a/n: what i wouldn't give to see jackson's reaction to learning about allison's death. does he even know? one character dead, one character in london, but the shipping continues. kind of au, because i've had most of this written since before season 4 aired, so i was under the impression that danny would still be around instead of falling off the face of the earth. side-eyeing you so hard, jeff davis. story title comes from the song not about angels by birdy.

found something real that's out of touch

Jackson learns about Allison Argent's death three months after the fact.

Like most things in his life, it happens by accident.

.

"It's crazy, man. Honestly, it's still kind of a shock to me; I mean, you're a reptile-turned-wolf, McCall is a True Alpha, capital T capital A, Lydia's a banshee, this new girl Kira is a kitsune, Allison was a hunter...jeez. The only one that's still as mundane as I am is Stilinski, but I'm gay and he isn't, so I think that puts me higher on the totem pole." Pause. "Although he does seem awfully concerned with whether or not I find him attractive..."

"Which you do," Jackson reminds him with a chuckle, thinking back to when Danny called him at the beginning of his junior year and ranted about Stiles' newly grown-out hair and have his hands always been that long and delicious-looking? for over thirty minutes.

"Yeah, but it's not like I can give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I'll never hear the end of it."

"That's true; an impressive feat considering the twerp is strictly Lydia Martin-sexual."

"Yeah, well, judging by the way he's dating a werecoyote─really dude, a fucking werecoyote, what even is this town─named Malia, I wouldn't be too sure about that."

Jackson's eyebrows raise. "Really? Huh. She hot?"

"As a homosexual, totally-uninterested-in-anything-with-a-vagina guy, I'm not lying when I say I'd love for that girl to lick me from head to toe."

"And she's with Stilinski," he states, disbelief evident in his tone.

Danny sighs wearily. "Beacon Hills has gotten so much weirder since you left, man."

Evidently, it has, because Jackson has no idea what a True Alpha is and how it makes Scott different than any other alpha. Also, how did he become an alpha? Because he's pretty sure that when he left, Scott was on the beta-level of the werewolf hierarchy right along with Lahey and himself. However, this is the first time he's heard of this girl named Kira, so that's currently a more pressing matter.

"So, you filled me in on what a banshee was the last time we spoke, but what the hell is a kitsune?"

"It's a trickster spirit. Japanese origin. Kira's one of the good kind."

"There's a bad kind?"

"Yeah, they're called nogitsune or 'void,' but trust me, that's a really long and dark conversation that neither of us wants to have. They haven't really recovered from when it blew through Beacon Hills and left pain and decimated psyches in its wake."

Jackson shrugs, nonplussed. "Sounds like the norm."

"When McCall dished out all things supernatural that have been occurring around me for the past two years, he never mentioned anything about the raging headache that accompanied the onslaught of information," he grumbles.

Jackson imagines Danny with his fingers to his temples, inwardly cursing the world, and is glad that the fact that they're separated by a country on top of an ocean hasn't put a damper on how well they know each other. There aren't a lot of people he'll admit to missing, but at this moment, there's very little Jackson wouldn't do to get to spend a couple of weeks with his best friend.

Danny sighs for the umpteenth time ─ he tried keeping count, he really did ─ in the seventeen minutes since this phone call started. "He offered me a place in his pack, told me it was there if I wanted it."

"And?"

"I must have a death wish, because I'm heavily considering taking him up on it."

Jackson blows out a long breath, eyes shifting to the corner of his room where his lacrosse stick sits. "Look Danny, as much as it pains me to admit─and you know it does, McCall's a good leader. But it is dangerous, so please, for everyone's sake, be careful. Lord knows how Stilinski is still alive considering the little shit runs headfirst into any dangerous situation he sees." He takes a justified three seconds to roll his eyes. In the time that he's cursing the absurdity of Stiles' existence, he realizes that running with the supernatural means the promise of constant danger, and self-defense is something Danny is going to have to learn, and fast. "I'm sure you know by now that Allison doesn't fuck around; maybe you could get her to train you in physical combat or with some sort of weapon? Her dad literally has an arsenal."

There's a beat of silence, then another. Jackson pulls the phone away from his ear, but the screen tells him the call's still active. "Danny?"

"How long has it been since you talked to anyone from Beacon Hills aside from me? Or used Facebook, for that matter?"

"Not since last summer, to answer both of your questions. Social media doesn't hold the same appeal once you live an ocean away from everyone else. Why?"

There's some shuffling on the other end of the line. "Jackson...dude, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew."

A lead weight drops itself on Jackson's stomach and he swallows.

"Danny."

"Allison died a couple of months ago."

Images flash behind Jackson's eyelids: brown curls, lip gloss, Chinese ring daggers, the ivory column of a delicate throat, the sound of a heartbeat, strong and soft.

He's faintly aware of his phone slipping through his fingers, of Danny's far-away voice saying his name before the noise ceases altogether.

Jackson knows that, werewolf or not, there's no fathomable way to detect the earth's rotation, but he swears, in that moment, it stops spinning. Everything goes quiet for a second before the sound of his own steady heartbeat becomes deafening. He reaches an arm out to balance himself against a wall, but the part of his brain that controls his limbs has been overtaken with tragedy and he falls against it ungracefully, sliding down until he feels the carpet beneath his cheek.

Allison's dead.

That's why Danny said "Allison was a hunter" when talking about the Scooby-gang, why he never received an e-mail from her on his birthday, why, when he'd gotten wasted on said birthday and proceeded to call her, he vaguely remembers rambling drunkenly to an operator's voice and telling her that "no, you're disconnected."

From his angle, he can see the only picture he has of him and Allison on his corkboard next to a Denver Outlaws ticket stub. In it, he's looking at the ground, clearly laughing, and she's on his back, flexing her right arm, looking at the camera with that wide, open smile of hers that always caused a ruckus in his chest. Some freshman took it for the yearbook before he'd challenged her to a few laps in the pool, and Jackson remembers the moment all too well.

"Alright, whatever, let's get this over with."

She looks to him disbelievingly, flicking his ear before turning to the freshman. "Sorry about my friend's attitude; clearly, tact is not part of his impressive repertoire. What do you want us to do..." Allison trails off, poking her head closer to catch a peek at the kid's ID, "Michael?"

Michael, all perked up now that a gorgeous upperclassman came to his defense, smiles dopily at her before shaking his head sharply. "Yeah, um, I'm not sure on that one. Anything you want? You can piggyback, do a model pose, flex, I can get a shot of you in the pool, maybe?"

Jackson is too busy rolling his eyes at Michael's inability to keep his hormones in check when Allison says, "We'll do you one better, we'll piggyback and flex." She goes to stand behind Jackson and puts her hands on his shoulders, and he really hopes she didn't feel the stiffening of his muscles under her touch. Great, he thinks, looking at Michael, at this rate I'm no better than doofus over here. "Alright, Whittemore, any day now."

He fixes her with feigned irritation before turning and bending his knees, reaching his open palms backwards to grip her thighs as she jumps. She presses her palm flat against his chest and leans in close enough that her left ear is touching his right, and yeah, Jackson's no virgin, but that doesn't seem to stop the forefront of his mind from becoming a cross between "fuck me, how can her chin smell this awesome?" and "boobsonbackboobsonbackabortmission."

Luckily, Allison remains completely oblivious to his embarrassing inner turmoil, solely focused on posing for the picture. Michael trains his camera on them, and Jackson focuses on what angle will make him look the best. "Hey, Jackson, this reminds me: do you have any tape?"

Momentarily distracted from his perfected pre-picture routine, he looks back at her in confusion. "No, why?"

"Because I am ripped," she says seriously, lifting her right arm and flexing.

Because Allison managed to catch him off-guard, he can't help the genuine laughter that arises.

Click.

She's gone, he realizes, the girl with the bright eyes and lion heart, the only person who's ever made laughing feel as effortless as it should.

Jackson closes his eyes, tears traveling over the contour of his nose to land on his carpet.

He wants to call Danny back and get the details. He wants to call Lydia and make sure she's okay. He wants to reactivate all his social media accounts just so he can read her tweets and see her pictures. More than anything, he wants to reverse time and give her more than the half-hearted goodbye she received before his departure to London.

Instead, Jackson lifts himself off the floor, scrubs a hand over his face, walks on shaky legs to where his laptop sits on his desk, and buys a plane ticket to Beacon Hills.

.

Looking at the slab of stone in front of him, he feels loss weigh his heart down with a crushing sense of finality.

In Loving Memory of Allison Argent
19th March 1997 ─ 17th March 2013
Strong, warm, and loyal, a beloved daughter and friend.

"Jackson?"

He swats at his wet cheeks before turning, unsurprised to find Scott standing there, looking at him with a a tentative smile. Incredible, Jackson committed himself to being douchebag by day and ─ unwittingly, but still ─ homicidal lizard by night, and McCall still can't find it in himself to be anything other than pleased to see him.

Rather than exchange pleasantries or chat about lacrosse, Jackson gets right down to business. "You can't tell anyone that I was here. Not Danny, and not Lydia."

He nods, taken aback at the intensity of his request. "Alright."

"Not even Stilinski."

Scott gapes at him, like he's just requested that he kill a thousand puppies, and while Jackson knows that it must be the equivalent of such a heinous crime to restrain from running and divulging every last piece of information to his spastic best friend, he doesn't budge. After a couple of moments, Scott sighs. "No one will know. I promise."

"How'd you find out?"

The words cut at him, a reminder that this was never supposed to happen, that he was supposed to live his life in London and go through each day believing that his friend was alive and well. In the pockets of his jacket, his fingers curl into fists as he struggles to maintain his calm.

"Danny. He thought I knew, got confused when I was still referring to her in present-tense."

"I'm sorry you had to find out that way."

Something in him freezes. "Don't apologize for how I found out, McCall. Apologize for the fact that there was something to find out."

He regrets the words as soon as he says them, but he's a werewolf, not Marty McFly, so the pained expression that crosses Scott's face will just have to be another addition to the long list of things he wishes he could take back. He waits with bated breath for his response, hoping that he hasn't already royally fucked up the only real encounter he's had with someone from Beacon Hills in a year.

Maybe it's because they're mourning the loss of a girl who shaped their lives in unique ways, or perhaps it's because he understands the warped way in which Jackson's mind works, but Scott doesn't wilt like Jackson expected him to, nor does he begrudge him his harsh accusation. "There's nothing I'll ever be sorrier for than that."

"Yeah." Jackson feels a tick in his jaw as he struggles to form the words he wants to say. Every instinct he has is trying to reel those words back in, to conceal his emotions from where another person can bear witness to them, but he's standing in front of Allison's grave, dammit, and he will do this for her. "You know, when you said that I had to have begun liking her when I was spending all that time with her to get to you, simply because she was Allison...well, you were right."

Scott nods, not bothering to play dumb. "I know. She had that effect on people."

Hastily, Jackson continues, although he can feel the control he has on what he says decreasing by the second. "I'm not saying that because I feel bad that she's dead and I wasn't always the best person where she was concerned. I do, but those things have always been true, okay? It's just...she was pretty amazing, and─"

"It's okay," Scott says, saving him from attempting to not make a complete fool of himself, and Jackson sends him a grateful nod. "She never held any of what you did against you, kanima or pre-kanima." He grins, then. "Except for that time you kicked her ass swimming laps in the pool; I know for a fact she never forgave you for that one."

Jackson scoffs, but it's all affinity. "Sore loser." His eyes travel down to her headstone again, and he stares at it for a good four seconds before he feels a stinging sensation in his eyes. Clearing his throat, he shifts his gaze to his feet and kicks at a twig on the grass. "It's a good thing I didn't challenge her to an archery match, huh?"

Scott nods, a faraway look on his face before he seemingly snaps back into the present, digging through the pocket of his track sweats until he finds what he's looking for. A dent forms between Jackson's eyebrows as he looks back from Scott's face, heavy with an emotion he's not perceptive enough to decipher, to the silver arrowhead he holds in his hand.

"Why do I get the feeling that a Hans Zimmer score should accompany this moment?"

Scott blinks, obviously unaware of what to say in the face of a reference to someone he doesn't know. Still a little befuddled, he soldiers on. "In the Argent family, at the end of every hunter's training, they have to forge their own silver bullet, and since the bow was Allison's signature weapon, she forged a silver arrowhead instead," he explains, swallowing. "She made this the night she died, and now, it's yours."

Jackson's eyes widen as his head jerks down to look at the object in Scott's hand, seeing Allison's face in every silver crevice. He shakes his head, taking a step back. "No, I can't have something like that."

"Don't feel guilty about taking it; I have one at home, so does her father, and Lydia. You were important to her, too."

Jackson's still shaking his head, but he forces his hand open nonetheless. Scott places the arrowhead in his palm, and as his fingers close over it, he feels his heart constrict. At this point, he's dangerously close to hugging Scott McCall, crying, or crying into Scott McCall's shoulder as he hugs him.

Frankly, none are appealing options.

"Thank you," he murmurs, the fervor in those two words enough to make him clench his jaw and refuse to meet Scott's eyes. Instead, he looks to the arrowhead, its surface gleaming as he spins it between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it into the chest pocket of his leather jacket. "Were you there? When she died?"

Scott ducks his head and nods solemnly. "Yeah, yeah I was."

"How?"

He meets his eyes then, holding his gaze for a moment before going back to Allison's headstone. "There were these supernatural warriors called the Oni. Their purpose is to do someone else's bidding, and the nogitsune managed to take hold of the reins. Heard of it?" At Jackson's nod, he continues. "Well, it was holding Lydia captive, and when we went to get her back, Allison killed one of them, something that Yakuza said couldn't be done. She did it to save Isaac, and she got distracted for one second, and─" Scott takes a shaky breath, exhaling deeply through his nose. "She saved every single one of us."

Jackson feels the weight of the story hit him full-force, and he sways where he stands before ungracefully falling back to sit down. He weaves his fingers through the dewy grass until he feels dirt hit his skin, the feel of the earth working to calm him down some.

He looks up, resenting the sun for being so bright, the sky for being so clear, Scott for being so forgiving. Why isn't he bashing his face in for not treating her better? Or scoffing in disdain at his words, telling him he doesn't deserve to mourn her? What did Jackson ever offer her anyway, aside from a friendship built on ulterior motives?

He thinks of Allison's eyes, sparkling even as nighttime does its best to diminish their luminescence, and feels sick.

"She's the last person I saw."

"What?"

"Before I left to London," he clarifies, closing his eyes as he tries to resuscitate the memory he's speaking about. If he concentrates enough, he can vividly see her; hands stuffed into the pockets of a purple hoodie as she peruses the aisle for a bag of the chocolate-covered pretzels Lydia undoubtedly requested, fresh-faced and beautiful as ever. "Saw her in the grocery store when I went for some last-minute things. I'd already broken up with Lydia by then, so when she saw me, I got a good look at her I-want-to-put-an-arrow-in-you face."

Scott winces sympathetically. "Not a good face to be on the receiving end of."

"Nope. She asked me if I was really leaving Beacon Hills, and when I told her I was, she hugged me and said I was an asshole, but despite the circumstances, I was an asshole that she would miss." "I just stood there. I didn't hug her back, and when she let me go, I nodded at her and told her to take care of Lydia. She said she would, and I left. I had a chance at a goodbye and I didn't use it properly. If I'd known that that was the last time I'd ever see her I would've─"

He cuts himself off, because while he─and he'd deny this vehemently if ever asked─trusts Scott, there's no one he'd want hearing this aside from the only person that can't because she's resting six feet under the ground he's sitting on.

"How's Lydia?" he asks, because he wants to know and because he needs to distract himself from the sadness that threatens to overwhelm him every time Allison's face flashes across his mind.

Scott shakes his head, shoulders sagging imperceptibly at the mention of her. "I can't answer that. I mean, she goes through each day as if she's fine, but there's times when I catch her staring off into the distance, or checking the time simply because her wallpaper is a picture of her and Allison." It's obvious by the worry in his tone that his relationship with Lydia has grown from girlfriend's-best-friend to something infinitely more meaningful, and once again, Jackson is left wondering how much has changed in the year that he's been gone. "She lost her best friend; there's no way it isn't affecting her, but she's strong. Stiles helps her remember that when she can't seem to."

He nods, ignoring the jealousy that creeps into his system as a result of his lingering feelings for the banshee. Despite being aware that he's still in love with her, he knows breaking up was the right thing to do for them both, and not just because of the distance that would divide them.

Lydia deserves someone who sees and loves every facet of who she is, someone who can challenge her in a way that he knows he's never been and will never be capable to, and he deserves to let himself grow into a better person outside of a relationship with a person who conceals herself from him and who he continues to conceal himself from.

Besides, he's not surprised. When he left, he was well-aware that if there was someone who could encourage Lydia to embrace how great she was rather than who she was pretending to be, it'd be Stilinski.

"They're kind of inevitable, those two."

"They are," he says slowly, like he suspects Jackson will wolf out and challenge him to a duel if he agrees too quickly, and Jackson rolls his eyes. When it's clear that he intends to do no such thing, Scott visibly relaxes, shrugging one shoulder. "They'll figure it out."

Jackson pushes himself off the ground, dusting his hands off and straightening his jacket before extending a hand to help Scott up.

"When they do, make sure Stilinski doesn't screw it up."

Scott hears the unspoken threat in his tone, and he just smiles, voice steady with conviction when he promises, "He won't."

"Take care of Danny, okay? I know you can't promise anything, especially not with what we are, but do your best to make sure he stays safe."

"He's pack; I'll protect him with my life."

Jackson doesn't doubt it, not for a second.

"I suppose that's enough. I'll see you around, McCall," he says, because even though he's matured enough to acknowledge that Scott isn't nearly as big a pain in the ass as he remembers, he's pretty sure he's filled his quota of openly expressing his emotions for at least the next decade, and Scott has a tendency of saying things that make him do just that.

"Is this the part where we awkwardly hug goodbye?"

Jackson snorts. "Not even a little bit." Instead of an embrace neither of them would particularly enjoy, he holds out his hand. Scott looks down at it then back at him, and Jackson swears on his Porsche, he actually sees the guy's ears perk up before he gleefully shakes it.

They depart, Jackson heading back to his car as Scott turns back to Allison's headstone, and when the former's hand wraps around the door's handle, he turns. "One more thing, McCall." Thirty yards don't make a difference to a werewolf, so he's not surprised when Scott immediately cranes his head to look at him, expectant. "This isn't goodbye."

And okay, yeah, that was unnecessarily dramatic of him, but Scott's face splits into that wide grin of his that sickens him with its ability to instill hope in even the most pessimistic of people, so he guesses it was well-received.

.

He wants to be a better person.

Looking at himself now versus who he was a year ago, he'd like to say he is a better person. He still has a quick temper, and for the most part, he's still unwilling to display any and all signs that would indicate there's something human inside the skin he wears, but he's trying. Or, trying to try. Whatever.

He's not dumb enough to believe that this epiphany has nothing to do with Allison, and despite the fact that he doesn't want to be a living embodiment of one of those sappy chick-flick movies where the jerk turns into a respectable man with a heart of gold because of one girl, he won't deny that she's the primary driving force behind the Jackson Whittemore: From Tool to Jewel project.

Every good redemption story has to have a catalyst, right? And as far as catalysts go, he knows he fared rather well.

He isn't sure whether there will ever come a day where he's not filled with immense regret at the thought of her, but he's determined to see to it that there comes a day where he becomes a person she wouldn't regret letting into her life. It's what he owes her, and frankly, it's what he owes himself.

She would've been the perfect person to help him grow into himself, he thinks. She would've encouraged him, but she wouldn't have put up with his shit if he'd taken things too far. Having known what it's like to not have a full grip on who you are at times, she wouldn't have faulted him for the mistakes he would've undoubtedly made. Truth be told, he wonders whether or not he'd still try to better himself if he'd never met her.

It frightens him to think that he might not.

He still remembers how her hand fit in his as they danced, how her laugh made the corners of his lips turn upwards of their own accord, how her eyes always searched his, beckoning sincerity to arise from beneath the multiple layers of bullshit he'd spent years perfecting.

He's just sorry it'll happen when she's not here to witness it.

Or maybe she is. He'd never given the concept of heaven or hell any thought before, but then again, if you told him two years ago that the stories about things that go bump in the night were more than fable, he'd laugh in your face and throw a twenty at you, probably tell you to get a life while he's at it. He doesn't know if those places exist, or whether spirits or angels or demons are real and Allison's watching over him this very second, or if her existence and its tangibility seeped into the ground along with her blood, but he's determined to act like she's with him every step of what he knows will be a long and painful journey.

Right there, driving on a long stretch of California highway, Jackson decides to turn over a new leaf and figure out who he wants to be so he can implement the steps to getting there, a plan taken straight from the Allison Argent handbook.

The arrowhead gleams as it swings from side to side, hanging from his rearview mirror, light hitting every surface. He smiles, and it's effortless.

Just like it should be.