Chapter Text
As another zoned-out Sentinel was brought into the clinic, Derek found himself contemplating running away for the fifth time that day. As it was, he sat sulking in the corner as Deaton read over the assessment papers before the doctor looked pointedly at him.
“Derek?”
Trying not to growl to loudly, Derek lumbered forward, standing next to the stretcher and the comatose man lying on it.
“What?”
Deaton’s expression remained blank, which was a feat in itself. Guides were natural empaths, and the head of the Sentinel Rehabilitation Center, part of the National Facility for Enhanced Humanity, was one of the strongest of his kind. That being said, while Deaton could sniff out an emotion from thirty meters away, he wasn’t known for revealing his own. Which was equally welcoming and frustrating as hell.
“I believe that this is part of your training, is it not?” Deaton asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
Derek shrugged rather than answer.
The elder Guide had remarkable self-control, considering he’d been dealing with Derek for about six month now and had yet to thrown him out of the building. He’d even wolfed out once, when a particularly rabid Sentinel had tried to attack him in the midst of a feral haze. It hadn’t been difficult to restrain the man, already out of his senses.
Of course, most people were uncomfortable with werewolves to begin with, much less a werewolf Guide that was nearly as strong (or stronger) than most Sentinels. Even moreseo because Derek was an Alpha (how his sister hadn't inherited the title, they still didn't know). It was one of the many reasons why he was past thirty and was still unbonded. The other being his sharp shift into a Guide at sixteen years old as his body was suddenly wracked with the screams of his family burning alive. Even returning to Beacon Hills half a year ago, no one had approached Derek about bonding interviews and he certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. That was why he was stuck in the SRC helping zoned-out Sentinels and trying Deaton’s patience.
“This one will be a little different,” Deaton informed him.
Derek frowned. “How so?”
“This young man does indeed have a bond. Or, rather, he did.”
The shock that shot through his system made his breath catch. “The bond is broken?”
The bond between a Sentinel and Guide was sacrosanct. It was the strongest link that could be achieved and was rarely ever broken except in death. However, it was not impossible for the bond to break. Betrayal, trauma, heartbreak, all of these could fray the link between Sentinel and Guide, until the lightest pressure snapped the thread. Broken Guides were generally considered outcasts, unable to keep the bond clean and whole. For the Sentinels, the bond breaking was tantamount to soul-crushing, as they retreated into zone-out rather than face a world unbonded.
Deaton nodded. “Yes, the bond is broken. It seems that Mister Whittemore’s relationship with his Guide has never been particularly smooth.”
Derek swallowed, felt something harden in the center of his chest. This is why he was still unbonded and was glad to remain so. Even if there were times when the warm darkness at the heart of him ached with longing, a song radiating in his bones so sorrowful that it hurt to breathe - to have such a thing only to lose it-
“Place your hand in the middle of his chest,” Deaton instructed. “He is already restrained, so he will not strike out if he surfaces too quickly.”
Derek grumbled, placing a hand on the young man’s sternum. He felt the breaths beneath his palm, could hear the blood rushing through fragile veins. He closed his eyes. He had done this enough times already, Deaton was a stickler for practice, so Derek sank easily enough into his center, the warm-dark core that marked him as Guide. He heard the steady pulse of the Sentinel’s heartbeat, followed it into into the heady brightness that was the center of every Sentinel. He slid through, parsed between the hyper senses that were flailing useless until he found the one that was overextended (sight).
“That’s it.” Deaton’s voice pierced the darkness. “Now, time to bring him back.”
And, this is the part where things always got fucked up.
Guides were natural empaths, able to connect with people on a level deeper than surface understanding. This was more profound with Sentinels, individuals whose five senses were beyond advanced. These senses were usually paired with increased strength and agility, and Sentinels were considered the finest humanity had to offer, superhumans that were sought to serve and protect the public.
But, with hyperextension comes the possibility of snapping. If a Sentinel focused too much on one sense, they could cut the other lines and become trapped outside the world. Zone-out was a particular danger for unbonded Sentinels, who didn’t have a Guide to keep them grounded and connected to the world. The SRC was the place where Sentinels who zoned-out came to get their reality check. Trained Guides, like Deaton, were then able to slowly bring them back, loosening the threads until the Sentinel was balanced once again. In order to do that, these Guides needed to be empathetic, emotionally available, and trustworthy.
Derek was none of these things.
Uhh, he said into the brightness, the telepathic bond temporary but mostly solid, My name is Derek. I’m a Guide. You need to come with me.
A voice wavered in the center. You’re a Guide? The voice seemed skeptical.
Derek swallowed back his temper. Yeah, I’m a Guide, and you’re the zoned-out Sentinel I’m trying to rescue. You coming or not?
Has anyone told you that you suck at this? the voice retorted.
The bond was already beginning to fray, anxiety and frustration tearing away at the threads. Derek bit back a curse. Come on, Sentinel, you got stuck on sight and now I’m trying to bring you back to reality. Just follow my voice, okay?
I can’t - I can’t stop seeing her face. She trusted me... And now it’s over and I can’t - I can’t!
Wait!
With a violent shove, Derek was thrust out of the brightness and back into the clinic, snapping his hand back as if he’d been burned. He could help his ragged breathing, being forced out of a Sentinel’s center was always an unpleasant experience, but he managed to keep his wolf beneath his skin.
“I see.”
He turned his head to Deaton, who had a serious set to his mouth. Bitterness stuck in his mouth; he moved away from the stretcher. “I’m going home.”
Deaton nodded. “Perhaps I have overtaxed you today. I expect to see you here at eight tomorrow morning.”
Derek didn’t say anything, just grabbed his key card and started towards the doors.
“Derek?”
He stopped, allowed himself to look over his shoulder. Deaton’s face was schooled in perfect Guide mask, tender and sympathetic and he wanted to tear it off.
“We’ll figure this out,” Deaton said. The lie sounded like a promise. “You’re going to be an excellent Guide.”
Those words circled his head as Derek made his way to the bottom of the NFEH, passing the floors for Sentinel training and bonding interviews. He stomped into the locker room, empty at this time of night, and washed off the stink of antiseptic in the shower. He tossed the pale blue scrubs into his gym bag, throwing on jeans, henley, and leather jacket, before finally making his way of the facility. Stepping out into the afternoon sunlight, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the cement beneath his seat.
Deaton could say whatever he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that Derek didn’t want to be a decent Guide. He didn’t want to be a Guide at all.