Howling for You

Stille Nacht

Disclaimer: Do you think MTV would let me rent the characters…?

So I'd like to say sorry for the filler chapter; I needed it to continue building small plot points. Annnnd. I needed to write it to figure out where I was with the story after these last few months. So thank you all for bearing with me on that!

Struggling to pull himself from his short lived sleep, Jackson trudged toward his bathroom sink to splash cold water on to his face and rebandage his wound. Forgetting to do so earlier, he had bled on to his pillow and comforter. He stifled a yawn as he dried off his face and tossed the towel in the hamper, gathering his still damp clothes up from earlier that morning. He glanced at his clock on the nightstand. Nine in the morning. Jackson shuffled to his closet and got dressed for the day. Shivering slightly, he grabbed a hoodie to pull on over his t-shirt.

"Why is it so cold in here?" he wondered aloud, pulling the ends of his sleeves over his fingertips. Attempting to take in a deep breath of air through his nose, Jackson discovered he was slightly congested. "Awesome." So Jackson was still lightly bleeding, had barely any sleep, managed to get a hangover, and was now stuffy. A cold was just what he needed to top things off; although, in the back of his mind, it registered that he could have possibly avoided trekking through the rain. Had he simply been patient with Derek and remained at the other's house a while longer, he might not have caught a cold at all.

Jackson scowled at himself as he made his way downstairs, where he could only barely smell frying sausage and scrambled eggs. He tried to push thoughts of Derek out of his mind as he sat down quietly at the kitchen table, plate and utensils already laid out, like usual. Not two minutes into him being in the room was food gently set down in the center of the table. His mother heaped a large helping of eggs on to his plate, along with a couple of sausages.

"Good morning, Jackson," she said, not quite smiling, but not scowling either, "How was your grand night out?"

Rubbing his temples, Jackson looked up at his mother wearily. He wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical or if he should actually answer her. He picked the better of two evils. "Pretty terrible, actually," he replied. Jackson figured he should at least give her an answer; that way it wouldn't be misconstrued as ignoring her.

"So, then, tell us," she continued, "Why weren't you home last night?" His father sat down to the table silently, not bothering to interfere in the interrogation. "Why is it that you were getting into the house at five in the morning, soaking wet?"

Jackson paused for a moment, hoping that the delay looked like fatigue, not him searching for an excuse. "I broke up with Lydia," he finally let out. Realizing that his mother was silent, he continued, "We'd been having a lot of problems the last few months, and I was really upset last night. I'd been talking to Stiles about it, and he told me to come over. I fell asleep at his house and walked home when I woke up this morning. I ended up getting caught in the rain, and now I think I'm catching a cold." Jackson blurted out the last sentence somewhat weakly, almost seeming out of breath. He felt dizzy, and his vision started to swim a little.

Watching his mother's expression change from irritation to concern gave Jackson just the slightest relief. "Oh, honey! Why didn't you say something about it to your dad this morning?"

"Obviously because he's a boy, dear," Jackson's father interrupted. "I wouldn't want to spill my guts like that to my dad at his age." Looking directly at Jackson, he went on, "Your granddad would have told me to suck it up and move on. He wasn't much for being touchy-feely." His father sipped his coffee and plucked the newspaper off the table.

"Jackson, honey, are you alright?" Jackson wasn't sure if he was visibly swaying, but he sure felt it in his head. He was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

"I don't think so," came the slow reply. This didn't feel like an ordinary cold, and he wanted to call bullshit on it being an everyday, run of the mill, hangover. Visibly paling, Jackson leaned over in his chair and vomited on the kitchen floor.

"Jackson!" his mother cried, flocking to his side, stroking his slowly dampening hair. She looked to his father. "He's burning up! Call the doctor!"

His father was on his feet in seconds, dialing the family's primary care physician. It was a weekend, and the doctor's office would be closed. He instead dialed the doctor's cell. After a few moments of silence and Jackson trembling in his mother's arms, his father began speaking into the phone. "Doctor Tennant, it's John Whittemore. Do you think you would be able to make a house call? Yes, it's Jackson. I'm not sure. . . . Yes, he's throwing up . . . Shaking." He looked at Jackson's mother. "Mary," he said urgently, "hot or cold sweat? Does he feel like he's got a fever?"

"Cold. Yes to the fever," she responded quickly.

His father relayed the information to the doctor and passed on a few other symptoms before hanging up the phone. "He says he can get here by noon. Mary, why don't you take him upstairs and help him back to bed?"

Jackson tried to pull himself out of the chair as his mother helped him up. He felt another wave of nausea wash over him but managed to push it back down. He let out a groan as he started shuffling toward the stairs, his mother ferrying him along. When they managed to get to his room and he was safely tucked into his bed, his mother put a trashcan next to him, just in case, along with a glass of cold water. "Try and get some fluids, if you can," she told him.

Nodding slowly, Jackson thanked her and laid back, hoping the room would stop spinning before too long. He leaned over the edge of his bed, face near his trashcan, thinking he was going to lose his insides again. Jackson laid that way for a while, breathing quite heavily. Once he was sure he could, he laid back and covered his face with his hand, sighing into it. Did he have the flu? And if he did, then how the hell did it crop up this quickly?

I must admit,

I can't explain

Any of these thoughts racing

Through my brain.

It's true;

Baby, I'm how-

Jackson grabbed his phone from his bedside table and palmed at it weakly until it accepted the call, not bothering to look at the contact information. "Hello?"

"Oh my god, you sound awful! What's the matter?" Fuck, it was Lydia. What did she want?

"Why are you calling me, Lydia?" Jackson managed to choke out.

"What, I can't see how you're doing? After your mental blip in the car last night, I had to make sure we were okay," she replied, almost sounding concerned. Almost.

"Okay? Okay? Lydia, we aren't okay. We aren't even together anymore. I told you we were done. We're not dating. We're not friends." Jackson paused his verbal slap in the face so that he could let out a small cough.

"Are you sick?" Lydia asked, as if she didn't get the picture.

"Yes, Lydia. Sick of hearing your voice." Jackson hit the end button on his screen and tossed the phone somewhere into his mass of blankets.

After hanging up with her, Jackson's mind circled around the idea that his being sick was possibly Lydia's fault. If she hadn't been a complete bitch, he might not have broken up with her. If he hadn't broken up with her, he might not have gotten trashed. If he hadn't gotten trashed, he wouldn't have woken up at Derek's house, where he wouldn't have gotten frustrated and walked out into the rain. He sighed lightly, starting to cough again. He leaned over and used his trashcan, silently thanking his mother for placing it there.

Maybe he needed to take a step back. Maybe nothing was Derek's fault. Maybe nothing was Lydia's fault, for the most part. Maybe the issues he was having were more to do with him than with them. It could have been that blaming them was just easier than owning up to the fact that he could have dealt with things differently. If he hadn't egged Derek on, he might not have gotten clawed or gashed or whatever to begin with. If he had talked things out with Lydia, she might not have been such a bitch about everything. But, he concluded, as he laid back once more, what was done was done.

Running. Running. Running.

Crack! Fssssh!

What was that rustling in the woods? Who was there?

Sharp, bright blue eyes.

Fangs, pointed and jagged, like a monster.

Snarls and growls and anger.

Mournful howling; full moon, bright in the night sky.

So much blood, covering him, covering everything.

Where was he?

Blue eyes narrowed on him and pounced.

Jackson's eyes snapped open, sucking in a deep breath, and began coughing almost instantly. He sat up too quickly, feeling the dizziness coming back, blurring the edges of his vision. Reaching around his bedside table, he grasped the water and drank slowly. It was lukewarm, so, he concluded, he must have fallen asleep for a bit.

A knock on his bedroom door startled him slightly. "I'm awake," he called out.

"Good!" his doctor replied, as he opened the door and stepped in. "How are you feeling today?"

"Not so hot, Doctor."

"Funny, you don't normally get sick. Have you kept up with your daily vitamins? You always come in for your routine check up, and it's in my files that you've had all your shots, including influenza," the doctor mentioned, "So tell me your symptoms."

"Well," Jackson started, "there's a lot of vertigo, and I'm throwing up. Coughing, too. On and off cold sweats and fever. Congestion." He pointedly decided not to mention the bizarre dream he had just had. It was probably a delusion of the fever anyway. At least he hoped so. He also didn't think to mention the gash in the back of his neck that was trickling blood, and the doctor didn't notice it. It was, of course, covered by gauze and his shirt.

Doctor Tennant searched through his medical bag and pulled out various instruments. He checked Jackson's blood pressure, checked his ears, eyes, nose, and throat with his microscopic light, and listened to his heartbeat. "Hmm, curious," he murmured.

"What is?" Jackson asked.

"Your blood pressure is running low, but your heartbeat is much higher than normal. That's strange indeed. I'm not sure what to make of this just yet. I'm going to prescribe you with an antibiotic, lots of fluids, and bed rest for now. We're going to treat this like influenza for now. I'll check in on you again in a couple of days to see how you're doing. If you don't seem to be getting any better, I'll take some blood and have it sent off to test," the doctor concluded.

"Oh," Jackson stated, "okay." What else could he say? He felt miserable, and there wasn't much he could do about it. He accepted the sample pack of antibiotics the doctor handed to him and followed the instructions he was given. "Three a day, as if I were taking them with every meal. Got it. Thanks, Doctor. See you in a couple of days."

Okay, so I didn't get as far in the plot as I wanted for this chapter, but more should be coming soon! Also, was it wrong to shamelessly cameo David Tennant as the tenth Doctor here? Hahaha. I wanted to point out John and Mary too. I couldn't find actual names for Jackson's parents, so I kind of stole John and Mary Winchester's names from Supernatural.