At the confirmation, his gaze slides sidelong to look at her. It's brief, but knowing. Her tone is all too familiar to him; the way she says the words my family's home is akin to how the memory sounds in his head. Quiet, far away. A weighty silence falls over him like a heavy coat; he too seems distant, at least until she mentions the prospect of a charred ruin, a hollowed out home, blackened walls and scorched foundations and creaking beams that Derek can hear even now, air thick enough to choke --
he breathes, though it's belated, comes only after a telling catch in his throat. But Derek has a long history of keeping a stoney face, and that's the only outward tell. Still, he thinks of Abigail and a burning house and, even if the basement would not be filled with her family, even if she would lose a building and not the people in it, his chest feels tight, his throat dry. Now filled with a restless, uncomfortable energy, the type that makes his skin crawl, he wishes he wasn't driving, wishes he could move.
Getting involved doesn't suit Derek; inaction suits him worse. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he drives whilst hitting the pass code and sliding through the contacts. It's easy; there aren't many. When he finds his own number, he holds the phone out to her, eyes ahead.
"Consider it off the record," he states, tone hard because the action itself is not - Derek struggles to compensate. But he doesn't necessarily want his pack involved in this: this is him, alone, and what little he might be able to make that count for. "If you want it."
no subject
he breathes, though it's belated, comes only after a telling catch in his throat. But Derek has a long history of keeping a stoney face, and that's the only outward tell. Still, he thinks of Abigail and a burning house and, even if the basement would not be filled with her family, even if she would lose a building and not the people in it, his chest feels tight, his throat dry. Now filled with a restless, uncomfortable energy, the type that makes his skin crawl, he wishes he wasn't driving, wishes he could move.
Getting involved doesn't suit Derek; inaction suits him worse. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he drives whilst hitting the pass code and sliding through the contacts. It's easy; there aren't many. When he finds his own number, he holds the phone out to her, eyes ahead.
"Consider it off the record," he states, tone hard because the action itself is not - Derek struggles to compensate. But he doesn't necessarily want his pack involved in this: this is him, alone, and what little he might be able to make that count for. "If you want it."