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[ Hmm. Derek's lightly annoyed, leaning back in the grass until he drops flat on his back, and for a second, it looks like he's just not going to say shit out of spite. Until - ]

Wait, hold on.

[ And then Derek's - smiling, a little self-satisfied, a little smug. Mostly just really fucking happy. He looks up at Tate. Pretends he's not half as entertained as he is. ]

You were looking the triskele up? Like - researching it? Because of me? Why?

[Tate's holding the pencil again, flicking it back and forth between his fingers when he just about tenses up again. Feels like a kid being asked something by an authority figure, his eyes skirt over Derek and he doesn't know if he wants to give the smug bastard any satisfaction. So he goes with nonchalance.]

Yeah. So?

That's kind of...

[ Derek struggles to find the word. The smile becomes a little less smug and a little more... genuine. Touched, maybe. The betas he had back home never wanted to know more about him like that. Boyd, maybe, but mostly everyone was just happy revelling in their powers and finding security in themselves. ]

Great? I don't know. I love that you did that. [ He sounds stupid, now. He scratches the tip of his nose, tries to stop smiling. ] You could've just come to me with any questions you had, though.

Yeah, but then I wouldn't have concrete proof you're into kinky bullshit.

[Except, you know, the blaringly obvious other factors. Tate tries to shake off the moment here like a dog getting annoyed by a fly - he's okay with it except when it gets too close. Stop making him feel things. Idiot? Fuck. Did he do right here? Why's it feel so fucking embarrassing then.]

I like the sign, though. Wish something stuck with me the same way. Don't make it weird. I'll kick you.

Total deviant, yeah.

[ If Tate's going to think he's a pervert, at least he's going to think he's dedicated to being a pervert. He still feels pretty fucking happy about this, and - only part of that is out of relief, to know that there isn't some book hidden away in Duplicity's library talking up the Hale pack. ]

I'm just happy you think about me when I'm not around.

[ Again - pretty sure his pack back home were just happy to be rid of him, after all the fucking training and yelling he put them through. Erica and Boyd must have fucking hated him, by the end. He - won't think about that. ]

Anyway. [ He rubs his neck. ] You've got the ocean. You've got birds. There are a ton of things in your life with an assigned meaning. I could give you a tat, if you drew out a design.

[ He's pretty good at that. Won't even have to use a blowtorch. ]

Wait, you actually know how to give tattoos are you like... winging it like the treehouse?

[Tate's intrigued, maybe more than he should be. He's never really been that into tattoos but it has been something he's thought about time to time. His mother would've never let him get one, or berated him until he died if he had. He's not interested in sleeves or ink for the sake of ink. But something with meaning? Yeah, he could get behind that. He leans forward a bit, obvious sign of his rapt attention.]

Because no offense, if that thing falls out of the tree? Okay. But shit fucking up when it's on my skin? No so okay.

[ It's - nice. Having Tate's attention. Especially when he knows this is something he can actually do. ]

First - fuck you. Second...

[ Derek sits up a little, drawing his knee up to his chest. ]

I spent years feeling trapped, after my family died. When you're that stuck in your head, you turn to art and writing and music to try and find an escape. I liked to read, but - I think I was always better at art than writing.

[ There's just - something satisfying, about being able to create something so visible and so tangible out of nothing. He was drawn to that after the fire, and he worked pretty fucking hard on cultivating an artistic skillset over those six years in new york. Too bad he'll only ever really use it to torch off Scott's skin and re-draw his tattoo in a year or so, back home. ]

So. Yeah. Could be doable. If you want it.

Yeah? Shit.

[Doesn't need to say the obvious 'didn't peg you for an artist' thing, but he lifts his brows in what you could almost consider an impressed way. He'll have to stew on this a bit longer but he kind of likes the weird flutter in his chest at the idea of making choices here that matter. Changing things - himself - for real.]

I'll think on it. See if anything sticks out.

[ Derek didn't peg Tate for a dead ghost, so. Derek doesn't peg Tate for a serial killer. We're all working outside our boxes today. ]

Yeah? Okay. We could, like.

[ Derek's-- getting a little excited, and it's there in his voice, but. Last thing he wants to do is pressure Tate into getting a tat just because his artist wants to fucking put one on him. Derek chills himself out a little, though - he's fucking Derek, so maybe the excitement in his voice wasn't all that obvious. Maybe Tate doesn't know him well enough to pick it up yet. Who knows. ]

We could... get it done in the treehouse, if you wanted it. Make it special.

Implies we'll finish the tree house. I like that kind of optimism.

[But he cocks his head to the side, both confirming and non-confirming all at once. It would be nice to mark the occasion but like Tate's already said - it's hard to see this as anything more than a pile of lumber and two jackasses with a saw between them. But he licks at his lip and then finally nods, toward the end of a pause.]

I'll think on it. If I'm getting something, I want it to really mean something - so. Really wanna think of the right thing. And then after that, I guess, where I want to put it. Got suggestions?

A bed is just a shelf for your body when you're not using it.

[ it's... it's 3am. stiles is right next to him. derek is literally in bed with him. he could have just rolled over and talked to him. instead, derek has to slap for his phone in the middle of the night, blearily stare at his screen like he's looking into a small sun and then realize stiles sent that message now, in fact, and that it isn't just. delayed. until 3am.

okay. he sighs. texts back. ]

what

[ literally, from right next to him, with a much dimmer screen: ]

Oh, hey.
You're awake.
Question while you're here: is it the 's' or the 'c' in 'scent' that's silent?

Tramp stamp.

[ They're gonna get this done. Derek looks at Tate for a while, scrutinizing all this sarcasm, then sighs and gets to his feet. Back to work, apparently. He picks up some of the sawed-to-length planks he's prepared and starts lining them up, ready to nail this shit together. ]

I don't know. Mine's on my back, right between my shoulderblades. I don't know if you've ever seen it.

[Tate's silent and it might be, to the wiser of ears, a bad thing - the way children are silent before they're caught up to no good, hands in the cookie jar. His notebook ruffles when Derek's back is turned, and after a pause - Tate's behind him, hooking his fingers into the back of Derek's tanktop to try and pull it askew enough to see what he's talking about.]

Fuck you're sweaty.

[But, huh.]

It's cool, I guess. Little uneven, but nobody'd notice.

[JOKING.]

[ derek slaps at his phone with his hideous half-asleep fingers and manages to dim his phone all the way down. hghsggfhj. ]

it's the 's'
for 'shh'
and 'shut up'
and 'stilinski sure loves to talk'

[ stiles rocks his feet back and forth under the covers, blanket pulled up past his chin. ]

This is texting not talking.
S for Stupid
For Derek.
Also S for Sorry.

[ Derek's lived his entire life with one ear to the ground. Always listening for movement, always expecting someone to sneak up on him, always knowing he's never safe. It's a surprise, then, that he doesn't hear Tate approach. Doesn't even expect him to.

It's not a surprise, actually, it's - fucking disarming. Tate has the better of him. That'd be... a problem, Derek thinks, if he hadn't decided to trust Tate.

Tate moves his tanktop aside and Derek just stands there, letting it happen. He knows his tattoo isn't fucking uneven, but he does still get that knee-jerk reaction Tate was fishing for, that kick of anxiety. He just - grunts, shaking Tate off and turning around. ]

Had to burn my skin off so it would stick. Werewolf cells regenerate too quickly. Had to make sure as much of it stayed as dead as possible.

its fine

[ it really is. he's just being grumpy. derek wipes at his eyes, rolls over onto his back. awake, awake. he knows what this is - stiles can't sleep. won't, maybe. derek understands. ]

It's fine.
I mean, it's not fine, because now I keep pronouncing "scent" in my head phonetically.
Scent. Scent. Scent.
But.
It's fine.
Give me another one.

[ stiles - feels a little bit bad for waking derek up. honestly, he hadn't really meant to, kind of figured his phone would be on silent and he could just send all of his random insomnia thoughts so they would stop rattling around in his head, but - he kind of likes he company. it feels less daunting, somehow, even if he's just... continuing to text.

he takes a second, then thumbs out another. ]

Clapping is literally just slapping yourself because you like something.

[Tate steps back playfully, but then rolls his eyes. It comes off like Derek's bragging about - being a badass? But he's being informative while being a jackass badass so Tate cocks his head to the side, wondering if there are literally any alternatives to blow torching oneself.]

How the hell'd you do that? You literally picked the hardest place to reach on your body.

[ honestly - once he adjusts a little more to being awake, derek really won't mind being pulled out of sleep. he rolls over, sleepily kisses stiles on the back of his neck, then rolls back flat and stretches out, taking up a little too much space in the mattress. again: it's fine. ]

Oh. Wait, that reminds me.

Settle the debate. Age-old.
Fucking your clone: masturbation? Y/N. Explain your reasoning, cite your sources.
I feel like you'd have strong feelings on this. You seem the type.

[ He - was kind of bragging. He doesn't realize he was bragging, but he does on some level sort of want Tate to think he's cool. And a badass. But. He just -- scoffs. At the question. ]

Laura helped.

[ Anyway. He rolls his shoulders up, gets his tank adjusted, but now it's all folded over weird and resting with the straps sticking in a sweaty spot and it just feels fucking gross. He peels it off over his head and throws it in the dirt, and if he were anyone else, it'd be, like, sexy, or whatever, but he mostly just looks lightly pissed off and kind of miserable. ]

You won't have to worry about that. I assume.

[ stiles scrunches his shoulders up a little, but it's a lazy, affectionate response to the kiss at the back of his neck. he sighs quietly, but hardly pauses to think when derek's text comes through, thumbs working rapidly over his screen. ]

No.
Masturbation typically means when you stimulate your dick by yourself.
Or whatever you've got.
A clone is like... a copy of yourself but also a separate entity, so therefore not really you.
Like okay.
Identical twins are kind of like clones of each other, right?
The egg splits into two so they essentially came from the same cells or whatever.
But we don't look at identical twins and call them clones.

[ he pauses for a second to roll over onto his back. ]

Also you probably shouldn't fuck your sibling in general.
But that's not my point, my point is that a clone is just a copy of the original but it's a separate person.
Two sets of genitals.
Not masturbation.
Just narcissistic I guess.
Or self-confident.

[Even though Derek's shirt-shedding is more aligned with a dog ripping its christmas elf-hat off in a fit of shaking heads and wet dog smell, Tate's eyes flick back to him - assuredly only to look at the now fully exposed tattoo for a moment of time before he turns away. Goes back to get his notebook, picking it up off the ground with his pencil.]

We'll know when I pick where I want it. It's... stupid, 'cause I can...

[He looks down at his hand, fingers curled around his pencil. He holds up his hand, the back of it facing Derek. Soft white lines trace out a triskele against his already pale skin; faded like moonlight-white scars. He flexes his fingers and it's gone.]

Perk of being dead. You can look how you want, sometimes.

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