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Pig's bones, runes, the obscurity of tarot: there were many tools with which Alan Deaton had learned to divine the future. All of them, he knew to treat with respect. They had ways of distilling the murk of possibility to portend the most likely path. He had turned to such methods more than once in his life, yet as he stood there in his veterinary surgery, watching Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale snipe at each other, he needed no such assistance. He could see the path before them as clear as day.
Of course, nothing was written in stone. A twist of fate could change everything, and yet as he observed them, he suspected that their destiny had a deep foundation. He witnessed the sharp edges and hurts that only time could heal, but he also saw that perhaps that day was closer than any of them might anticipate. Already, they had made progress, moving from a relationship based on nothing but intimidation and sarcasm. Now, he could see how they were starting to slot together, still striking sparks, perhaps, but learning to shore up one another's weaknesses and acknowledge their strengths.
Relief was not an emotion he often entertained, yet in that moment, Alan allowed himself to relish the rush of it. What had happened to the Hale pack, and to Beacon Hills as a result, was nothing short of a calamity. The balance, once held in such perfect equilibrium, had tumbled into chaos, embellished with the agony of grief. Derek had not been born to lead, and yet despite his trauma, he faced the challenges before him. Still, Alan had feared he would struggle through his life in solitude. A lone wolf.
That seemed less likely, these days. A year ago, Alan would have been confident to place a sizable bet on such an outcome. Now, it seemed he would have lost, and he was glad for it. He had not wished to see Talia Hale's last surviving son fade to nothing but an echo of himself. He wanted to witness Derek seize both his heritage and his future with both hands. He wished to see him engage, rather than drifting through life, falling from one disaster to the next. He knew the apathy that, until recently, had haunted those hazel eyes, and he knew what lay at its end.
Except it seemed that Stiles had changed all that. Derek looked at him, and his face came alive. All that cold distance and bitter indifference fell to the wayside, revealing the vulnerable, hurting, healing man that lay beneath. Now, Derek was almost fanatical in his efforts to keep Stiles safe. Deaton had seen, with his own eyes, how Stiles had become Derek's number one priority, and it was a focus that Stiles returned in equal measure. Despite their differences and their arguments, time and again, they chose each other.
Now, he saw them growing closer, the snarls losing their ferocity and the jibes their sharpness. They touched each other more. Stiles had initiated that, which was a bold move, as Derek hardly welcomed physical contact, but where he might flinch from others, he reached for Stiles in turn. Shoves softened to nudges, and grasping hands smoothed to flat palms, holding one another steady. Enmity found its truce as friendship set its roots, and now it hovered on the brink of something more.
Oh yes, Alan could see the future there, as plain as day.
Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski. A werewolf and his mate.