[ It's not until Tate's talking again that Derek starts seeing through the fog that's clouding up his mind. I didn't hurt you, did I, he asked, only now having the delayed realization that that was a pretty stupid question to ask - Derek can smell Tate's blood in the air, he can see the red stain on both of their hands. He winces, guilty, looking down at his fingers before wiping blood off on his shirt. ]
It's-- fine.
[ If Tate says he feels better, then - fine. Derek's struggling to sort through the images in his head, but they're fading, image by image. Derek finishes cleaning off his hand before it hits him at once that he fucking hates the sight of Tate's blood on his shirt, so he pulls it off over his head and leaves it on the ground, wandering towards the laundry to find a replacement. ]
You're still spending the night here. I don't want you going back to the treehouse.
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It's-- fine.
[ If Tate says he feels better, then - fine. Derek's struggling to sort through the images in his head, but they're fading, image by image. Derek finishes cleaning off his hand before it hits him at once that he fucking hates the sight of Tate's blood on his shirt, so he pulls it off over his head and leaves it on the ground, wandering towards the laundry to find a replacement. ]
You're still spending the night here. I don't want you going back to the treehouse.