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“I would advise looking first in the bestiary, of course,” Deaton says. “I have some sources that I want to consult, as well, based on your description.”
Scott drinks in his words, biting his lip. Derek knows Scott hates this part; not the research bits, of course. But the not knowing. The fear of not knowing what they’re up against, wondering when it’s going to attack again. When it’s going to hurt people, maybe even the people he loves.
It’s a feeling Derek knows well. Scott will probably call that night to talk, and although Derek isn’t the best at articulating the feeling himself, he doesn’t mind listening when Scott does, if that’s how he can help.
“I’ll check as soon as I get home,” Scott promises. “I’ll call Stiles over to look with me. If I bribe him with pizza and video games after, I’m sure he’d be chill with helping out.”
“You can go home early to get a head start,” Deaton says. “You worked late last night, and it seems you’ve already done the work I had for you today.”
Scott perks up, already pulling out his phone. He thanks Deaton; they all know Deaton will probably pay him for the rest of the hour, anyway. Deaton is soft for Scott.
Derek is, too, really.
“Make sure you two don’t play video games all night, and actually get some sleep,” Derek throws in, unable to really help himself. Scott just grins, waving as he heads out the door.
Derek listens as Scott dials a number on his cell and tunes out so he doesn’t overhear Scott’s conversation. It’s either Scott’s mom or (most likely) Stiles, and Derek doesn’t need to listen in on either. He’s glad to hear, though, that, werewolf or not, Scott hangs up before the engine of his motorbike revs up.
“You’ve gotten much better at this.”
Derek starts, his attention drawn from the sound of Scott driving away. He had forgotten himself, and now he feels very aware of where he is, the stillness of the air and the coldness of the metal surfaces and white walls. The veterinary clinic should feel bigger than usual with only Deaton and him in it, and not the rest of the pack crammed inside, standing around the table. Derek isn’t used to being there alone with Deaton, and it feels… heavy. Derek feels intensely aware of the way Deaton’s eyes are fixed on him, a steady, examining gaze that isn’t unfamiliar.
Derek holds it, for just a moment, then looks away.
“I’ve gotten older,” Derek replies. It’s an understatement, really. A lot has happened in the last few years, enough to age anyone. “He’s still young, though. He’s a good alpha, but he’s young. He needs all the help he can get.”
“And he needs the reminders to sleep?” Deaton says dryly.
Derek can feel his ears going pink. “Even alphas need a good night’s sleep.”
“Especially alphas, is what your mother used to say, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Derek agrees. He can still picture his mom saying it to Laura when she was younger and crabby, stomping her foot and flashing her eyes and refusing to go to bed. It became a running joke among all of them when Laura was a teenager, strong-willed and fighting her midnight curfew. “You can’t have a sleep-deprived alpha. That’s a sign of weakness. She was right, of course.”
“She often was,” Deaton says. “Though it isn’t just alphas that need lots of sleep.”
“Betas do too,” Derek concedes. “And I should probably get home before it gets too dark, so you can lock up.
“Don’t rush on account of me.”
Derek meets his eyes again, brown and inscrutable. This was easier when Deaton was younger, before the fire, before Derek went away to New York. When Deaton didn’t have as many creases lining his face, but wore his emotions for others to see.
“It’s late,” Derek finally says. “But let me know if you need any help with anything. No matter how late it is.”
“I will,” Deaton promises. “Goodnight, Derek.”
Derek grabs his coat from the hook and slips it on. “Goodnight,” he says, digging into his pocket for his car keys. He wants to run for just a little bit before he heads off, do a quick patrol, but he doesn’t want to leave his car parked in the lot all night.
It isn’t until Derek goes to undo the latch on the gate and head out of the clinic that he hears Deaton’s voice, soft but clear.
“I think your mother would be proud, Derek.”
“Thank you,” Derek mumbles.
He’s not sure if Deaton hears him or not, but it doesn’t really matter. He heard what Deaton said, and it stays with him, the words cycling through his head for the rest of the night. He mulls it over when he takes the long way home through the preserve, when he parks the car in his driveway and goes running on all fours, his paws in the dirt and his fur blocking out the night chill. When he looks up at the moon and remembers, remembers his first full moon running with his older sister, remembers the nights spent sitting on the front porch with his mom, perched on her lap with her arms around him as she pointed to the sky and told him stories, about the moon and the stars, about their ancestors.
I think your mother would be proud.
It’s kind of nice to remember, sometimes, that there is someone else still in Derek’s life who knew Talia well enough to say that.
Scott finds what he’s looking for.
Or, he does and he doesn’t. He and Stiles take the night and scan through the bestiary. They match up the information they have to a creature, digging around in the appendices, having almost given up. Scott calls Derek at two in the morning about it, and although Derek isn’t thrilled to be woken up by the call, he agrees to meet with Scott and Deaton before Scott goes to school in the morning.
But even though they have a name to work with, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of information. The bestiary gives them a line or two, and they have a small packet of inconsistent stories that Stiles printed out from online. Deaton offers to go gathering information, says he thinks he knows someone who would know more, but Derek and Scott shoot it down immediately. They both know by now that that means Deaton disappearing off to a foreign country without telling anyone where he is or how long he’ll be gone.
And besides, Derek doesn’t think they even really need him to go. “I think I can help,” Derek says.
“You know something?” Scott asks. Sometimes, Derek does. Derek knew more about the kitsune than anyone had possibly expected, and having a well-respected alpha for a mother meant he picked up a lot more than most growing up.
“No,” Derek admits. “But I have all the books we could save from the house. And some that I’ve added since. They’re back at the loft. You can come over after school and-”
“Lacrosse game tonight,” Scott says apologetically. “A big one. I’m starting, and Coach might actually murder me a little bit if I didn’t show.”
“That’s fine,” Deaton says. “Derek and I can research. I daresay we’ve done enough of it in our own right.”
Scott looks to Derek, and it comes way more easily to Derek to reassure him than it used to. “You can go to your game,” Derek agrees. “But you have to promise to keep your phone on you, just in case anything happens there, or if we need to get ahold of you.”
“I would’ve had it with me, anyway,” Scott tells him.
“Good,” Deaton says. “Then I think we’re done here. Derek, I’ll be over after the clinic closes for the day.”
“Sounds good.”
Derek remembers Deaton from before.
Derek remembers when he was training to be the pack’s emissary. Derek remembers him coming to the house for the first time, when Deaton was 17 and already out of high school, when he first sat down with the elderly, retiring emissary to discuss what the position meant, what an honor it was, what a huge responsibility. Deaton was around Derek’s age, only a couple years older, though he didn’t look it. “Werewolves and druids age differently,” his mom explained. It made Derek almost self-conscious.
Derek remembers his mother bringing the new emissary in front of the rest of the pack, introducing him and formally instating him, bonding him to the pack. He was Alan back then, young and fresh-faced. Although Derek could smell how overwhelmed he was, full of excitement and nerves and uncertainty, his solemn expression was just as formidable then as it is now.
Derek spent most of his summers outside, back in those days. Playing basketball with Cora, dragging Laura down to the creek to splash around. Camping with the rest of the pack, nagging Peter into actually helping set up the tent. He knew every inch of the woods, and there was lots of space to run.
But when Derek wasn’t outside, he was in the library. And there, more than anywhere else, is where he remembers Deaton best.
Deaton always took up a whole table to himself, the long one at the back. What he was reading always varied; one day it was the giant book that contained the recent history of the Hale family (the one Derek’s mom used to read to them as bedtime stories to ensure that they’d fall asleep quickly), and the next day it was legends and lore about the nemeton. But he was there, without fail, absently tugging on a strand of his curls as he read.
It was always distracting. Deaton smelling of curiosity and contentment. Deaton drinking from a water bottle, licking his lips. Deaton with the back of his shirt sticking to his skin, the wall of windows always making the library too hot in the California summer. Derek never got much work done, in there. He got watching, and thinking, and the library was always so warm. That was why Derek always wore sleeveless shirts to the library, of course. It wasn’t to show off his arms, the beginnings of muscle he was developing from spending all that time outside.
Deaton caught him watching, more than once. He never said a word. But Derek caught him looking back once or twice, himself, and Derek tucked it away, working himself up to maybe say something about it to Alan.
But then the fire happened, and everything was shaken up. Derek was lost and Deaton was distant, and then Derek was clinging to Laura, running as far away as they could get. Trying to run so far away that they didn’t have to remember.
Deaton knew the library the way Derek knew the woods. Though the books aren’t exactly where they were, Derek doesn’t doubt that when he brings Deaton to see them, Deaton will know exactly where to look.
Derek also doesn’t doubt that it will be just as distracting as it was when he was 15. Though Deaton has no hair left to tug, and Deaton’s frame has changed with time, Deaton is still solid, still looks at Derek like he knows. Like there’s something there to know. And maybe there is. Maybe he doesn’t need Derek’s sense of smell or Derek’s carefully attuned ears to know that Derek still watches. That there’s now more than interest and curiosity, that there’s intent behind Derek’s staring, intent that Derek didn’t have when he was a kid. Maybe Deaton knows that Derek could smell the way Deaton’s scent changed when he talked about researching alone with Derek, the way it grew sharper. The way Deaton’s gaze remained steady even as his heartbeat pulsed faster in his chest. Deaton could’ve masked it, if he wanted.
Maybe Deaton knows, even, that Derek isn’t going to make the first move. That he’s leaving it in Deaton’s hands. Deaton’s warm, steady, capable hands.
They’re spending the night alone together in Derek’s loft, and Derek is hoping for no more maybes.