A.N. This story is a prequel to On a Night Like This which I finished in the summer of 2013. In it I wrote about the last 15 minutes of Isaac's journey from Derek's loft until he stood outside Scott's bedroom. This trip must have lasted several hours, however. It occurred to me that the period, between Isaac being thrown out by Derek and arriving on Melissa McCall's front porch, didn't deserve to be a missing scene. Inspired by my fondness for Isaac in Season 4 of TW, I decided that I wanted to write about this night again.
Adrift
Isaac straightens slowly. The crouch is reflex. An automatic response conditioned by the many times his father punctuated his "constructive" criticisms with an object thrown at his head. Shards of glass lie at the boy's feet, the remains of the glass Derek threw at him. He stares at them in disbelief.
When he raises his head, Derek has turned his back to him. Having discarded his useless Beta, Derek has lost interest, forgotten, him. The storm raging outside the loft has drawn his attention back to the window. Isaac doesn't understand the fascination it has for his former Alpha. It's only rain.
Snatching up the duffel at his feet, Isaac walks to the sliding door that is the loft's entrance. Cora's scent hangs in the air of the room but she is hidden, out of sight, somewhere. Her heartbeat is a rapid staccato in his ears that contrasts markedly to the slow, steady beat of Derek's heart. It embarrasses Isaac that she is witnessing his humiliation.
Her familiar scent is different tonight, however. There's a bitter undertone to it that Isaac recognizes. It's an old friend: a scent he knows well, has reeked of often - fear. He shakes his head. Who knew anything frightened Cora Hale. The kid seemed to have had her fear organ removed. Isaac wonders what happened, if it has anything to do with Derek's action; but the boy brushes the thought aside. Derek has made it clear that Isaac is no longer Pack. Whatever problems Derek may have, they're not Isaac's now.
He pulls the door open but the scent of fresh blood causes him to hesitate. Blood trickles down the back of the hand that grips the door's handle. A thick splinter of glass, that hadn't registered until now, is lodged in the back of his hand. He plucks it out. A reminder of him for Derek, he turns and flicks it back into the loft.
The blood flows faster now. He licks the cut. It's strange that the copper taste in his mouth is that of his own blood and not that of an enemy. Isaac steps out into the hallway. He looks back over his shoulder. In the gloom of the room behind him, lit only by the glow from the port and the occasional flash of lightning, Derek stands, a dark, unmoving figure, stiff and remote.
Isaac's hand tightens on the door handle. The cut is closing as he watches. The door slams with a crash of metal on metal. Isaac leans against the door. His palms press against it; his forehead rests on the cold metal. He pushes away and walks slowly to the elevator. It stands open, waiting for him. He closes its doors, and turning to the controls, slams his fist into the button for the first floor. The young wolf slumps wearily against the wall of the elevator car as it jerkily starts its descent. His legs no longer have the strength to support him and he slides to the floor. He sits, arms locked around his knees.
The boy holds out his hand. In the feeble light of the elevator's single bulb, he sees that the wound on his hand has healed. Only a few flakes of dried blood remain. Pink skin shows where the glass cut him. Rubbing his thumb across the spot, there's no pain, not even tenderness.
It's a miracle but tonight he hates that he heals so quickly. He wants a scar. Needs a scar, something he can see and touch; because Isaac Lahey is a fool who never learns, who needs a tangible, permanent reminder that hope isn't for the likes of him. He needs to remember that trust is as much an illusion as love. No one cares because he's worthless. His father was right; he's a fuckup, a biological mistake taking up space. He succeeded in fooling Derek for a while but he figured it out, just as Isaac feared he would. The boy wipes his hand across his eyes.
The elevator groans and creaks as it makes it way to the first floor. The door on the loading dock is open. Gusts of cold, damp wind whistle and shriek into the shaft, shaking the elevator car and its occupant. The boy gives no sign that he notices.
Isaac remains seated after the elevator car thumps to a stop at the bottom of the shaft. Finally, he reaches up and, grabbing the handle of the gate, pulls himself to his feet. He picks up his duffel and pushes open the gate. Shoving the lower door into the floor, the boy steps out onto the loading dock. He drops his duffel, closes the gate, and then reaches for the rope that hangs down from the upper half of the elevator's doors. Grabbing it with both hands he slams the doors together. The shaft echoes with the sound. Derek will know he's gone.
The loading dock is plunged into darkness with the closing of the elevator doors. The last of the bulbs in the ceiling of the dock has burned out. Derek had told him several times to replace the bulbs. But with the level of craziness their world descended into after the arrival of the Alpha Pack, replacing some stupid light bulbs hadn't seemed that important. Until tonight Isaac was sure that Derek wouldn't care. The Derek he thought he knew would have understood why he hadn't gotten to it. Still, with the memory of his father's craziness always with him, Isaac wonders if this last screw-up is what persuaded Derek to kick him out.
It isn't as though the light mattered that much, he thinks. The dock was only kept lighted in case any of their human friends came downtown to the loft. Isaac has observed that Derek doesn't exactly put out a welcome mat for visitors. Unless it was a supernatural emergency, and then what the hell difference did a little light make anyway, no one came downtown to just hang with Derek Hale.
Now, the only light on the dock comes from street lights at either end of the block. As he stands staring into the darkness, Isaac realizes that his werewolf ability to see in the dark does not make the night any friendlier or safer feeling than when he only had human eyes. He wonders if born werewolves feel differently about the night.
Isaac is sure it is not fear that he feels as he stands looking out into the night. Sure, the Alpha Pack could make quick work of him; but he's an Omega now and not worth Deukalion's time. The only other powers in Beacon Hills who could threaten a werewolf like himself, are Scott and the Argents, pere et fille. But Isaac knows that Scott wouldn't hurt his worst enemy if he could find a reason not to; and he thinks he doesn't make it onto either Allison's or her Dad's radar as a bad guy. No, not fear. It is a crippling sense of aloneness that envelops him and siphons off his energy and will.
The wind has subsided and the storm clouds over the city have thinned. Stars peek through them. This storm cell has moved east. He can see lightning over the hills. His high school lies in that direction. It's only a temporary lull, however. Isaac can see spider webs of lightning falling out of mountainous clouds that fill the western sky.
Isaac stands paused on the edge of the loading dock. He rocks forward looking west, toward the waterfront. Sinking back on his heels, he swivels and surveys the lights of the office buildings downtown. Beyond them, he knows, are the forested hills of the preserve that mark the eastern limits of Beacon Hills. His Alpha cast him out. He is an Omega, a packless wolf. There is no place for him anywhere.
The warehouses that line the street make it a wind tunnel. Gusts of wind batter him. He squints into the wind. Leaves and trash, the refuse of the city, swirl down the street pushed along by it. Isaac's mouth twists in an ironic smile. This is his sign. The wind will be his guide. He'll surrender to its power and let it blow him where it will. Isaac Lahey will be just one more piece of discarded trash carried along by the storm through the streets of Beacon Hills.