Chapter Text
Some days are easier than others. The move to London was a pretty good idea, actually, in theory. Jackson was never well-suited to living in Beacon Hills. Little town in the Middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, California, filled with people with no ambition, no drive to ever leave or grow or change. Jackson’s meant for so much more than that. And okay, so maybe that makes him sound like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. But he refuses to be the Disney Princess in this story.
He never appreciated, before, how easy he had everything back in Beacon Hills. Rich parents, captain of the lacrosse team, dating the most beautiful and brilliant girl in school. Pretty and popular, the world at his fingertips.
He fits better here in London. People challenge him here. It’s not something he’s used to, but it’s something he thrives on. Or he would thrive, if not for the whole werewolf thing.
The timing of the move was awful. He’d just been cured of the kanima business, through the power of love or whatever-- and oh, shit, he’s a Disney Princess again, cured by true love’s kiss-- transformed into a werewolf, brought back to life, et cetera. Derek had given him the crash course on How to be a Non-Murderous Werewolf before he’d left. It had helped, sure, but being a newly-made werewolf, barely in control of his shifts, no practice at controlling his strength around regular humans, leaving behind his pack and his anchor all at once, not to mention recovering from the psychological scarring of his stint as a mind-controlled murderous revenge lizard… well. It was a recipe for disaster.
Derek hadn’t known any of the London packs, didn’t have the right contacts to get Jackson established anywhere. There must be some, somewhere, Jackson is sure of it. But he has no idea where to look, or how to approach them if he ever did find them. Unsurprisingly, Derek, Mr. I-was-never-meant-to-be-an-Alpha, didn’t have much to offer in the way of diplomatic advice.
The first full moon alone was hell, absolute hell. Every movement made him want to chase, every sound felt like an insult, every scent an assault against him. He barricaded himself in his room, built a nest out of pillows and blankets and a few of Lydia’s old scarves he’d stolen to try to hold on to her scent, but he still woke up early the next morning halfway across the city and covered in mud, no memory of how he got there. At least there weren’t any bloodstains. At least he probably hadn’t hurt anyone.
He’d gotten off to a rocky start, but he’d mostly gotten a handle on things over the summer. He hardly ever loses control at home now, and when he does, he can just brew himself a cup of tea and retreat to his room. The ritual of brewing and drinking a quality cup of tea is soothing, and he understands, very well now, how the British gained their reputation for using the brew as a cure-all, for pains both physical and emotional.
The start of the school year had brought a whole new set of stressors for him. He was no longer the smartest, the richest, the best-looking boy in town-- okay, still the best-looking, let’s be honest. He wasn’t instantly popular. His naturally-abrasive personality did him no favors in gaining new friends. He ended up being mostly left alone, ignored by his peers. It wasn’t something he was used to, wasn’t a situation he was well-adapted for. He tried to fill the gaping hole of his lack of social life by pouring himself into his studies instead.
There’s no lacrosse team at his new school. Probably for the best, anyway. Too much opportunity for him to completely lose it doing contact sports. His parents want him to do some sort of activity, though, so he grudgingly concedes to joining the swim team. Maybe it’ll be good for him, eventually. He can learn how to hide his strength while still being the best at something he enjoys.
Maybe if he’d still been human, this move would have been perfect for him. Maybe, if he were better at the werewolf thing, he could truly be a star here. Or maybe, if they had picked any other region of London to move to, he’d have been able to fade into the background and lived a semi-normal life. But life isn’t beholden to the maybes. Life does what it will, usually picking the most artful way to fuck you over and leave you to rot alone.
Jackson remembers being an optimist, once. Back when life was easy. Back before werewolves, back when he had a girlfriend who loved him and a best friend who trusted him. When the fuck did life get so complicated? Why can’t anything ever just be simple?