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The gate is open, but Scott is just standing there.
“Scott,” Deaton says curiously. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I’m, um.” Scott, shifting on his feet, swallows. “I’m not here to work.”
Deaton could have guessed as much. Nervousness radiates from Scott, so much so that Deaton suspects, had he not come out to greet him, Scott may well have turned and left.
Yesterday saw Scott and Stiles in the clinic to debrief about the catastrophe that was the rave. The narrative had been given mostly by Stiles, featuring waving arms and a look more annoyed than defeated — as if the kanima’s master refusing to identify himself had been a personal affront — while Scott stood by quietly, only interjecting to keep Stiles on the right track.
“And you?” Deaton had asked in a lull, turning to Scott. “Where were you in all of this?”
Scott had only scratched his chin and said vaguely, “Uh, the Argents showed up. So, um, I was— Derek and I were busy dealing with them. You know — so they didn’t compromise the plan.”
“Not that it ended up mattering,” Stiles had bulldozed on, lapsing Scott back into his bubble of silence.
Deaton had only studied him a moment before turning his attention away. A moment had been enough.
Now his suspicions seem to hold water, at least, because whatever Scott had been holding back yesterday, it’s even more potent today. Has him hovering in the waiting room. A place Scott has worked since he was old enough to ride his bike alone, and he’s hesitating. Unsure.
Something happened at the rave. Something worse than a failed plan.
“What can I do for you?” Deaton asks, tone light.
Scott looks up. Fear is written all over his face, and Deaton only wishes he knew of what.
Switching tactics, Deaton offers, “Why don’t you come in?”
Scott swallows again. “Okay,” he says, forcing the word out.
Deaton pushes the gate open further, and finally, Scott walks through.
“Allison’s mom tried to kill me.”
It tumbles from Scott’s lips like he hadn’t meant to say it, or hadn’t known how. His stare is focused on the examination table.
“Ah,” Deaton says, which in retrospect is not the most comforting reaction to such an admission, but it makes Scott’s attitude make a lot more sense. “I’m glad to see she failed.”
“Yeah, but she almost didn’t,” Scott mumbles. His fingers curl into a fist. “And the plan failed anyway, and…and Derek is keeping things from me, he’s always keeping things from me, and I just feel like I’m flying totally blind here and I don’t know what to do or how to help everyone and I don’t have a clue how to save Jackson and— and the worst part is that no matter what I do, I’m always doing the wrong thing, and I know it.”
Deaton inclines his head. “What makes you say that?”
“It— it’s—” Scott breathes in, breathes out, gives Deaton a look he recognizes from frightened animals, and whispers, “Gerard threatened to kill my mom unless I help him.”
Deaton is wise enough to hold back the second ah of understanding, but it’s close.
“He knows about you?”
“He figured it out,” Scott says desperately. “I don’t even know how, it must have been— the lacrosse game—”
"He's a very experienced hunter," Deaton says, uncertain whether or not this is reassuring. It's supposed to come out like it's not your fault but Deaton worries it sounds closer to much more than you are as a werewolf. "Do you know what he wants?”
"Derek." It bursts from Scott, breaks the barrier holding him back from spilling the truth. He pulls a frantic hand through his hair. “He wants Derek. He made me agree to join Derek’s pack, he— he’s planning something, I think, and I think it’s more than just killing Derek, but he doesn’t tell me anything. I just have to do what he says or he’ll kill my mom.” He looks up at Deaton, pleading. “I can’t lose her, I— I have no choice.”
“I understand,” Deaton says calmly. “How can I help?”
“I don’t know,” Scott says. He looks anxiously towards the door and then back to Deaton. “I shouldn’t even have said anything. If he finds out I told you, anyone, he’ll kill you. Or— or he’ll kill my mom, oh God.”
“Scott. Take a deep breath.”
Scott doesn’t. “I just don’t know what to do,” he says beseechingly. “And you always seem to have an idea. You know things. Maybe…maybe you can think of some way to stop him.”
If only it were that easy.
Deaton presses his lips together. He turns away, grabs a rag, and offers it to Scott. “Would you mind wiping down the table? I have an appointment with a Bernese in twenty minutes.”
Scott looks baffled, but to his credit, he doesn’t argue. In sweeping strokes he starts pushing the rag over the steel tabletop, leaving sparkling streaks in its wake.
“I find,” Deaton says, “that doing a mindless task often helps me to organize my thoughts. Sometimes, in fraught moments, the big, stressful things overshadow the small, important things. Do you know what I mean?”
Scott swallows and nods. “Is that why you always have me doing stuff like cleaning the cages? To help me organize my thoughts?”
“No, I have you clean the cages because otherwise they would be filthy,” Deaton says. “And to be honest, I don’t want to.”
Scott cracks a weak smile. Then it flickers.
“There’s something else,” he remembers. Looks up at Deaton, hand stilling over the rag. “Something we might be able to use against him. Gerard, I mean.” Deaton tilts his head in interest. “I think he’s dying.”
Deaton blinks. “Gerard?”
“It’s cancer,” Scott says. “I could smell it when he was threatening to kill my mom — at first I thought it was just old-person smell, but…it was definitely cancer.”
“Gerard has cancer,” Deaton repeats. What ruthless irony. The universe certainly does find a way to balance things out; Gerard can kill as many werewolves as he likes, but he cannot kill cancer.
How poetic, for the notorious Gerard Argent to fall to something so mundane.
“And I don’t think he knows that I know,” Scott adds, though he doesn’t seem particularly heartened by this advantage.
Perhaps he doesn’t realize just how much of an advantage it is.
“I’ve known Gerard Argent for quite some time now,” Deaton says gravely. “The man will do anything to survive. If what you’re saying is true, I sincerely doubt Gerard is going to go peacefully.”
“What if he kills Derek? Because of information I gave him?”
“I’m not so sure he plans to kill Derek,” Deaton says slowly. Gears are turning in his mind; different pieces of information slot themselves together to form one coherent thought. “Not at first, that is.”
Scott furrows his brow. The worry in his face is overtaken by confusion. “What do you mean, at first?”
“You say Gerard wants Derek,” Deaton says. Contemplatively, he begins to pace. “If Gerard truly is dying, his first priority will be to find a cure.”
“But there’s no cure for cancer,” Scott says uncertainly, like maybe there’s been an advance in modern medicine that he missed while he was busy adjusting to life as a werewolf.
“Not a scientific one, no,” Deaton says. He turns towards Scott, one expectant eyebrow lifted. “But there may be a supernatural one.”
Understanding dawns on Scott. His lips part in surprise. “Gerard wants the Bite,” he breathes.
Deaton nods. “And I suspect he plans to manipulate Derek into giving it to him.”
It is unsurprisingly clever. As much as Deaton loathes Gerard, he’s forced to recognize his shrewdness for what it is, or else risk underestimating his enemy. Historically, underestimating Gerard has proven fatal. Deaton has no plans to repeat past mistakes. Not his own, and certainly not Deucalion’s.
“But once he’s a werewolf…” Scott clenches his jaw. “Won’t he just kill Derek? I mean, that’s what he wants to do anyway, right? Plus he’d become the alpha.”
“Quite right,” Deaton says dryly. “Gerard is as power-hungry as he is hypocritical.”
It’s a more biased statement than he typically allows himself to make, but a hint of a smile crosses Scott’s face at the pronouncement. At least he finds Deaton’s assessment amusing.
“So what do we do?” For the first time since hesitating at the gate, Scott doesn’t sound defeated. His voice has a determined edge. “How do we stop him?”
The age-old question, perpetually unanswered.
“I’m not sure yet,” Deaton admits. “But I do know that Gerard always has a plan, and it is rarely evident until it is executed. The fact that we may have some insight into his true intentions is a great advantage.” He gives Scott a meaningful look. “This is crucial, Scott — you cannot give any indication that we may have figured out his plan. And you’re going to need to be convincing. Gerard is one of the most suspicious people I’ve ever known.”
“I can be,” Scott swears. “I will. Anyway, people, um, they tend to think I’m…” He sighs. “I mean, I’m failing three classes. I don’t think anyone’s under the impression that I’m smarter than I look.”
Deaton is. Deaton knows Scott is smart, more than anyone gives him credit for, least of all himself. After so much time spent working in the clinic, he’d hoped Scott might pick up on that, but it seems Deaton will have to be more direct with his praise.
“The point is,” Scott continues ruefully, “he won’t know. I promise.”
“As of right now, there are too many variables for us to know how to proceed,” Deaton goes on. “Our best course of action is to wait and see what else he asks of you. Gather more information. Keep an eye out for anything else we can use against him. If we try to act too soon, we risk showing our hand and putting more people in danger.” Your mother, he doesn’t say; it doesn’t need saying.
Still, Scott seems put out by this. “So we do nothing? Just…twiddle our thumbs until he does something else? What if what he does is kill someone?”
It’s entirely possible, Deaton thinks. It’s entirely likely. He can’t bring himself to say it.
A kid Scott’s age shouldn’t be wondering whether inaction will lead to someone’s death, and yet here they stand, Scott taking the burden of responsibility on his young shoulders, Deaton powerless to stop him. He wants to reassure Scott that everything will be alright, but he doesn’t know that it will. More than anything, he wants to shelter Scott from this mess — from this life — but it’s too late for that.
For better or for worse, Scott’s determination to do the right thing won’t let him walk away from this. Reminding him that it might kill him, or someone else, won’t do him any good; neither will a naively promising that he’ll escape this alive. The best he can do for Scott right now is to give him guidance. Be here for him. Leave the gate open, and when Scott hesitates, invite him in.
“I’m sorry,” Deaton says sincerely, a compromise. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do yet. Not until we know more.”
Scott chews his lip. It’s quiet otherwise. Deaton is reluctant to turn away, but after a moment he does, double-checking that he has the correct files on hand and absently checking the time. Fifteen minutes to the next appointment.
When he turns back, there’s a hard set to Scott’s jaw. Grim resolve darkens his eyes.
“I won’t let him get away with this,” Scott says firmly. “No one else dies. Not even Derek.”
Deaton can’t help but be awed by the strength of his young protegé’s character. Not for the first time, he wonders how accurately the yellow glow of Scott’s eyes truly reflect his nature.
He knows the rarity of True Alphas. He also knows Scott McCall.
“Then we’re going to need a plan of our own,” says Deaton.