Chapter Text
When Stiles was young, maybe six or so, he dreamt of being famous. Dreamt of being in the limelight for some reason, any reason really. Dreamt of having bodyguards and fangirls and tv interviews. Maybe he’d be an actor, and play a hero that got the girl, maybe he’d be a guitarist and marry a pretty singer like Beyoncé. When his mom got sick, and the real world came crashing in, he abandoned the idea of being famous, of all that attention.
He learnt he hated the attention actually, the way eyes would follow him pityingly around school. He dreamed instead of fading into oblivion, especially when she died and he befriended Scott and only Scott, leaving Jackson’s protection for Jackson’s hatred instead.
He felt like he deserved it, because he was a Spark and he hadn’t been able to save her, and now he couldn’t save his dad from diving into the bottom of a bottle with grief.
His dad wasn’t a bad man though, just lost. Negligent, yeah, but he never hurt Stiles, physically or verbally.
So Stiles became an adult before he even reached puberty, and it shaped him in a way nothing else could.
Then Scott got bit, introduced to the world of Supernatural, and shoved his head so far up his own ass that Stiles knew Jackson and his words of warning were right. Scott wasn’t the right type of friend, Stiles would regret it, Stiles was an idiot.
But Scott had been easy to keep at arms length and he never questioned Stiles, never noticed when Stiles was more antsy than usual.
His dad pulled himself from the bottle, he got better, but they weren’t close.
Jackson left for London at 16, taking Lydia, Erica, Boyd and Isaac Lahey with him. His dad stopped trusting him. After the Kanima, after Lydia became a wailing woman, after Peter returned, after Isaac had been turned and his dad ‘missing’. Derek hadn’t had a clue about that one, but when Stiles had watched the way Jackson paced protectively where Isaac was concerned, he thought he knew anyway.
His dad found out about the supernatural, it tore a rift between them so deep he didn’t think it could be mended.
The Nogitsune happened, Theo fucking happened, the Doctors happened, Derek and Peter. Malia and Cora left. Chris left with them, a shell of a man he used to be.
Kira stayed, Scott stayed. And then a new pack began to form buy Stiles was so far detached he felt nothing for them. No pack bonds, nothing. His insides ached all the time, his hands shook, he burned with the cold.
The sheriff couldn’t look at him.
Liam, Hayden, Theo and all the other lost children that Scott took in like he was trying to be Peter Pan meat nothing to Stiles.
Sometimes when he laid in bed late at night he wondered if Jackson also took Stiles’ heart and soul with him. Not because he took Lydia away, though that was definitely mart of it, of only because she felt like pack. Erica felt like pack. Boyd too. They all left him though.
His Spark grew more powerful but he felt detached from that too. Lydia contacted him occasionally, Erica more-so, Boyd a little less.
Isaac didn’t but that was expected. Jackson didn’t, but same thing anyway.
His dad pulled his shit together in a major way before Stiles turned 18, and Stiles, desperate to feel alive, to feel connected, bridged the gap. With little else to focus on, his dad bore the brunt of Stiles’ attention.
He graduated, his dad was the only one there.
He tried to join the FBI, but the rigid rules weren’t made for him, and he realised quite firmly he would never quite be on the right side of the law, but he and his spark burned so fucking bright. He couldn’t let go of the fight. For a while he was aimless and angry, Scott still used him when it was suitable to him.
And then by what was most likely complete chance, he came across a bodyguard training certification course. Generally, most body guards were shit like ex-cops, FBI, military. But he had to face it, he’d never land those, and being a bodyguard of a supernatural persuasion… he could probably organise his clientele so be supernatural too, a fine line where most rules of the law didn’t apply. He went down a rabbit hole of research.
That night, he received the first text from Jackson.
From: Unknown
Derek said you got possessed
Stiles’ heart raced as he looked at it, the rest of him both numb and confused.
To: Unknown
And you would be?
From: Unknown
Jackson, dumbass.
Stiles scoffed, encompassed by a rage so sudden he almost threw his phone. He set it aside and ignored it without further thought.
Jackson didn’t message again until a month later, when Stiles was already ankle deep in rulebooks and fight training. Training to be a bodyguard had a lot of rules, but unlike the FBI, even more loopholes. There were all the standard law rules, but when had Stiles ever followed those anyway? With his future client plans, he wasn’t going to need them anyway.
The official certification was actually protection operations or close protections operations, but Stiles maintained it as Bodyguard classes anyway. His dad was torn between pride and concern.
From: Jackass
Danny said he saw you in LA
Stiles, sitting at a café in said city, scowled. He hadn’t recalled seeing Danny, why had the guy not come say hello? They were twenty, for fucks sake. But then again, Danny was always a little odd. He’d not gone with Jackson till he graduated Beacon Hills, and then no one had seen him again.
To: Jackass
Why is he here.
From: Jackass
Pack business.
Right, something Stiles had no part of, wasn’t allowed to pry into. His heart ached viciously in his chest. No, it had never been Lydia he loved, she’d been a scapegoat, and he regretted that now. But in his defence, he’d been a ridiculous kid in the closet. It was wrong, and a big part of him wanted to apologise to her even though he rarely replied to her random update texts, but he was a coward.
Before he could think too deeply on it, his phone vibrated again.
From: Jackass
Why are you not in BH?
To: Jackson
Personal business.
Just as he had no right to Jacksons ‘pack business’, Jackson had no right to his.
From: Jackass
Don’t die.
He wanted to ask why the other cared, wanted to let loose, go off, ask why he’d left Stiles behind if he apparently gave a fuck now. He did none of those things.
He received the next text a month later, as he lay in bed in his shitty apartment after a shitty hook-up that just left him feeling more sorry for himself than ever. His bid for human connection just led to a half hearted orgasm that left him feeling grimy and nauseated. His heart belonged elsewhere, over the waters and far away. But he’d never admit more than that to himself. That would be accepting a different kind of defeat, a different one to the hell his teen years put him through, the lines of scarring on his skin that remained.
From: Jackass
You know it wasn’t your fault right?
Stiles, again, almost threw his phone. Almost raged, almost called the bastard just to scream. He knew what the other was talking about, because even after all these years he still thought about it, about Alison, about the officers, about his fucking possession that still left him cold and aching.
Even his hookup's joked about how cold he was. One recommended a doctor for a Raynaud’s diagnosis for fucks sake.
He didn’t reply to the text.
It became a monthly thing, sometimes every three weeks, like Jackson had a schedule to text him and occasionally got impatient and sent them early. He replied to some, ignored others.
He graduated and took a few shitty jobs while he set up his own dark web citing protective services for supernatural's. then got a few more jobs, lacklustre though they were. Paranoid small packs wanting extra backup going into treaty meetings, druids needing an extra set of eyes, a coven of witches that tried to sacrifice him for his magic that he was forced to decimate.
Slowly but surely, his reputation grew.
He got a job for a small time singer, a half siren that was being targeted by hunters. He felt a little bit alive finally. She was a sweetheart too, with no malicious intent. She just wanted to sing. Two nights a week he accompanied her to the night lounge she sang and, then drove her home. Celeste became a friend, especially when, like him, he found out she played for her own team.
“I’m just saying, we could go clubbing,” Celeste drawled as she painted his nails in her sweet little city apartment. She’d shoved a fluffy pink headband on him and a face-mask moments prior, and wouldn’t listening to him umm’ing and uhh’ing about how he should go home.
It had been a quiet Saturday night at the club, an early finish, and she was as lonely as him.
“Thanks, but it’s not really my scene,” he said flatly. The lounge she worked for was nice, so it didn’t make him choke up with anxiety. Not like nightclubs did.
He’d tried again and again since moving to LA, but everything reminded him of Beacon Hills, of his teen years running around almost being murdered.
Now he was an adult, protecting people against being murdered, but he swore it was different.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he sighed, already knowing who it was. At this time of night, on a three to four week cycle, it could only be Jackson.
Utilising the hand not yet painted, he pulled out his phone. He could have ignored it till later, but he’d been fucking pavlov-ed by this point. Erica and Lydia texted him more now too.
Peter sent a few errant texts on occasion, usually something creepy but amusing. He never responded to Peter, Peter didn’t seem to expect him to.
“A nice dinner then?” Celeste suggested, and he smirked at her over his phone.
“Why, CC, if you were trying to romance me, you should have just said so,” he drawled, batting his lashed. She snorted and pointed the nail polish brush at him.
“I told you to stop calling me that, and you and I both know I love a big strong woman as much as you love a big dick,” she huffed.
“Such vulgarity from such a little lady!” He protested, then yelped when she pinched his thigh hard. For a woman that didn’t eve reach his shoulder height, she had a mean set of hands.
He ignored the text, definitely from Jackson, a moment longer in favour of grinning at Celeste, who returned it brightly. He’d been protecting her for almost three months by this point, and while he still took other jobs, she was his main gal. Her oceanic blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she tossed her short blonde bob as though it were longer, and Stiles dreaded whatever was going to come out of her mouth pretty much immediately.
“So, is that loverboy?” She chirped sweetly, and he grimaced.
She’d seen the texts once, and gotten out of him that Jackson was someone he used to know, who messaged him consistently, and had decided it was a grand romance. Nothing he could say would talk her out of it either.
“Shut up,” he grumbled.
She cackled and went back to painting his nails a shimmery gold.
From: Jackass
I’m sorry I didn’t try harder
Stiles froze, blinking in confusion. Celeste looked up sharply but decided not to question him. He was grateful. It was hard to type back one handed, with his left hand no less. But his thumb flew over the touch screen anyway.
To: Jackass
What? Are you drunk? What are you on about?
It took only a few seconds for a surprisingly lengthy reply to come and Stiles realised this must have been coming for a while.
From: Jackass
To get you out of Beacon Hills with me, to stay in contact with you, to stay friends with you, to help and protect you, to be a better friend and help you. I had my head stuck up my own ass for so long. I was a teenager, I had issues, it’s no excuse but you didn’t deserve the bully I became, I shouldn’t have just abandoned you when you chose Scott over me.
Stiles felt like he couldn’t breathe, and slowly he placed his phone down, not turning the screen off.
Celeste, finished with his one hand, set aside the polish and took the phone. He didn’t try to stop her. Probably because she was the one person he had a pack bond with.
Her expression became something soft and sympathetic.
“I won’t pretend to know what’s going on, I know you’re keeping a lot close to your chest, but this seems pretty genuine,” she said gently, shuffling closer to him on the couch.
And then it all came pouring out of him. Every trial and tribulation, every trauma, everything- even the things not related to Jackson- that had taken place. By the end of it, she was curled in his lap with her arms around his neck, his around her waist, as he breathed hard and gulped for air. She soothed him, hands running through her hair, ignoring the tears upon her own face for him.
He didn’t want her to cry for him, but fuck it felt good to get that all out to someone who hadn’t been there, to someone who listened.
“Oh Sty,” she whispered, sniffling. “It wasn’t your fault, none of it was. You got dealt a shitty hand.”
“But-“ he started to protest, and she hushed him.
"Do you blame me, for the hunters coming after me because they knew my song was partially sirenic?" She asked.
"No," He rasped immediately, vehement.
Celeste was an angel, she didn't eat people, she liked her fish sure, but her Siren song was never used for harm, and never even really used outside of the lounge to make a living.
"Then understand that you did nothing. You got caught in bad situations, situations that were forced on a boy to fix. You were young, you have magic, the Nogitsune chose you because it knew you had the power to give it energy, strength. You're not the villain here, Stiles." She clasped his cheeks firmly, smacking a kiss to his forehead like an older sister. She was almost two years older than him, so maybe she was. "Besides, I know you. You're a good boy. You survived, and you're family to me now. Anyone who disagrees can fuck themselves with a rusty-"
"Okay!" Stiles cried, cutting her off with heated cheeks. For such a small angel, she got really carried away with insults. Even a porn star would blush at the things that came out of her mouth.
Celeste smirked, smug, then became serious again.
"I think you should talk to him properly, Stiles. The deal with the Kanima probably left him feeling pretty similar. Maybe he's trying to reach out because he knows what it feels like. He seems like he's matured enough to have earned a second chance, have you?" She raised a brow at him and looked away, ashamed.
Stiles had been the one to push Jackson away first, to kick him to the curb and choose Scott instead. He couldn't fault tiny, child Jackson for retaliating on that one, only about the way he'd done so.
"Yeah," he mumbled. She was right. He knew it.
"Great! Now you can work on your reply while I finish your nails," she winked, shuffling off his lap.
He knew why she did it, though. It'd trap him here long enough that she could be sure he followed through on it.
"I can do it later," he groaned.
"Nope, now. Or you'll chicken out. He deserves a response," she said pointedly. "You gave your dad the chance to come back from neglect severe enough CPS should have gotten involved, you can give Jackson a chance to grovel his way into your life properly."