it’s no surprise that he’s surprised. feels like some kind of perpetuity at this point, isaac’s inability to grasp the fine-tuned currents of conversation underlined twice with a crimson marker. there’s no means of training here, the way he blunders through life like a blind man, hopelessly hapless to read the situation before he dives headfirst. perhaps he should’ve expected the question returned. had he been anyone else, perhaps he would have – but he’s isaac lahey, token orphan with a rather profound deficiency in social skills.
derek understands, of course, in the same way that a parent slaps a child’s hand away from a hotplate; shared responsibility.
‘ i, uh… hadn’t thought about it? ‘
a wrong answer, however right its sentiment. the truth is, he’s been thinking about this breakneck bolting situation since he turned eight years old, eating glass shards instead of birthday cake. he’s been planning his runaway for over half of his existence.
maybe, some part of derek knows that already. maybe that’s why the question is so confoundingly confrontational.
when did his focus shift from survival to settlement?
he flutters, bewildered, blinking like honey catches at his eyelashes sticky. it’s that same slow daze that scott gets during chemistry, or stiles gets when the ball is thrown his way during a game of lacrosse; dumbfounded.
when was the last time he’d thought about it? leaving?
‘ i mean, i’m kind of… safer. ‘
in a land of tooth and claw, he feels more secure than he’s ever felt before. figure that one out, therapy. it really does have something to do with his childhood.
‘ – and i don’t exactly have anywhere else to go. ‘
suddenly, his hands have become very interesting, all scar tissue and knuckles turning white. unlike his creator, isaac hasn’t perfected the art of a steady heartbeat, too used to living like a jackrabbit sprinting between burrows.
‘ so, are you saying you still feel responsible for her? or do you mean you feel responsible for all of us? ‘
he hasn’t given much of himself to isaac, but it’s still more than most people, and derek doesn’t know how to go about that any more than he knows what to do with the wanting of his own.
isaac is a good kid. boyd was a good kid, too.
isaac’s face is never boring to look at because it talks, but it’s his fingers derek watches lick over each other through more than one cycle of pretzel—unsettle—change the main knot of high pressure.
’ i’m saying you’re my pack, isaac. ‘
he’s broken those fingers, time and time and cleanly, too. there’s too much of each to go around not to have. on more than instinct, he knows them by the apartness of the knuckles, but he can’t quite remember touching them without a basic objective in a while.
it’s, this is where you went wrong, and this is how you don’t punch next time. and that’s not how you make a fist—let me help you out of this grave you dug.
knowing that feels like sinking, just a bit.
moving is always a good way out of that. he doesn’t give his back lightly, but now he does, just feeling isaac instead of looking at him until he’s pried his credit card from underneath the empty fruit bowl on the counter and grabbed the car keys.
next to derek’s jacket on the hanger, cora’s is deflated, its zipper already put through it. she should know better, but derek's pretty familiar with how it is, not having gotten to have things for years.
he turns around to one of them, ’ you coming or not? ‘
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