He wants to sign - of course he wants to sign - but this isn't exactly a happy situation. He's not setting this contract up to keep Tate close, or to establish some kind of physical tether towards some vague concept of loyalty, or to show him that he loves him or whatever - he's doing it to keep Tate safe. Contracts are reprehensible, with every aspect of the process making him feel sick and miserable. The looks, the pauses, the comments - everything about Duplicity is designed to strip a person of their basic fucking identities.
It's grating, being this far away from the safe little bubble he's built up with Stiles. It doesn't matter how hard he reciprocates the handshake he's offered, it doesn't matter how many times he tries to include Tate's voice in the process of signing - the city's just going to keep talking down to him. He acts like this whole process is a chore he just has to fucking get through; he clucks his tongue when Tate looks at him like he's bored, he scribbles his signature in sharp, rushed chickenscratch at the bottom of their license. He's antsy and he's frustrated, and by the time he's finally released back into Duplicity, Derek looks strung out and ready to commit a fucking murder.
He doesn't smoke, not really, and he's told Tate more than once to put out his cigarette whenever he's sparked one up in the treehouse, but once he meets up with Tate in a side-alley of the Up outside the building they just signed in, Derek's taking a cigarette from Tate's packet and holding it out for a light. ]
So.
[ His stomach's pretty jittery, and Tate looks... well, he doesn't look all that emotionally invested in this either, honestly, which makes Derek's stomach feel worse. He waves his unlit cigarette, impatient for that light. ]
no subject
He wants to sign - of course he wants to sign - but this isn't exactly a happy situation. He's not setting this contract up to keep Tate close, or to establish some kind of physical tether towards some vague concept of loyalty, or to show him that he loves him or whatever - he's doing it to keep Tate safe. Contracts are reprehensible, with every aspect of the process making him feel sick and miserable. The looks, the pauses, the comments - everything about Duplicity is designed to strip a person of their basic fucking identities.
It's grating, being this far away from the safe little bubble he's built up with Stiles. It doesn't matter how hard he reciprocates the handshake he's offered, it doesn't matter how many times he tries to include Tate's voice in the process of signing - the city's just going to keep talking down to him. He acts like this whole process is a chore he just has to fucking get through; he clucks his tongue when Tate looks at him like he's bored, he scribbles his signature in sharp, rushed chickenscratch at the bottom of their license. He's antsy and he's frustrated, and by the time he's finally released back into Duplicity, Derek looks strung out and ready to commit a fucking murder.
He doesn't smoke, not really, and he's told Tate more than once to put out his cigarette whenever he's sparked one up in the treehouse, but once he meets up with Tate in a side-alley of the Up outside the building they just signed in, Derek's taking a cigarette from Tate's packet and holding it out for a light. ]
So.
[ His stomach's pretty jittery, and Tate looks... well, he doesn't look all that emotionally invested in this either, honestly, which makes Derek's stomach feel worse. He waves his unlit cigarette, impatient for that light. ]
That's done.