and no mistake…"
Jackson smirked, and led his new friend past the suspicious concierge.
"This is George…" Jackson flushed slightly yet again.
"Sands." George told him.
The concierge gave George the once-over, noting the dirty bike, bloody knees and grass-stained outfit.
"Yeah, Sands. He'll be staying with me."
"Sir, are you sure that…"
"Yes, I'm sure," Jackson growled.
"This really should be cleared with the higher-ups." The concierge gave one last effort to preserve the way of the world as he knew it.
"I agree. Let me know when it's done." Jackson walked past him and they rode the elevator up to the appropriate floor. "He gives you any problems, you let me know," Jackson assured him.
George looked uncomfortable. That look vanished when the door opened and he looked around at the spacious layout.
There was a full open kitchen with a butcher block in the middle…with the smashed cell phone still lying on top of it. George only gave it a passing glance. He peeked into the pantry and squealed at the neat racks of spices and prepared foods. The fridge was full of food along with a well-stocked meat freezer. Even the milk smelled fresh.
"I thought you said you eat out all the time?" George peered at him incredulously over his glasses.
"I do. My dad's assistant hired a guy to come in and restock every week and throw out whatever I don't use. I have no idea why he does it, I can't cook."
"Oooookay," George muttered, befuddled by the mysteries of the wasteful wealthy.
Jackson led him through the living room with the flatscreen over the fireplace and down the hall. The master bedroom was the largest of the four in the flat. George gazed at the master bath, especially the wide stall with its dozen showerheads and the Jaccuzzi bathtub that could probably seat 6 in a pinch.
"Pick any room, they all have their own bathroom and a great view," Jackson told him.
"My entire flat could fit into your bathtub, did you know that?"
Jackson smirked.
George went through a door into a room with a piano and spotted a decent sized (as in small) empty room.
"Is this bedroom alright?" He looked nervous that Jackson might suddenly change his mind and toss him out.
"Sure, except that's not a bedroom, it's a walk-in closet." Jackson gestured around at the larger space. "This is all yours, if you want the piano moved let me know."
George flushed in embarrassment. "Um, all right then…and leave the piano. I can actually play, not that I'd do it in the middle of the night or anything!"
"Great, tell me where your things are stored and I'll have your stuff sent over." Jackson made the call while George stood there and looked guilty. He fiddled with a Star of David pendant around his neck.
After he hung up, Jackson grabbed the First Aid kit from under the sink before wetting a cloth rag and adding some soap.
George went to take it, but Jackson slapped his hand away.
"Sit down, close your eyes, I'll take care of everything," Jackson opened the kit, then sniffed as the scent of arousal suddenly seeped from George's skin. Jackson flushed, realizing how that must have sounded. George was beet red himself, but had squinched his eyes shut. Jackson chuckled. Men being attracted to him was nothing new, or women for that matter. George reminded him of Danny so strongly that he just took it in stride.
Jackson cleaned the abrasions with the cloth, causing George to hiss loudly. Jackson looked down and placed his hands on the bruised knees. Black veins snaked up his arms as the pain was leeched away. George sighed, and fortunately kept his eyes closed. Jackson finished cleaning the scrapes, smeared some ointment on them and taped sterile pads across them so they could heal properly.
"Thanks mate," George said in a throaty whisper. Jackson smiled and put the kit away, tossing the rag into the laundry chute. George reached up and took off his helmet. Jackson started in surprise, and George shook a finger at him.
"Not one word about the ears, mate. I know they stick out."
{}{}{}{}
Jackson took George out that evening for a steak dinner at a French restaurant after his things were brought in from storage. To his surprise, George was fluent at reading the menu and conversing with the stunned waiter in perfect French.
He saw Jackson's face and chuckled. "I may not look it, but I have a tested 156 I.Q. I speak French, German, Italian, Spanish and Croatian."
Jackson was open-mouthed. Now he was reminded strongly of Lydia. He wondered what his ex-girlfriend would have made of George.
"Any Latin? I was wondering what that sundial said," Jackson grinned.
"Oh, I love quizzes. What were the words?"
"Tempus Edax Rerum."
George wrinkled his forehead. "Hmmm, 'Time Devours History' I should think. Sounds loony."
"Do you have a girlfriend, George?" Might as well get it out in the open now.
George looked crestfallen at the sudden turn in the conversation. "No…I was engaged once, and then I had a steady girlfriend and one or two short-term things. Now I'm a lone wolf."
Huh. George's heartbeat remained steady. George swung both ways.
"Do you? Course you must have had loads. You're like total sex in bluejeans if you didn't know." George finished his third glass of wine, already slightly drunk.
"One steady girlfriend…and one really close gay friend."
George nodded as if this were expected. "He ever try anything on you?"
Jackson shook his head. "He never hit on me. I was always a little disappointed about that."
George stared, then swallowed hard before excusing himself to use the loo.
'I'm going to Hell,' Jackson thought to himself, smirking.
{}{}{}{}
They went to a bar in the East End that George frequented, proceeding to down pint after pint. Jackson metabolized it as soon as he drank it, realizing that werewolves probably couldn't get drunk. What a raw deal that was!
By midnight, George was unable to stand and was in danger of further damaging his knees. Jackson got the young man's arm across his shoulders and easily walked George out into the cool night air. The group cheered as the left; Jackson had ordered three rounds on the house (courtesy of George) making the whole crowd extremely fond of him. They clapped him on the back (sometimes sending him to the floor) as they walked by.
Jackson looked for a cab, but none were in sight. It occurred to him as they left the crowded pub that this didn't seem to be the safest of neighborhoods. As if on cue, a sour predatory stench reached his nose.
"Look fellas, two more nancy boys just waiting to hand over their wallets," came a nasty voice, probably Welsh from the sound of it.
Jackson growled in his throat as three hooligans materialized out of a misty alleyway.
"Look! That one spends so much time on his knees, they're actually bleeding! Let him come up for air once in a while, says I!" called the second in Cockney. "And those ears give you something to hold onto, don't they?"
"Got summat large in his pocket…let's hope it's a roll of cash!" called the third in a nearly incomprehensible Scotch accent.
Jackson let a practically unconscious George down on some steps where he peacefully snored. His eyes gave off a blue glow, and screams suddenly filled the air of darkened Whitechapel, the like unheard of since the days when the Ripper stalked its lonely streets.
{}{}{}{}
The only bed in the house was in Jackson's room, the other bedrooms commissioned for other purposes. Jackson intended to remedy the matter tomorrow, but for right now George would be sleeping with him. He had never fully regained consciousness since leaving the pub, snoring bonelessly and resting wherever Jackson happened to drop him. Jackson lay him on the bed and stripped him down to the boxers before covering him up with the duvet. Jackson took off his own bloody clothes and dropped them in the rubbish bin meant for the furnace and tugged on a fresh pair of his own boxers. Jackson lay down, still several feet from George in the King sized bed and stared at the ceiling.
Something was happening between them, and Jackson could not quite put his finger on it. The feeling started when he leeched the pain away from George and had intensified after keeping the East End hooligans from accosting him. The wolf in him felt…protective? Almost as if…
Jackson's eyes widened. He recognized the feeling hearing the others talk about it in Beacon Hills.
Jackson's wolf had accepted George…as Pack.
It was a long time before he got to sleep.
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George opened his eyes, wishing that the dwarf with the sledgehammer that lived inside his skull would quit trying to bash his way out. He groaned, prying open sleep-crusted eyes with his fingers.
Sunlight made of bright silvery spears stabbed deep into his brain.
He whipped the duvet off and staggered into the loo to relieve himself before dropping the boxers and taking the hottest shower of his life. The room staggered and swayed around him, and the nozzles spraying water at him from all directions did little to help him figure out which way was up. He slowly sank to the floor clutching himself and trying not to vomit. Why did he get so drunk last night? He knew he couldn't hold his liquor. His newly scabbed knees stung under the hot water, so he pulled his legs in and wrapped his arms around them while he heaved and shook.
Then there were suddenly hands on him again, hands that seemed to pull the nausea right out of him. George looked up at Jackson's face, now also dripping wet.
"Are you mental? Come out of there before you boil yourself alive." Jackson handed him a towel, then shucked his soaked boxers and took one for himself before heading into the kitchen. George trailed along behind.
"How did you do that? That's twice I was hurting and twice it went away when you…did whatever you did."
Jackson looked uncomfortable. "No idea what you mean. Here, I ordered up some coffee while you were trying to drown yourself."
George took a long sip, transported with rapture.
"That's the only thing you're allowed to drink from now on…I never saw such a bad hangover, and I'm from California. You smelled…" Jackson cut himself off.
George frowned. "I'll have you know I have a rigid hygienic routine, and I was in fact showering when you came to find me. If my odor offends you, I can find someplace else-"
"No! Not what I meant. You smelled fine, and you still do…I smelled the hangover."
"You can smell the hangover? How strange. You must have a very sensitive nose."
"You have no idea," Jackson muttered.
{}{}{}{}
They went out for lunch after George finished setting up his room. To Jackson's disappointment, the furniture store told him the bed he wanted for George would take another day to be delivered.
"I have an air mattress. I'll just inflate it and…" George began.
"That's stupid, bunk down with me. My bed's big enough.
George turned red. "Um, how did I sleep last night? I don't even remember leaving the pub."
Jackson shrugged. "Fine. You stayed on your side and I stayed on mine. You didn't even snore. Much."
George grinned. "Brilliant. Thanks again for everything you're doing."
Jackson waved it off. They went to see "Meet the Millers", laughing so hard they kept choking on popcorn. Another walk around Hyde Park followed by dinner gave them time enough to share some of the past with each other. Jackson gave him a brief history of things, leaving out only his estrangement from everyone and all of the werewolf business. George told him about his two best friends John Mitchell and Annie Sawyer who wound up getting married and moving out, leaving George to fend for himself.
"I'm happy for them, but at the same time I was angry that they'd ruined a beautiful thing…the thing we had as a family before they decided to muck it up with all the sex and kissing and holding hands and whispering and giggling." George pouted.
"Well, hey you've got me now," Jackson offered. Deep inside him, something with sapphire blue eyes agreed with low growl. The smile George gave him made his heart skip a beat.
Despite Jackson's prohibition about drinking from that morning, they stopped in an upscale gastropub to get a pint…but just one.
As they downed the room temperature ale, George noticed a Help Wanted sign over the bar and quickly asked the doorman where to find the owner. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with an application which he began filling out. When he was done, he vanished again and came back with his face beaming.
"Well, the 'Gooden Rogered' has a new cook. Looks like my money worries have vanished!" George crowed with delight.
"You never had any money problems. I was going to…" Jackson stopped. He almost said 'I was going to take care of you.'
"You can't go on paying for me forever…my mum didn't raise any mooches." George looked around. "Funny thing about this place, I just realized…"
"There aren't any women." Jackson smirked. He had picked up on the nature of the establishment from the moment he stepped inside.
"I object to that!" A diminutive woman in an expensive outfit came from the back and introduced herself as Lauren Gooden, the owner.
"You're a handsome one, aren't you?" she eyed Jackson up and down. "Might be good for business. Do you have any bartending experience?"
"You said there weren't any front end positions open!" George fumed.
"No, I said 'I think your talents lie in the rear.' I wasn't talking about work, love. But this fine fellow would attract the blokes like goldfish to a piranha. What do you say love? You'd make handsome tips, and I'd pay you double what Speccy over there would earn."
Jackson grinned. A job? David Whittemore would have a stroke if he found out. He'd be more upset than at the werewolf stuff.
"No, I'm pretty set, and probably will be starting at Cambridge soon…"
"Come with me into the back, love." Lauren walked off fully confident Jackson would follow. It was a favorite trick of Lydia's.
When Jackson entered the tiny office, Lauren sat in an expensive looking leather chair and lit a thin black cigarette.
"Fag?" she asked.
"What did you just call me?" Jackson bristled. He once beat up four other kids who called Danny that horrible word.
Lauren rolled her eyes. "Poxy Americans and their stupid slang. I asked if you wanted a cigarette."
"Oh! Sorry, no. I mean, I don't smoke."
"How long have you and the Basset Hound been together?"
For the second time in as many minutes, Jackson got angry. "We aren't together. He's my friend. Don't make fun of him."
Lauren nodded as if Jackson had just confirmed her suspicions.
"Look, I only hired George because I thought it would keep you hanging around. I saw you come in together and almost dropped me teddies. I wasn't kidding when I said you'd be good for business. Last night my only hot barman ran off with his new lover, some smarmy cousin of the Royal Family, hoping to be a real Queen someday, no doubt. I've got no one pulling the lads in on the weekends! Just do me Friday and Saturday nights and I'll keep George on and double his salary. What do you say?"
Jackson sighed. Every time he thought his life was under control, some malignant outside force tried to screw it all up.
"Look, I'm not even…" Jackson began.
"Like it matters, love." Lauren smiled and took another drag off her cigarette.
{}{}{}{}
Over the next few weeks, Jackson's life was beyond recognition. As per Lauren's prediction, once word got around that there was a new impossibly handsome bartender serving drinks the clientele on weeknights practically tripled. Jackson picked up how to mix drinks pretty quickly, and he began to enjoy the whistles and catcalls (not to mention huge tips) he got from West London's gay twenty-something crowd. Lauren began coming up with different schemes to get them to part with more and more Coin of the Realm. The most infamous of these was the night where for every two hundred pounds taken in, Jackson had to strip off an article of clothing. He was down to boxers and socks inside 90 minutes and resolved from then on to dress in layers.
What Lauren didn't count on was the fact that George was an excellent cook. His steak-and-ale pie, Shepherd's Pie, bangers and mash, chili con carne and other pub menu items were a hit. He was also an obsessive cleaner, and the kitchen received top marks during their health inspection for the first time in years. Lauren gave him a hefty raise (she didn't believe in shafting her workers) which ironically led to the very first argument George and Jackson had since they moved in.
"Come on now, I'm making a decent wage, it's high time I started paying you a proper rent." They were heading in for their Saturday shift.
Jackson felt like he had cash coming out of his ears. "I don't need it. Hell, I don't even need the job!"
"Why did you take the job, then?" George narrowed his eyes.
"Eye candy for the patrons. She told me as much." Jackson pulled on his shoes.
"So, quit then! You're handsome and all that, but London's full of handsome men. ME for instance!"
Jackson chuckled, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Are you implying I'm unattractive?" George thundered. His blue eyes were almost as luminous as Jackson's during a shift.
Jackson looked at George, really looked at him. "No…you are attractive…"
George gaped at him.
"…but you hide it really well."
"What do you mean?" George sputtered.
Jackson sighed. "Come with me."
They went into the master bedroom and looked into the full-length mirror.
"First off, these glasses need to go."
"But I can't see without them!"
"I'll get you some contacts. For now, just squint! You're probably blind from looking at these horrible shirts you wear! Get that orange nightmare you're wearing off. In fact, lose almost everything you've got on!"
Jackson pulled some shirts and pants out of his closet, matching them against an uncomfortable George who shifted from foot to foot in his boxers. George had a very decent body with an enviable natural muscle tone. Some tight blue jeans, a leather belt, grey fitted t-shirt, black leather shoes…
"Now your hair." Jackson grabbed some product, a comb and a hair-dryer.
"I know it's too long, I need a cut…"
"No you don't. Short hair doesn't flatter you." Jackson combed his hair forward with a little flip up at the front. A little fluffing on the sides and even his ears weren't that obvious.
"NOW look at yourself!"
George looked, and gasped. "Cor, I look…"
"Attractive?" Jackson finished.
"…like you!"
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Lauren actually dropped a tray of glasses when she saw George. "Well, well…you clean up nice laddie!" Not one to pass up opportunity when she saw it, she put someone else in charge of the kitchen and had George assist Jackson at the bar. The tip jar was over flowing by the end of the night. The three had a celebratory round of drinks at the end of the night before heading home. George pulled a large handful of cocktail napkins out of his pocket and dropped them in the trash.
"What were those?" Jackson asked.
"Phone numbers. They were chatting me up almost as much as you tonight."
"I noticed. Anyone catch your eye?" Jackson smirked.
"Yes. One fellow." George turned and walked ahead of Jackson, leaving the stunned werewolf behind.
When Jackson got home, George was already pouring himself another drink from their home stash.
"Easy, George. You're over your limit already," Jackson warned.
"Oh, I'm fine. I just want enough to knock me senseless. I don't think I'll sleep otherwise."
Jackson swallowed uncomfortably. George's scent was spiked with bitterness.
"George, I…" Jackson didn't know what to say.
"Oh, do shut up. In the morning, I will forget this entire scene. I'm sorry. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I keep telling myself you're straight, and even if you weren't…"
"I'm not that straight," Jackson said in a rush. "My friend Danny and I…when he came out, we…"
George shook his head. "That's experimenting. It's not the same. Lots of blokes do that, though they rarely admit it."
"No…it wasn't an experiment. I think…no, I know I was in love with him."
George's eyes widened in shock. "You're serious? You're not having me on?"
"It's true. I wasn't ready to…I wasn't sure if my adoptive parents would…by the time I realized I could have told him, he moved on. The moment passed…and I let it. I had no right to ask for it back."
"Ah. Then I guess it is just me, then. Well, at least I know. Until tomorrow that is." George turned and went into his room, shutting the door behind him. Jackson's wolf made a frantic bid to get free and break down the door, but Jackson was too good at forcing it down.