A/N: Aaaand here's the last chapter! Drop me a review, lemme know how you liked it! =)

Stiles woke slowly, slowly enough to feel every part of himself metaphorically reboot and come back online one at a time until he was something close to fully conscious. It took several long minutes for him to recognize the simple fact that he had slept through the night. He had slept through the entire night without a single bad dream, hours and hours of uninterrupted sleep the likes of which he hadn't had in longer than he liked to admit. Now he was waking up, for once, without feeling as though he hadn't slept at all, without the persistent dragging feeling of fatigue.

And he was so utterly, thoroughly comfortable, swaddled in blankets that were the perfect temperature and tucked in just right to be snug without being constricting. The light from his window wasn't hitting his face yet, a dim enough glow against his eyelids that it couldn't be past mid-morning. There were birds chirping cheerfully somewhere nearby, the low rumble of traffic drifting up from the street, and his soulmate breathing softly behind him.

The warm puff of it in his ear almost startled him; he'd never woken up with Jackson still there before. The previous three times they had shared Stiles' bed, Jackson had always woken up before him and been downstairs making breakfast by the time Stiles got up, but here he was, still fast asleep and wrapped around Stiles like a clingy octopus.

Very slowly and carefully—and with some measure of reluctance—Stiles wiggled his way out of Jackson's grip, nudging at the arm around his waist until it finally gave up and retracted. When he managed to turn around, there was a pout on Jackson's face, like even in sleep he was offended that someone would dare take his teddy bear away from him, and Stiles had to smile at that. And at the way Jackson immediately scooped up as much of the loose blankets as he could, hugging those to his chest in Stiles' place. It was undeniably cute.

Jackson looked so much younger asleep, more like the seventeen year old that he actually was than the mature adult he tried so hard to be. Without the haughty sneer he painted on for the audience, there was nothing to detract from the softness that lingered around his otherwise sharp features. The diffuse light danced across his face, caressing the jut of his cheekbone, the angle of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, and Stiles fought the urge to reach out and touch.

God, but he was beautiful. And like this, relaxed and unguarded, there was no trace of the terrible things he'd experienced, no mark to show that he'd suffered through and survived so much. Stiles had to wonder if the same could be said for him, if in those few precious hours when his sleep was calm, something of his old, unmarred self shined through. He hoped so.

And he wondered if Jackson had ever had anyone to do for him what he was doing for Stiles, if there had been anyone to talk him down from his nightmares and hold him until the panic had passed, to offer reassurances and support, to tell him he wasn't crazy and things would be alright. From what little Jackson had told him, it didn't sound like there had been. The thought made something in Stiles break a little, that Jackson could have gone through all the same things he was but completely alone, without the meager comforts that were familiar surroundings and people who cared, all with that added burden of alienation that came from being no-name.

Stiles couldn't help but lay a hand on Jackson's cheek, as softly as he could to keep from waking him. Still, Jackson turned his head into the warmth of Stiles' palm, the little upset crease between his eyebrows smoothing out into something more peaceful, like his soulmate's presence was a simple comfort in and of itself.

Stiles wished he could have been there. They hadn't been soulmates back then and he wouldn't have understood like he did now, but Stiles liked to think he might have been able to do something, anything at all to lighten the load. Would he have been enough? Probably not, he thought, but then even just a few days ago he had thought that he and Jackson would never work and yet here he was with more hope than he'd had in months. He wasn't fixed, not by a long shot, but the gaping hole that had engulfed his chest since he'd lost Heather, the one that had grown and twisted and darkened with every tragedy since, didn't feel quite so empty just now.

Jackson made a very endearing snuffling noise, cuddling the blankets more aggressively, and Stiles had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Almost like he sensed it, Jackson tilted his face up toward him and Stiles' thumb brushed against the swell of his bottom lip. Stiles froze, drawing in a breath and holding it, waiting to see if Jackson would wake. He didn't, just settled right where he was, unmindful of Stiles' touch.

Stiles should probably move. He was being creepy, touching Jackson like this while he was asleep, but he couldn't bring himself to lift his thumb from where it rested. Jackson's lip was soft and pink, a little bit damp, and there was no way the urge that rose in Stiles could go unacknowledged, not when it made his stomach flip-flop and his pulse kick into overdrive. He couldn't help but lick his own lips, his thumb swiping back and forth across Jackson's in a feather-light caress, and Stiles was leaning forward before he could think better of it.

Jackson's eyes opened.

Stiles pulled back so quickly that he knocked himself off the side of the bed entirely and ended up in a groaning heap on the floor. Somehow he managed to drag half the blankets down onto the floor with him, most of them falling on his head and getting tangled up in his flailing arms until he seriously considered just lying down to accept his fate and die of embarrassment. But then they were being tugged off again and Jackson was peering down at him over the side of the bed, bleary-eyed and still half-asleep but also vaguely annoyed.

"You're a danger to yourself and others, you know that?"

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said helplessly. "Yeah, that's come to my attention before."

He was suddenly very aware of his own chest, still bare after last night's massage. It was sort of interesting to experience the sort of vulnerability that came with being physical exposed instead of emotionally so, but he still scrambled for a floor-shirt that passed the sniff test, pulling it on in his usual graceful manner. Jackson was smirking at him when he surfaced, lounging on the bed—Stiles' bed, damn it—like he knew exactly how good he looked, and it really wasn't fair that Stiles was so affected by the sight of him when they'd been all tangled up together sharing that bed just a few minutes ago.

"I'm gonna go, uh..." Stiles clapped his hands together, following it up with the ever-reliable finger guns. "Pancakes! How 'bout that?"

He fled in the direction of the kitchen before Jackson could answer because, really, who didn't like pancakes? Besides, it was about time Stiles did something for Jackson, after three days and nights of Jackson doing things for him. And not just the yummy breakfasts, he thought as he threw ingredients into a mixing bowl and set the stovetop to heating. The rest of it too. After the nightmares and the episodes of dissociation—and god, it was astounding how much of a difference a little thing like a name could make—it just sort of felt like all Stiles was doing in the relationship was taking. Jackson was already doing him so much good, there had to be some way that Stiles could help him in return.

Problem was, Jackson didn't seem to be half as out of control as Stiles was, even if he had similar issues. Stiles frowned as he poured out the batter, trying to sift back through the haze that was the previous night to remember the actual conversations they'd had. Jackson had said he had nightmares sometimes, even if he hadn't in the last few days, and he still depersonalized, but Jackson had had a lot longer to come to terms with all this and to find coping mechanisms that worked for him. For all that he was obviously still struggling, he seemed to have things comparatively well in hand in that regard. The only pressing problem was—

"Coffee?"

Jackson was still bare-chested and sleep-rumpled as he ambled into the kitchen, scratching at his jaw and sniffing the air in a very dog-like fashion that Stiles might have poked fun at had he wanted to lose a limb. Wisely, Stiles chose to just point his spatula at the coffee maker and the werewolf made a beeline for it.

Stiles chewed on his lip, flipping one pancake after another as he thought through a tentative strategy and put his words together carefully; he probably only had one shot at this and he couldn't fuck it up, for Jackson's sake.

"I'm gonna be headed out to the loft again soon," he said, just a passing comment, light and unconcerned. "Whole pack will be there probably."

Stiles could practically hear Jackson roll his eyes even with his back turned.

"I've got shit to do," Jackson said.

"Right, right," Stiles said agreeably, not that he believed Jackson in the slightest. "Just thought you might swing by if you had a free minute, just to say hi or whatever."

"I told you," Jackson snapped. "I don't want to say hi. I'm not joining your pack."

Stiles flipped the last of the pancakes onto the serving plate and twisted the dial on the stove with more force than necessary, but he made an effort to keep his tone as light as possible.

"I'm not asking you to join," he said, dropping the plate on the table in front of Jackson and heading back to the pantry to find the syrup because maybe if he didn't make eye contact Jackson wouldn't get quite so defensive. That was a thing, right? Eye contact as a direct challenge? "Though I would like for you to prove you exist, at least. The newbies are starting to think I made you up."

"How many times do I have to say, I'm not interested?"

That, the uncalled for reiteration when Stiles wasn't even pushing, cemented it in Stiles' mind. He doth protest too much, far too much for someone who truly didn't care. Abandoning the syrup search for more important matters, Stiles turned back with arms crossed over his chest.

"Really?" he asked. "Because all the other werewolves I've ever encountered have been desperate for a pack, it's in their nature. Why are you fighting that instinct so hard when there's a pack right here, waiting with open arms?"

Jackson bristled, fingers clenching dangerously tight around the blue mug he had claimed for his own.

"Maybe this particular pack just isn't worth being in," he sneered, and if Stiles hadn't known that jab was coming it might have hurt. But now he recognized it for the deflection that it was, a way to avoid answering the real question by lashing out at the person asking it. But Stiles wasn't giving up now because if Jackson was pushing back, it meant Stiles was close to the root of the issue. And if Stiles knew anything at all, it was that Jackson was only hurting himself in this.

"The pack is better and stronger now than it was before," Stiles pointed out—no offense to Derek's alpha-ing. "Back when you wanted the bite."

"I wanted the power, not the pack," Jackson shot back, and he had to drop the mug for fear of breaking it. His hands gripped tight onto the tabletop instead, and Stiles could see how tense he was in the flex of his abs. "I don't need all this hierarchical pack bullshit, okay? I've been on my own for a long time and it's better that way. I'm omega for a reason, Stiles."

"Oh, like you were no-name for a reason?"

Jackson reeled back like he'd been slapped, eyes wide and unguarded as his own words from their first conversation hit home. Then he was shoving away from the table, rushing for the door, intent on ending this the way he always did. But this time Stiles caught him by the arm before he could escape, holding on because he couldn't let that become a pattern, not if they were going to get anywhere.

"If this is about the kanima thing, then it's stupid," he said, tone too close to pleading to be as harsh as the words were. "No one blames you for that any more than they do me for the Nogitsune. And you're my soulmate!" he pressed on as Jackson tried to pull back again. "You're practically in the pack already just by virtue of that! If it's bec—"

"For fuck's sake, Stiles, I don't want to be your plus-one!"

Jackson did snatch his arm out of Stiles' grip this time and Stiles was too surprised to stop him. Then the words sunk in and confusion took over.

"Wait, what? My plus-one?"

"I don't want—" Jackson stopped, teeth gritted and hands clenched into fists at his sides. But he didn't bolt this time. He let Stiles step into his space, though he turned his face away.

"Don't want what?" Stiles asked, low and cautious. He didn't reach out to touch, no matter how much he wanted to. That would be going too far, pushing too hard when Jackson was already so on edge. He waited, as quiet and still as he could manage, just close enough that he was sure Jackson could feel his body heat and hear the steady beat of his heart.

"I don't want a pack that just tolerates me for your sake," Jackson finally said, and his voice broke. "They're not my friends, Stiles, they're yours. They're not my pack, they're yours. I'm not gonna follow you around like a lost puppy and let everyone pretend they want me there when they don't. I don't want their fucking pity."

"Jackson," Stiles said, momentarily at a loss for words. But then Jackson made for the door again, apparently having reached his limit for vulnerable moments, and Stiles did the only thing he could think of: he grabbed Jackson by the hand one more time, pulled him back around, and kissed him.

It wasn't a particularly great kiss, too unexpected for them to fit together properly, and it didn't last long, but it was more than enough to make Stiles' heart stutter. Jackson's lips were every bit as soft as they looked, and his eyes were wide when Stiles pulled back. He looked a little lost, almost afraid, and Stiles knew that feeling all too well. He remembered the way having Jackson's full weight on top of him after a nightmare had anchored him, made him feel grounded and safe and protected, so he pushed in close. Jackson let Stiles walk him backwards until he hit the wall, didn't protest when Stiles leaned in further until they were flush together from chest to knee, his elbows braced against the wall on either side of Jackson's face.

"You're no one's charity case, Jackson," Stiles said, slowly and clearly to make sure it got through his thick head. "That's not what this is."

"Please," Jackson tried to scoff, but there was a tremble to his voice that gave him away. "They don't want me there. No one wants a blue-eyed wolf in their pack."

That actually got a disbelieving laugh out of Stiles.

"That's what concerns you?" he asked. "Jackson, we have more blue-eyed wolves in our pack than not-blue-eyed. Derek has blue eyes—I don't know if you ever saw his wolf eyes before he was alpha. Peter, obviously, was kind of a serial killer for a while there, so very blue for very good reason. And Malia, one of the newbies, eyes also blue. And if I were a werewolf," Stiles added, letting his forehead rest against Jackson's, "mine would be too."

Jackson frowned at him like he might protest that, as if the thought that Stiles could be judged for the Nogitsune's actions was somehow less acceptable than him being blamed for Matt and Gerard's.

"The McCall pack has no shortage of blue eyes," Stiles said. "And none of us is condemned for them because we all had pretty thoroughly extenuating circumstances. Well...except Peter."

Jackson laughed weakly, barely a halfhearted chuckle, but he didn't exactly look convinced. What he looked like was a damn mirror for Stiles' own guilt and irrational self-loathing. He let Stiles kiss him again though, soft and tentative, with that same half-confused, half-awed expression like he couldn't believe Stiles actually wanted to.

"In case you haven't noticed, Jackson," Stiles said with a rueful grin, "we're a pack full of misfits and strays. You'd fit right in."

"They don't like me," Jackson insisted, sounding small and sad and jeez, how had Stiles never realized this before? Why had it taken Lydia's explanation to make him see how desperate Jackson was for approval?

"Lydia likes you," Stiles pointed out. He traced his thumb over Jackson's cheek because he could, because he got a combination eye-roll-and-reluctant-half-smile out of him. "I like you," he said, with a raised eyebrow and the unspoken caveat of well, I do now at least. "And the rest of them? Jackson, they don't know you. You haven't given them the chance to. You spend all day out doing god knows what all on your own, making excuses to avoid everyone. Why are you so determined to be alone?"

He didn't expect an answer—not when he already knew what it was likely to be, and how hard it would be for Jackson to say that out loud—and he didn't get one. Jackson looked away again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Stiles used the hand on Jackson's cheek to turn him back, ducking his head to make sure Jackson met his eye despite his reluctance.

"Give us a chance," he said, earnest. "Give them a chance to see the you that I've seen these last few days. Because him? There's nothing not to like about him."

Jackson stared at him, wide eyes darting around Stiles' face, searching. Stiles let him look as long as he needed, just resting against him. The physical closeness of it—chests flush together, their breathing synced, Jackson's hands settled lightly on his hips like he was unsure of his welcome there—was soothing and he would happily stay there all day if that's how long it took for Jackson to be satisfied.

It was only another minute or two before Jackson lifted a hand slowly off his waist to lay it on the side of his neck instead, over his pulse point, thumb brushing over the line of his jaw. Stiles' made a soft noise in his throat, a shiver going down his spine, and the corner of Jackson's mouth twitched like he might smile. Instead he kissed Stiles, a gentle brush of lips like he was testing the waters. When Stiles didn't push him away, he did it again, more confidently.

If someone had told the Stiles from a year ago that he would one day find himself kissing a half-dressed Jackson Whittemore in his kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning, he probably would have had them Baker Acted for their own safety and the safety of others who might hear their delusional tale. Now he couldn't think of anywhere else he would rather be. The itch in his skin was absent, the voice in his head quiet for now, and Jackson was warm and present and real and it didn't even matter that the pancakes were going cold on the table behind them.

There was a pang of sadness, though, at the memory of Heather, the thought that he never got to have this with her. But it wasn't all-consuming like it used to be, didn't suck him down into that vortex of grief and loneliness and fear that left him holding onto reality by his fingertips. He missed her, of course he did, and he would always regret that they were too slow to be what they could have been, but the universe had seen fit to grant him a second chance. He could only be grateful for that—for this—and make the most of it while he could.

They broke apart for air but neither of them moved away, as if abandoning the little intimate bubble they had made for themselves in that moment might break them. They just stayed close, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air and waiting. Waiting to see if the feeling held steady. Until—

"Running."

Stiles pulled back enough to look Jackson in the eye, surprised into a laugh. There was a tinge of pink on Jackson's sharp cheekbones and this time Stiles could revel in it.

"What I've been doing all day," Jackson explained. "I do a lot of running in the preserve, when I'm not job hunting. It's...easier to not think that way."

Stiles nodded; he thought, if he'd had the stamina for it, he might have taken up the same hobby. Running was mindless and repetitive, an easy way for some people to lull their brains into merciful silence. Unfortunately, Stiles had never been one of those people, far too uncoordinated for running to be anything but an accident waiting to happen.

"Bet it would be even better if you had someone to run with," he told Jackson. "Not me, though. I'd keel over in minutes, or trip and go rolling headfirst down a hill into a ravine because that's my luck."

Jackson snorted.

"No one has ever accused you of being graceful."

Stiles pinched Jackson in the side and was treated to an indignant and undignified yelp that had him throwing his head back in a laugh. Jackson pinched him back, but it wasn't enough to override his amusement.

"Shut up, Stilinski!"

Stiles just kissed him again, because he could, because the pout on Jackson's face was adorable, because for the first time in a long, long time he felt like things might actually be okay.

"I may not be able to keep up with your wolfy speed and agility," he said when most of his giggles had passed, "but the others could. I know they'd be more than happy to run with you sometime. If you'd let them."

Jackson rolled his eyes, pout going strong, but it looked more petulant than actually upset now. And his whole demeanor was belied by the fact that he had hooked his fingers into the pockets of Stiles' sleep pants to keep him close.

"I guess some company wouldn't be the end of the world," he grumbled.

Stiles beamed at him.

"Does that mean you'll come to a pack meeting with me?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers and toes and arms and eyes and everything that could conceivably be crossed. "Because Lydia's getting very impatient. Honestly, she's been crowd-sourcing reliable siege engines on Amazon, dude, she's this close to storming the gates and dragging you out by the hair."

Jackson shook his head in exasperation but the smile fighting its way onto his face was fond.

"I guess if she's that desperate," he said magnanimously, and it was Stiles' turn to snort.

"She's been pining for you something fierce," he said with the utmost sarcasm, finally tearing himself away from Jackson's heat in favor of their abandoned breakfast. "Up in her tower, writing sappy poems and breathlessly awaiting your triumphant return. Let's not keep the poor dear waiting any longer lest she wither away entirely."

They were definitely the last ones to make it to the loft—syrup-sweetened kisses were very distracting, and Jackson was surprisingly willing to indulge Stiles with as many as he wanted—and for a minute Stiles really thought the sight of all the cars plus Scott's motorcycle might be enough to scare Jackson off. But when Stiles raised an eyebrow at him in silent question, Jackson swallowed hard and shook his head.

By the time Stiles had gotten out of the jeep and come around to the passenger side, Jackson had pulled on his armor, the same cocky smirk and too-cool-for-you tilt of the head that he'd hidden behind for years. It didn't have the same ease to it anymore, shaky with cracks in the foundation from all the hits his confidence had taken over the last year, but that was okay. Just having him there at all was proof of his courage, and he even let Stiles take him by the hand to lead him inside.

They made it up the first flight of stairs before Jackson balked, his hesitation pulling Stiles to a stop too. When Stiles looked back, Jackson's eyes were turned upward toward the ceiling. No doubt he could hear them all upstairs, the five relaxed heartbeats, the easy way they all passed familiar jokes back and forth as they waited. Judging by the way his lips pressed into a thin line and his fingers tightened around Stiles', it was daunting.

Stiles pulled at Jackson's hand until he looked away from the ceiling. Then he tugged some more until Jackson huffed and came closer, close enough for Stiles to loop an arm around his waist. He still had that haughtiness wrapped around him, like he was deigning to let Stiles hold him like this, but Stiles knew better than to believe that. It was there in the way Jackson rested his hands on Stiles' biceps, the way he swayed forward into the embrace, the way the tense line of his shoulders relaxed just a bit at Stiles' touch.

"Hey," Stiles said quietly. "It's gonna be fine. There's nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried," Jackson scoffed, very convincingly.

"Uh huh," Stiles said skeptically, and Jackson shot him a dirty look that he ignored in favor of pulling him in that little bit more. "Whether you're worried or not, you are gonna go in there and charm the pants off everyone because you're Jackson Whittemore and that's what you do."

"Damn right," Jackson said with that same old smirk, the one Stiles remembered from years past when Jackson had still been a one-dimensional caricature of a bully in his mind. Before, it had made him want to smack the look off his stupid, pretty face. Now it was kind of endearing, like a kitten with its claws out, and left him feeling warm and a little sappy.

"And I," he said, pausing to make sure Jackson met his eyes, "am going to be right by your side. Because I am your soulmate, and that's what I do."

Jackson's smirk softened, gave way to something genuine and a little shy.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yeah," Stiles echoed, tightening his hold on Jackson. "We're trying, remember? We both are. And soulmates stick by each other. So wherever you are, I'll be there too. From here on out, whatever we face, we face together because neither of us has to be alone anymore. You got that?"

"Got it," Jackson whispered, leaning in for a kiss that Stiles was only too happy to return. That is, until Jackson pulled away with a grimace and another upward glance. Stiles bit his lip, holding back a laugh.

"They're all listening in, aren't they?"

"I'm pretty sure McCall just broke something," Jackson said resignedly. "Derek's bitching at him about it."

Stiles groaned theatrically and dropped his forehead to Jackson's shoulder. Jackson made a noise of protest but gave himself away by turning his nose into Stiles' hair, and Stiles had definitely been right in thinking that his scent was somehow, some-why a source of comfort because more of the tension eased out of Jackson's frame with every inhale. Stiles smiled into the fabric of Jackson's ostentatiously colored peacoat before he pulled away.

"Come on," he said, leading his way up the next flight of stairs. "Before Scott breaks any more of Derek's stuff, the poor guy doesn't have that much to start with."

Stiles waited until he was in front of the loft's heavy front door before he glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Jackson hadn't chickened out and taken off the minute his back was turned. He was still there, just a step behind, looking a strange combination of aloof and nauseous in the way that only he could manage.

Stiles gestured to the door with his head and Jackson rocked back on his heels for a moment before stepping up beside him. Really, Stiles couldn't blame him for his reluctance. This close, even he could hear the pack's chatter, the kind of well-meant bickering that only came with people who were close to each other. Stiles knew from experience that it was damn near impossible to break into that kind of clique. It took an invitation, and Jackson didn't feel like his was genuine, no matter that Stiles had practically engraved it in marble and put it in his hands with a bow wrapped around it.

"They don't bite," Stiles told him, bumping their shoulders together. Then he pulled a face. "Well. Derek did bite you that one time but, in all fairness, you were kind of asking for it."

Jackson took one look at his shit-eating grin, shook his head in dismay, and said, "You're such a fucking nerd."

"Ah, but you like it," Stiles countered. He indulged in an internal whoop of victory when Jackson did not argue that point but raised a hand to knock.

The door swung open before he could to reveal a Scott who couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to smile at them or keep gagging over the early display of affection he'd eavesdropped on. Jackson froze with his arm still raised, looking very much like the proverbial deer in headlights as his careful facade crumbled. It sort of felt like the moment of truth. Stiles held his breath and waited for fireworks.

"Jackson," Scott finally said, the smile winning out on his face. "It's really good to see you."

Stiles could practically see Jackson straining his ears, searching for any blip in Scott's heartbeat that could indicate that he was lying, that it wasn't good to see him, that Scott had actually been dreading this moment and was only putting on a show for his best friend's benefit. He must not have heard anything suspect because his arm fell down to his side, hands immediately shoving into his pockets, but he didn't run away or start firing off insults as he was wont to do when feeling threatened.

His eyes skipped over Scott's shoulder to where the rest of the pack was arrayed: Derek over by the wall of windows, standing over the shattered remains of what might have been a coffee mug; Kira cross-legged on the floor in front of the one arm chair, like she had been leaning back against Scott's legs before he had gotten up; Malia sprawled out across the couch, taking up as much space as possible; Lydia perched on the couch's arm; even Peter lurking on the spiral staircase like the creeperwolf that he was. Stiles could admit that, even to him, all the eyes turned their way were a bit intimidating.

Several seconds passed in strained silence, Scott's sunny smile faltering a bit as Jackson continued to stare blankly and not say anything, though his breathing was picking up like he might actually panic. When it became painfully obvious that Jackson was too frozen on the spot to answer, Stiles scooted closer to him, enough to press their sides together from shoulder to hip. Jackson looked at him then, something a little desperate in his eyes. It looked like a plea for help. Stiles smiled at him, trying to project confidence and encouragement, leaning against him more firmly to show that he was there and he wasn't going anywhere.

A bit of the fear faded from Jackson's expression, softening the razor-sharp edges. After another second or two, he nodded—more to himself than to Stiles—and faced Scott again with his head held that much higher.

"Hi," he said resolutely, and Scott positively beamed at him.

"Come on in!" Scott said eagerly, stepping aside to clear the doorway. "We've been hoping you would come by. It's been way too long, man."

Jackson side-eyed Scott on his way past, his doubt obvious even without his muttered, "Seriously?"

Scott shrugged, kicking the door closed behind them.

"Well, yeah," he said. "You kind of fled the country, dude. It's been a whole year since the last time we saw you."

"Yeah, but…"

Jackson licked his lips, eyes flitting around the room again uncertainly. They lingered on Derek, skipped over Lydia as quickly as possible, and came to rest on Stiles again like he was drawing strength from the mere sight of him. The thought that that might be true made Stiles' chest feel warm and fuzzy and full. He liked the feeling.

"The last time you saw me wasn't exactly a positive experience," Jackson said to Scott. "Neither were any of the times before that. I was kind of a jerk back then."

Scott's smile faded away then, replaced by that look he had started getting in recent months, the one that was strong and kind and reassuring all at once in a way that might have seemed hokey or fake on someone else but fit so well on Scott's face. Stiles liked to refer to it as the True Alpha Look, no matter how many times Scott rolled his eyes when he did, because that's exactly what it was. It was that charisma and strength of character that gave Scott the wherewithal to build his own pack without violence or coercion, to draw people to him with nothing but their faith in him. He certainly didn't used to have that much confidence, back when he was scrawny and asthmatic and loser-y, but he exuded it now. Honestly, Jackson seemed a bit stunned at the transformation, having missed most of the in-between bits.

"The past is the past, Jackson," Scott said solemnly. "We were all kind of jerks back then: you, Derek, Stiles, me. But we're not the same people we were back then, none of us are. And if we can forgive Derek for being a total creeper and throwing me through a few walls—" Derek made a noise of indignation, but Scott just grinned at him unapologetically before facing Jackson again with all the earnestness his optimistic little heart could muster up. "—then we can certainly forgive you for stuff that wasn't even your fault."

Scott sidled over to throw an arm around Stiles' shoulders.

"And besides. Stiles has always been an annoyingly good judge of character," he said brightly. "So if he says you've changed for the better, then you're probably a pretty decent guy and we should all trust his judgment on that."

"Oh, now you're gonna start trusting my judgment of people?" Stiles said, too pleased by the shock on Jackson's face to be as exasperated as he wanted to be. "What about when I said Matt was the one controlling the kanima? Huh? Where was the trust then?"

Scott pulled an exaggeratedly offended face, hand on heart and everything.

"I am learning from that mistake!" he said. "Life is a learning process, Stiles, and I am learning! See?"

Stiles gave him a shove, which Scott graciously pretended was actually enough to knock him over, grinning all the while. He retaliated by aggressively ruffling Stiles' hair, his stupid wolfy reflexes meaning that Stiles wasn't fast enough to escape the onslaught and could only groan melodramatically at the loss of what little styling his hair had had. It might have devolved into an ill-advised and very uneven wrestling match if Derek hadn't stepped forward to put a hand on Jackson's shoulder.

"What these two idiots mean," he said with no small amount of fondness in his tone, "is welcome back. And I do mean that, Jackson. Welcome. "

Jackson looked up at him with wide eyes, all traces of aloofness long gone from his face. In that moment, he looked young, like he had that morning when Stiles had watched him sleep. Young and open and painfully hopeful, and Stiles wanted to wrap Jackson up in his arms right there on the spot because obviously that boy had not been hugged enough in his life. He restrained himself, though, for the sake of Jackson's dignity, and glanced over at Lydia.

Her eyes were suspiciously bright, shining with unshed tears, and there was a brilliant smile on her face that showed every bit of love she still had for her former soulmate. Stiles couldn't help matching it and the two of them shared a long look. Lydia nodded at him and it felt like Stiles had gotten her official stamp of approval, like she was formally passing on the duty of loving Jackson to him because he'd proven himself worthy of it. He laughed a bit at the uncharacteristic poeticism of his own thoughts and Lydia's smile turned sly in an instant, the wink she sent him after that both thrilling and alarming.

Lydia sniffed, threw her flawlessly styled hair back over her shoulder, and got primly to her feet before making a beeline for Jackson. Basking in his former alpha's positive attention as he was, Jackson didn't notice until she planted herself firmly in front of him, somehow shouldering Derek out of her way—Stiles suspected that Derek was just smart enough to remove himself willingly from her path—so that she could stare Jackson down. Knowledgeable as he was of Lydia and her temper, Jackson was understandably wary.

"Um...hi, Lydia," he said slowly.

Her cross expression broke into something much more smug and she reached up to actually, legitimately, pinch his cheek.

"It's about damn time you got your cute little butt over here."

The statement was funny enough on its own but in conjunction with the absolutely scandalized expression on Jackson's face, it was hands down the funniest thing that Stiles had ever heard in his life. He honestly worried that he might pull a muscle laughing and he ended up leaning his full weight against an equally hysterical Scott in the hopes that they would hold each other upright. Every time he thought he might be getting his breath back, he would catch another glimpse of Jackson, looking more and more affronted by the second, and it would set him off again.

When Stiles finally managed to rein it in a bit, still assaulted by a stray chuckle every once in a while, he sent Jackson an apologetic look. His soulmate was scowling at him, cheeks flushed a darker pink than Stiles had managed to coax out of him that morning, and he'd crossed his arms defensively over his chest. Stiles tugged at his arms until he released them with a grumble, taking hold of his hands.

"We're done," he promised. "I swear we're done. But, just so you know…" Stiles couldn't help the wicked grin that made its way onto his face. "...it isa cute butt."

That sent Scott off into new gales of uncontrollable laughter and even Derek was snickering now. Jackson turned red, eyes the size of dinner plates, and the only way Stiles could keep from losing it all over again was to kiss the shock off his face. Malia whooped in the background, whistling and catcalling, and Jackson pulled back embarrassedly.

Just when Stiles thought that it might really be too much for him, that he might have to devise an escape plan for them before the pack ate them alive and Jackson decided he never wanted to come back ever, Kira—bless her empathetic little heart—took Jackson by the arm. She led him gently to the couch, grabbing Malia by the foot and unceremoniously yanking her off it onto the floor to make room for them to sit down together.

Stiles made a mental note to buy Kira a fruit basket because her sweet nature and soothing presence was enough to pull Jackson back from the edge of bolting. She introduced herself, asked questions about London, got a little lost in her own awkward rambling, and didn't seem to mind that Jackson was too overwhelmed to actually contribute to the conversation. She seemed content to let Jackson sit in silence while she and Malia bickered good-naturedly. Lydia sitting down on his other side worked wonders on his obvious nerves.

Scott retook his place in the armchair a few minutes later, only too happy to throw in anecdotes from their shared past on Jackson's behalf, all with a wry smile despite their past enmity. It wasn't long before he'd drawn Jackson out of his shell just by virtue of setting himself up for the snarky one-liners Jackson specialized in, the same way he was used to doing with Stiles.

Stiles stayed by the door, letting his pack close ranks around their newest member. And there was no doubt that Jackson would be an official pack member soon, whether he wanted to be or not, because now that he was here they were not going to let him go. The puzzle ring rattled in Stiles' cupped palms as he shook it apart, leaning his back against the wall and letting the sounds of happy chatter wash over him as he turned the rings around and around until they clicked back together. A whole made up of disparate parts. Fitting, he thought as Kira laughed and Malia punched her in the leg for whatever joke she had made.

Warmth at his shoulder reminded Stiles that he wasn't the only one out of the huddle. Derek was watching the pack with much the same pride as he was, hands in his pockets and a soft smile lingering on his lips.

"He'll fit in well," he said, eyes on Jackson as the beta rolled his eyes at something Scott said with far less disgust than he ever had before.

"Yeah, I think he will."

Derek put a hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezing just a bit the way he had all those months ago, when Stiles had first lost Heather. It was just as comforting now as it had been then, even without the desperate loneliness clawing at his insides and begging for release. With one last smile, Derek left him alone to go lean over the back of the couch instead, ruffling Jackson's hair and laughing when Jackson swatted his hand away.

Still Stiles stayed where he was, just observing and fiddling with his ring. Not because he needed it—he was blessedly grounded for the time being, his body his own and the intrusive thoughts at a minimum—but because he liked it, because his soulmate had given it to him, because it made him happy.

And he was happy. In that moment, with his pack around him and a budding something with the last person he would have expected, he was feeling pretty damn good. It wouldn't last forever, he knew better than to think that. Despite the fragile happiness blooming on his face, Jackson was already showing signs of fatigue; he'd been alone for so long that all the attention was wearing him down. Stiles estimated he had maybe another twenty minutes in him before he crashed hard, and Stiles had no doubt his own demons would rear their ugly heads again soon.

But for now things were good. And when Jackson glanced up at him, a small smile playing on his lips, Stiles knew they would only get better.