[ There's nothing pleasant in smoking for Derek. The hard, acrid taste of chemicals overwhelms his too-sensitive tongue, the smell tickles the back of his throat and makes his eyes water... the intimate connection to fire and ash makes him ache in a way he doesn't like to ache. But that's why he smokes - he revels in the hurt, sometimes. It's what he deserves.
He breathes in deep, makes his lungs feel like they're being washed with salt, then breathes smoke out through his nose, making them cloggy and sore. He swallows, not sure where to take Tate from here. ]
Feels like we should do something special, right? Celebratory.
[ Not that he's in the mood to celebrate. Not that Tate is, either. Derek thought he would have been happier about this. He feels like a fucking stepdad watching his wife's kid hate the day he'd planned for him. ]
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He breathes in deep, makes his lungs feel like they're being washed with salt, then breathes smoke out through his nose, making them cloggy and sore. He swallows, not sure where to take Tate from here. ]
Feels like we should do something special, right? Celebratory.
[ Not that he's in the mood to celebrate. Not that Tate is, either. Derek thought he would have been happier about this. He feels like a fucking stepdad watching his wife's kid hate the day he'd planned for him. ]
We could go eat, maybe.