Chapter 2: Flesh

"And nobody finds the one, but keep looking,
Crawling in and out of beds.
Flesh covers the bone,
And the flesh searches for more than flesh."
—Charles Bukowski, Alone With Everybody


For the first time in months, Jackson had not dreamt of dying. He'd slept without seeing the faces of Matt or Gerard, and in the morning awoke without the cries of his victims echoing in his ears.

Instead, the cries that faded from his mind as he woke up were... different. Instead of help, they'd cried a name. Derek.

What had happened between him and Derek the night before hardly felt real. It seemed insane—no, it was insane. Derek was obviously insane, and Jackson was even worse for wanting him. Wanted, past tense. Had wanted him last night, but now it was morning and he was determined to prove that the insanity had been temporary on his part.

Last night was over. It was morning now, and as Jackson pulled himself out of bed and shuffled towards his bathroom, he resolved to not wanting him ever again.

And why would he? He wouldn't. Shouldn't.

Won't.

While Jackson jerked off in the shower, with memories of Derek's rough hands and hungry mouth drifting around his head, he just told himself that it didn't count.


School was uneventful. People spoke to him, he spoke back. He went to his morning classes. Took some notes—not good ones. It didn't matter, he'd find someone else to get decent ones from later. Worst case scenario, he'd just pull the "I died" card, and get out of any tests or assignments he had on whatever it was that they were learning.

Lunch time for Jackson was both painful and boring. Particularly painful because it was also boring, and there was no worse pain than the very boring kind. Boring pain dragged on forever. As such, Jackson felt like he'd been having lunch for at least 12 years now. The time on his cellphone said it had only been 20 minutes.

They were sitting with Scott, Stiles and Isaac today. Scott had smiled at him and tried to have some kind of conversation when they'd sat down ("Do you think you'll come back to lacrosse soon? The teams not the same without you...") and Isaac had given him a kind of half-smile and a nod, followed by a very deliberate look at Scott that said "see, look how nice I'm being to him?" Scott had rolled his eyes, and Jackson had quietly seethed. He hated that Scott McCall was telling people to be nice to him. He hated that Scott McCall somehow thought they were friends now. He didn't want his friendship, or his pity.

Stiles' attitude towards him remained blessedly unchanged. He resented him for being with Lydia, and generally ignored him otherwise. For that, Jackson was grateful.

Next to him was Lydia, sitting with an untouched salad in front of her, and looking at a fashion magazine with the kind of careful deliberation that could only mean she was just as bored as he was. Jackson knew that she wasn't really reading it—it was the same magazine she'd had with her two nights before, while they'd done their homework together. Or more accurately, the magazine she'd been reading while Jackson had done his homework (which she had finished hours before him) and refused all of her offers to help.

If she'd had the magazine two days ago, he knew there was no way she hadn't already read the thing cover to cover by now. That meant the magazine was no longer reading materiel, but a prop chosen to broadcast a certain image to their peers. Jackson wondered how he'd never noticed before, how much of her time Lydia spent carefully broadcasting a certain image. He'd known image was important to her, obviously... but beyond that, he guessed he just hadn't bothered to care.

Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he was one of her props. He knew that she loved him now, because he listened closely to her heartbeat whenever the words left her lips—every time expecting to hear the quick thrumpity-thrump of a lie—but he still couldn't helping thinking back on every moment of the last two years, and wondering how much of their relationship had just been for show.

"Soo..." Stiles was saying, reaching over in front of Scott and grabbing a few french fries from Isaac's plate. Isaac narrowed his eyes a little and watched as Stiles shoved the fries into his mouth and continued to talk. "Tonight, we're doing video games and pizza at Scott's, right?"

"I thought we were studying for the chem test tonight?" Scott asked, furrowing his brow.

"Right, yeah, that's what I said," Stiles began reaching for Isaacs fries again, but Isaac grabbed his wrist before he could get near them. Stiles glared at him, and retracted his hand.

"Can I stay over?" Isaac asked, taking a few of his own fries and smirking at Stiles while he ate them. "Derek's been kind of moody lately."

Stiles snorted. "You meant 'er', right? Derek's been moodier. Which I personally find hard to believe, considering that he's always at what should be the maximum level of moodiness that any human being can achieve—"

"Sure you can stay," Scott said, speaking over Stiles. "But you guys have to promise me we're going to get some studying done." He looked back and forth between Isaac and Stiles, who had suddenly become very involved in their respective lunches. Scott sighed. He looked up, and Jackson quickly turned away and tried to pretend he hadn't been listening. "Jackson, do you want to—"

"No," Jackson said, standing up violently. He was horrified Scott had mistook his listening for interest in hanging out with them (and even more horrified in himself, because he knew his actual interest lay in the fact that Isaac wouldn't be at Derek's tonight. He would deny that too). Lydia glanced up from the magazine she wasn't reading, and raised an eyebrow at him. "I have to go, I'll see you after school, alright?" He turned away, and heard her sigh.

"We have class together next period, Jackson," Lydia said, going back to her prop.

"Then I'll see you next period," Jackson muttered. He stormed out of the cafeteria and spent the rest of lunch aimlessly wandering the hallways and trying not to think about Derek. Not Derek's hands, or the way Derek's mouth had felt on his neck. Not how frustrating it was that he hadn't been allowed to touch Derek back.

The back of his neck was growing hot. Just thinking about all the things he wasn't thinking about was getting to him. Making him flustered.

When the bell rang, he looked up and realized he was standing in front the Photography club's dark room.

He told himself that didn't count, either.


After school Jackson met Lydia in the parking lot. His car was still at the mechanics, so she was his ride. When he arrived she gave him a quick kiss by way of greeting, and then they got into the car and drove away from the school.

Jackson looked out the window as they drove. The sky was dark and cloudy, and some sense that he couldn't quite describe told him that a storm was headed their way. The clouds had been building for a few days now, with them a sort of subdued dreariness had settled over Hills recently. Everything looked bleak and grey, still and almost lifeless. Jackson didn't mind. In fact, he kind of liked it; it suited his mood.

Neither of Lydia's parents were home when they arrived, but they went straight up to Lydia's bedroom anyways. Lydia began unpacking her textbooks and homework, and Jackson dumped his backpack in the middle of the floor, and stood with his hands in his pockets. They'd hardly spoken on the drive, and he felt like he should say something.

"Uh... so, how was your day?"

Lydia was flipping through the pages of her pink day planner. She shrugged. "Alright, I suppose. Generally uneventful." She looked up from the day planner, and raised her eyebrows. "What about you?"

Jackson nodded. "Uneventful," He lied. Lydia smiled, and went back to her day planner.


Jackson was in chains. They descended from the ceiling and bound his wrists together above his head. His clothing was in tatters, and long red marks covered his body, like lashes from a whip. Jackson struggled against his chains, and someone laughed. He cried out as his jailer's hand roamed over the lashes on his chest, inflaming them. "Where do you think you're going?" Derek asked, sliding his hand up the back of Jackson's neck. "Control yourself, Jackson," He pulled off what remained of Jacksons shirt and pressed his mouth against his shoulder in a way that was more bite than kiss. Jackson moaned. "Or better yet..." Derek said, his hand slipping down to Jackson's tattered pants. "Let me control you." Jackson laughed and closed his eyes as Derek began to touch him. They both knew that he already did.

And there was no other way Jackson would want it.

Somewhere in a world far away, a female voice called Jackson's name. Jackson squeezed his eyes shut harder, and clung to the feeling of Derek's hands. The voice called his name again, and this time Jackson recognized it. Lydia. A jolt of fear went through Jackson's heart—she couldn't see him like this, she couldn't see him with Derek—and his eyes sprang open and he sat up with a jolt.

Jackson breathed heavily, and looked at his surroundings. There were books and papers covering his chest, and he remembered falling asleep while he and Lydia had done their homework. His heartbeat slowed. Next to him on her bed, Lydia raised her eyebrows. "Bad dream?" She asked, not unsympathetically.

Feeling nauseous, Jackson nodded slowly. "Yeah, horrible." He said. He hoped that Lydia never figured out exactly how often he lied to her.


At midnight Jackson stood in front of his window, staring at his own reflection and convincing himself that he wasn't about to do what he was about to do. He couldn't be about to, because what he was about to do was insane, and his insanity from the night before had only been temporary. It was all gone now. Everything was fine.

That's what he told himself as he climbed out his window, backpack slung over his shoulder. He jumped off from the roof and landed easily on his feet in a crouch. He looked around as he stood up, but the streets were deserted. Of course they were, it was midnight and this was suburbia; everyone went to bed at nine.

Jackson tucked his hands into his pockets as he headed down the street, watching Isaac's old house uneasily out of the corner of his eye. Despite the over-grown lawn and the FOR SALE sign, he still half-expected to hear shouting and pleading coming from inside. He listened for a moment but, of course, the house was silent. All of its former inhabitants were either dead or as good as. Jackson walked on.

It was close to 1:30 by the time Jackson arrived at Derek's loft. Once inside the building, he stared at the thick metal door, listening to the sound of his heart hammering away in his chest. This had been a mistake. A really, really stupid one. What did he expect Derek to do? He should leave. Right now.

Jackson didn't move. He took no steps forward towards the door, and none backwards towards sanity. He simply stayed exactly where he was, regretting every decision he'd ever made that had let him to this point.

Jackson was still standing there, unmoving, waffling over whether or not he was going to leave, when Derek opened the door. "Jackson?" Derek asked, looking at him with a furrowed brow. Jackson felt his whole body go rigid. "What are you doing here?"

Jackson's mind raced around for something to say, some sort of lie or excuse or anything. All that left his mouth was "Uh..."

Derek's brow unfurrowed, giving Jackson the horrifying idea that he knew exactly what "uh" meant. "How long have you been standing here?" He asked, looking him up and down.

Jackson looked down at his watch. "About 10 minutes,"

Derek sighed, and took a step back from the door, holding it open for Jackson, who again tried to say something, but found that his mouth had gone horribly dry. Words stuck in his throat, Jackson ducked his head slightly, and walked past Derek into his loft.


A/N: Addendum to my previous note about how nothing from season 3 about be happening in this fic; I lied. There is indeed an element from season 3 that I have decided to keep in this fic. Derek's car. In the world of this fic, he has replaced the camaro with the toyota. It's bigger and more practical, the backseat is roomy, which may or may not be important later on.

Happy New Years.